25

BRUNETTI WAS AWAKENED the next morning by a smell; by two of them, in fact. The first was the smell of springtime, a soft sweetness that drifted through the window they had left open for the first time the night before, and the second, quickly dominating and replacing the first, was the smell of coffee, brought to him by Paola. She was dressed to go out, though he could see that her hair was not yet fully dry.

She stood by the bed until he sat up against his pillow, when she handed him the cup and saucer. ‘I thought someone should do something nice for you after the days you’ve had,’ she explained.

‘Thank you.’ Dulled by sleep, that was all he could think of to say. He took a sip, enjoying the mingled bitterness and sweetness. ‘You’ve saved my life.’

‘I’m off,’ she said, unmoved by his compliment, if that was what it was. ‘I have a class at ten, and then the appointments committee meets.’

‘Do you have to go?’ he asked, wondering what the effect of this would be on his lunch.

‘You’re so transparent, Guido,’ she said and laughed.

He studied the liquid in his cup and saw that she had taken the time to froth the milk she added to his coffee.

‘It’s a meeting I want to attend, so you’re on your own for lunch.’

Stunned, he blurted out, ‘You want to attend a meeting of your department?’

She glanced at her watch then sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Remember I asked you what you had to do if you knew about something illegal that was going to happen?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s why I have to go.’

He finished the coffee and set the empty cup on the night table. ‘Tell me,’ he said, suddenly fully awake.

‘I have to go so I can vote no about someone who’s being considered for a professorship.’

After trying to figure this out, Brunetti said, ‘I don’t understand how your vote is criminal.’

‘It’s not my vote that’s criminal. It’s the person we’re voting about.’

‘And so?’ he prodded.

‘Though not in this country, at any rate. He’s been caught in France and Germany, stealing books – and maps – from university libraries. But because he’s so well connected politically, they decided not to press charges. But his teaching position in Berlin was cancelled.’

‘And he’s applied here?’

‘He’s teaching already, but only as an assistant, and that contract ends this year. He’s applied for a permanent position, and today the appointments committee meets to decide whether to appoint him or, indeed, to renew his temporary contract.’

‘Teaching literature, I take it?’ he asked.

‘Yes, something called “The Semiotics of Ethics”.’

‘Does the syllabus include theft?’ Brunetti asked.

‘No doubt.’

‘And you’re going to vote against him?’

‘Yes. And I’ve convinced two other members of the committee to vote with me. That should suffice.’

‘You said he’s politically well connected,’ Brunetti said. ‘Aren’t you afraid of that?’

She smiled the shark smile he had come to recognize when she was at her most dangerous. ‘Not at all. My father is far better connected than his patrons are, so he can’t touch me.’

‘And the others who are voting with you?’ he asked, worried that her crusade would put other people at risk.

‘One of them is his father’s lover, who loathes him, and there’s nothing he can do to her.’

‘And the other?’

‘Four of his ancestors were doges, he owns two palazzi on the Grand Canal, as well as a chain of supermarkets.’

Brunetti recognized immediately the man she meant. ‘But you’ve always said he’s an idiot.’

‘I said he’s a lousy teacher. They are not the same thing.’

‘Are you sure he’ll vote with you?’

‘I told him about the theft of books from a library. I don’t think he’s recovered yet.’

‘Is he still stealing books?’ Brunetti inquired.

‘For a while, but I had him stopped.’

‘How?’

‘The library has changed its policy. To enter the stacks, anyone less than a full professor has to have a card. His contract is not permanent, so he has no card and will not be issued one. So if he wants to use a book, he has to ask for it at the main desk, and after he’s used it, the librarians keep him there while they check the condition of the book.’

‘Condition?’

‘In the Munich Library, he sliced out pages.’

‘And this man is teaching at the university? Ethics?’

‘Not for long, dear,’ she said and got to her feet.

Brunetti ambled – there is no better word for it – into the Questura at eleven and went directly to Signorina Elettra’s office. ‘Ah, Commissario,’ she said, ‘I’ve called you twice this morning.’

‘Delayed by official business,’ he said with a smile.

‘I’ve some information for you, sir,’ she said, pushing a few sheets of paper across her desk towards him. Before he could pick them up, however, she added, ‘First you might like to look at this,’ and hit a few keys on her computer.

Leaving the papers, he came around her desk to look at the screen. He saw a head shot of a woman: dark, sultry, with hair that fell below her shoulders and out of the photo. Her expression was one of mild dissatisfaction, the sort of look which, if seen on the face of a woman as pretty as this one, triggers a masculine impulse to remove it. On a less attractive woman, it would appear as the warning sign it was. Brunetti recognized Giulia Borelli instantly: longer haired, younger, but unconfoundably the same.

He had not heard the sigh that escaped him, but he did hear Signorina Elettra observe, ‘She was younger when the photo was taken.’

‘What have you found?’

‘As you said, sir, she was previously employed by a firm called Tekknomed, where she worked in the accounts department until she left to become the assistant to Dottor Papetti. This is the photo used for her company ID. I’ll have a look at him this afternoon.’ Brunetti had no doubt about this.

She touched a few keys, and a document appeared on the screen. From what he could make of what he read, it appeared to contain a series of other Tekknomed internal documents, starting with an email from the head of the accounts department, reporting ‘certain irregularities’ in the accounts kept by Signorina Giulia Borelli. This was followed by an exchange of emails between the head of the department and the president of the company, ending with the president’s order that Signorina Borelli be relieved of her duties immediately and that she be denied access to her computer as of the time of receipt of his email. The last was a letter to her from the personnel department, saying that her contract had been cancelled as of the date of the letter.

‘They took no legal action,’ Signorina Elettra said, ‘so I don’t know what she was up to.’ She hit a few keys, and a chart filled with numbers came on to the screen. ‘As you can see,’ she said, tapping at one of the numbers, ‘their turnover is seventeen million a year.’

‘Lots of opportunity there,’ Brunetti observed, then, ‘Anything else?’

Nodding towards the papers, she said, ‘Her contract of employment with the macello guarantees her a car, six weeks of vacation, and a salary of forty thousand Euros, plus a very generous expense account.’

‘As a personal assistant?’ he asked. ‘I tremble at what Papetti must be getting.’

She held up a hand. ‘Not until this afternoon, Commissario.’

‘Of course,’ Brunetti answered and then added, deciding in the instant, ‘Vianello and I are going out to see the widow again. Can you have a car at Piazzale Roma in half an hour?’

‘Of course, Signore. Should I call her and tell her?’

‘Yes, I think we should let her know we’re coming this time,’ he said and went to get Vianello.

The woman who opened the door to them might have been the elder sister of the woman they had spoken to before. This was evident in the droop of her mouth and the darkness under her eyes as well as in the elderly deliberation with which she moved, like a person under sedation or one recovering from a serious illness. Signora Doni nodded in recognition when she saw the two men. A few beats passed before she extended her hand to them. And then, after that, it took her some time to ask them to come inside. Brunetti noticed how dusty the lenses of her glasses were.

They followed her into the same room. The table in front of the sofa was covered with newspapers neither man had to study to know were opened to the articles about her husband’s murder. Littering the open papers were cups. All appeared to have once held coffee; some still did. A kitchen towel lay across the arm of the sofa, with a plate with a desiccated sandwich beside it.

She sat on the sofa this time, absently picking up the abandoned towel, which she spread on her lap and began to fold longitudinally in three. She kept her eyes on the towel while the two men sat on the chairs facing her.

Finally she said, ‘Are you here about the funeral?’

‘No, Signora,’ Brunetti answered.

Eyes still lowered, she seemed to have run out of things to say.

‘How is your son, Signora?’ Brunetti finally asked.

She looked across at him and made a motion with her mouth that she probably thought was a smile. ‘I’ve sent him to stay with my sister. And his cousins.’

‘How did he bear the news?’ Brunetti asked, pushing away the idea that someone might some day ask Paola the same question. This was the sister he’d spoken to, who had confirmed Signora Doni’s account of their where-abouts on the night of her husband’s death.

She gestured with her right hand; the towel waved in the air, calling attention to itself. She lowered it to her lap and started to fold it again, and finally said, ‘I don’t know. I told him his father had gone to Jesus. I don’t believe it, but it’s the only thing I could think of to tell him.’ She ran her hand along the two creases in the towel. ‘It helped him, I think. But I don’t know what he’s thinking.’ She turned abruptly and replaced the towel on the arm of the sofa.

‘Did you come about Teodoro?’ she asked, her confusion audible in the emphasis she put on the last word.

‘Partly, Signora. He’s a nice little boy, and I’ve thought about him in these days.’ This, the Lord be praised, was at least true. ‘But we’ve come, I’m afraid, to ask you more questions about your husband and how he was behaving in the last few months,’ he said, having managed to avoid ‘the months before he died’, which came to the same thing, in the end.

Again, there was a longer lapse than there should have been between question and response. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You said, when we spoke the other day, Signora, that he seemed troubled, perhaps worried. What I would like to know is whether he gave you any indication of the cause for his… his preoccupation?’

This time she managed to resist the towel’s allure. Instead, she ran her hand around her watch strap, unclasped it and immediately closed it again. ‘Yes, I’d say he was worried, but I told him I didn’t want to hear it – this was the last time we talked – I think I told him to go and tell her his troubles, and that’s when he said that he thought she was his trouble.’

This was an elaboration of the account she had given last time. Brunetti could not resist the impulse to take a quick glance at Vianello, who sat impassive, listening. Signora Doni looked directly at him. ‘Well, she was, wasn’t she? I suppose he thought I’d give him the chance to choose between us, either her or me. But I didn’t: I just told him to get out.’ Then, after a pause, ‘The first time and the last time.’

‘This last time, Signora, did he say anything about his work?’

She started to answer, but lethargy fell upon her, and she looked down at her watch again. She could have been trying to remember how to tell the time or she could have been thinking about how to answer his question: Brunetti saw no need to hasten her.

‘He said it wasn’t worth it, taking that job. He said it had ruined everything. I suppose he meant because of meeting her there. I mean, that’s what I thought when he said it.’

‘Could he have meant something else, Signora?’ Vianello broke in to ask.

She must have remembered the good cop because the motion her mouth made this time was closer to a smile. After a long time, she said, ‘Perhaps.’

‘Do you have any idea what that might have been?’ Vianello prodded.

‘Once,’ she began, looking beyond them at some memory that was not there in the room, at least not with them, ‘he said that what they did there was terrible.’

Brunetti had only to remember what they had seen to feel the force and truth of this. ‘What was done to the animals?’ he asked.

She gave him a tilt-chinned glance and said, ‘That’s what’s so strange. Now, I mean. Now that I think about what happened, I think that maybe he didn’t mean what happened to the animals.’ She leaned aside again and stroked the towel as though it were some sort of pet. ‘The first time he went there, we talked about it. I had to ask him because he loves… loved animals so much. And I remember his telling me that it was far less terrible than he feared it would be.’ She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t believe it at first, but he said he’d spent an hour there that morning, to see what went on. And it was less bad than he’d feared.’

An explosive sigh escaped her lips. ‘Maybe he was lying to spare me. I don’t know.’ Her voice had slowed perceptibly.

Brunetti didn’t know, either. He had no idea what sort of scene the knackers could have set for the inspecting veterinarian’s first day, nor did he know if the inspector would have to return to see the killing or if his only concern was to inspect the resulting meat. He thought of the sense of frenzied action, the shouting and kicking. ‘Do you remember anything else he said?’ Brunetti asked.

Even with the slowness of her reactions, her hesitation was visible. She touched her watch again, and for a moment he thought she was going to wind it, but then she said, eyes still on her watch, ‘Not to me.’

Brunetti was about to ask, when he thought better of it and lifted his chin towards Vianello.

‘To your son, Signora?’ the Inspector asked.

‘Yes. To Teo.’

‘Could you tell us what it was?’

‘He was telling Teo a bedtime story one night after he brought him home. This was about three weeks ago.’ She let that drift away. ‘He always did that when they came home.’ The last word stopped her. She coughed, then she went on. ‘It was always a story or a book about an animal. This one – he must have made it up because we don’t have any book like that – was about a dog who wasn’t very brave. Things frightened him: cats frightened him, other dogs did, too. In the story he’s kidnapped by robbers, who want to train him to help them. They train him to befriend people who are walking on the path through the forest. When the people see this big friendly dog start to walk along with them, they feel safe and keep walking deeper and deeper into the forest. The robbers tell him that, at a certain point, he has to run away, so then they can hurt the people and rob them.

‘But even though he’s a coward, he’s still a dog, and he can never let bad things happen to people. So after all that training, when the robbers finally take him out to help them rob someone, the dog acts like a real dog and turns on the robbers and barks and growls at them – he even bites one of them, though not very hard – until the police come and arrest them. And the man they were going to rob takes the dog back to his old home and tells the family what a good dog he is. They take him back in and they love him, even though he’s still not really a very brave dog.’

‘Why do you think of the story, Signora?’ Vianello asked gently when he understood that she was finished.

‘Because, when the story was over, Andrea told Teo that he should always remember the story and never let anyone do bad things to people because that’s the worst thing you can ever do.’ She stopped and took a deep breath. ‘But then I came into the room, and he stopped talking.’

She tried to laugh at herself, but it came out as a cough. ‘I mention it because he seemed so serious when he was telling the story. He really wanted Teo to learn that lesson: you never let bad things happen to people, even if the robbers threaten you.’

She gave in to temptation and grabbed the towel. She no longer tried to fold or straighten it but twisted it in her hands as though it were something she wanted to destroy.

However curious he might still have been about the Borelli woman, Brunetti knew it was folly to ask. Instead, he got to his feet and thanked Signora Doni. When she offered to show them to the door, he declined, and they left her to the rags of memory.

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