Fatal Remedies

23

Brunetti had been a policeman too long and had seen too many things go wrong to want to waste time in trying to figure out what had happened or attempting to devise an alternate plan that might have worked. But the others were younger and hadn’t learned yet that failure taught very little, so he listened to them for a while, not really paying attention but agreeing with whatever they said while he waited for the lab crew to arrive.

At one point, when the officer who had shot Palmieri lay on the floor to study the angle at which he had entered the apartment, Brunetti went into the bathroom, moistened his handkerchief with cold water, and wiped at the small cut on his cheek where a sliver of wood from the shattering door had sliced off a piece of flesh about the size of one of the buttons on his shirt. Still holding his handkerchief, he opened the small medicine chest, looking for a piece of gauze or something to stop the bleeding, and found that it was full, but not with plasters.

Guests were said to explore the medicine cabinets in the bathrooms they used; Brunetti had never done it. He was amazed at what he saw: three rows of all manner of medicines, at least fifty boxes and bottles, vastly different in packaging and size, but all carrying the distinctive adhesive label with the nine-digit number from the Ministry of Health. But no bandages. He pushed the door closed and went back into the room where Palmieri lay.

During the time Brunetti had been in the bathroom, the other policemen had arrived and now the young ones were gathered at the door, where they replayed the shooting, with, it seemed to a disgusted Brunetti, the same enthusiasm they’d give to rewatching an action video. The older men stood separately and silently in various parts of the room. Brunetti went over to della Corte. ‘Can we begin to search the place?’

‘Not until their crime crew gets here, I think.’

Brunetti nodded. It didn’t make any difference, really. Only in time, and now they had all night to do it. He just wished they would hurry, so that the body would be taken away. He avoided looking at it, but as time passed and the young men ceased their retelling of the tale, that grew harder. Brunetti had just moved over towards the window when he heard footsteps on the stairs and turned to see the familiar uniforms come into the apartment: technicians, photographers, the minions of violent death.

He went back to the window and studied the cars in the parking lot and those few that still drove by at this hour. He wanted to call Paola, but she believed him safely in bed in some small hotel, so he did not. He didn’t turn round when the photographer’s flash went off repeatedly, nor at the arrival of what must be the medico legale. No secrets here.

It wasn’t until after he heard the grunts of the two white-jacketed men from the morgue and the thunking noise as one of the handles of their litter hit the door jamb that he turned. He went over to Bonino, who was talking to della Corte, and asked, ‘Can we begin?’

He nodded. ‘Of course. The only thing on the body was a wallet. With more than twelve million lire in it, in the new five-hundred-thousand-lire notes.’ And before Brunetti could inquire, he added, ‘It’s on the way to the lab to be fingerprinted.’

‘Good,’ Brunetti said, then, turning to della Corte, he asked, ‘Shall we take the bedroom?’

Delia Corte nodded and together they walked into the other room, leaving the local men to take care of the rest of the apartment.

They had never searched a room together before, but by unspoken consent della Corte went to the cupboard and began going through the pockets of the slacks and jackets hanging there.

Brunetti started on the dresser, not bothering with plastic gloves, not after he saw the fingerprint powder dusted over its every surface. He opened the first drawer and was surprised to find Palmieri’s things lying in neat piles, then wondered why he had assumed that a killer had to be untidy. Underwear was folded into two piles, socks balled and, Brunetti thought, arranged by colour.

The next held sweaters and what looked like gym clothes. The bottom one was empty. He pushed it closed with his foot and turned to look at della Corte. Only a few things hung in the wardrobe: he could see a down parka, some jackets, and what looked like trousers inside the clear plastic wrap of a dry-cleaner’s.

A carved wooden box sat on the dresser, its lid left closed by the technician, whose dust fluttered up in a small grey cloud as Brunetti lifted it open. Inside he found a stack of papers, which he took out and placed on the top of the dresser.

Carefully, he began to read through them, laying each one aside as he finished it. He found electric and gas bills, both made out in the name of Michele de Luca. There was no phone bill, but that was explained by the telefonino that lay beside the wooden box.

Below that he discovered an envelope addressed to R. P.: the top, where it had been carefully slit open, was grey with much handling. Inside, dated more than five years before, he found a piece of light-blue paper with a message written in a careful hand. ‘I’ll see you at the restaurant at eight tomorrow. Until then, the beating of my heart will tell me how slowly the minutes are passing.’ It was signed with the letter M. Maria? Brunetti wondered. Mariella? Monica?

He folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope, then placed it on top of the bills. There was nothing else in the box.

He looked round at della Corte. ‘You find anything?’

He turned from the cupboard and held up a large set of keys. ‘Only these,’ della Corte said, holding them up. ‘Two of them are for a car.’

‘Or a truck?’ suggested Brunetti.

Delia Corte nodded. ‘Let’s go and see what’s parked outside,’ he suggested.

The living-room was empty, but Brunetti noticed two men in the small kitchen angle, where the refrigerator and all the cabinets stood open. Light and noise spilled from the bathroom, but Brunetti doubted that they would find anything.

He and della Corte went downstairs and out into the parking lot. Glancing back, they saw that many of the lights in the building were turned on. At his movement, someone in the apartment above Palmieri’s opened the window and shouted down, ‘What’s going on?’

‘Police,’ della Corte called back. ‘Everything’s all right.’

For a moment Brunetti wondered if the man at the window would ask more, demand an explanation for the shots, but the Italian fear of authority manifested itself, and he pulled his head back in and closed the window.

There were seven vehicles parked behind the building, five cars and two trucks. Delia Corte began with the first of these, a grey panel truck with the name of a toy store printed on the side. Below it, a teddy bear rode a hobby-horse off to the left. Neither key fitted. Two spaces along sat a grey Iveco panel truck with no name on it. The key didn’t fit, nor did either key fit any of the cars.

As they were turning to go back to the apartment they both noticed a line of garage doors at the far end of the parking lot. It took them a while, testing all the keys on the locks of the first three doors, but finally one of them slid into that of the fourth door.

As he swung it open and saw the white panel truck parked there, della Corte said, ‘I guess we’d better call the lab boys back.’

Brunetti glanced down at his watch and saw that it was well after two. Delia Corte understood. He took the first car key and tried it on the lock of the driver’s door. It turned easily and he pulled it open. He took a pen from the front pocket of his jacket and used it to switch on the light above the seat. Brunetti took the keys from him and went round to the other door. He opened it, selected a smaller key, and opened the glove compartment. From the look of it the clear plastic envelope inside contained nothing but insurance and ownership papers. Brunetti took his own pen and pulled the envelope towards the light, turning it so that he could read the papers. The truck was registered to ‘Interfar’.

With the top of the pen he pushed the papers back and closed the glove compartment, then he shut the door. He locked it and went round to the rear doors. The first key opened them. The back compartment of the truck was filled, almost to the roof, with large cardboard boxes bearing what Brunetti recognized as the Interfar logo, the letters I and F, in black, on either side of a red caduceus. Paper labels were pasted to the centre of the boxes and above them, in red, was printed ‘Air Freight’.

All were sealed with tape and Brunetti didn’t want to cut them open: leave it for the lab boys. He put one foot on to the back bumper and leaned his head into the compartment close enough to read the label on the first box.

‘TransLanka’, it read, with an address in Colombo.

Brunetti stepped back on to the ground, closed and locked the doors. Together with della Corte he went back into the apartment.

The policemen were standing around inside, obviously finished with their search. As they came in, one of the local officers shook his head and Bonino said, ‘Nothing. There was nothing on him and nothing in this place. Never seen anything like it.’

‘Do you have any idea how long he’s been here?’ Brunetti asked.

The taller of the two officers, the one who had not fired, answered, ‘I spoke to the people in the next apartment. They said they think he moved in about four months ago. Never gave any trouble, never made any noise.’

‘Until tonight,’ his partner quipped, but everyone ignored him.

‘All right,’ Bonino said, ‘I think we can go home now.’

They left the apartment and started down the steps. At the bottom, della Corte stopped and asked Brunetti, ‘What are you going to do? Do you want us to take you to Venice on our way back?’

It was generous of him, would surely delay them an hour to make the trip to Piazzale Roma, then back out to Padova. ‘Thanks, but no,’ Brunetti said. ‘I want to talk to the people at the factory, so there’s no sense in my going with you. I’d just have to come back.’

‘What’ll you do?’

‘I’m sure there’s a bed at the Questura,’ he answered and walked towards Bonino to ask.

As he lay in that bed, thinking himself too tired to drop off, Brunetti tried to remember the last time he had gone to sleep without Paola beside him. But he could recollect only the time he’d woken without her there, the night all this had been shattered into life. Then he was asleep.

Bonino provided him with a car and driver the next morning and, by nine thirty, he was at the Interfar factory, a large, low building at the centre of an industrial park on one of the many highways that radiated out from Castelfranco. Utterly without concession to beauty, the buildings sat a hundred metres back from the road, besieged on all sides, like a piece of dead meat by ants, by the cars of the people who worked within.

He asked the driver to find a bar and offered him coffee. Though he’d slept deeply, Brunetti had not slept enough, and he felt dull and irritable. A second cup seemed to help; either the caffeine or the sugar would keep him going for the next few hours.

He entered the Interfar office a little after ten and asked if he could speak to Signor Bonaventura. On request, he gave his name and stood by the desk while the secretary called to inquire. Whatever answer she received was immediate and, as soon as she heard it, she set down the phone, got to her feet and led Brunetti through a door and down a corridor covered with light-grey industrial carpeting.

She stopped at the second door on the right, knocked, and opened it, and stood back to allow him to enter. Bonaventura sat behind a desk covered with papers, pamphlets and brochures. He stood when Brunetti came in but remained behind his desk, smiling as he approached, then leaned across it to shake Brunetti’s hand. Both sat.

‘You’re far from home,’ Bonaventura said amiably.

‘Yes. I came up here on business.’

‘Police business, I take it.’

‘Yes.’

‘Am I part of that police business?’ Bonaventura asked.

‘I think so.’

‘If so, it’s the most miraculous thing I’ve ever known to happen.’

‘I’m not sure I understand you,’ Brunetti said.

‘I spoke to my foreman a few minutes ago and was just about to call the Carabinieri.’ Bonaventura glanced down at his watch. ‘No more than five minutes ago and here you are, a policeman, already on my doorstep, as if you’d read my mind.’

‘And may I ask why you were going to call them?’

‘To report a theft.’

‘Of what?’ Brunetti asked, though he was pretty certain he knew.

‘One of our trucks is gone, and the driver hasn’t reported for work.’

‘Is that all?’

‘No. My foreman tells me it looks as if a good deal of merchandise is missing, too.’

‘About a truckload, would you say?’ Brunetti asked in a neutral voice.

‘If the truck and the driver are both missing, that would make sense, wouldn’t it?’ He wasn’t angry yet, but Brunetti had plenty of time to push him there.

‘Who is this driver?’

‘Michele de Luca.’

‘How long has he worked for you?’

‘I don’t know, half a year or so. I don’t concern myself with things like that. All I know is that I’ve seen him around here for months. This morning, the foreman told me his truck wasn’t in the lot where it’s supposed to be and that he hadn’t shown up.’

‘And the missing merchandise?’

‘De Luca left here yesterday afternoon with a full shipment and was supposed to bring the truck back here before he went home, then be here at seven this morning to pick up another shipment. But he never turned up and the truck wasn’t parked where it was supposed to be. The foreman phoned him, but there was no answer on his telefonino, so I decided to call the Carabinieri.’

It seemed to Brunetti an excessive response to what could well have been no more than an employee being late for work, but then he reflected that Bonaventura actually hadn’t made the call, so he kept his surprise to himself, waiting to see how the scene would be played. ‘Yes, I can see that you would,’ he said. ‘What was in the shipment?’

‘Pharmaceuticals, of course. That’s what we make here.’

‘And where were they going?’

‘I don’t know.’ Bonaventura looked down at the papers cluttering his desk. ‘I’ve got the shipping invoices here somewhere.’

‘Could you find them?’ Brunetti asked, nodding towards the documents.

‘What difference does it make where they were going?’ Bonaventura demanded. ‘The important thing is to find this man and get the shipment back.’

‘You don’t have to worry about him,’ Brunetti said, though he suspected that Bonaventura was also lying about wanting the shipment back.

‘What does that mean?’

‘He was shot and killed by the police last night.’

‘Killed?’ Bonaventura repeated, sounding genuinely amazed.

‘The police went to question him, and he opened fire on them. He was killed when they entered his apartment.’ Then, quickly changing the subject, Brunetti asked, ‘Where was he taking this shipment?’

Disconcerted by the sudden switch of topic, Bonaventura hesitated before finally answering, ‘To the airport.’

‘The airport was closed yesterday. The air-traffic controllers were on strike,’ Brunetti told him, but from his expression he could tell Bonaventura already knew. ‘What instructions did he have if he couldn’t deliver?’

‘It’s the same for all the drivers: bring the truck back here and put it in the garage.’

‘Could he have put it in his own garage?’

‘How do I know what he could have done?’ Bonaventura exploded. ‘The truck’s gone and, from what you tell me, the driver’s dead.’

‘The truck’s not gone,’ Brunetti said softly and watched Bonaventura’s face as he heard the statement. He saw him attempt to hide his shock, then as quickly try to change his expression, but all he achieved was a grotesque parody of relief.

‘Where is it?’ Bonaventura asked.

‘By now, in the police garage.’ He waited to see what Bonaventura would ask and, when he remained silent, added,

‘The boxes were in the back.’

Bonaventura tried to disguise his shock, tried and failed.

‘Not sent to Sri Lanka, either,’ Brunetti said, then added, ‘Do you think you could help me find those shipping invoices now, Signor Bonaventura?’

‘Certainly.’ Bonaventura bowed his head to the task. Idly, aimlessly, he moved papers from one side of his desk to the other, then stacked them all in a pile and went through them one by one. ‘That’s strange,’ he said, looking up at Brunetti after he had gone through the lot, ‘I can’t find them here,’ He got to his feet. If you’ll wait, I’ll ask my secretary to get them for me.’

Before he could take his first step towards the door, Brunetti got to his feet. ‘Perhaps you could call her,’ he suggested.

Bonaventura turned his mouth up in a smile. ‘It’s really the foreman who has them, and he’s back at the loading dock.’

He started to move past Brunetti, who put out a hand and placed it on his arm. ‘I’ll come with you, Signor Bonaventura.’

‘That’s really not necessary,’ he said with another motion of his mouth.

‘I think it is,’ was all Brunetti answered. He had no idea what his legal rights were here, how much authority he had to detain or follow Bonaventura. He was outside Venice, even beyond the borders of the province of Venezia, and no charges had been contemplated, much less brought, against Bonaventura. But none of that mattered to him. He stepped aside and let Bonaventura open the door of his office, then followed him down the corridor, away from the front of the building.

At the back, a door opened out on to a long cement loading dock. Two large trucks were backed up to it, rear doors open, and four men were wheeling dollies filled with cartons from doors further down the dock into the open backs of the trucks. They looked up when they saw the two men emerge from the door but then went back to their work. Below them, between the trucks, two men stood and talked, hands in the pockets of their jackets.

Bonaventura walked over to the edge of the loading dock. When they looked up at him, he called down to one of them, ‘De Luca’s truck’s been found. The shipment’s still in it. This policeman wants to see the shipping invoices.’

He had barely finished the word ‘policeman’, when the taller of the two men sprang away from the other and reached inside his jacket. His hand came out carrying a pistol, but the instant Brunetti saw him move, he ducked back inside the still-open door and pulled his own pistol from its holster.

Nothing happened. There was no noise, no shot, no shouting. He heard footsteps, the slamming of what sounded like a car door and another; then a large motor spring into life. Instead of going out on to the dock again to see what was happening, Brunetti ran back through the corridor and out of the front door of the building, where his driver was waiting, motor running to keep the car warm, while he read Il Gazzettino dello Sport.

Brunetti pulled open the passenger door and leaped into the car, seeing the driver’s panic disappear when he recognized him. ‘A truck, going out of the far gate. Swing round and follow it.’ Even before Brunetti’s hand reached the car phone, the driver had tossed his paper into the back seat and had the car in gear and spinning round towards the back of the building. As they rounded the corner, the driver pulled the wheel sharply to the left, trying not to hit one of the boxes that had fallen from the open doors of the truck. But he couldn’t avoid the next one and their left wheels passed over it, splattering it open and spewing small bottles in a wide wake behind them. Just beyond the gates Brunetti could see the truck moving off down the highway in the direction of Padova, its rear doors flapping open.

The rest was as predictable as it was tragic. Just beyond Resana, two Carabinieri vehicles were drawn up across the road, blocking traffic. In an attempt to get past them, the driver of the truck swerved to the right and on to the high shoulder of the road. Just as he did, a small Fiat, driven by a woman on the way to pick up her daughter at the local asilo, slowed at the sight of the police block. The truck, as it came back on to the road, swung into the other lane and slammed into her car broadside, killing her instantly. Both men, Bonaventura and the driver, had been wearing their seat-belts, so neither was hurt, though they were severely shaken by the crash.

Before they could free themselves from their seat-belts, they were surrounded by Carabinieri, who pulled them down from the truck and flung them face forward against its doors. They were quickly surrounded by four Carabinieri carrying machine-guns. Two others ran to the Fiat but saw there was nothing to be done.

Brunetti’s car pulled up and he got out. The scene was absolutely silent, unnaturally so. He heard his own footsteps approaching the two men, both of whom were breathing heavily. Something metal clanged to the ground from the direction of the truck.

He turned to the sergeant. ‘Put them in the car,’ was all he said.