Anonymous Venetian aka Dressed for Death

Chapter Fourteen

Brunetti did what any sensible man will do when he has known defeat: he went home and called his wife. When he was put through to Paola’s room, Chiara answered the phone.

‘Oh, ciao, Papà; you should have been on the train. We got stuck outside Vicenza and had to sit there for almost two hours. No one knew what happened, but then the conductor told us that a woman had thrown herself under a train between Vicenza and Verona, so we had to wait and wait. I guess they had to clean it up, eh? When we finally got going, I stayed right at the window all the way to Verona, but I didn’t see anything. You think they got it cleaned up so fast?’

‘I suppose so, cara. Is your mother there?’

‘Yes, she is, Papà. But maybe I was looking out the wrong side of the train and all the mess was on the other side. Do you think that might be it?’

‘Perhaps, Chiara. Could I talk to Mamma?’

‘Oh, sure, Papà. She’s right here. Why do you think someone would do that, throw themselves under a train?’

‘Probably because someone wouldn’t let them talk to the person they wanted to, Chiara.’

‘Oh, Papà, you’re always so silly. Here she is.’

Silly? Silly? He thought he had sounded entirely serious.

‘Ciao, Guido,’ Paola said. ‘You’ve just heard? Our child is a ghoul.’

‘When did you get there?’

‘About half an hour ago. We had to have lunch on the train. Disgusting. What have you been doing? Did you find the insalata di calamari?’

‘No, I just got in.’

‘From Mestre? Did you have lunch?’

‘No, there was something I had to do.’

‘Well, there’s insalata di calamari in the refrigerator. Eat it today or tomorrow; it won’t keep very long in this heat.’ He heard Chiara’s voice in the background, and then Paola asked, ‘Are you coming up tomorrow?’

‘No, I can’t. We’ve identified his body.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Mascari, Leonardo. He’s the director of the Banca di Verona here. Do you know him?’

‘No, never heard of him. Is he Venetian?’

‘I think so. The wife is.’

Again, he heard Chiara’s voice. It went on for a long time. Then Paola was back. ‘Sorry, Guido. Chiara’s going for a walk and couldn’t find her sweater.’ The very word made Brunetti more conscious of the heat that simmered in the apartment, even with all the windows open.

‘Paola, do you have Padovani’s number? I looked in the phone book here, but it’s not listed.’ He knew she wouldn’t ask why he wanted the number, so he explained, ‘He’s the only person I could think of to answer questions about the gay world here.’

‘He’s been in Rome for years, Guido.’

‘I know, I know, Paola, but he’s got a house here for when he comes up every couple of months to review art shows, and his family’s still here.’

‘Well, maybe,’ she said, managing to sound not at all convinced. ‘Wait a second while I get my address book.’ She set down the phone and was gone long enough to convince Brunetti that the address book was in another room, perhaps another building. Finally she was back. ‘Guido, his Venice number is 5224404. If you talk to him, please say hello for me.’

‘Yes, I will. Where’s Raffi?’

‘Oh, he was gone the minute we set down the bags. I don’t expect to see him until dinner-time.’

‘Give him my love. I’ll call you this week.’ With mutual promises of calls and another admonition about the insalata di calamari, they hung up, and Brunetti thought about how strange it was for a man to go away for a week and not call his wife. Perhaps if there were no children, it made a difference, but he thought not.

He rang Padovani’s number and got, as was increasingly the case in Italy these days, a machine telling him that Professore Padovani was not able to come to the phone at the moment but would return the call as soon as possible. Brunetti left a message asking Padovani to ring, and hung up.

He went into the kitchen and pulled the now-famous insalata from the refrigerator. He peeled back the plastic wrap from the top and picked out a piece of squid with his fingers. Chewing on it, he pulled a bottle of Soave from the refrigerator and poured himself a glass. Wine in one hand, insalata in the other, he went out on to the terrace and set them both down on the low glass table. He remembered bread, went back into the kitchen to grab a panino, and while there, remembering civilization, he took a fork from the top drawer.

Back on the terrace, he broke off a piece of the bread, put another piece of squid on top of it, and popped them into his mouth. Certainly, banks had work to be done on Saturday – no holiday for money. And certainly whoever was working on the weekend wouldn’t want to be disturbed by a phone call, so he’d say it was a wrong number and then not answer the next call. So as not to be disturbed.

The salad had rather more celery than he liked, so he pushed the tiny cubes to the side of the bowl with his fork. He poured himself more wine, and he thought of the Bible. Somewhere, he thought it was in Mark, there was a passage about Jesus’ disappearance when he was going back to Nazareth after he’d first been taken up to Jerusalem. Mary thought he was with Joseph, travelling with the men, and that sainted man believed the boy to be with his mother and the women. It wasn’t until their caravan stopped for the night that they spoke to one another and discovered that Jesus was nowhere to be found: he turned out to be back in Jerusalem, teaching in the Temple. The Bank of Verona believed Mascari to be in Messina; hence, the office in Messina must have believed him to be somewhere else, or they surely would have called to check.

He went back into the living-room and found one of Chiara’s notebooks on the table, left there in a muddle of pens and pencils. He flipped through the notebook; finding it empty and liking the picture of Mickey Mouse on the cover, he took it and one of the pens out to the terrace.

He began to jot down a list of things to do on Monday morning. Check the Bank of Verona to see where Mascari was supposed to go and then call that bank to see what reason they’d been given for his failure to arrive. Find out why there had been no progress on finding where the shoes and dress came from. Start digging into Mascari’s past, both personal and financial. And take another look at the autopsy report for any mention of those shaved legs. He also had to see what Vianello had managed to learn about the Lega and about Avvocato Santomauro.

He heard the phone ring and, hoping it would be Paola but knowing it couldn’t be, he went inside to answer it.

‘Ciao, Guido, it’s Damiano. I got your message.’

‘What are you a professor of?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Oh, that,’ the journalist answered dismissively. ‘I liked the sound of it, so I’m trying it on my message machine this week. Why? Don’t you like it?’

‘Of course I like it,’ Brunetti found himself saying. ‘It sounds wonderful. But what are you a professor of?’

A long silence emanated from Padovani’s end of the phone. ‘I once gave a series of classes in painting in a girls’ school, back in the seventies. Do you think that counts?’

‘I suppose so,’ Brunetti admitted.

‘Well, perhaps it’s time to change the message. How do you think Commendatore would sound? Commendatore Padovani? Yes, I think I like that. Would you like me to change the message, and you call me back?’

‘No, I don’t think so, Damiano. I’d like to talk to you about something else.’

‘Just as well. It takes me forever to change the message. So many buttons to push. The first time I did it, I recorded myself swearing at the machine. No one left a message for a week, until I thought the thing wasn’t working and called myself from a phone booth. Shocking, the language the machine used. I dashed home and changed the message immediately. But it’s still very confusing. Are you sure you don’t want to call me back in twenty minutes?’

‘No, I don’t think so, Damiano. Do you have time to talk to me now?’

‘For you, Guido, I am, as an English poet says in an entirely different context, “as free as the road, as loose as the wind”.’

Brunetti knew he was supposed to ask, but he didn’t. ‘It might take a long time. Would you be willing to meet me for dinner?’

‘What about Paola?’

‘She’s taken the kids up to the mountains.’

There was a moment’s silence from Padovani, a silence which Brunetti could not help but interpret as entirely speculative. ‘I’ve got a murder case here, and the hotel’s been reserved for months, so Paola and the kids have gone up to Bolzano. If I get through with this on time, I’ll go up, as well. That’s why I called you. I thought you might be able to help me.’

‘With a murder case? Oh, how very exciting. Since this AIDS business, I’ve had so little to do with the criminal classes.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Brunetti said, momentarily at a loss for a suitable rejoinder. ‘Would you like to meet for dinner? Any place you like.’

Padovani considered this for a minute then said, ‘Guido, I’m leaving to go back to Rome tomorrow, and I’ve got a house full of food. Would you mind coming here to help me finish it up? It won’t be anything fancy, just pasta and whatever else I find.’

‘That would be fine. Tell me where you live.’

‘I’m down in Dorsoduro. Do you know the Ramo degli Incurabili?’

It was a small campo with a running fountain, just back from the Zattere. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘Stand with your back to the fountain looking at the little canal, and it’s the first door on the right.’ Far clearer than giving a number or street name, this would get any Venetian to the house with no difficulty.

‘Good, what time?’

‘Eight.’

‘Can I bring anything?’

‘Absolutely not. Anything you bring, we just have to eat, and I’ve already got enough here for a football team. Nothing. Please.’

‘All right. I’ll see you at eight. And thanks, Damiano.’

‘My pleasure. What is it you want to ask me about? Or would I say, “whom”? This way, I can sort through my memory, or I might even have time to make a few phone calls.’

‘Two men. Leonardo Mascari-’

‘Never heard of him,’ Padovani interrupted.

‘And Giancarlo Santomauro.’

Padovani whistled. ‘So you people finally tumbled to the saintly Avvocato, eh?’

‘I’ll see you at eight,’ Brunetti said.

‘Tease,’ Padovani said with a laugh and hung up.

At eight that evening, Brunetti, freshly showered and shaved and carrying a bottle of Barbera, rang the bell to the right of the small fountain in the Ramo degli Incurabili. The front of the building, which had only one bell and which, consequently, was probably that greatest of all luxuries, a separate house owned by only one person, was covered by jasmine plants which trailed up from two terracotta pots on either side of the door and filled the air around them with perfume. Padovani opened the door almost immediately and extended his hand to Brunetti. His grip was warm and firm and, still holding Brunetti’s hand, he pulled him inside. ‘Get out of the heat. I’ve got to be out of my mind to go back to Rome in the midst of this, but at least my apartment there is air-conditioned.’

He released Brunetti’s hand and stepped back. Inevitably, like any two people who have not seen one another for a long time, they tried, without being obvious about it, to see what changes had taken place. Was he thicker, thinner, greyer, older?

Brunetti, seeing that Padovani still appeared to be the thickset ruffian he very clearly was not, turned his eyes to the room in which they stood. The central part of it soared up two floors to a roof inset with skylights. This open space was surrounded on three sides by an open loggia reached by an open wooden staircase. The fourth side was closed in and must hold the bedroom.

‘What was it, a boathouse?’ Brunetti asked, remembering the little canal that ran just outside the door. Boats brought for repair could easily have been dragged inside.

‘Good for you. Yes. When I bought it, they were still working on boats in here, and there were holes in the roof the size of watermelons.’

‘How long have you had it?’ Brunetti asked, looking around and giving a rough estimate of the quantity of work and money that must have gone into the place to make it look the way it did now.

‘Eight years.’

‘You’ve done a lot. And you’re lucky not to have neighbours.’ Brunetti handed him the bottle, wrapped in white tissue paper.

‘I told you not to bring anything.’

‘It won’t spoil,’ Brunetti said with a smile.

‘Thank you, but you shouldn’t have,’ Padovani said, though he knew it was as impossible for a dinner guest to show up without a gift as it was for the host to serve chaff and nettles. ‘Make yourself at home and look around while I go and take a look at the dinner,’ Padovani said, turning towards a door with a stained-glass panel that led to the kitchen. ‘I put ice in the bucket in case you’d like a drink.’

He disappeared behind the door, and Brunetti heard the familiar noises of pots and lids and running water. He glanced down and saw that the floor was a dark oak parquet; the sight of a charred semicircle of floor that stood in front of the fireplace made Brunetti uncomfortable because he couldn’t decide whether he approved of the placing of comfort over caution or disapproved of the ruining of such a perfect surface. A long wooden beam had been set into the plaster above the fireplace, and along it danced a multicoloured parade of ceramic Commedia dell’Arte figurines. Paintings filled two walls; there was no attempt to order them into styles or schools: they hung on the walls and fought for the viewer’s eye. The keenness of the competition gave evidence of the taste with which they had been selected. He spotted a Guttoso, a painter he had never liked much, and a Morandi, whom he did. There were three Ferruzzis, all giving joyous testimony to the beauty of the city. Then, a little to the left of the fireplace, a Madonna, clearly Florentine and probably fifteenth-century, looked adoringly down at yet another ugly baby. One of the secrets Paola and Brunetti never revealed to anyone was their decades-long search for the ugliest Christ Child in western art. At the moment, the title was held by a particularly bilious infant in Room 13 of the Pinacoteca di Siena. Though the baby in front of Brunetti was clearly no beauty, Siena’s title was not at risk. Along one wall ran a long shelf of carved wood that must have once been part of a wardrobe or cabinet. On top of it rested a row of brightly coloured ceramic bowls whose strict geometric designs and swirling calligraphy clearly marked them as Islamic.

The door opened and Padovani came back into the room. ‘Don’t you want a drink?’

‘No, a glass of wine would be good. I don’t like to drink when it’s so hot.’

‘I know what you mean. This is the first summer I’ve been here in three years, and I’d forgotten how awful it can be. There are some nights, when the tide is low, and I’m anywhere on the other side of the Canal, that I think I’ll be sick with the smell.’

‘Don’t you get it here?’ Brunetti asked.

‘No, the Canale della Giudecca must be deeper or move more quickly, or something. We don’t get the smell here. At least not yet. If they continue to dig up the channels to let in those monster tankers – what are they called, supertankers? – then God alone knows what will happen to the laguna.’

Still talking, Padovani walked over to the long wooden table, set for two, and poured out two glasses from a bottle of Dolcetto that stood there, already opened. ‘People think the end of the city will come in some major flood or natural disaster. I think the answer is much easier,’ he said, coming back to Brunetti and handing him a glass.

‘And what is that?’ Brunetti asked, sipping at the wine, liking it.

‘I think we’ve killed the seas, and it’s only a question of time before they begin to stink. And since the laguna is just a gut hanging off the Adriatic, which is itself a gut hanging from the Mediterranean, which… well, you get the idea. I think the water will simply die, and then we’ll be forced either to abandon the city or else fill in the canals, in which case there will no longer be any sense in living here.’

It was a novel theory and certainly no less bleak than many he had heard, than many he himself half believed. Everyone talked, all the time, of the imminent destruction of the city, and yet the price of apartments doubled every few years, and the rents for those available continued to soar ever higher above what the average worker could pay for one. Venetians had bought and sold real estate through the Crusades, the Plague, and various occupations by foreign armies, so it was probably a safe bet that they would continue to do so through whatever ecological holocaust awaited them.

‘Everything’s ready,’ Padovani said, sitting in one of the deep armchairs. ‘All I’ve got to do is throw the pasta in. But why don’t you give me an idea of what you want so I’ll have something to think about while I’m stirring?’

Brunetti sat on the sofa facing him. He took another sip of his wine and, choosing his words carefully, began. ‘I have reason to believe that Santomauro is involved with a transvestite prostitute who lives and, apparently, works in Mestre.’

‘What do you mean by “involved with”?’ Padovani asked, voice level.

‘Sexually,’ Brunetti said simply. ‘But he also claims to be his lawyer.’

‘One does not necessarily exclude the other, does it?’

‘No. Hardly. But since I found him in the company of this young man, he has tried to prevent me from investigating him.’

‘Which him?’

‘The young man.’

‘I see,’ Padovani said, sipping at his wine. ‘Anything else?’

‘The other name I gave you, Leonardo Mascari, is the name of the man who was found in the field in Mestre on Monday.’

‘The transvestite?’

‘So it would seem.’

‘And what’s the connection here?’

‘The young man, Santomauro’s client, denied recognizing Mascari. But he knew him.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘You’ll have to believe me here, Damiano. I know. I’ve seen it too many times not to know. He recognized his picture and then pretended he didn’t.’

‘What was the young man’s name?’ Padovani asked.

‘I’m not at liberty to say.’ Silence fell.

‘Guido,’ Padovani finally said, leaning forward, ‘I know a number of those boys in Mestre. In the past, I knew a large number of them. If I’m to serve as your gay consultant in this’ – he said it entirely without irony or rancour – ‘then I’m going to have to know his name. I assure you that nothing you tell me will be repeated, but I can’t make any connection unless I know his name.’ Brunetti still said nothing. ‘Guido, you called me. I didn’t call you.’ Padovani got to his feet. ‘I’ll just put the pasta in. Fifteen minutes?’

While he waited for Padovani to come back from the kitchen, Brunetti looked at the books that filled one wall. He pulled down one on Chinese archaeology and took it back to the sofa, glanced through it until he heard the door open and looked up to see Padovani come back into the room.

^‘A tavola, tutti a tavola. Mangiamo,^, Padovani called. Brunetti closed the book, set it aside, and went over to take his place at the table. ‘You sit there, on the left,’ Padovani said. He set the bowl down and started immediately to heap pasta on to the plate in front of Brunetti.

Brunetti looked down, waited until Padovani had served himself, and began to eat. Tomato, onion, cubes of pancetta, and perhaps a touch of pepperoncino, all poured over penne rigate, his favourite dried pasta.

‘It’s good,’ he said, meaning it. ‘I like the pepperoncino.’

‘Oh, good. I never know if people are going to think it’s too hot.’

‘No, it’s perfect,’ Brunetti said and continued to eat. When he had finished his helping and Padovani was putting more on to his plate, Brunetti said, ‘His name’s Francesco Crespo.’

‘I should have known,’ said Padovani with a tired sigh. Then, sounding far more interested, he asked, ‘You sure there’s not too much pepperoncino?’

Brunetti shook his head and finished his second portion, then held out his hands to cover his plate when Padovani reached for the serving spoon.

‘You better. There’s hardly anything else,’ Padovani insisted.

‘No, really, Damiano.’

‘Suit yourself, but Paola’s not to blame me if you starve to death while she’s away.’ He picked up their two plates, set them inside the serving bowl, and went back into the kitchen.

He was to emerge twice before he sat down again. The first time, he carried a small roast of ground turkey breast wrapped in pancetta and surrounded by potatoes, and the second a plate of grilled peppers soaked in olive oil and a large bowl of mixed salad greens. ‘That’s all there is,’ he said when he sat down, and Brunetti suspected that he was meant to read it as an apology.

Brunetti helped himself to the roast meat and potatoes and began to eat.

Padovani filled their glasses and helped himself to both turkey and potatoes. ‘Crespo came originally from, I think, Mantova. He moved to Padova about four years ago, to study pharmacy. But he quickly learned that life was far more interesting if he followed his natural inclination and set himself up as a whore, and he soon discovered that, the best way to do that was to find himself an older man who would support him. The usual stuff: an apartment, a car, plenty of money for clothes, and in return all he had to do was be there when the man who paid the bills was able to get away from the bank, or the city council meeting, or his wife. I think he was only about eighteen at the time. And very, very pretty.’ Padovani paused with his fork in the air. ‘In fact, he reminded me then of the Bacchus of Caravaggio: beautiful, but too knowing and just on the edge of corruption.’

Padovani offered some peppers to Brunetti and took some himself. ‘The last thing I know about him at first hand was that he was mixed up with an accountant from Treviso. But Franco could never keep himself from straying, and the accountant threw him out. Beat him up, I think, and threw him out. I don’t know when he started with the transvestism; that sort of thing has never interested me in the least. In fact, I suppose I don’t understand it. If you want a woman, then have a woman.’

‘Maybe it’s a way to deceive yourself that it is a woman,’ Brunetti suggested, using Paola’s theory and thinking, now, that it made sense.

‘Perhaps. But how sad, eh?’ Padovani moved his plate to the side and sat back. ‘I mean, we deceive ourselves all the time, about whether we love someone, or why we do, or why we tell the lies we do. But you’d think we could at least be honest with ourselves about who we want to go to bed with. It seems little enough, that.’ He picked up the salad and sprinkled salt on it, poured olive oil liberally over the leaves, then added a large splash of vinegar.

Brunetti handed him his plate and accepted the clean salad plate he was given in its place. Padovani pushed the bowl towards him. ‘Help yourself. There’s no dessert. Only fruit.’

‘I’m glad you didn’t have to go to any trouble,’ Brunetti said, and Padovani laughed.

‘Well, I really did have all of this in the house. Except for the fruit.’

Brunetti took a very small portion of salad; Padovani took even less.

‘What else do you know about Crespo?’ Brunetti asked.

‘I heard that he was dressing up, calling himself Francesca. But I didn’t know he’d finished on Via Cappuccina. Or is it the public parks in Mestre?’ he asked.

‘Both,’ Brunetti answered. ‘And I don’t know that he has finished there. The address he gave is a very nice one, and his name is outside the door.’

‘Anyone’s name can be on the door. Depends on who pays the rent,’ Padovani said, apparently more practised in these things.

‘I suppose you’re right,’ Brunetti said.

‘I don’t know much more about him. He’s not a bad person, at least he wasn’t when I knew him. But sneaky and easily led. Things like that don’t change, so he’s likely to lie to you if he sees any advantage in doing so.’

‘Like most of the people I deal with,’ Brunetti said.

Padovani smiled and added, ‘Like most of the people we all deal with all of the time.’

Brunetti had to laugh at the grim truth of this.

‘I’ll get the fruit,’ Padovani said, stacking their salad plates and taking them from the table. He was back quickly with a pale-blue ceramic bowl that held six perfect peaches. He passed Brunetti another of the small plates and set the bowl in front of him. Brunetti took one of the peaches and began to peel it with his knife and fork.

‘What can you tell me about Santomauro?’ he asked as he peeled the peach, keeping his eyes on that.

‘You mean the president, or whatever he calls himself, of the Lega della Moralità?’ Padovani asked, making his voice richly sombre as he pronounced the last words.

‘Yes.’

‘I know enough about him to assure you that, in certain circles, the announcement of the Lega and its purpose was met with the same sort of peals of delight with which we used to watch Rock Hudson make his assault upon the virtue of Doris Day or with which we now watch some of the more belligerent film appearances of certain living actors, both our own and American.’

‘You mean it’s common knowledge?’

‘Well, it is and it isn’t. To most of us, it is, but we still respect the rules of gentlemen, unlike the politicians, and we do not tell tales out of school about one another. If we did, there’d be no one left to run the government or, for that fact, the Vatican.’

Brunetti was glad to see the real Padovani resurfacing, well, the airy chatterer that he had been led to believe was the real Padovani.

‘But something like the Lega? Could he get away with something as blatant as that?’

‘That’s an excellent question. But, if you look back into the history of the Lega, I believe you will find that, in the days of its infancy, Santomauro was no more than the eminence grise of the movement. In fact, I don’t think his name was associated with it, not in any official capacity, until two years ago, and he didn’t become prominent until last year, when he was elected hostess or governess, or whatever their leader is called. Gran priore? Something pretentious like that.’

‘But why didn’t anyone say something then?’

‘I think it’s because most prefer to treat the Lega as a joke. I think that’s a very serious mistake.’ There was a note of uncharacteristic seriousness in his voice.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because I think the political wave of the future is groups like the Lega, groups which aim at fragmenting larger groups, breaking larger units into smaller. Just look at Eastern Europe and Yugoslavia. Look at our own political leghe, wanting to chop Italy back up into a lot of smaller, independent units.’

‘Could you be making too much of this, Damiano?’

‘Of course, I could be. The Lega della Moralità could just as easily be a bunch of harmless old ladies who like to meet together and talk about how good the old times were. But who has an idea of how many members they have? What their real goal is?’

In Italy, conspiracy theories are sucked in with mother’s milk, and no Italian is ever free of the impulse to see conspiracy everywhere. Consequently, any group that is in any way hesitant to reveal itself is immediately suspected of all manner of things, as had been the Jesuits, as are the Jehovah’s Witnesses. As the Jesuits still are, Brunetti corrected himself. Conspiracy certainly bred secrecy, but Brunetti was not willing to buy the proposition that it worked the other way, and secrecy necessitated conspiracy.

‘Well?’ Padovani prodded him.

‘Well what?’

‘How much do you know about the Lega?’

‘Very little,’ Brunetti admitted. ‘But if I had to be suspicious of them, I wouldn’t look to their goals; I’d look to their finances.’ During twenty years of police work, Brunetti had come to form few rules, but one of them was surely that high principles or political ideals seldom motivated people as strongly as did the desire for money.

‘I doubt that Santomauro would be interested in anything as prosaic as money.’

‘Dami, everyone is interested in money, and most people are motivated by it.’

‘Regardless of motive or goal, you can be sure that if Giancarlo Santomauro is interested in running it, it stinks. That’s little enough, but it’s certain.’

‘What do you know about his private life?’ Brunetti asked, thinking of how much more subtle ‘private’ sounded than ‘sexual’, which is what it meant.

‘All I know is what has been suggested, what has been implied in remarks and comments. You know the way it is.’ Brunetti nodded. He certainly did. ‘Then what I know, which, I repeat, I don’t really know - though I know – is that he likes little boys, the younger the better. If you check his past, you’ll see that he used to go to Bangkok at least once a year. Without the ineffable Signora Santomauro, I hasten to add. But for the last few years, he has not done so. I have no explanation for this, but I do know that tastes such as his do not change, they do not disappear, and they cannot be satisfied in any way other than by what they desire.’

‘How much of that is, um, available here?’ Why was it so easy to talk to Paola about some things, so difficult with other people?

‘A fair bit, though the real centres are Rome and Milano.’

Brunetti had read about this in police reports. ‘Films?’

‘Films, certainly, but the real thing, as well, for those who are prepared to pay. I was about to add, and who are willing to take the risk, but there really cannot be said to be any risk, not today.’

Brunetti looked down at his plate and saw that his peach lay there, peeled but untouched. He didn’t want it. ‘Damiano, when you say, “little boys”, is there an age you have in mind?’

Padovani suddenly smiled. ‘You know, Guido, I have the strangest sensation that you are finding all of this terribly embarrassing.’ Brunetti said nothing.’ “Little” can be twelve, but it can also be ten.’

‘Oh.’ There was a long pause, and then Brunetti asked, ‘Are you sure about Santomauro?’

‘I’m sure that’s his reputation, and it’s not likely to be wrong. But I have no proof, no witnesses, no one who would ever swear to it.’

Padovani got up from the table and went across the room to a low sideboard with bottles crowded together on one side of its surface. ‘Grappa?’ he asked.

‘Please.’

‘I’ve got some lovely pear-flavoured. Want to try it?’

‘Yes.’

Brunetti joined him on that side of the room, took the glass Padovani offered him, and went to sit again on the sofa. Padovani went back to his chair, taking the bottle with him.

Brunetti tasted it. Not pears: nectar.

‘It’s too weak,’ Brunetti said.

‘The grappa?’ Padovani asked, confused.

‘No, no, the connection between Crespo and Santomauro. If Santomauro likes little boys, then Crespo could just be his client and nothing more.’

‘Entirely possible,’ Padovani said in a voice that said he thought it wasn’t.

‘Do you know anyone who could give you more information about either of them?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Santomauro and Crespo?’

‘Yes. And Leonardo Mascari, as well, if there’s some connection between them.’

Padovani looked down at his watch. ‘It’s too late to call the people I know.’ Brunetti looked at his watch and saw that it was only ten-fifteen. Nuns?

Padovani had noticed his glance and laughed. ‘No, Guido, they’ll all have gone out for the evening, the night. But I’ll call them from Rome tomorrow and see what they know or can find out.’

‘I’d prefer that neither of the men know that questions are being asked about them.’ It was polite, but it was stiff and awkward.

‘Guido, it will be as if gossamer had been floated in the air. Everyone who knows Santomauro will be delighted to spread whatever they know or have heard about him, and you can be equally certain that none of this will get back to him. The very thought that he might be mixed up in something nasty will be a source of tingly delight to the people I’m thinking of.’

‘That’s just it, Damiano. I don’t want there to be any talk, especially that he might be mixed up in anything, especially something nasty.’ He knew he sounded severe when he said it, so he smiled and held out his glass for another grappa.

The fop disappeared and the journalist took his place. ‘All right, Guido. I won’t play around with it, and perhaps I’ll call different people, but I ought to be able to have some information about him by Tuesday or Wednesday.’

Padovani poured himself another glass of grappa and sipped at it. ‘You should look into the Lega, Guido, at least into its membership.’

‘You’re really worried about it, aren’t you?’ Brunetti asked.

‘I’m worried about any group that assumes its own superiority, in any way, to other people.’

‘The police?’ Brunetti asked with a smile, trying to lighten the other man’s mood.

‘No, not the police, Guido. No one believes they’re superior, and I suspect that most of your boys don’t believe it, either.’ He finished his drink but poured himself no more. Instead, he put both glass and bottle on the floor beside his chair. ‘I always think of Savonarola,’ he said. ‘He started by wanting to make things better, but the only way he could think of to do that was to destroy anything he disapproved of In the end, I suspect zealots are all like him, even the ecologisti and the femministi. They start out wanting a better world, but they end up wanting to get it by removing anything in the world around them that doesn’t correspond to their idea of what the world should be. Like Savonarola, they’ll all end up on the pyre.’

‘And then what?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Oh, I guess the rest of us will somehow manage to muddle through.’

It wasn’t much in the way of philosophical affirmation, but Brunetti took it as a sufficiently optimistic note on which to end the evening. He got to his feet, said the necessary things to his host, and went home to his solitary bed.