Donna Leon - Beastly Things

‘How did you obtain your job at the macello , Signor Meucci?’ Brunetti asked. No greeting, no politeness, only the simple question.

Brunetti watched Meucci consider various possibilities, and then the fat man said, ‘The opening was announced, and I applied for it.’

‘Were you asked to submit supporting documents with your application, Signore?’ Brunetti asked, giving special emphasis to the last word.

‘Yes,’ Meucci answered. The fact that he did not answer with an indignant ‘of course’ told Brunetti that he would have no trouble with this interview. Meucci was a defeated man who wanted only to limit the damage he was going to endure.

‘And the absence of evidence that you were a doctor of veterinary medicine did not serve as an obstacle to your application for that position?’ Brunetti asked with the mildest interest.

Meucci’s right hand moved to the pocket of his jacket, then slipped inside to take what comfort it could from the feel of his packet of cigarettes. He shook his head.

‘You have to speak, Signore. Your answers must be audible so that the stenographer can record them.’

‘No,’ Meucci said.

‘How was that possible, Signore?’

As he looked at Meucci, Brunetti was filled with the strange sensation that the man was melting. He sat lower in his chair, though he had made no motion that suggested he was shifting in his seat. His mouth seemed to have grown smaller before it pronounced that last monosyllable. His jacket hung loosely from his shoulders.

‘How was that possible, Signore?’

Brunetti heard the crunching sound as Meucci’s hand closed on the packet of cigarettes. ‘No one showed me any papers. I didn’t sign anything that said you could ask me these questions.’ Something resembling anger could be heard in Meucci’s voice.

Brunetti gave an understanding smile. ‘Of course, Signor Meucci. I understand that. You are here voluntarily, come in to aid the police in their investigations.’ Brunetti slid the tape recorder back towards him. ‘You’re free to go whenever you please.’ He clicked off the tape.

Eyes locked on the tape recorder, Meucci asked, the anger evaporated, ‘What happens if I do?’ It was a simple request for an answer, not a demand. Lost men had no demands to make.

‘Then you leave us with no choice but to inform the police in Mestre and the ULSS and, for good measure, the Guardia di Finanza, just in case you haven’t been bothering to pay taxes on what is probably – given your lack of a licence to function as a veterinarian – an illegal practice.’

Brunetti pushed his chair back and crossed his legs. Not being in a particularly theatrical vein that day, he failed to lean back and latch his fingers behind his head while staring at the ceiling. ‘Let me see what my various colleagues might make of this. Impersonation of a public official, to begin with.’ Then, seeing Meucci open his mouth to protest, ‘You serve as a public official at the macello , Signore, whether you know it or not.’ He saw Meucci register the truth of this.

‘Let’s see what else we have here, shall we? Illegal exercise of a profession. Fraud. Taking money under false pretences.’ Brunetti allowed a menacing smile to cross his face. ‘And if you’ve ever written a prescription for any of your patients, then there would be the illegal procurement of drugs; and if you’ve ever given an inoculation to an animal and been paid for it, there is also the illegal sale of and administration of drugs.’

‘But they’re animals,’ Meucci protested.

‘Indeed they are, Signor Meucci. Thus your lawyer will have an intriguing argument to present at your trial.’

‘Trial?’ Meucci asked.

‘Well, it’s likely to come to that, wouldn’t you say? You’ll be arrested, of course, and your practice closed, and I imagine your clients – to make no mention of the management of the macello – will all sue you to return the money you took from them illegally.’

‘But they knew ,’ Meucci bleated.

‘Your clients?’ Brunetti asked with feigned astonishment. ‘But then why would they bring their animals to you?’

‘No, no, not them. The people at the macello . They knew. Of course they knew. That was all part of it.’

Brunetti leaned forward and held up his hand. ‘Shall I turn on the tape recorder before we continue this conversation, Signor Meucci?’

Meucci pulled the cigarettes out of his pocket and clasped his hands around the packet. He nodded.

Willing to accept a gesture as a response, Brunetti switched on the machine.

‘You’ve just told me that the people at the macello in Preganziol hired you even though they knew you were not a veterinarian. That is, they employed you as a veterinarian while knowing that you had no licence. Is this correct, Signor Meucci?’

‘Yes.’

‘They knew you had no licence?’

‘Yes,’ Meucci said, then he snapped, ‘I just told you that. How many times do I have to tell you?’

‘As many as you like, Signor Meucci,’ Brunetti said amiably. ‘Hearing it repeated might serve to remind you that such an interesting fact needs some explanation.’

When Meucci did not speak, Brunetti asked, ‘You said that the opening for the job was announced. Could you tell me how you learned of that announcement?’

Here it came, Brunetti knew: the moment when the person being questioned began to weigh the relative risk of little lies. Forget something here, leave out a name, change a date or a number, pass over a meeting as having been insignificant.

‘Signor Meucci,’ Brunetti said, ‘I’d like to remind you how very important it is that you tell us everything you remember: all of the names and where and when you met the people, and what was said in your conversations. To the best of your ability.’

‘And if I can’t remember?’ Meucci asked, but Brunetti heard fear in the question, not sarcasm.

‘Then I’ll give you time until you do remember, Signor Meucci.’

Meucci nodded again, and again Brunetti let the gesture serve in place of assent.

‘How did you learn about the job at the macello ?’

There was no hesitation in Meucci’s voice as he said, ‘The man who had it before I did called me one night – we were friends at university – and said he was going to quit, and he asked me if I would be interested in taking the job.’

‘Did this friend know that you had not finished your studies?’ Brunetti asked.

He saw Meucci prepare to lie and held up his right forefinger in a gesture his elementary religion teacher used to make.

‘Probably,’ Meucci finally said, and Brunetti gave him some credit for not wanting to shop a friend.

‘And how did this occur, that you replaced him?’

‘He spoke to someone there, and then I went out to the macello one day for an interview. It was explained what I had to do.’

‘Was any mention made of your missing qualifications?’

‘No.’

‘Did you have to submit a curriculum vitae?’

After the briefest of hesitations, Meucci said, ‘Yes.’

‘Did you say in it that you had a degree in veterinarian medicine?’

Voice softer, Meucci repeated, ‘Yes.’

‘Did you have to submit proof – photocopies of your degree?’

‘I was told that wasn’t necessary.’

‘I see,’ Brunetti said, then asked, ‘Who told you this?’

Meucci, apparently unaware of what he was doing, took a cigarette out of the pack and put it in his mouth. He took out a lighter and lit the cigarette. Years ago, Brunetti had seen an old man step down from a train that had stopped at a station and light up, take three incredibly deep drags on a cigarette, then, at the sound of the conductor’s whistle, pinch it out and put it back in the packet. Dragon breath issuing from his mouth, the old man had pulled himself back into the train just as it started to move. He sat and watched Meucci smoke the entire cigarette with the same blind avidity. When there was only the smallest stub left and the front of his jacket was covered with spilled ash, Meucci looked across at Brunetti.