Donna Leon - Blood from a stone

He set the cup on the saucer, chose the noble path and said, as if he approved of her destination, ‘Sorry. I’d forgotten you told me you were going. Four o’clock is fine. I’ll try to think of what I’d like to get everyone.’

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. ‘I love it when you lie to me.’ She pushed herself away from him and was about to get up from the bed when he lunged and seized her in both arms.

He pulled her towards him, watching her astonishment, delighted by it. He squeezed. She laughed. He squeezed again. She giggled. Suddenly he let her go and she jumped to her feet.

‘Will you do that to Patta the next time he accuses you of lying to him?’ she asked.

He looked her up and down. ‘Only if he wears a dress as short as that one.’ He pushed the covers aside and got out of bed.

Strangely enough, the sun appeared to have had no effect on the temperature: when Brunetti left the house, it felt even colder than it had the day before. By the time he got to Rialto, he felt the cold in his ears and nose, and he regretted the light-hearted optimism that had encouraged him to leave his gloves and scarf at home. As if the fog of the previous week had also dropped from his eyes, he registered for the first time that the city was ready for Christmas: tinsel and bulbs hung in almost every shop window.

He looked up and saw that strings of lights crossed above his head: how could he have walked home in the dark for weeks and not have noticed this? His thoughts turned to Paola’s Aunt Federica. Brunetti knew that she had taken Paola aside, years ago, and warned her that her marriage to a man ‘of his class’ would be her ruination, not only personally but also, and far more importantly, socially. It was not until the birth of their second child that Paola had told him about her aunt’s remark, and he had been so drunk with joy at the sight of Chiara’s toes that he had said only, ‘Socially?’ and laughed: a Falier could marry the dustman and suffer no social consequences.

He was glad to enter the Questura if only for the warmth to be found in some parts of the building. In his office he shed his overcoat and headed back down towards Signorina Elettra’s office. Unfortunately, he ran into Patta on the stairs. ‘Good morning, Commissario,’ he said. ‘I’d like a word with you.’

‘Of course, sir,’ Brunetti answered, falling into step with him and giving every indication that he was a man who had been in the office for hours, was already well entrenched in his work for the day. He resisted the temptation to ask what it was that Patta wanted or to display his surprise at finding Patta at work so early and followed him into the small anteroom where Signorina Elettra and her computer held court.

She smiled at them but said good morning only to her superior before returning her attention to her computer screen. Patta went into his office; Brunetti turned at the door and looked back, but Signorina Elettra had time only to give a small shrug before he closed the door and followed Patta over to his desk. His superior removed his overcoat and laid it over the back of the second visitor’s chair, careful to fold it so that Brunetti could see the Ermenegildo Zegna label. Brunetti made an attempt to look suitably impressed and waited for Patta to take his seat before sitting down himself.

‘I want to talk to you about this vu cumprà thing,’ Patta announced.

Brunetti nodded but made sure to look inattentive, as if to suggest that he had heard about the vu cumprà some time in the past and would not mind being reminded just what they were.

‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, Brunetti,’ Patta said irritably.

Brunetti nudged his expression a little closer to intelligence and asked, ‘Yes, sir?’

‘As you might recall, I told you I thought it would be too complex a case for us to handle,’ Patta began; Brunetti resisted the impulse to tell him that, no, he had not said that but had ordered him — without explanation — to stay away from the case. He contented himself with nodding, waiting to see what manoeuvre Patta had devised. ‘I was right,’ Patta said with every indication of modesty at what must to him have seemed embarrassing redundancy. ‘It has ramifications far beyond Venice, and so it’s been assigned to special investigators from the Ministry of the Interior, who will take over from you.’ He looked at Brunetti to assess his response.

When his subordinate said nothing, Patta went on, ‘They’re already here and have begun their investigation. I’ve had all the records and documents handed over to them.’ Again he stopped, but in the face of Brunetti’s continuing silence was forced to resume. ‘They believe the killing is related to another case they’re dealing with at the moment.’

‘And what case would that be, sir?’ asked a respectful Brunetti.

‘They are not at liberty to tell me that,’ Patta answered.

‘I see,’ Brunetti said, his imagination spawning possibilities as quickly as a cell divides.

‘I think this is a case of what the Americans call “need-to-know”,’ Patta said, unable to disguise his pride in having thought to use — and managed to pronounce — the foreign term. Then, as if concerned that Brunetti might not have understood, he added, ‘That is, only people who are directly involved in the case will have access to the information obtained.’

Brunetti nodded, silent.

Patta paused for so long that he began to give evidence of finding the silence embarrassing. He pushed himself back in his chair and crossed his legs, trying to wait Brunetti out and force him to speak. The silence grew. Finally Patta could stand it no longer and asked, ‘Do you understand?’

In a completely neutral voice, Brunetti said, ‘I think I do,’ and then asked, ‘Will that be all, sir?’

‘Yes.’

Brunetti got to his feet and left the room. As he closed the door, he glanced in Signorina Elettra’s direction but left her office without speaking to her.

He went to the officers’ room and walked over to Vianello, who was at his desk. ‘Do you have copies of the files?’ Brunetti asked.

‘You mean about the African?’

‘Yes.’

Vianello got up and went over to the battered filing cabinet that stood between the windows of the far wall. He pulled open the top drawer and flicked through some folders until he reached the back of the drawer, then went back to the front and looked through them again. He pushed the drawer closed and returned to his desk. He looked into the two files that lay to the right of the telephone, then opened all of the desk drawers, one by one. He looked up at Brunetti and shook his head.

Together, without bothering to speak, they went upstairs to Brunetti’s office, but his own search for the files proved just as fruitless as Vianello’s. ‘Scarpa?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Probably,’ Vianello agreed. ‘But it’s so stupid to take them. She’s got them on her computer, so she can simply make more copies.’

Both of them considered this, then it occurred to Brunetti to wonder if this were indeed the case. He was reluctant to appear anywhere near Signorina Elettra so soon after having left Patta’s office, and he did not want to use the internal phone to ask her about them. ‘I’d like you to go down and ask her if she’s still got copies,’ he told Vianello.

The inspector left the office. During the time Vianello was gone, Brunetti considered the situation. He knew how easy it would be to remove a file, any file, multiple files, from the various cabinets or offices in the Questura, but he failed to understand how, or if, information could be removed from Signorina Elettra’s computer. Instinct and past experience suggested that Lieutenant Scarpa was the person most likely to have been involved in the removal of the actual documents, but Patta’s reference to the Ministry of the Interior meant that there was now a different level of competence to be reckoned with. To pass the case over to them would effectively end it in Venice and would enable Patta to reach safety; Scarpa, had he been the one to remove the files, would earn the gratitude of his superior. But, beyond the two of them, who gained — and what was to be gained — by suppressing the investigation of the death?

A week ago he had used false identification to buy a second telefonino in the name of Roberto Rossi: he had given the number to no one, not even Paola. He took it out now and dialled the number of Rizzardi’s office. When the doctor answered with his name, Brunetti said only, ‘It’s me, Bruno. Carlo.’ He paused, giving the doctor time to register the name and the warning of caution it contained. ‘I wondered if by any chance you saw that report your office sent me?’

‘Ah, yes, Carlo,’ Rizzardi answered after the shortest of pauses, ‘how nice to hear your voice. I didn’t see it until this morning and I’ve already called once, but you weren’t there. I’ve got a few photos of that, ah, new line in sweaters. I’m not sure you’re going to like them, but I think they’re something you might want to have a look at. I think we do have a few patterns you’ll really want to see.’ Rizzardi paused, then added, ‘I thought it might be more convenient if you could stop by to pick them up yourself.’

‘Ah, thanks,’ Brunetti answered. ‘I don’t think I can do it myself today. You know how busy we always are at the beginning of a season, but I’ll send one of my salesmen over to pick them up. In about half an hour, say?’

‘Fine,’ Rizzardi answered. ‘I’ll just get them ready and put them in an envelope. Tell your salesman I’ll have them with me, and he can come to my office and get them.’

‘I’ll do that, and thanks. I look forward to seeing them.’

‘Yes, I thought you would. They’re very interesting. I’ll put a price list in with them, shall I?’

‘Yes. Thanks, Bruno.’

He thought he heard a muffled laugh, or perhaps it was nothing more than a snort of disgust from Rizzardi that they had to resort to this sort of cloak and dagger caution, but whatever it was, it was over as soon as heard, and Rizzardi put the phone down.

Knowing Vianello would wait when he came back from Elettra’s office and found Brunetti’s office empty, Brunetti went down to the officers’ room and asked Pucetti to go over to the Ospedale Civile to pick up an envelope from Dottor Rizzardi. ‘But you better go home first,’ Brunetti cautioned him, ‘and change out of your uniform.’

‘I’ve got clothes in my locker, sir,’ Pucetti said, getting to his feet. ‘So I can go over now, soon as I’ve changed.’

Brunetti went back to his office, burdened by the weight of what he was forced to do. Secret phone calls, coded messages, policemen shedding their uniforms in order to do their jobs. ‘We’re all mad, we’re all mad,’ he caught himself muttering as he climbed the steps. Next thing he knew, he’d be wearing a disguise to come to work and setting up bank accounts in the Channel Islands. It helped, he realized, to expand it all to the reductio ad absurdum , for to consider their behaviour objectively would be to summon despair.

Vianello came in, saying as he entered, ‘She said someone managed to get into her computer and destroy things.’ Before Brunetti could ask, he said, ‘No, not her physical computer, but into her files. She said whoever did it was very sophisticated.’

‘What was destroyed?’ Brunetti asked.

‘The autopsy report that was attached to the email. And the original report of the crime.’

‘And the other things? The addresses of Bertolli and Cuzzoni?’ Brunetti asked, alarmed that whoever had destroyed the other files would have found these and known where their investigation was heading. Which, he reflected with sudden cynicism, was considerably more than he knew.