Fatal Remedies (14 page)

‘He wasn’t in when I left to come down here a few minutes ago, but Scarpa called him at home and told him about it.’

‘I’ll come in,’ Brunetti said, searching with his feet for his shoes.

Vianello was silent for a long time, but then he said, ‘Yes. I think you’d better.’

‘Twenty minutes.’ Brunetti hung up.

He tied his shoes and walked to the back of the apartment. The door to Paola’s study was open, an unspoken invitation for him to come in and tell her about the phone call. ‘It was Vianello,’ he said as he walked in.

She looked up, saw his face, put down the page she was reading and, closing her pen, she placed it on the desk. ‘What did he say?’

‘Mitri was murdered last night.’

She moved back in her seat, as if someone had waved a menacing hand in her direction. ‘No.’

‘Pucetti said there was a note, something about paedophiles and justice.’

Her face went rigid, then she raised the back of her right hand to her mouth. ‘Oh,
Madonna Santa.’
From behind it she whispered. ‘How?’

‘He was strangled.’

She shook her head, eyes closed. ‘Oh, my God, my God.’

Now was the time to do it, Brunetti knew. ‘Paola, before you did it, did you discuss it with anyone else? Or is there anyone who encouraged you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did you act alone?’

He watched her eyes change, saw the irises grow smaller with shock. ‘Are you asking me if someone I know, some fanatic, knew I was going to break the window? And went and killed him?’

‘Paola,’ he said, careful to keep his voice level, ‘I’m trying to ask you a question and to exclude a possibility before anyone else puts things together in the same way and asks you the same thing.’

‘There’s nothing to put together,’ she answered immediately, putting the heavy emphasis of sarcasm on the last two words.

‘Then there was no one?’

‘No. I never discussed it with anyone. It was a completely independent choice. Not an easy one.’

He nodded. If she had acted alone, then it must have been someone inflamed or encouraged by the press handling of the case. God, we were becoming just like America, where the police go in fear of copy-cat killers, where the mere mention of a crime is enough to encourage imitation. ‘I’m going in,’ he said. ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back.’

She nodded but stayed at her desk, not speaking.

Brunetti went down the corridor, got his coat and left the apartment. No one was waiting outside, but he knew that the truce would soon end.

* * * *

12

It ended in front of the Questura, the door of which was blocked by a triple row of reporters. In the front line stood the men and women with their notebooks. At their backs were those with microphones and behind them, closest to the door, the ranks of the video cameras, two of which were mounted on tripods, arc lamps set up behind them.

One of the men saw Brunetti approach and turned the blank eye of his camera in his direction. Brunetti ignored it and also the people who crowded around him. Strangely enough, none of them asked him a question or spoke to him; they did nothing more than turn their microphones in his direction and watch silently as, like Moses, he passed undisturbed between the parted waters of their curiosity and into the Questura.

Inside, Alvise and Riverre saluted him as he came in, Alvise unable to disguise his surprise at seeing him.

‘Buon di,
Commissario,’ Riverre said, a greeting echoed by his partner.

Brunetti nodded to them, knowing it was a waste of time to ask Alvise anything, and started up the steps towards Patta’s office. Outside it, at her desk, Signorina Elettra was speaking on the phone when he came in. She nodded in his direction, not at all surprised to see him here, and held up a restraining hand. ‘I’d like it by the afternoon,’ she said, waited until the other person answered, then said goodbye and hung up. ‘Welcome back, Commissario,’ she said.

‘Am I?’

She gave him a quizzical glance.

‘Welcomed?’ he explained.

‘By me, certainly. I don’t know about the Vice-Questore, but he did ask earlier if you’d come in.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘That I expected you shortly.’

‘And?’

‘He seemed relieved.’

‘Good.’ Brunetti was equally relieved. ‘What about Lieutenant Scarpa?’

‘He’s been with the Vice-Questore since he got back from the murder scene.’

‘What time was that?’

‘The call from Signora Mitri was logged at ten twenty-seven. Corvi called in at eleven-o-three.’ She glanced down at a piece of paper on her desk. ‘Lieutenant Scarpa called in at quarter past eleven and went to the Mitris’ immediately. He didn’t get back here until one.’

‘And he’s been there?’ Brunetti said, indicating the door to Patta’s office with a jerk of his chin.

‘Since eight thirty this morning,’ Signorina Elettra answered.

‘No use waiting,’ Brunetti said, as much to himself as to her, and turned to the door. He knocked; Patta’s voice called out instantly.

Brunetti pushed open the door and entered. As usual, Patta posed behind his desk, the light streaming in from behind him, reflecting up off the surface and into the eyes of anyone who sat in front of him.

Lieutenant Scarpa stood beside his commander, his posture so straight and his uniform ironed to such perfection that he looked frighteningly like Maximilian Schell in one of his good-Nazi roles.

Patta greeted Brunetti with a nod and gestured to the chair in front of his desk. Brunetti pulled it a bit to the side so that the shadow cast by Scarpa’s body blocked some of the light bouncing up from the polished wood. The lieutenant shifted his weight from one foot to the other and moved a small step to his right. Brunetti countered this by shifting to his left and turning a bit more to that side.

‘Good-morning, Vice-Questore,’ Brunetti said and nodded to Scarpa.

‘You’ve heard, then?’ Patta said.

‘I heard only that he was killed. Beyond that, I know nothing.’

Patta looked up at Scarpa. ‘Tell him about it, Lieutenant.’

Scarpa looked at Brunetti, then back at Patta before he spoke. When he did so, it was with a small bow of his head in Patta’s direction. ‘With all respect, Vice-Questore, I thought the commissario was on administrative leave.’ Patta said nothing, so he went on, ‘I didn’t know he was going to be brought back to this investigation. And, if I might suggest, the press might find it strange that he is being assigned to it.’

Brunetti found it interesting that, at least in Scarpa’s mind, it was all being treated as one investigation. He wondered if this reflected the lieutenant’s belief that Paola must somehow be involved in the murder.

‘I’ll decide who gets assigned to what, Lieutenant,’ Patta said in a level voice. ‘Tell the commissario what happened. Its his problem now.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Scarpa answered neutrally. He stood up a bit straighter and began to explain. ‘Corvi called me a bit after eleven and I went immediately to the Mitris’ home. When I got there, I found his body on the floor of the kitchen. From what I could see of his neck, he appeared to have been strangled, though there was no sign of the murder weapon.’ He paused and looked at Brunetti, but when the commissario said nothing, Scarpa continued, ‘I examined the body, then called for Dottor Rizzardi, who arrived after about half an hour. He confirmed my opinion about the cause of death.’

‘Did he have any suggestion or idea about what could have been used to strangle him?’ Brunetti interrupted.

‘No.’ Brunetti noticed that Scarpa did not address him by his title, but he let that go. He had no need to wonder how the lieutenant must have treated Dr Rizzardi, a man known to be friendly with Brunetti, so he wasn’t surprised to learn that Rizzardi hadn’t been willing to hazard a guess about what was used to strangle Mitri.

‘And the autopsy?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Today, if it’s possible.’

Brunetti would call Rizzardi after this meeting. It would be possible.

‘May I continue, sir?’ Scarpa asked Patta.

Patta gave Brunetti a long look, as if to ask if he had any other obstructive questions, but when Brunetti ignored the look he turned to Scarpa and said, ‘Of course.’

‘He was alone in the apartment that evening. His wife was at dinner with friends.’

‘Why didn’t Mitri go?’ Brunetti asked.

Scarpa looked at Patta, as if to ask him if he should answer the commissario’s question. When Patta nodded, Scarpa explained, ‘His wife said they were old friends of hers, from before she married, and Mitri seldom went out with them when they went to dinner.’

‘Children?’ Brunetti asked.

‘There’s a daughter, but she lives in Rome.’

‘Servants?’

‘All this is in the report,’ Scarpa said petulantly, looking at Patta and not at Brunetti.

‘Servants?’ Brunetti repeated.

Scarpa paused, but then he answered, ‘No. At least no live-in help. There’s a woman who comes to clean twice a week.’

Brunetti got to his feet. ‘Where’s the wife?’ he asked Scarpa.

‘She was still there when I left.’

‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ Brunetti said. ‘I’d like to see a copy of your report.’

Scarpa nodded but did not speak.

‘I’ll have to see the wife,’ Brunetti said to Patta and, before the Vice-Questore could say it, he added, ‘I’ll be very careful with her.’

‘And your own?’ Patta asked.

This could mean many things, but Brunetti chose to answer the most obvious form the question could take. ‘She was home all last evening, with me and our children. None of us left after seven thirty, when my son came home from studying at a friend’s house.’ He paused here to see if Patta would add another question, and, when he chose not to, Brunetti let himself out of the office without saying or asking anything further.

* * * *

Signorina Elettra looked up from some papers on her desk and, making no attempt to disguise her curiosity, asked, ‘Well?’

‘It’s mine,’ Brunetti said.

‘But that’s crazy.’ Signorina Elettra spoke before she could stop herself. Hastily, she added, ‘I mean, the press will go wild when they learn.’

Brunetti shrugged. There was little he could do to curb the enthusiasms of the press. Ignoring her remark he asked, ‘Have you got those papers I told you not to get?’

He watched while she followed this question to the places it could lead: charges of disobedience and insubordination, failure to obey a direct order from a superior, grounds for dismissal, destruction of her career. ‘Of course, sir,’ she answered.

‘Can you give me a copy?’

‘It will take a few minutes. I’ve got them hidden in here,’ she explained, waving a hand at her computer screen.

‘Where?’

‘In a file I think no one else could find.’

‘No one?’

‘Oh,’ she said loftily, ‘if they were as good as I, perhaps.’