The Girl of his Dreams - Brunetti 17 (13 page)

'And he called here?'

'No, he called 911, but the Carabinieri don't have a boat free, so they called us.' 'Did anyone else see it?'

Vianello looked out of the windows on his side; the rain was falling harder now, and a wind from the north was driving it against the windows. 'He was outside, he said
’
Few people, he didn't bother to add, would choose to stand outside on a morning like this.

'I see,' Brunetti said. 'The Carabinieri?'

'They'll send a boat as soon as they have one free.'

Brunetti, suddenly unwilling to stay inside, got to his feet, pushed open the door, and stood on the first step, still at least partially protected from the rain. They passed Palazzo Mocenigo, then the
imbarcadero
of Sant'Angelo, and then they came abreast of the stairs running down into the water to the left of Palazzo Benzon.

It occurred to Brunetti that it might be better to stop the engine, but before he could say anything, Foa cut it and they continued to drift towards the stairs. The silence lasted only a few seconds before Foa started the engine and slipped it into reverse, slowing them, and then coming to a dead stop a few metres from the steps that led up to the pavement.

The pilot moved to the side of the boat and leaned forward. After some time, he raised his arm and indicated the surface of the water. Brunetti, followed closely by Vianello, moved out into the rain. They joined Foa at the side, looking where he pointed.

Something messy and light, swirling like seaweed, floated in the water about a metre to the left of the steps. The rain splashing on the surface of the water disguised it, whatever it was. A plastic bag? A newspaper? Then, not far from it, something else. A foot.

They saw the foot, small, and, above it, an ankle.

'Take me down to Calle Traghetto
’
Brunetti told the pilot, 'and I'll come back.'

Silently, the pilot backed away from the stairs, out into the canal, then pulled in at the bottom of the stairs at the end of the next
calk.
The tide was low, and the two steps up to the pavement were covered with seaweed. Brunetti had the choice of trying to leap to the pavement, though that was slick with rain, or of holding on to Vianello's arm and stepping down on to the seaweed-covered surface of the step. He made the second choice, felt a moment's panic as his right foot slid away from him as it touched the surface, banging into the back of the stair. He lurched forward, but Vianello grabbed his arm and stopped him from falling into the water. Brunetti tried to brace himself with his free hand, but it slithered through the seaweed and hit the back of the step. He felt the rain on his back as he stepped up on to the pavement; he paused to let the shaking in his knees subside.

Brunetti heard the heavy thud as a cross-wave banged the boat against the embankment. He turned back to Vianello and helped him on to the lower step. He did not slip, and Brunetti held him steady as he climbed up beside him.

They walked down to the first crossing, turned right, then immediately right again and back towards the water. By the time they got there, the shoulders of their jackets were soaked through. Foa had the boat standing off from them, in the Canal.

Brunetti moved up beside the wall of the building and leaned forward to look into the water. The floating mass was still there, off to his right, about a metre from the bottom step. It would be within his reach if he went down to the bottom step and Vianello anchored him as he reached out.

He moved away from the wall and placed a tentative foot in the water and then moved down to the second step; the water rose to his knees. Vianello was suddenly beside him, grabbing his left wrist. Brunetti leaned far to his right, stretched out, and grabbed at the lighter shadow in the water. He heard the right side of his jacket splash into the water and felt the gelid water reach up his thighs.

Silk. It felt like silk. He latched his fingers around the strands and pulled gently. Brunetti felt no resistance, and he straightened up, pulling it effortlessly closer. As he backed up one step it floated closer, and the silk spread out and wrapped itself around his wrist. A boat loaded with boxes of fruit passed, heading towards Rialto: the man at the tiller did not bother to turn aside to look at the men at the edge of the water.

He turned to Vianello, who released him and stepped back into the water beside him. Brunetti gave a gentle tug, and it floated closer. They saw the foot, not far from the silk; then the waves of the boat reached them and the foot swung around and made its way slowly towards Vianello.

'Jesus, help me
’
the Inspector muttered. He moved to the lower step, bent down, placed his fingers around the ankle and gave a gentle tug. He glanced at Brunetti, rain running down his face. 'I
’
ll do
it
’
Vianello said.

Brunetti let go of the silk but remained beside his friend, ready to grab him if he slipped on the seaweed. Vianello leaned forward and put both arms under the body and lifted it out of the water. A long piece of cloth dangled down from the legs and wrapped itself around Vianello's trousers. With the body, he took a step backwards to the higher step, then another up to the pavement. Water flowed from them.

When he was away from the water, Vianello knelt, first on one knee, then on the other, then bent forward and lowered the body to the ground in front of him. The skirt peeled itself free from his legs and slithered down on to the body of the girl. One foot was covered by a cheap pink plastic sandal; the other was bare, but Brunetti saw the lighter skin where the straps had protected it from the sun. Her cardigan was still buttoned, right up to the neck, but there was no longer any need for its warmth.

She was small, with fair hair that fanned out from her head. Brunetti looked at her face, then back to her feet, and then her hands, and finally he accepted that she was a child.

Vianello struggled to his feet like an old man. Suddenly there was a surge of noise, and then silence and only the sound of the rain hitting the water. They looked up, and there was Foa, the boat floating silently a hair's breadth from the embankment.

'Call Bocchese
’
Brunetti called out to the pilot, surprised that he could speak in a normal voice. 'Get a team here. And a doctor.'

Foa waved to acknowledge that he had heard and reached for the radio. 'Maybe he should go back and get them,' suggested Vianello. 'There's nothing he can do here.'

Even as Brunetti was telling the pilot to go back and pick up the scene of crime team, there was no thought that one of them would go back with him. When the boat was gone, they moved away from the small body and took shelter from the rain in a doorway, keeping a watch up the
calle
to stop anyone who approached. Occasionally people walked by up at the corner, going to or coining out of Campo San Beneto, perhaps in search of the eternally closed Fortuny museum. But the rain kept tourists from venturing down to the end of the
calk
to have a look at the waters of the famous Grand Canal.

After twenty minutes, Vianello started to shiver uncontrollably but refused Brunetti's suggestion that he go up to Calle della Mandola to have a coffee. Irritated by his pigheadedness, Brunetti said, I'm going to get one,' and left without further comment. The rain no longer made any difference; the squelching of his shoes kept him company as he walked up to the larger street and into the first bar he came to.

The barman stared at first and made some comment about the rain, but Brunetti ignored him and asked for
un caffe corretto
and one to take away in a plastic cup. The barman brought them together, and Brunetti put three sugars into each. He drank his down quickly and paid. As he was leaving, the barman told him to take the brown umbrella near the door and bring it back whenever he wanted.

Glad of the umbrella, Brunetti went back towards the water. He said nothing as he handed Vianello the coffee. The Inspector peeled off the napkin on top and drank the coffee down as if it were a dose of medicine, which in some ways it was. He started to speak, but was interrupted by the sound of a motor to their left.

A moment later they saw the police launch, Foa at the wheel, the outlines of other men visible in the cabin. Foa took the boat down to Calle Traghetto: Brunetti and Vianello waited for them, and did not step out from the doorway until the first of the technicians rounded the corner, hauling a metal case. Soon after followed the chief technician, Bocchese, and Dottor Rizzardi, the medical examiner. Behind them came two more technicians in their disposable white suits, all carrying the heavy tools of their grim trade. All of the men wore tall rubber boots.

Before Brunetti could ask how it was that he had got there so fast, the doctor explained, 'Bocchese called me at home and offered to pick me up at the Salute
’
He moved past Brunetti and toward the body on the pavement. Rizzardi's steps slowed when he saw it and he said, 'I hate children
’
None of them had to bother translating this: all of them hated when it was children.

It was only then that Brunetti noticed that none of the other men carried umbrellas, and he realized
it
had stopped raining. It had probably grown warmer, as well, but he could not sense that change through the clinging chill of his clothing. He glanced
at
Vianello, who had stopped trembling.

As they approached the body, Brunetti said, 'Vianello pulled her out, but she might not have gone in here.' If she had, their scrambling around on the steps would effectively have obliterated any traces of whatever might have happened before.

Bocchese, Rizzardi, and the first technician knelt around the body, and something perverse in Brunetti led his mind to the Magi and the countless paintings he had seen of three men kneeling around another child. He shook himself free of the memory and approached them.

'Ten?' Rizzardi, looking
at
the girl's face, asked of no one in particular. Brunetti tried to remember what Chiara had looked like when she was ten, how small she had been, but the memory refused to come.

The girl's eyes were closed, but she looked anything but asleep. Where had that myth come from, Brunetti wondered, that the dead looked as if they were sleeping? The dead looked dead: there was a stillness about them that the living could not imitate. Bad painters, sentimental fiction, understandable illusion: but the dead looked like what they were.

Rizzardi picked up one of the girl's hands and felt for a pulse, an absurd formality that Brunetti found strangely touching. The doctor set the girl's hand back on the pavement and looked at his watch. He rolled back one of her eyelids, and Brunetti saw a flash of green or blue, but the doctor quickly smoothed it closed. With both hands, he opened her mouth and looked inside, then pressed on her chest with one hand, but no water came out, if indeed that was what he was expecting to happen.

Rizzardi lifted part of her sodden skirt and pulled it above one knee. The rest was trapped under her body, and he did not disturb it. He pushed the cuffs of the sweater back, but there were no marks of any sort on her wrists. He took her hand again and this time turned it over and looked at the palm. The skin was rough, torn, as though she had been dragged along some rough surface: the other palm showed the same signs. Rizzardi bent closer to examine the fingernails, then placed her hands back on the pavement.

Silently, Bocchese handed the doctor two transparent plastic bags, which he slipped over the child's hands and tied closed. 'Anyone report a child missing?' Rizzardi asked.

'Not as of yesterday, so far as I know,' Brunetti answered. He glanced
at
Vianello, who shook his head.

'Could be a tourist's child
’
Rizzardi said. 'From the North. Hair's light enough; so are her eyes.'

The same was true enough of Paola, Brunetti thought, but he said nothing.

The doctor pushed himself to his feet, and just at that instant the sun broke through the remaining clouds and fell across them: the men standing around the body of a child on the ground. Bocchese glanced down, and when he saw that his shadow lay across the girl's face, he stepped back quickly.

'I won't know anything for sure until I do the autopsy,' Rizzardi said, and Brunetti was struck by the way the doctor avoided using one of his usual expressions, such as 'open her up', or 'have a look'.

'Any idea?' Brunetti could not stop himself from asking.

The doctor shook his head. 'There's no sign of violence, except on her hands.'

Vianello made an interrogative noise.

'The scratches,' the doctor explained. 'It might help us to understand where she was before this happened.' He turned to the technician and said,
‘I
hope we find something for you to work on, Bocchese.'

Bocchese, not much given to talk at any time, had said nothing at all since he arrived. Hearing his name, he appeared to come out of a trance. He looked at the men around him, then asked Brunetti, 'You finished?'

'Yes.'

To his assistants, Bocchese said, 'Let's get the pictures taken.'