Drawing Conclusions

14

When they got to the Questura, Foa and his companion seemed happy to help Signorina Elettra with the flowers, so Brunetti went directly to his office. There were some reports and papers on his desk, most of them bureaucratic, and he spent some time looking through them.

The only thing that caught his interest was a request for information about a Romanian woman, one of whose names Brunetti recognized. They had arrested her at least a dozen times, each time under a different pseudonym, with a different place and date of birth. She had, it seemed, now turned up in Ferrara, where she had been arrested in the train station while trying to steal the purse of an off-duty policewoman. She refused to give any information other than her name, but in her pocket there was a receipt for a coffee from a bar in Castello, so the police in Ferrara had thought to contact them, sending the name she was using, photo, and fingerprints.

He called down to the archive, giving the alias she had used in Ferrara and the name he thought was on her file. When he heard the names, the archivist laughed and said, ‘And I thought we were rid of her.’

‘We are, but I’m afraid Ferrara is not,’ Brunetti said. ‘Could you send them a copy of the file?’

‘And so now she’ll get a letter from them, telling her to leave the country within forty-eight hours?’ Tomasini asked. Then, after a moment’s reflection, he said in a completely serious voice, ‘I think what we should do is declare ourselves an art cooperative and ask to be allowed to exhibit at the Biennale. All they have to do is give us the Italian pavilion.’

‘Who’s “us”?’

‘Everyone here, but me especially because I’ve got all the documents and the copies of the letters.’

‘What would you do with them?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Paper the walls of the entire pavilion. Not in any order; not chronological or alphabetical or according to crime. We’d just mix up a few thousand of them and paste them on the walls, all those letters telling the same people, time after time, that they have forty-eight hours to leave the country because of the crime they’ve committed. And we call it something like, “Italia Oggi.”’

All joking fled from the archivist’s voice as he asked, ‘It’s the right title, isn’t it? This is Italy today.’ When Brunetti did not answer, the younger man repeated, ‘Isn’t it?’

‘Fabio,’ Brunetti said in a level voice, ‘send the file to Ferrara, all right?’

‘Sì, Dottore,’ he answered and replaced his phone.

The ecologists never tired of saying that the city was going to be under water in a number of years: though the number of years changed, no one questioned the prediction. When, Brunetti wondered, would the entire country be under papers? The walls in the rooms at the back of the ground floor were already lined with metal racks filled with files that reached from the floor to ten centimetres short of the ceiling. The acqua alta of three years ago had destroyed the first two shelves, long before they had been put into the computerized system, and so that part of the record of criminal behaviour had effectively been destroyed. Maybe Tomasini was on to something: surely the walls of a Biennale exhibit could be no less evanescent than the files downstairs.

His phone rang. ‘I’ve spoken to them, Commissario,’ Signorina Elettra said. ‘Shall I come up and tell you?’

‘Yes. Please.’

She arrived preceded by flowers. ‘I’m afraid I went a bit overboard this morning, Dottore,’ she said as she came in. ‘So I’d like to leave some here, if you don’t mind.’ They were tall things that looked like daisies, white and yellow, and they brought some cheer into the room. She set the vase on his desk, stood back and studied them, and then moved the vase over to the windowsill. Satisfied, she came back and sat in one of the chairs in front of his desk.

‘I got the telefonino number of the woman who runs it,’ she said, placing a piece of paper on his desk. ‘Maddalena Orsoni. She’s very bright.’

‘Bright enough to what?’ Brunetti asked.

‘To wonder why the police are interested in Signora Altavilla. And her death.’

‘If I say it’s only routine?’

‘She won’t believe you,’ Signorina Elettra said quickly. ‘She’s been dealing with the authorities for years, and with the social services, and with the men these women are hiding from. So she can spot a liar at ten metres, and she isn’t likely to believe you.’

‘And if I’m not lying about her death?’

‘Commissario, even I suspect you’re lying.’

Brunetti thought about trying to bluster but abandoned the idea. He waited for her to continue.

‘Remember, Signore, the only habitual liar I have to deal with is Lieutenant Scarpa, so I’ve really not developed the skill. Maddalena has,’ she said. Once again, with her embedded comment on the Lieutenant, she had left Brunetti uncertain how to deal with her criticism of a superior.

‘If you think I shouldn’t talk to her, then how can I ask her about Signora Altavilla?’ he asked, preferring to avoid the subject of Lieutenant Scarpa.

She smiled at his question and said, ‘I’m afraid we’ve been talking at cross-purposes, Commissario. I’m not suggesting that you don’t speak to her. Just that you don’t lie to her. If you treat her honestly, then she’ll do the same.’

‘You know her that well?’ he asked.

‘No. But I know people who do.’

‘I see,’ he said, choosing not to enquire about that, either. He pulled the piece of paper towards him, held up a hand to stop her from getting to her feet, and dialled the number.

On the third ring, a women answered with a neutral, ‘Sì?’

‘Signora Orsoni,’ he said, ‘this is Commissario Guido Brunetti.’ He gave her a chance to ask, as many people would, why the police were calling, but she said nothing.

‘I’m calling about someone who worked for your organization, Alba Libera.’ Again, she said nothing. ‘Costanza Altavilla.’

This time Brunetti determined not to say anything else and waited until she asked, ‘In what way can I be useful to you, Commissario?’ Her voice was low, with no indication of age, nor was there a discernible accent. She was a woman who spoke precise Italian and that was all he could judge.

‘I’d like to talk to you about Signora Altavilla.’

‘For what purpose?’ she asked, sounding neutral, curious, but nothing more.

Burning his bridges, Brunetti said, ‘To see if there is reason to take a closer look at her death.’

Her response was delayed a few moments, but then she asked, voice still revealing nothing, ‘Does that mean that the press report was wrong and it wasn’t a heart attack, Commissario?’

‘No, there’s no question that the heart attack was the cause of her death,’ he said. Then, when that had registered, he added, ‘I’m curious about the possible circumstances of the heart attack.’

He glanced at Signorina Elettra, who did her best to give every appearance of taking no extraordinary interest in his side of the conversation.

‘And you’d like to speak to me?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not in the city at the moment,’ she said.

‘When will you be back?’

‘Perhaps tomorrow.’

‘And if I told you it was urgent that I speak to you?’ Brunetti asked.

‘I’d say what I’m doing is also urgent,’ she said, not offering an explanation.

Stalemate. ‘Then I’ll call you again,’ Brunetti said, quite pleasantly, as if he were inviting her to lunch.

‘Good,’ she said and hung up.

He replaced the phone, looked at Signorina Elettra, and said, ‘Too busy to see me.’

‘I’m told she is not one to undervalue herself, Maddalena,’ she said.