Fatal Remedies

10

These sentiments, however, meant nothing in the face of the crowd that awaited his return to the Questura after lunch. Avian metaphors beat around him as he came down from Ponte dei Greci and walked towards the assembled members of the press: crows, vultures, harpies, crowding round the front of the Questura in a tight circle, they lacked only the putrefying corpse at their feet to make the picture complete.

One of them saw him and – traitor – giving no sign to his companions, slipped away from them and hurried towards Brunetti, his microphone jammed out before him like a cattle prod. ‘Commissario,’ he began, while still a metre from Brunetti, ‘has Dottor Mitri decided to bring civil charges against your wife?’

Smiling, Brunetti stopped. ‘You’ll have to ask Dottor Mitri, I believe.’ As he spoke, he saw the pack sense the absence of their colleague and turn in a kind of collective spasm towards the voices behind them. Instantly, they broke up and ran at him, microphones pressed ahead of them, as if to catch any words that might still float upon the air around Brunetti.

In the panic of their movement, one of the cameramen caught his foot in a cable and fell forward to the ground, his camera crashing down beside him. The lens popped free from the body of the shattered apparatus and went rolling, like a soda can kicked in a children’s game, to the edge of the canal. Everyone stopped, riveted by surprise or other emotions, and watched its progress towards the steps that led to the water. It approached the top step, gently rolled over the lip, touched lightly on the second, then the third and, with a quiet splash, sank into the green waters of the canal.

Brunetti took advantage of the moment of general inattention to resume his way to the front door of the Questura, but the reporters recovered just as quickly and moved to stop him. ‘Will you resign from the police?’ ‘Is it true your wife has a previous record of arrest?’ ‘… kept out of court?’

Smiling his most plastic smile, he moved along, not pushing them, but not letting their bodies prevent him from reaching his goal. Just as he got there, the door opened and Vianello and Pucetti emerged, standing on either side of it with their arms extended to prevent the reporters from entering.

Brunetti went in, Vianello and Pucetti following. ‘Savage, aren’t they?’ Vianello said, standing with his back against the glass door. Unlike Orfeo, Brunetti did not look back and did not speak, but started up the stairs to his office. He heard steps behind him and turned to see Vianello, taking the treads two at a time. ‘He wants to see you.’

Still wearing his coat, Brunetti went to Patta’s office, where he found Signorina Elettra at her desk, the day’s Gazzettino spread out before her.

He glanced down and saw that the front page of the second section carried a picture of him, one taken some years ago, and the photo of Paola which appeared in her carta d’identità. Looking up, Signorina Elettra said, ‘If you get much more famous, I’ll have to beg for an autograph.’

‘Is that what the Vice-Questura wants?’ he asked, smiling.

‘No, your head, I think.’

‘I imagined as much,’ he said and knocked at the door.

Patta’s voice came through: tones of doom. How much easier it would be if they could simply stop all the melodrama and have done with it, Brunetti found himself thinking. As he entered, a line from Donizetti’s Anna Bolena flashed through his memory – ‘If those who judge me are those who have already condemned me, I have no chance.’ Good lord, talk about melodrama.

‘You wanted to see me, Vice-Questore?’ he asked as he entered.

Patta sat behind his desk, face impassive. All he lacked was the black cap that English judges were said to put on top of their wigs when they condemned a prisoner to death. ‘Yes, Brunetti. No, don’t bother to sit down. What I have to say is very short. I’ve spoken about this to the Questore, and we’ve decided that you should go on administrative leave until it’s resolved.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘That, until this case is settled, there is no need for you to come to the Questura.’

‘Settled?’

‘Until a judgement is given and your wife pays a fine, or makes restitution to Dottor Mitri for the damage she has caused to his property and business.’

‘This is to assume she’s charged and convicted,’ Brunetti said, knowing how likely both were. Patta didn’t deign to answer. ‘And that could take years,’ Brunetti added, no stranger to the law.

‘I doubt that,’ Patta said.

‘Sir, there are cases in my files that have been open for more than five years, waiting for a trial date to be set. I repeat: it could take years.’

‘That depends entirely upon your wife’s decision, Commissario. Dottor Mitri was civilized enough, I would even say kind enough, to offer an efficient solution to this problem. But your wife has apparently chosen not to accept it. The consequences, therefore, will be her own.’

‘With all respect, sir,’ Brunetti said, ‘that’s not entirely true.’ Before Patta could object, Brunetti went on, ‘Dottor Mitri offered the solution to me, not to my wife. As I explained, it is a decision I cannot make in my wife’s place. If he were to offer it to her directly and if she were to refuse, then what you say would be true.’

‘You haven’t told her?’ Patta asked, no attempt made to disguise his surprise.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s Dottor Mitri’s business, I think, to do so.’

Again, Patta’s surprise was easy to read. He considered this for a while, then said, ‘I’ll mention it to him.’

Brunetti nodded, whether in thanks or acknowledgement, neither of them knew. ‘Will that be all, sir?’ he asked.

‘Yes. But you’re still to consider yourself on administrative leave. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Brunetti said, though he had no idea what it meant, save that he was no longer to work as a policeman, was not, in fact, to have a job. He didn’t bother to say anything to Patta but turned and left his office.

Outside, Signorina Elettra was still at her desk, but she was reading a magazine, having finished with the Gazzettino. She looked up at him when he came out.

‘Who told the press?’

She shook her head. ‘No idea. Probably the lieutenant.’ She glanced for an instant towards Patta’s door.

‘Administrative leave.’

‘Never heard of it,’ she said. ‘It must have been invented to fit the occasion. What will you do, Commissario?’

‘Go home and read,’ he answered, and with the answer came the thought, and with the thought came the desire. All he had to do was get through the reporters in front of the building, escape their cameras and repeated questions, and he could go home and read for as long as it took Paola to come to a decision, or for this to be resolved. He could allow his books to carry him out of the Questura, out of Venice, out of this shabby century filled with cheap sentimentality and blood lust, and take him back to worlds where his spirit felt more at ease.

Signorina Elettra smiled, hearing a joke in this answer, and returned her attention to her magazine.

He didn’t bother to go back to his office but went directly to the door of the Questura. Strangely enough, the reporters were gone, the only sign of their recent presence some chips of plastic and a broken camera strap.