Drawing Conclusions

20

Brunetti stood to pull her chair out for her. She sat, placing her telefonino in front of her. ‘I don’t know why she doesn’t answer. She can see who’s calling,’ she said, sounding to Brunetti forced and artificial.

He resumed his seat and reached for his glass, only to see that it was empty. He pushed it to the side and said, ‘Of course.’ He looked at the ugly slab of sandwich and then at Signora Orsoni.

His face was implacable; he said nothing.

‘She called me,’ Signora Orsoni said.

‘Who?’ Brunetti asked. She failed to answer, and so he asked again, ‘Who called you, Signora?’

‘Signora… Costanza. She called me.’

Brunetti weighed her weakness and asked, ‘Why?’

‘She told me… she told me she’d spoken to him.’ She glanced at Brunetti, saw that he didn’t follow her, and said, ‘Her boyfriend.’

‘The Sicilian? How did she find him?’

She put her elbows on the table and sank her head into her hands. She shook it back and forth a few times and, looking at the surface of the table, said, ‘He found her. The woman called him from the house, and then later when he called the number back Costanza answered with her name, and he asked if he could speak with her.’ It took Brunetti a moment to work his way through the pronouns, but it seemed pretty clear that the woman staying with Signora Altavilla had been foolish enough to call her boyfriend from Signora Altavilla’s home phone, a phone that let him read the number from which the call was coming. Easy enough then for him to call that number to see if she was living there.

‘Did he threaten her?’

She moved her hands closer together, until they meshed in a shield over her forehead, covering her eyes. She shook his question away.

‘What did he want?’

After a long time she said, ‘He told her that all he wanted to do was talk to her. She could pick the place and he would meet her there. He told her he’d meet her at a police station or at Florian’s: any public place where she’d feel safe.’ She stopped talking, but she did not remove her hands from her face.

‘Did she meet him?’ Brunetti asked.

She said, face still hidden, ‘Yes.’

Realizing that it mattered little where their meeting had taken place, Brunetti asked, ‘What did he want?’

She put her hands on the table, and clenched them into fists. ‘He said he wanted to warn her.’

The verb surprised Brunetti. His mind leaped ahead. Did this young man have a perverse belief in some crazy Sicilian idea of personal honour and want to warn this old woman out of the line of fire? Or did he want to invent some story about the woman in her home?

‘What happened?’ he asked in a voice he made as calm as if he were asking her the time.

‘She said that’s what he did: warned her.’

‘About himself?’ Brunetti interrupted to ask, running ahead with his wild scenario.

Her surprise was evident. ‘No, about her.’

‘The woman?’ Brunetti asked. ‘The one in her apartment?’

‘Yes.’

Like a rugby player who dropped the ball for an instant, Brunetti picked it up, switched sides, and began to run in the opposite direction. ‘What did he tell her?’

She looked away from him towards a noise that came from the door, which was just then pushed open by two men. They stood there for a moment, were joined by a third, who tossed a lighted cigarette into the street, then the three of them went to the bar and ordered coffee. The sound of their voices came across the room, the gruff friendliness of workers on their break.

‘Signora?’ he said, calling back her attention.

‘That she was a thief and she shouldn’t have her in her house.’ It upset her, he could see, to repeat this. Brunetti could understand: Signora Orsoni had dedicated her energies to saving women in danger from violence. And now this.

‘What happened?’

She looked trapped. At first she did not answer, but then she said, ‘It was true.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘He had copies of newspaper articles, police reports.’ Seeing his surprise, she said, ‘She met him outside down in the campo.’

‘What did the reports say?’ Brunetti asked.

‘That this was her tactic. She’d move to a city, start an affair with a man, either move in with him or have him come to her place. Then she’d start an argument with him, and she’d see that it got violent. And when the police came -’ she drew her fists up and pushed them into her eyes, either from shame or to prevent her seeing his expression ‘- he said that was the most effective: when the neighbours called the police.’

Voice tight and reckless, she continued, ‘She’d be the victim, and the police would get in touch with one of the groups that helps battered women, and she’d be placed in a home, and she’d stay there until she had her own key and knew what was in the house. Then she’d disappear with as much as she could carry.’

As her voice choked off in disgust, Brunetti heard the clink of cups on saucers, hearty laughter, the sound of coins dropping, and then the door opened and closed and the workmen were gone.

Her voice came back to the restored silence of the bar. ‘He told Costanza this, and he showed her the reports, and begged her to believe him.’

‘What about the burns?’ Brunetti asked. When she seemed not to understand, he said, ‘From the pasta water?’

She ran her fingernail up and down one of the deep furrows in the wood of the tabletop. ‘Costanza said he still limped, but he didn’t say anything about it.’

She got to her feet, then walked to the bar and came back with two glasses of water, set one in front of him, and sat down again.

‘When was this, Signora?’ he asked.

She drank half of the water and set the glass on the table. She gave Brunetti a long look before saying, ‘The day before Costanza died.’

‘How do you know about this?’ he asked, ignoring the glass in front of him.

‘She called me. Costanza. She called me when she went home after talking to the man, and she asked me – told me, really – to come to her place.’ Her breathing grew quicker again. ‘I went there, and she made me read the articles and look at the police reports.’

‘Where did the man go?’

‘She told me he said he just wanted to warn her and show her the danger, and once he did that he thanked her for listening to him and left. That was all. It was enough for him to see that she believed him. He said many people didn’t because he’s Sicilian.’ She allowed, as did Brunetti, a long silence to stretch out after this until finally she said, ‘She told me he seemed like a kind man.’

Her face was leaden and Brunetti had the sense not to say anything. Instead, he asked, ‘What happened?’

‘Costanza told me to call the woman and tell her I had to talk to her.’

‘And did you?’

Her anger flashed out. ‘Of course I did. I didn’t have any choice, did I?’ She got herself under control and continued. ‘I’d got her a day job spending time with an old woman. Not doing anything, really, just preparing her lunch and being there in case anything happened.’

‘I see,’ Brunetti said. ‘And then?’

‘I asked her to come back when the old woman’s daughter got home from work at four, and she said she would.’

‘And?’

‘When she came back, I told her we had to move her to another city.’

‘Did she believe you?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘What happened?’

‘She went to her room and packed.’

‘Did you go with her?’

‘No. We stayed in the living room. She went to her room and packed her suitcase.’ She started to say something else, but whatever she read in Brunetti’s face appeared to silence her.

‘She didn’t suspect anything?’ Brunetti asked.

‘I don’t know. I don’t care.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘She came in with her suitcase, said goodbye to Costanza, gave her the key, and we left the apartment.’

‘Then what?’

‘We took the vaporetto to the train station and went to the ticket window together, and I asked her where she wanted to go.’

‘So she realized by then what had happened?’

‘I suppose so,’ Signora Orsoni said, and Brunetti felt a surge of irritation at her evasiveness.

‘And?’

‘And I got her a ticket on the last train to Rome. It leaves just before seven-thirty.’

‘Did you see her get on the train?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you wait until it left?’

She made no attempt to disguise her mounting anger. ‘Of course I did. But she could have got off in Mestre for all I know.’

‘But she’d given the key back?’

‘Costanza didn’t even have to ask for it,’ she said, then added, almost with satisfaction, ‘but she could have had a copy made.’

Brunetti said nothing about this.

‘What’s her name?’ he asked.

He watched her hesitate, and he knew he’d take her in for questioning if she refused to answer. Before she could say anything, he added, ‘And the man’s. The Sicilian.’

‘Gabriela Pavon and Nico Martucci.’

‘Thank you,’ Brunetti said and got to his feet. ‘If I need any other information, I’ll call you and ask you to come to the Questura.’

‘And if I refuse?’ she asked.

Brunetti didn’t bother to answer her question.