Fatal Remedies (33 page)

‘I wasn’t driving,’ Bonaventura broke in, his outrage audible in both words and tone.

Brunetti was looking at Candiani when the other man spoke, and he saw the flesh under the lawyer’s eyes contract minimally, either in surprise or something harsher, he wasn’t sure.

Candiani pushed the notebook into the briefcase and flipped it closed. ‘I’d like to be sure that the Castelfranco police have decided this, Commissario.’ Then, as if to remove any lack of faith those words might imply, he added, ‘As a mere formality, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Brunetti repeated, also getting to his feet.

Brunetti knocked on the glass of the window to summon the officer who waited in the hall. Leaving Bonaventura inside, the two men left the interview room and went to speak to Bonino, who confirmed Brunetti’s judgement that the Castelfranco police would indeed be pressing various serious charges against Bonaventura.

An officer accompanied Candiani back to the interview room to inform and say farewell to his client, leaving Brunetti with Bonino.

‘Did you get it all?’ Brunetti asked.

Bonino nodded. ‘It’s all new, the sound equipment. It’ll pick up the smallest whisper, even heavy breathing. So yes, we’ve got it all.’

‘And before I got there?’

‘No. We can’t turn it on until there’s a police officer in the room. Lawyer-client privilege.’

‘Really?’ Brunetti asked, unable to mask his amazement.

‘Really,’ Bonino repeated. ‘We lost a case last year because the defence could prove we listened to what the suspect said to his lawyer. So the Questore has ordered that there will be no exceptions. Nothing gets turned on until there’s an officer in the room.’

Brunetti nodded at this, then asked, ‘As soon as his lawyer’s gone, can you fingerprint him?’

‘For the money?’

Brunetti nodded.

‘It’s already done,’ Bonino said with a small smile. ‘Completely unofficially. He had a glass of mineral water earlier this morning and we lifted three good prints from it when he was finished.’

‘And?’ Brunetti asked.

‘And our lab man says it’s a fit, that at least two of the prints appear on some of the bills in Palmieri’s wallet.’

‘I’ll check his bank, too,’ Brunetti said. ‘Those five-hundred-thousand-lire notes are still new. Most people won’t even take them: too hard to change. I don’t know if they keep a record of the numbers, but if they do ...’

‘He’s got Candiani, remember,’ Bonino said.

‘You know him?’

‘Everyone in the Veneto knows him.’

‘But we’ve got the phone calls to a man he denies knowing well and we’ve got the prints,’ Brunetti insisted.

‘He’s still got Candiani.’

* * * *

27

And never had prophecy proven more true. The bank in Venice had a record of the numbers of the five-hundred-thousand-lire notes distributed on the day that Bonaventura withdrew fifteen million in cash from the bank, and the numbers of the notes found in Palmieri’s wallet were among them. Any doubt that they were the same notes was removed by the presence of Bonaventura’s fingerprints.

Candiani, speaking for Bonaventura, insisted that there was nothing at all strange in this. His client had withdrawn the money in order to pay back a personal loan his brother-in-law, Paolo Mitri, had made to him and had done so in cash, handing the money to Mitri the day after he made the withdrawal, the day he was murdered. The fragments of Palmieri’s skin under Mitri’s nails made it all perfectly clear: Palmieri had robbed Mitri and had prepared the note in advance in order to pull suspicion away from himself. He had killed Mitri, either by accident or by design, in the course of the robbery.

As to the phone calls, Candiani made short work of them by pointing out that the Interfar factory had a central number, so calls made from any extension would register as having come from that central number. Hence anyone, anywhere in the factory, could have made the calls to Palmieri’s
telefonino,
just as he could have been calling the factory to do no more than report a delay in shipment.

Told of the phone call made to his number from Mitri’s apartment on the night of the murder, Bonaventura remembered that Mitri had called that evening to invite him and his wife to dinner the following week. When it was pointed out that the call had lasted only fifteen seconds, Bonaventura recalled that Mitri had cut it short, saying someone had just rung the doorbell. He expressed horror at the realization that it must have been Mitri’s killer.

Each man had had time to construct a story to explain their flight from the Interfar factory. Sandi said he’d taken Bonaventura’s sudden warning that the police were there as a command to flee and that Bonaventura had run ahead of him to the truck. Bonaventura, for his part, insisted that Sandi had pointed the pistol at him and thus forced him into the truck. The third man said he’d seen nothing.

In the matter of the shipments of drugs, Candiani proved far less able to turn away the suspicions of the forces of justice. Sandi repeated and expanded his testimony and provided the names and addresses of the night-time crew that was brought in to fill and pack the false medicines. Because they were paid in cash, there were no bank records of their salaries, but Sandi produced time sheets with their names and signatures. He also gave the police an extensive list of past shipments: dates, contents, and destinations.

The Ministry of Health stepped in at this point. The Interfar factory was closed, the premises sealed, while inspectors opened and examined boxes, bottles and tubes. All the medicines in the central part of the factory were determined to be exactly what their labels stated them to be, but an entire section of the warehouse contained shipping crates filled with packages of substances which proved, upon examination, to have no medicinal value whatsoever. Three crates were filled with plastic bottles labelled as cough medicine. Upon examination, they were discovered to be made up of a mixture of sugar water and antifreeze, a combination which would prove harmful, perhaps lethal, to anyone who took it.

Other crates contained hundreds of boxes of medicines long past their expiry date; still others packages of gauze and sutures whose wrappings crumbled at a touch, so long had they been sitting unused in warehouses somewhere. Sandi provided the bills of lading and invoices which were to accompany these crates to their final destinations in lands racked by famine, war and pestilence, as well as a list of the prices to be paid for them by the international aid agencies so willing to distribute them to the suffering poor.

Removed from involvement in the case by a direct order from Patta, himself obeying one from the Minister of Health, Brunetti followed the investigation in the newspapers. Bonaventura admitted to some involvement in the sale of false medicines, though he insisted that the original plan and instigation had been Mitri’s. When he’d bought Interfar, he’d hired much of his staff from the factory Mitri had been forced to sell: they had brought the rot and corruption with them, and Bonaventura had found himself helpless to stop them. When he had protested to Mitri, his brother-in-law had threatened to call in his personal loan and withdraw his wife’s money from the factory, actions which would surely have led Bonaventura to financial ruin. Victim of his own weakness, then, and helpless in the face of Mitri’s superior financial strength, Bonaventura had had no choice but to continue with the production and sale of these false medicines. To have protested would have caused bankruptcy and disgrace.

From all that he read, Brunetti inferred that, should Bonaventura’s case ever reach trial, he would be subjected to a fine, not a particularly heavy one, for the labels of the Ministry of Health had never actually been changed or tampered with. Brunetti had no idea what law was broken by the sale of expired medicines, especially if that sale took place in some other country. The law was clearer on the falsification of medicines, but again the issue grew complicated by the fact that the medicines were not sold or distributed in Italy. All of this, however, he dismissed as worthless speculation. Bonaventura’s crime was murder, not tampering with packages: the murder of Mitri and the murder of anyone who died as a result of the medicines he sold.

In this belief Brunetti stood alone. The papers were now fully convinced that Palmieri had killed Mitri, though nowhere was a retraction made of the original theory that his killer was a fanatic inflamed and encouraged to murder by Paola’s action. The presiding magistrate decided not to press criminal charges against Paola, so the case was filed in the archives of the State.

A few days after Bonaventura was sent home, where he was to remain under house arrest, Brunetti sat in the living-room of his home, engrossed in Arrian’s account of the campaigns of Alexander, when the phone rang. He lifted his head, listening to see if Paola would pick it up in her study. When it stopped after the third ring, he went back to his book and to Alexander’s evident desire that his friends prostrate themselves before him as though he were a god. The charm of the book quickly tugged Brunetti back to that far-away place, that distant time.

‘It’s for you,’ Paola said from behind him. ‘A woman.’

‘Hm?’ Brunetti asked, looking up from the pages, but not yet fully there either in the room or in the present.

‘A woman,’ Paola repeated, standing by the door.

‘Who?’ Brunetti asked, slipping a used boat ticket into his book and setting it beside him on the sofa.

He was just pushing himself to his feet when Paola said, ‘I’ve no idea. I don’t listen to your calls.’

He froze, bent over like an old man with a bad back.
‘Madre di Dio,’
Brunetti exclaimed. He stood and stared across at Paola, who remained at the door, giving him a strange look.

‘What is it, Guido? Did you hurt your back?’

‘No, no. I’m fine. But I think I’ve got it. I think I’ve got him.’ He walked to the
armadio
and took out his coat.

When she saw him, Paola asked, ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m going out,’ he said, offering no explanation.

‘What’ll I tell this woman?’

‘Tell her I’m not here,’ he answered and, a moment after he spoke, that was true.

* * * *

Signora Mitri let him in. She wore no make-up and the roots of her hair showed grey at the parting. She wore a shapeless brown dress and seemed to have grown even stouter in the time since he had last seen her. As he came close to shake her hand, he caught a faint whiff of something sweet, vermouth or Marsala.

‘You’ve come to tell me?’ she said when they were seated in the sitting-room, facing one another across a low table on which stood three soiled glasses and an empty bottle of vermouth.

‘No, Signora, I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything.’

Her disappointment pulled her eyes closed and drew her hands towards one another. After a moment, she glanced across at him and whispered, ‘I’d hoped ...’

‘Have you read the papers, Signora?’

She didn’t have to ask him what he meant. She shook her head.

‘I need to know something, Signora,’ Brunetti said. ‘I need you to explain something to me.’

‘What?’ she asked neutrally, not really interested.

‘You said, when we last spoke, that you listened to your husband’s conversations.’ When she made no acknowledgement that he had spoken he added, ‘With other women.’

As he had feared, her tears started, trailing down her cheeks and dropping on to the thick fabric of her dress. She nodded.

‘Signora, could you tell me how you did this?’

She looked up at him, her eyes pulled together in complete confusion.

‘How did you listen to the calls?’

She shook her head.

‘How did you do it, Signora?’ She didn’t answer and he went on. ‘It’s important, Signora. I need to know this.’