Beastly Things (11 page)

‘And why did he say he likes animals?’ Vianello asked.

‘Because when he saw the dog, he asked the woman how old it was, and when she said it was eleven, he asked her if she’d had it checked for arthritis.

‘She said she hadn’t, and he said that, from the way the dog walked, he’d guess it had it. Arthritis.’

‘What did the woman say?’ the Inspector asked.

‘Oh, she thanked him. I told you: she’s very nice. And then, after she left, I asked him, and he said he liked animals, especially dogs, and knew a bit about them.’

‘Anything else?’ Brunetti asked, realizing that this was precious little to be going ahead with.

‘No, only that he was a nice man. People who like animals usually are, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, I do,’ Vianello said. Brunetti limited himself to a nod.

The manager was still busy with the two women, the three of them surrounded by expanding waves of boxes, shoes littering the floor in front of them. ‘Did your colleague speak to him?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Oh, no. She took care of Signora Persilli.’ At their blank looks, she said, ‘The lady with the dog.’

Brunetti took out his wallet and gave her his card. ‘If you think of anything else, Signorina, please call me.’

They turned towards the door, but she called from behind them. ‘Is he really the dead man? In Venice?’

Surprising himself with his frankness, Brunetti turned back and said, ‘I think so.’ Her mouth contracted in a small grimace and she shook her head at the news. ‘So if you think of anything, please call us; it might help,’ he said, not specifying how this might be possible.

‘I’d like to help,’ she said.

Brunetti thanked her again, and he and Vianello left the shop.

14

‘A MAN WITH
Madelung who likes animals and knows something about dogs,’ Vianello said as they walked towards the car.

More practically, Brunetti said, ‘We’ll talk to Vezzani. He should be back from Treviso by now.’ He had gone to the shoe shop in the full hope, even expectation, of discovering the man’s name and identity. He felt not a little embarrassed, now, at how he had looked forward to being able to walk into Vezzani’s office with the dead man’s name in his possession. Now, that possibility gone, he accepted the fact that there was nothing to do save what both of them now knew they should have done before: go to the Mestre Questura and ask for their cooperation.

He got into the front seat of the car and asked the driver to take him to the Questura. The driver reminded him about the seat belt, and Brunetti, thinking it foolish to use it for what would prove such a short trip, put it
on
nevertheless. It was well past four, and the traffic seemed heavy, though Brunetti was hardly an expert on traffic.

Inside the building, he showed his warrant card and said he had an appointment with Commissario Vezzani. They had worked as part of the team investigating the baggage handlers at the airport some years ago – the investigation Pucetti was still involved with – had passed through those fires together and emerged, both of them wiser and more pessimistic, but with a far clearer understanding of the limits to which a clever lawyer could push the rights of the accused.

The officer on duty pointed to the elevator and told them the Commissario’s office was on the third floor. Vezzani was from Livorno originally, but he had lived in the Veneto so long that his speech had taken on the sing-song cadence, and he had once told Brunetti, during a break in the endless interrogation of two men accused of armed robbery, that his children spoke to their friends in the Mestre version of Veneziano.

He rose when they entered, a tall, thin man with prematurely grey hair, cut close to his skull in a vain attempt, perhaps, to disguise the colour. He shook hands with Brunetti, clapped him on the arm in greeting, and extended his hand to Vianello, with whom he had also worked.

‘You find out who he is?’ he asked when they were seated.

‘No. We spoke to the women in the shoe shop, but they couldn’t tell us who he was. All one of them said was that he liked dogs and knew something about animals.’

If Vezzani found this an odd piece of information to divulge during the purchase of a pair of shoes, he did not remark on it and merely asked, ‘And this disease you say he had?’

‘Madelung. It happens to alcoholics or addicts, but Rizzardi said there were no signs this guy was a drinker or used drugs.’

‘So it just happened to him?’

Brunetti nodded, recalling the thick neck and the arching torso of the dead man.

‘Could I see the photo?’ Vezzani asked.

Brunetti gave it to him.

‘You said Pucetti did this?’ Vezzani asked, picking up the photo to take a closer look.

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve heard about him,’ Vezzani said; then, in a different tone, ‘God, I’d like to have a few like him around here.’

‘That bad?’

Vezzani shrugged.

‘Or you don’t want to say?’ Brunetti asked.

Vezzani gave a humourless laugh. ‘If I saw a job opening for a street patrolman in Caltanissetta, I’d be tempted, I tell you.’

‘Why?’

Vezzani rubbed at his right cheek with the palm of his hand: his beard was so heavy that, by this time of day, Brunetti could hear a grating noise. ‘Because so little happens, combined with the fact that, when it does, there’s so little we can do.’ Then, as if the subject were too annoying, Vezzani got quickly to his feet, taking the photo with him. ‘Let me take this downstairs and show it to the boys. See if anyone recognizes him.’ At Brunetti’s nod, he left the room.

Brunetti got to his feet and walked over to a bulletin board on which were pinned notices bearing the seal of the Ministry of the Interior. He read a few of them and found they were the same memos and reports that flowed into and out of his own office. Perhaps he should put
theirs
in suitcases, take them to the railway station, and leave them unattended for a few minutes or until they were stolen. There seemed no other way they would ever be disposed of effectively. Should he propose it to Patta? he wondered. He stood and looked at them, inventing his conversation with Patta.

Vezzani came quickly into the room. ‘He’s a veterinarian,’ he said.

As if he were channelling the voice of the young woman in the shoe shop, Brunetti said, ‘Likes animals and knows something about dogs.’ Then he asked, ‘Who told you that?’

‘One of our men. He’d seen him at his son’s school.’ Vezzani came farther into the room. ‘There was some sort of special day when parents were invited to the school and told the kids about their jobs or their professions. He said they do it every year, and last year this guy talked about being a vet and taking care of animals.’

‘Is he sure?’ Brunetti asked.

Vezzani nodded.

‘What’s his name?’

‘He didn’t remember, said he heard only the last part of his talk. But only parents are invited, so if he talked at the school, they’ve got to know who he is.’

‘Which school is it?’

‘San Giovanni Bosco. I can call them,’ Vezzani said, moving towards his desk. ‘Or we can go and talk to them.’

Brunetti’s answer was immediate. ‘I don’t want to show up there in a police car, especially if his kid’s still enrolled there. People always talk, and it’s no way for him to find out about his father.’

Vezzani agreed, and Vianello, who had children in school and, like the others, worked in a potentially dangerous profession, nodded.

The call was quickly made, and after being passed to two different offices, Vezzani learned the dead man’s name. Dottor Andrea Nava, his son still at the school, though there had been some family trouble and the father hadn’t come to the most recent parent meeting. Yes, he had been there last year and had talked about household pets and how best to take care of them. He’d suggested that the children bring their pets with them, and he’d used them as examples. The children had enjoyed his talk more than any of the others, and it was a real pity Dr Nava hadn’t been able to come back this year.

Vezzani wrote down the address and phone number listed in the boy’s contact information, thanked the person speaking without explaining why the police were looking for the doctor, and hung up.

‘Well?’ Vezzani said, looking from one to the other.

‘God, I hate this,’ Vianello muttered.

‘Your man was sure?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Absolutely,’ Vezzani answered. Then, after a pause, he asked, ‘Do we call first?’

‘How far is it?’ Brunetti asked, indicating the paper in Vezzani’s hand.

He looked at it again. ‘Clear on the other side of the city.’

‘Then we call,’ Brunetti said, not wanting to spend time sitting in traffic, only to find that the man’s wife or
fidanzata
or companion, or whoever it was men lived with these days, was not at home.

Vezzani picked up the phone, hesitated a moment, then handed it to Brunetti. ‘You speak to them. It’s your case.’ He dialled for an outside line, and punched in the number.

A woman’s voice answered on the third ring. ‘
Pronto
,’ she said, but provided no name.

‘
Buon giorno, Signora
,’ Brunetti said. ‘Could you tell me if this is the home of Dottor Andrea Nava?’

‘Who’s calling, please?’ she asked in a voice with a lower temperature.

‘Commissario Guido Brunetti, Signora. Of the Venice police.’

After a pause that did not seem inordinately long to Brunetti, she asked, ‘Could you tell me why you’re calling?’

‘We’re trying to locate Dottor Nava, Signora, and this is the only number we have for him.’

‘How did you get it?’ she asked.

‘The Mestre police gave it to us,’ he said, hoping she would not ask why the Mestre police should have it.

‘He doesn’t live here any more,’ she said.

‘May I ask with whom I’m speaking, Signora?’

This time the pause was inordinately long. ‘I’m his wife,’ she said.

‘I see. Would it be possible for me to come and speak to you, Signora?’

‘Why?’

‘Because we need to speak to you about your husband, Signora,’ Brunetti said, hoping the seriousness of his tone would warn her of what was coming.

‘He hasn’t done anything, has he?’ she asked, sounding more surprised than worried.

‘No,’ Brunetti said.

‘Then what is it?’ she asked, and he heard the mounting irritation in her voice.

‘I’d prefer to speak to you in person, if I might, Signora.’ This had dragged on too long, and it was now impossible for Brunetti to tell her on the telephone.

‘My son is here,’ she said.

That stopped Brunetti cold. How to distract a child while you tell his mother that her husband is dead? ‘One of my
officers
will be with me, Signora,’ he said, not explaining why this would make a difference.

‘How long will it take you to get here?’

‘Twenty minutes,’ Brunetti invented.

‘All right, I’ll be here,’ she said, clearly bringing the conversation to a close.

‘Could I confirm the address, Signora?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Via Enrico Toti 26,’ she said. ‘Is that the address you have?’

‘Yes,’ Brunetti confirmed. ‘We’ll be there in twenty minutes,’ he said again, thanked her, and replaced the phone.

Turning to Vezzani, Brunetti asked, ‘Twenty minutes?’

‘Not even,’ he said. ‘Do you want me to come?’

‘Two of us is enough, I think. I’ll take Vianello because we’ve done these things together before.’

Vezzani got to his feet. ‘I’ll take you in my car. You can tell your driver to go back. This way, there won’t be a police car parked outside.’ Seeing Brunetti about to protest, he said, ‘I don’t want to come in with you. I’ll go across the street and have a coffee and wait for you.’

15

NUMBER 26 WAS
one of the first in a row of duplex houses on a street leading away from a small cluster of shops on the outskirts of Mestre. They passed the house; Vezzani parked the unmarked car a hundred metres ahead. As the three men got out of the car, Vezzani pointed to a bar on the other side of the road. ‘I’ll be in there,’ he said.

Brunetti and Vianello walked along the row of houses and climbed the steps of number 26. There were two doors and two bells, beneath both of which were slots holding the names of the residents. One, the script faded by the light, bore the names ‘Cerulli’ and ‘Fabretti’; the other, handwriting fresh and dark, read ‘Doni’. Brunetti pressed that bell.

A few moments later, the door was opened by a dark-haired boy of about eight. He was thin and blue-eyed, his expression surprisingly serious for so young a child. ‘Are you the policemen?’ he asked. In one hand he held some
sort
of futuristic plastic weapon: a ray gun, perhaps. From the other hand hung a faded teddy bear with a large bald spot on his stomach.

‘Yes, we are,’ Brunetti said. ‘Could you tell us who you are?’

‘Teodoro,’ he said and stepped back from the door, saying, ‘My
mamma
is in the big room.’ They asked permission and entered; the boy closed the door behind them. At the end of a corridor that seemed to bisect the house, they entered a room that looked out on an explosively disordered garden. In this suburban setting, Brunetti expected to see gardens of military rigidity, with straight lines of growing things, whether flowers or vegetables, and, regardless of the season, everything kept well pruned and clean. This one, however, spoke of neglect, with vines overgrowing what might once have been neat rows of bushes or plants. Brunetti saw the wooden poles that had supported tomatoes and beans gobbled up and tipped aside by the slow invasion of vines and brambles, as if someone had abandoned the garden at the end of summer and had completely lost interest by springtime.

The room into which the boy led them, however, reflected none of this disorder. A machine-made Heriz covered most of the marble floor; a dark blue sofa stood against one wall. On a low table in front of it was a neat pile of magazines. Two easy chairs, covered in a flower print dominated by the same dark blue as the sofa, stood facing it. On the walls Brunetti saw dark-framed prints of the sort that are bought in furniture shops.