Donna Leon - Beastly Things

Brunetti turned a page and studied the information on the properties she owned. Neither her salary at Tekknomed nor that at the slaughterhouse would have allowed her to buy even one of them, let alone all three. The apartment in the centre of Mestre was one hundred metres. The two apartments in Venice were slightly smaller but, if rented to tourists and well managed, would earn her a few thousand Euros a month. So long as this rental income was not reported to the tax authorities, the total sum would equal her salary at the macello , no mean achievement for a woman in her early thirties. Added to this would be sums she was earning – though the use of that verb left Brunetti uncomfortable – from the various farmers who brought unhealthy animals to the slaughterhouse.

His mind fled to the scandal in Germany some years before of the dioxin-laden eggs that resulted from the deliberate contamination of livestock food. And then he remembered a dinner party soon thereafter at which the hostess, one of those upper-class women who grew more ingenuous with each passing year, had asked how people could possibly do such a thing. It had been with considerable restraint that Brunetti had stopped himself from shouting down the table at her: ‘Greed, you fool. Greed.’

Brunetti had always assumed that most people were strongly motivated by greed. Lust or jealousy might lead to impulsive actions or violence, but to explain most crimes, especially those that took place over time, greed was a better bet.

He set the file aside and picked up the list Pucetti had given him of the owners of the houses on either side of the Rio del Malpaga that corresponded with the water doors he had seen. The search for their names, Brunetti assumed, would have taken hours of patient research among the chaotic records in the Ufficio Catasto.

He ran his eye down the first page, not at all sure what he was looking for or, indeed, that he was looking for anything. Near the middle of the second page, his eye fell upon the name ‘Borelli’. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as a chill slithered across his flesh. He set the papers down very gently and spent some time aligning them with the front edge of his desk. When that was done to his satisfaction, he stared at the opposite wall and shifted pieces of information around, fitting them into different scenarios, leaving pieces out or shifting them to new places.

He reached for the phone and dialled the number on the front of the folder on his desk. She answered on the third ring.

‘Borelli.’ Direct, no nonsense, just like a man.

‘Signorina Borelli,’ he said, ‘this is Commissario Brunetti.’

‘Ah, Commissario, I hope you saw everything,’ she said in a voice entirely without nuance or suggestion of hidden meaning.

‘Yes, we stayed,’ Brunetti said. ‘But I doubt we saw everything that goes on there.’

That gave her pause, but after a moment she said, ‘I’m not sure I understand you entirely, Commissario.’

‘I meant that we still don’t have a full understanding of everything that goes on at the slaughterhouse, Signorina.’

‘Oh,’ was all she said.

‘I’d like you to come in to the Questura and talk about it.’

‘I’m very busy.’

‘I’m sure you can make time to come in and have a talk,’ Brunetti said, voice level.

‘But I’m not sure that I can, Signore,’ she insisted.

‘It might be easier,’ Brunetti suggested.

‘Than?’

‘Than my asking a magistrate for an arrest warrant and having you brought here under duress.’

‘Duress, Commissario?’ she asked with what she tried to make sound like a flirtatious laugh.

‘Duress.’ No flirting. No laugh.

After pausing long enough to allow Brunetti to add something if he chose, she finally said, ‘Your tone makes me wonder if I should bring a lawyer with me.’

‘As you please,’ Brunetti answered.

‘Oh my, as serious as all that?’ she said, but she didn’t have the gift of irony, and the question fell flat.

Brunetti knew what she would say and what she would do. Greed. Mindless, atavistic greed. Think what a lawyer would cost. If she could talk her way out of it, there would be no need of a lawyer, would there? So why pay one to come along? Surely she was smarter than some time-serving policeman, wasn’t she?

‘When would you like me to come in?’ she said with sudden docility.

‘As soon as you can, Signorina,’ Brunetti replied.

‘I could come in after lunch,’ she conceded. ‘About four?’

‘Very good.’ Brunetti was careful not to thank her. ‘I’ll expect you then.’

He went immediately down to Patta’s office and told him about Signorina Borelli’s apartment on the canal where the dead man was found. Recalling the missing shoe and the scrapes on the back of Nava’s heel, Brunetti said, ‘The scientific boys might want to go over the place.’

‘Of course, of course,’ Patta said, quite as though he was just about to suggest it.

Leaving it to his superior to get the magistrate’s order, Brunetti excused himself and returned to his own office.

When the man at the front door called Brunetti at ten minutes after four to tell him he had a visitor, Brunetti said that Vianello would go down to meet her, having arranged it this way to ensure the Inspector’s presence during their conversation.

Brunetti looked up when he saw them at the door: the large man and the small woman. He wondered about that, had wondered about that ever since the idea had first come to him. He had taken another look at Rizzardi’s report and seen that there were holes in Nava’s shirt and traces of cotton fibres in the wounds. So it had not been a lovers’ quarrel, or at least not one that had taken place in bed. The trajectory of the wounds – Brunetti doubted that was the correct word – had been upward, so the person standing behind him had been shorter than he.

Habit brought Brunetti to his feet. He said good afternoon and waved them to the chairs in front of him; Vianello waited and when she was seated took the other chair and pulled out his notebook. She looked at the tape recorder, then at Brunetti

Brunetti switched the machine on and said, ‘Thank you for coming in, Signorina Borelli.’

‘You didn’t leave me much choice, did you, Commissario?’ she asked, her tone halfway between anger and light-heartedness.

Brunetti ignored the tone, just as he ignored the idea that this woman could have any lightness of heart, and said, ‘I explained the choices open to you, Signorina.’

‘And do you think I’ve made the right one?’ she asked, almost as if she could not break herself of the habit of flirtatiousness.

‘We’ll see,’ Brunetti responded.

Vianello crossed his legs and riffled through the pages of his notebook.

‘Could you tell me where you were on Sunday evening?’

‘I was at my home.’

‘Which is where, Signorina?’

‘Mestre, Via Mantovani 17.’

‘Was anyone with you?’

‘No.’

‘Could you tell me what you did that evening?’

She looked at him, then off towards the window, while memory returned to her. ‘I went to the cinema, an early showing.’

‘What film, Signorina?’

‘ Città aperta ,’ she said. ‘It was part of a Rossellini retrospective.’

‘Did anyone go with you?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Yes. Maria Costantini. She lives in the building next to mine.’

‘And after that?’

‘I went home.’

‘With Signora Costantini?’

‘No. Maria was going to have dinner with her sister, so I went home alone. I had some dinner, then I watched television, and I went to bed early. I have to be at work early: at six.’

‘Did anyone call you that evening?’