Sea of Troubles (6 page)

Leaving Vianello to his own reflections, Brunetti stood a while longer, looking out at the sea. The ships were a bit further along in their journeys towards their destinations. They were alone in that, it seemed to him.

6

Reflecting that his distaste for what Vianello had just told him in no way altered its truth, Brunetti decided there was little purpose in their remaining in Pellestrina any longer, so he suggested they start back to Venice. Vianello displayed no surprise at this and they turned back down the steps, across the road, and through the narrow village until they were once again on the side facing Venice, where the police boat awaited them. On the trip across the
lagu
na,
Vianello gave him the names of the people he had questioned and a quick summary of the banalities they had given him. Bottin's brother, he had learned, lived in Murano, where he worked in a glass factory; the only other people related to him, the family
of his late wife, lived on that island as well, though no one had seemed able to tell him what they did there.

The people to whom Vianello had spoken had not been uncooperative in any way: they had all answered whatever questions he put to them. But no one had volunteered any information beyond that contained in the simplest, most direct response. There had been no extraneous detail, no release of the tide of gossip in which all social life swims. They had been clever enough not to answer in bare monosyllables and managed to suggest that they were doing everything they could to recall whatever might be of use to the police. And all the while, Vianello had known what they were doing, and it was likely that they knew he knew.

The launch turned left into the main canal leading back towards San Marco just as Vianello finished giving his account, and spread before them was the sight that had welcomed most arriving eyes ever since the great centuries of the Serenissima. Bell towers, domes, cupolas - all disported themselves for the eyes of the passengers and crew of the arriving boat, each one seeming to jostle the others aside, in the manner of small children, the better to catch the attention of the approaching visitors. The only difference between what the two policemen saw and what would have been visible to those who followed the same channel five hundred years ago was the flock of construction cranes which loomed above the city and, on top of every building, television antennae of every height and configuration.

Seeing the cranes, stark and angular,, Brunetti was struck by how seldom he ever saw them in motion. Two of them still towered above the hollow shell of the opera theatre, as motionless as all attempts to rebuild it. Thinking of the proud boast blazoned across the front page of
II Gazzettmo
the day after the fire, that the theatre would be rebuilt where it was and as it was, within two years, Brunetti didn't know whether to laugh or weep, a decision he had had far more than two years to consider. Popular belief, itself interchangeable with truth, had it that the motionless cranes cost the city ten million lire a day, and popular imagination had long since abandoned any attempt to calculate the final cost of restoration. Years passed, the money seeped away, and yet the cranes stood motionless, rising silently above the endless yammering and legal squabbling about who would get to perform the reconstruction.

Both of them stopped talking and watched the city draw near. No city is more self-regarding than Venice: cheap and vulgar self-portraits lined the sides of many streets; almost every kiosk peddled garish plastic gondolas; hacks whose berets falsely proclaimed them to be artists sold horrible pastels
at
every turn. At every step she pandered to the worst and flashed out the meretricious. Added to this was the terrible aftermath of all of these dry weeks: narrow
calli
that stank of urine, both dog and human; a thin layer of dust that was forever underfoot, no matter how many times the streets were swept. And yet her beauty remained unblemished, just as it remained supreme.

The pilot cut to the right and drew up in front of the Questura. Brunetti waved his thanks and jumped on to the embankment, quickly followed by Vianello.

'And now, sir?' the sergeant asked as they passed through the tall glass doors.

'Call the hospital and check when they're going to do the autopsies. I'll set Signorina Elettra to work on the Bottins.' Before Vianello could ask, he added, 'And on Sandro Scarpa, and while she's at it, Signora Follini.'

At the top of the first flight of steps, Brunetti turned off towards Patta's office, and Vianello went down to the uniformed men's office.

'Still thrashing it out with Veblen?' Brunetti asked as he came into Signorina Elettra's small office.

She picked up an envelope and used it to mark her place, then set the book aside. 'It's not easy reading. But I couldn't find it in translation.'

‘I
could have lent you mine,' Brunetti offered.

'Thank you, sir. If I had known you had it...' she began, then let the sentence drop. She wouldn't have asked her superior to bring her a book to read at work.

'Has the Vice-Questore come in yet?'

'He was here for a half-hour after lunch, but then he said he had to go to a meeting.'

One of the things Brunetti liked about Signorina Elettra was the merciless accuracy of her speech. Not, 'had to go to a meeting', but the more precise, 'said he had to go to a meeting'.

'Are you free, then?'

'As the air itself, sir,' she said, folding her hands in front of her like a diligent pupil and sitting up very straight in her chair.

'The murdered men were Giulio Bottin and his son, Marco. Both are from Pellestrina and both are fishermen. I'd like you to find whatever you can about them.'

'Everywhere, sir?'

Assuming this to mean everywhere she had access to with her computer or through her network of friends and connections, he nodded. 'And Sandro Scarpa, also of Pellestrina and probably a fisherman. See if the name Giacomini comes up in anything about them; I don't have a first name. And a Signora Follini, who runs the store there.'

At the name, Signorina Elettra raised her eyebrows in an open avowal of interest.

'You know her?' Brunetti asked.

'No, not really, no more than to say hello to.'

Brunetti waited for her to add something to this but when she did not, he went on, 'I don't know if it's a married name or not.' Signorina Elettra shook her head to indicate she had no clearer idea. 'I guess she's about fifty,' Brunetti offered, then couldn't resist adding, 'Though you'd probably have to drive bamboo shoots under her fingernails to get her to admit it.'

She looked up, startled, and said, 'That's a very unkind thing to say.'

‘I
s it any less unkind if it's true?' he asked.

She considered for a moment and then answered, 'No, probably more so.'

In defence of his remark, he said, 'She flirted with me,' putting ironic emphasis on 'me' to suggest the absurdity of the woman's behaviour.

Signorina Elettra glanced at him quickly. 'Ah,' was the only thing she allowed herself to say and then just as quickly asked, 'Any other names, sir?'

'No, but see if you can find if they owned the boat free and clear.' He thought for a moment, exploring possibilities. 'And see if any sort of insurance claim was ever made on it.'

She nodded each time he spoke but didn't bother to write any of this down.

'Do you know anyone out there?' he asked suddenly.

‘I
have a cousin who has a house in the village,' she answered modestly, disguising any pleasure she might have felt in finally being asked this question.

'In Pellestrina?' he asked, with interest.

'Actually, she's my father's cousin. She shocked the family, ages ago, by marrying a fisherman and moving out there. Her eldest daughter married a fisherman, too.'.

'And do you visit them?'

'Every summer,' she said. 'I usually spend a week there, sometimes two.'

'How long have you been doing this?' he asked, his mind running well ahead of his question.

She permitted herself to smile. 'Ever since we were kids. And I have even gone fishing on her son-in-law's boat.'

'You? Fishing?' Brunetti asked, as astonished as if she'd said she had taken up Sumo wrestling.

'I was younger then, sir,' she said, then, casting into the deep waters of memory, she added, 'I think it might have been the season Armani tried navy blue.'

He conjured her up then, wide-cut slacks, no doubt a mixture of silk and cashmere, cut low on the hip like the ones sailors wore. Not a white cap, certainly not that, but a captain's hat, brim covered in gold braid. He abandoned this vision, returned to her office, and asked, 'You still go out there?'

'I hadn't made plans yet to go out this summer, sir, but if you ask it like that, I suppose I can.'

Brunetti had had no idea at all of asking her to go and had inquired out of simple curiosity, wondering if she knew someone who would be willing to talk to them openly. 'No, nothing like that, Signorina,' he said. 'I was just surprised at the coincidence.' Even as he spoke, however, he was considering what she had just told him: a cousin in Pellestrina, a cousin married to a fisherman.

She interrupted his thoughts by saying, 'I hadn't made any other plans for vacation, you know, sir, and I really do love it there.'

'Please, Signorina,' he said, forcing himself to sound convinced and, he hoped, convincing, 'it's hardly anything we could ask of you.'

'No one's asking, sir. I'm merely trying to decide where to go for the first part of my vacation.'

'But I thought you just came back from...' he began, but she stopped him with a glance.

'There are so few days I manage to take,' she said modestly, and at the words, he blotted from his memory the postcards that had arrived at the Questura from Egypt, Crete, Peru and New Zealand.

Before she could suggest anything, he said,
‘I
hardly think any of this is proper, Signorina.'

She gave him a look that combined shock and injury. 'I'm not sure it's anyone's business where I choose to spend my vacation, sir.'

'Signorina,' he began by way of protest, but she cut him short with her most efficient voice.

'We can discuss this again at some other time, sir, but first let me see what I can find out about those people.' She turned her head to one side, as if hearing a sound Brunetti could not.
‘I
think I remember something about the Bottins, a few years ago. But I'll have to think about it.' She gave him a broad smile. 'Or I can ask my cousin.'

'Of course,' Brunetti agreed, not at all pleased at the way she had outmanoeuvred him. Habitual caution made him ask, 'Do they know you work here?'

'I doubt it
’
she answered. 'Most people really aren't interested in other people or what they do, not unless it bothers or affects them in some way.' Brunetti had concluded much the same thing, through years of experience. He wondered if her belief was theoretical or practical; she seemed so young and so untender.

She looked up at him and said, 'My father never approved of the fact that I left the bank, so I doubt he's told anyone where I'm working. I imagine most of my family still think I work there. If they bother to think about it at all, that is.'

Brunetti had become aware of what his enthusiasm had led her to contemplate, and again he protested. 'Signorina, this is not a good idea. These two men were murdered.' Her glance was cool, uninterested. 'And you're really not a member of the police, not officially, that is.' As he had seen done in countless films, she turned up her palm, bent her fingers, and examined her nails, as though they were the most interesting thing in the room. With her thumbnail, she flicked an invisible speck from another nail, then glanced in his direction to see if he was finished.

'As I was saying, sir, I think I'll be on vacation next week. The Vice-Questore will be gone, so I don't think he'll be much inconvenienced by my absence.'

'Signorina
’
Brunetti said, his voice calm and official, 'there could be a certain measure of danger involved here.' She didn't answer. 'You don't have the skills,' he said.

'Would you rather send Alvise and Riverre?' she asked drily, naming the two worst officers on the force. Then she repeated, 'Skills?'

He began to speak, but she cut him off again. 'What skills do you think I'm going to need, Commissario: to fire a gun or restrain a suspect or jump from a third-floor window?'

He refused to answer, not wanting to provoke her further and reluctant to admit he was responsible in any way for her hare-brained idea.

'What sort of skills do you think I've been using here since I was hired? I don't go out and arrest people, but I send you to the people you should arrest, and I give you the evidence that will help convict them. And I do it, sir, by asking people questions and then thinking about what they tell me and using that to go and ask other questions of other people.' She paused but he said nothing, merely nodded to show that he was listening to what she said.

'If I do it with this,' she said, waving a red-nailed hand above her computer keyboard, 'or I go out to Pellestrina to spend time with people I've known for years, there's really little difference.'