The Death of Faith (18 page)

‘A man came here a few hours ago to look for her.’ Brunetti said. ‘No one told him that she’d been sent to Venice.’

The doctor shrugged away all responsibility. ‘I told you, there’s only the three of us. Someone should have told him.’

‘Yes,’ Brunetti agreed, ‘someone should have told him.’ Then he asked, ‘Is there anything else you can tell me about her condition?’

‘No, you’ll have to ask the people over at Civile.’

‘Where is she?’

‘If they’ve found a neurologist, she’ll be in the intensive care ward. Or she should be.’ The doctor shook his head, whether from tiredness or the memory of Maria’s injuries, Brunetti wasn’t sure. Suddenly one of the doors was pushed open from the inside, and a young woman in an equally rumpled coat appeared. ‘Dottore,’ she said in an urgent, high voice, ‘we need you. Quickly.’

He turned and followed the woman back through the door, not bothering to say anything further to Brunetti. Brunetti turned and went back the way they had come, back out to the launch. He stepped on board and, giving no explanation at all to the pilot of what had happened, said, ‘Back to the Ospedale Civile, Bonsuan.’ As they cut their way through the freshening waves, Brunetti remained below, but he watched through the glass windows of the doors of the cabin as Vianello told Bonsuan what had just happened. By the end of the tale, both men were shaking their heads disgustedly, no doubt the only possible response to any protracted contact with the public health system.

A quarter of an hour later, the boat pulled up alongside the Civil Hospital, and Brunetti again told Bonsuan to wait for them. Both he and Vianello knew from long experience where the intensive care ward was, and they quickly made their way through the labyrinthine corridors.

A doctor Brunetti knew stood in the corridor outside the ward, and Brunetti went quickly up to him.

‘Buon giorno,
Giovanni,’ he said when the doctor recognized him and smiled. ‘I’m looking for a woman who was sent over from the Lido yesterday.’

‘The one with the head injury?’ the young man asked.

‘Yes. How is she?’

‘It looks like she hit her head against her bicycle and then again when she hit the ground. There’s a gash above her ear. But we can’t get her out of it, can’t get her to wake up.’

‘Does anyone know . . .?’ Brunetti began but stopped because he didn’t know what to ask.

‘We don’t know anything, Guido. She could come out of it today. Or she could stay in it. Or she could die.’ He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

‘What do you do in a case like this?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Doctors?’

Brunetti nodded.

‘We do tests and more tests. And then we pray.’

‘Can I see her?’

‘There’s not much to see except bandages,’ the doctor said.

‘I’d still like to see her.’

‘All right. But only you,’ he said, looking in Vianello’s direction.

Vianello nodded and went over to sit in a chair against the wall. He picked up the second section of a two-day-old newspaper and began to read.

The doctor led Brunetti down the corridor and stopped in front of the third door on the right. ‘We’re crowded, so we’ve got her in here.’ Saying that, he pushed open the door and went in before Brunetti.

Everything was familiar: the smell of flowers and urine, the plastic bottles of mineral water lined up against the windows to keep cool, the sense of expectant misery. There were four beds in the room, one empty. Brunetti saw her instantly, lying in the bed against the far wall. He didn’t notice when the doctor left and closed the door but walked over and stood first at the foot of her bed, then moved up beside her head.

Her thick lashes were almost invisible against the dark shadows under both eyes; one short tuft of dark hair sneaked out from under the bandage that covered her hair. The side of her nose was discoloured by the Mercurochrome painted across a scrape that began there and ran down to her chin. The black threads of stitches began just above her left cheekbone and disappeared under the bandage.

Under the light blue blanket, her body seemed no larger than a child’s, weirdly distorted by the thick bandage that bound one shoulder. Brunetti stared first at her mouth and then, when he could detect no motion there, at her chest. He wasn’t sure at first, but then he saw the blanket rise as she breathed silently in and then out. When he saw that, he relaxed.

Behind him, one of the other women moaned, and another, perhaps disturbed by the sound, called out for ‘Roberto’.

After a time, Brunetti went back into the hall, where Vianello was still reading the paper. Brunetti nodded to him, and together they went out to the waiting boat and back to the Questura.

* * * *

Chapter Nine

Brunetti and Vianello’s agreement not to bother with lunch was as mutual as it was unspoken. As soon as they got back to the Questura, Brunetti sent Vianello to adjust the duty roster and see that a guard be put in front of Maria Testa’s room immediately and kept there day and night.

Brunetti called the police on the Lido, gave his name and the reason for his call, and asked if they had learned anything about the hit-and-run accident the day before. They had nothing: no witnesses, no one calling to report a suspicious dent in a neighbour’s car, nothing, even though there had been a story in that morning’s paper listing a number to call if anyone had information about the accident. Brunetti left his number and, more importantly, his rank, and told them he was to be informed as soon as anything was learned about the driver or the car.

Brunetti opened his drawer and pushed things around until he found the abandoned file. He turned to the copy of the first will, that of Fausta Galasso, the woman who had left everything to her nephew in Torino, and read carefully through the items named: three apartments in Venice, two farms up near Pordenone, and the savings in three bank accounts in the city. He studied the addresses of the apartments, but they told him nothing.

He picked up the phone and dialled a number from memory.

‘Bucintoro Real Estate,’ a woman’s voice answered on the second ring.

‘Ciao,
Stefania,’ he said. ‘It’s Guido.’

‘I knew from your voice,’ she said. ‘How are you and before you tell me, do you want to buy a lovely apartment in Canaregio, one hundred-fifty metres, two bathrooms, three bedrooms, kitchen, dining room, and living room with a view of the
laguna?’

‘What’s wrong with it?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Guido?’ she asked in shocked amazement, drawing out the first syllable to three times its normal length.

‘Occupied and no way to get the tenant out? Needs a new roof? Dry rot in the walls?’ he asked.

There was a short silence and then a short, shocked laugh.
‘Acqua alta,’
Stefania said. ‘If the water goes above one metre fifty, you’ll have fish in your bed.’

‘There are no more fish in the
laguna,
Stefania. They’ve all been poisoned.’

‘Seaweed, then. But it’s really a beautiful apartment, believe me. An American couple bought it three years ago, spent a fortune restoring it, hundreds of millions, but no one told them about the water. Then, last winter, when we had
acqua alta
, they lost their parquet, their new paint job, and about fifty million in furniture and carpets. Finally they called in an architect, and the first thing he told them was that there was nothing they could do about it. So they want to sell it.’

‘How much?’

‘Three hundred million.’

‘A hundred and fifty metres?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Yes.’

‘That’s nothing.’

‘I know. You know anyone who might be interested?’

‘Stefania, it’s cheap for a hundred-fifty square metres. But it’s also worthless.’ She didn’t deny this, didn’t say anything. ‘You got anyone interested?’ he finally asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Who?’

‘Some Germans.’

‘Good. I hope you sell it to them.’ Stefania’s father had been a prisoner of war in Germany for three years. Brunetti’s remark needed no clarification.

‘If you don’t want an apartment, what do you want? Information?’

‘Stefania,’ he sang back, doing the same to the second syllable of her name as she had done to the first of his. ‘Do you think I’d call you for any reason other than hearing your sweet voice?’

‘You do feed a girl’s dreams, Guido. Hurry up, what do you want to know?’

‘I’ve got three addresses and the name of the last owner. I’d like to know if they’re on the market and, if so, what they’re worth. Or if they’ve been sold in the last year, what they sold for.’

‘It’ll take me a day or two,’ she said.

‘A day?’ he asked.

‘All right. A day. What are the addresses?’

Brunetti gave her the three addresses and explained that they had all been left to the nephew by a woman named Galasso. Before she hung up, Stefania told Brunetti that, if the deal with the Germans fell through, she’d expect him to find someone to take the apartment off her hands. He agreed to consider it but stopped short of saying he’d suggest it to his vice-questore.

The next will was that of Signora Renata Cristanti, widow of Marcello. Whatever Signor Cristanti had done while still alive to work, he must have done very well at it, for Signora Cristanti’s estate included a long list of apartments, four stores, and investments and savings totalling more than half a billion lire, all left in equal shares to her six children, the same ones who had never troubled to visit her. Reading this, the first thing that occurred to Brunetti was to wonder why a person this wealthy and with six children could come to finish her days in a nursing home run by an order of nuns vowed to poverty, rather than in some ultra modern clinic possessed of every treatment and convenience known to geriatric medicine.

Conte Crivoni had left his widow the apartment in which she lived, as well as two other apartments and various investments the value of which it was impossible to determine merely from reading the will. No other beneficiaries were named.

As Signor da Prè had said, his sister had left everything — aside from the contested bequest to the nursing home — to him. Naming him as sole heir, the will did not list any specific property or holdings, and so it was impossible to know how large the estate had been.

Signor Lerini had left everything to his daughter Benedetta, and again, the fact that the contents were not listed separately made it impossible to know its total value.

The buzzer on his intercom rang. ‘Yes, Vice-Questore?’ he said as he picked it up.

‘I’d like to speak to you for a moment, Brunetti.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll be right down.’

Patta had been back in control of the Questura for more than a week, but Brunetti had so far managed to avoid any personal dealings with him. He had prepared, for Patta’s arrival, a long report of what the various
commissari
had done during Patta’s absence, making no mention of Maria Testa, her visit, or of the interviews it had led him to make.

Signorina Elettra was at her desk in the small office outside Patta’s door. Today she was wearing the most feminine of dark-grey business suits, almost a parody of the double-breasted pinstripes Patta affected. Like him, she had a white handkerchief folded in her breast pocket and, like him again, she had a small jewelled stickpin in the centre of her silk tie.

‘All right, sell the Fiat,’ he heard her saying as he came in. Surprised, he almost interrupted to say he didn’t know she had a car, when she added, ‘But turn it around immediately and buy a thousand shares of that German biotech stock I told you about last week.’ She raised a hand and signalled Brunetti that she had something to tell him before he went into Patta’s office. ‘And get me out of Dutch guilders before the end of the day. A friend called me and told me what their Finance Minister is going to announce at the cabinet meeting tomorrow.’ The person she was speaking to said something, and she answered angrily, ‘I don’t care if there’s a loss. Dump them.’