Death in a Strange Country (21 page)

‘Is this going to turn
into a cell meeting?’ he asked blandly. Though they generally agreed about
politics, Brunetti had always voted Socialist, while Paola voted, fiercely,
Communist. But now, with the demise of the system and the death of the party,
he had begun to take tentative shots at her.

She didn’t bother to
grace him with an answer.

He started to pull down
plates in order to set the table. ‘Where are the kids?’

‘Both with friends.’
Then, before he could ask, she added, ‘Yes, they both called and asked
permission.’ She turned off the flame under the risotto, added a substantial
chunk of butter that stood on the worktop, and poured in a small dish of finely
grated Parmigiano Reggiano. She stirred it around until both were dissolved
into the rice, poured the risotto into a serving bowl, and set it on the table.
She pulled out her chair, sat down, and turned the spoon towards him, saying,
‘Mangia,
ti fa bene,’
a command that had filled Brunetti with joy for as long as he
could remember.

He filled his dish,
abundantly. He’d worked hard, spent the day in a foreign country, so who cared
how much risotto he ate? Starting from the centre, he worked his fork in a neat
concentric circle and pushed the risotto to the edge of his dish to help it
cool faster. He took two forkfuls, sighed in appreciation, and continued to eat.

When Paola saw that he
had passed beyond the point of hunger and was eating for the pleasure of the
act, she said, ‘You haven’t told me how your trip to America was.’

He spoke through the
risotto. ‘Confusing. The Americans are very polite and say they want to help,
but no one seems to know anything that might help me.’

‘And the doctor?’

‘The pretty one?’ he
asked, grinning.

‘Yes, Guido, the pretty
one.’

Seeing he had run that
one into the ground, he answered simply, ‘I still think she’s the person who
knows what I want to know. But she’s not saying anything. She gets out of the
Army in six months, so she’ll go back to America and all of this will be behind
her.’

‘And he was her lover?’
Paola asked with a snort to show that she refused to believe the doctor wouldn’t
help if she could.

‘It would seem so.’

‘Then I’m not so sure she’ll
just pack up and forget about him.’

‘Maybe it’s something she
doesn’t want to know.’

‘Like what?’

‘Nothing. Well, nothing I
can explain.’ He had decided not to tell her about the two plastic bags he had
found in Foster’s apartment; that was something no one was to know. Except for
the person who had opened the water heater, seen that the bags were gone, and
then tightened those screws. He pulled the bowl of risotto towards him. ‘Should
I finish this?’ he asked, not having to be a detective to know the answer.

‘Go ahead. I don’t like
it left over, and neither do you.’

While he finished the
risotto, she took the bowl from the table and placed it in the sink. He shifted
two wicker mats about on the table to make a place for the roasting pan Paola
took from the oven.

‘What are you going to
do?’

‘I don’t know. See what
Patta does,’ he said, cutting a piece of meat from the shank and placing it on
her plate. With a motion of her hand, she signalled that she didn’t want any
more. He cut himself two large pieces, reached for some bread, and started to
eat again.

‘What difference does it
make what Patta does?’ she asked.

‘Ah, my sweet innocent,’
he replied, ‘If he tries to shift me away from this, then I’ll be sure that
someone wants it covered up. And since our Vice-Questore responds only to
voices that come from high places - the higher the place, the faster he moves -
then I’ll know that whoever wants this thing shut down has a certain amount of
power.’

‘Like who?’

He took another piece of
bread and wiped at the gravy on his plate. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, but
it makes me very uncomfortable, thinking about who it might be.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know, not
exactly. But if the American military is involved, then you can be sure it’s
political, and that means the government. Theirs. And that means ours, as well.’

‘And hence a phone call
to Patta?’

‘Yes.’

‘And hence trouble?’

Brunetti was not given to
remarking upon the self-evident.

‘And if Patta doesn’t try
to stop you?’

Brunetti shrugged. He’d
wait and see.

Paola removed the plates.
‘Dessert?’

He shook his head. ‘What
time will the kids be home?’

Moving about the kitchen,
she answered, ‘Chiara will be here by nine. I told Raffaele to be home by ten.’
The difference in the way she expressed it told the whole story.

‘You speak to his
teachers?’ Brunetti asked.

‘No. It’s too soon in the
year.’

‘When’s the first meeting
for the parents?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve got
the letter from the school around here somewhere. In October, I think.’

‘How is he?’ Even as he
asked it, he hoped Paola would just answer the question, not ask him what he
meant, because he didn’t know what he meant.

‘I don’t know, Guido. He
never talks to me, not about school or about his friends or what he’s doing.
Were you like that when you were his age?’

He thought about being
sixteen and what it had been like. ‘I don’t know. I suppose I was. But then I
discovered girls, and I forgot all about being angry or lost, or whatever I
was. I just wanted them to like me. That’s the only thing that was important to
me.’

‘Were there a lot of
them?’ she asked.

He shrugged.

‘And did they like you?’

He grinned.

‘Oh, go away, Guido, and
find yourself something to do. Watch television.’

‘I hate television.’

‘Then help me do the
dishes.’

‘I love television.’

‘Guido,’ she repeated,
not exasperated, but on the way, ‘just get up and go away from me.’

Both of them heard the
sound of a key in the lock. It was Chiara, banging the door open and dropping a
school book as she came into the apartment. She came down the hall to the
kitchen, kissed both of her parents, and went to stand next to Brunetti, arm
draped on his shoulder. ‘Is there anything to eat, Mamma?’ she asked.

‘Didn’t Luisa’s mother
feed you?’

‘Yes, but that was hours
ago. I’m starved.’

Brunetti wrapped his arm
around her and pulled her onto his lap. In his bad cop voice he said, harshly, ‘All
right, I’ve got you. Confess. Where do you put it?’

‘Oh, Papà, stop it,’ she
said, squirming with delight. ‘I just eat it. But then I get hungry again. Don’t
you?’

‘Your father usually
waits at least an hour, Chiara.’ Then, more kindly, Paola asked, ‘Fruit? A
sandwich?’

‘Both?’ she pleaded.
     
             

By the time Chiara had
eaten a sandwich, a massive thing filled with prosciutto, tomato, and mayonnaise,
then devoured two apples, it was time for all of them to go to bed. Raffaele
had not returned by eleven-thirty, but Brunetti, waking in the night, heard the
door open and close and his son’s footsteps in the hall. After that, he slept
deeply.

* *
* *

13

Ordinarily, Brunetti would not bother to go to the
Questura on a Saturday, but this morning he did, more to see who else turned up
than for any other reason. He made no attempt to get there on time, ambled
through Campo San Luca and had a cappuccino at Rosa Salva, the bar Paola
insisted had the best coffee in the city.

He continued towards the
Questura, cutting parallel to San Marco but avoiding the Piazza itself. When he
arrived, he went to the second floor, where he found Rossi talking to Riverre,
an officer he thought was out on sick leave. When he walked in, Rossi signalled
for him to come over to his desk.

‘I’m glad you’re here,
sir. We’ve got something new.’

‘What?’

‘A break-in. On the Grand
Canal. That big
palazzo
that’s just been restored, over by San Stae.’

‘The one that belongs to
the Milanese?’

‘Yes, sir. When he got
there last night, he found two men, maybe there were three, he wasn’t sure, in
the place.’

‘What happened?’

‘Vianello’s over at the
hospital, talking to him now. What I’ve got, I got from the men who answered
the call and took him to the hospital.’

‘What did they say?’

‘He tried to get out, but
they grabbed him and gave him a going over. He had to be taken to the hospital,
but it’s nothing too bad. Cuts and bruises.’

‘And the three men? Two
men?’

‘No sign of them. The men
who answered the call went back to the place after they took him to the
hospital. It looks like they got away with a couple of paintings and some of
his wife’s jewellery.’

‘Any description of the
men who did it?’

‘He didn’t see them
clearly, couldn’t say much, except that one of them was very tall, and he
thought one of them might have a beard. But,’ Rossi added, looking up and
smiling, ‘there was a pair of tourists sitting on the edge of the canal, and
they saw three men come out of the
palazzo.
One of them was carrying a
suitcase. These kids were still there when our men arrived, and they gave us a
description.’ He paused and smiled as if sure Brunetti would enjoy what was
coming next. ‘One of them sounds like Ruffolo.’

Brunetti’s response was
immediate. ‘I thought he was in prison.’

‘He was, sir, until two
weeks ago.’

‘Have you shown them
photos?’

‘Yes, sir. And they think
it’s him. They noticed the big ears.’

‘What about the owner?
Have you shown him the photo?’

‘Not yet, sir. I just got
back from talking to these Belgian kids. Sounds like Ruffolo to me.’

‘And what about the other
two men? Are the descriptions these Belgian kids gave you the same as his?’

‘Well, sir, it was dark,
and they weren’t really paying attention.’

‘But?’

‘But they’re pretty sure neither
one of them had a beard.’

Brunetti thought about this
for a moment, then told Rossi, ‘Take the photo over to the hospital and see if
he recognizes him. Can he talk, the Milanese?’

‘Oh, yes, sir. He’s all
right. A couple of bruises, a black eye, but he’s all right. Place is fully
insured.’

Why was it that it always
seemed less a crime if the place was insured?
         
             

‘If he gives you a
positive identification of Ruffolo, let me know, and I’ll go over to his mother’s
place and see if she knows where he is.’