Donna Leon - Beastly Things

Brunetti turned his attention to Torinese and said, ‘I will set the example for this conversation by telling you both the truth.’ And then to Papetti, ‘To find out the extent of your involvement in the death of Dottor Nava.’

Neither man showed surprise. Torinese, after decades of experience with sudden accusations of all sorts, was probably immune to surprise. Papetti, however, looked distressed but failed to disguise it.

Brunetti went on, speaking to Papetti, suspecting he had not had time to explain everything to Torinese. ‘We are by now aware of what was going on at the macello .’ Brunetti paused, to give Papetti the opportunity to ask for an explanation of that, but he did not.

‘And, given that we are now talking about murder, the legal consequences to anyone who attempts to obscure the truth of anything surrounding the murder are much more severe, something I’m sure needs no explaining to you.’ When he saw that they understood, he added, ‘I’m sure the men who work at the macello will understand this as well.’ Brunetti paused to let this register. ‘Thus I assume,’ he continued, ‘that the men who work there, especially Bianchi, will be willing to tell us what they know, either about the murder or the lesser crimes.’ Brunetti was careful not to name these lesser crimes, curious to see how Papetti would react.

Torinese, for all his training and experience, could not stop himself from glancing at his client. Papetti, however, ignored him, his attention on Brunetti, as if willing him to reveal more.

Brunetti slid the papers on his desk closer and studied them for a moment, then said, ‘I’d like to begin by asking you, Dottor Papetti, to tell me where you were on the night of the seventh.’ Then, just in case Papetti might have trouble recalling the date, he clarified by saying, ‘That’s the night between Sunday and Monday.’

Papetti glanced aside at Torinese, who said, ‘My client was at home, with his wife and children.’ The fact that Torinese was able to answer this question meant that Pacetti had both expected it and understood its importance.

‘I expect you can prove this,’ Brunetti observed mildly.

Both men nodded, and Brunetti did not bother to ask for details.

‘That, as you must know,’ he said, speaking directly to Papetti, ‘is the night Dottor Nava was killed.’ He let this register before saying, ‘We can, of course, confirm your statement by an examination of the records of your telefonino .’

‘I didn’t call anyone,’ Papetti said, and then, aware that his response had come too quickly, added, ‘At least I don’t remember calling anyone.’

‘As soon as we have the authorization from a magistrate, we can help you remember, Dottor Papetti. As well as whether you received any calls,’ Brunetti said with his blandest smile. ‘The records will also tell us where the phone was during that night, if it was moved away from your home for any reason.’ He watched Papetti as the realization smashed upon him: the computer chip in his phone left a geographic signal that could be traced and would be traced.

‘I might have had to go out,’ Papetti said; the look Torinese gave him was a confirmation to Brunetti of the lawyer’s ignorance. And a moment later, the hardening of his look was confirmation of his anger at this fact.

‘To Venice, by any chance?’ Brunetti inquired in a voice so light and friendly it held out the promise that he would follow an affirmative response with a series of suggestions for quaint points of artistic interest in the city.

Papetti seemed to disappear for a moment. He stared at the two tape recorders so intently that Brunetti all but heard the gears in his mind working as he tried to adjust to the new reality created by his telefonino’s betrayal.

Papetti began to cry but seemed unaware of it. The tears ran down his face and chin and under the collar of his freshly ironed white shirt as he continued to watch the red lights on the tape recorders.

Finally Torinese said, ‘Alessandro, stop it.’

Papetti looked at him, a man old enough to be his father, a man who was perhaps a professional colleague of his father, and nodded. He wiped his face with the inside of his sleeve and said, ‘She called me. On my telefonino .’

At this point, Torinese astonished Brunetti by saying, ‘The phone records will all have the exact times, Alessandro.’ The sadness in his voice made it clear to Brunetti that he must be a colleague, perhaps a friend, of Papetti’s father, perhaps of the man himself.

Papetti returned his attention to the tape recorder. As if speaking for the first time, he said, ‘I had dinner with a friend in Venice. It was for business. We were at Il Testiere and they know him, so they’ll remember us, that we were both there. After dinner, my friend went home and I went for a walk.’

He looked across at Brunetti. ‘I know that sounds strange, but I like being in the city by myself, with no people, and I wanted to be alone.’ Before Brunetti could ask, he added, ‘I called my wife and told her how beautiful it was. That will be on your records, too.’

Brunetti nodded, and Papetti went on. ‘She called me about midnight.’ Brunetti did not ask Papetti to confirm that he was speaking about Signorina Borelli: the records would do that.

‘She told me to meet her at the new dock on the Zattere, down by San Basilio. I asked her what she wanted, but she wouldn’t tell me.’

‘Did you go?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Of course I went,’ Papetti said savagely. ‘I always have to do what she says.’

Torinese cleared his throat, but neither Brunetti nor Vianello said a word.

‘When I met her there, she took me back to a house. I’m not sure where it is.’ Having said that, Papetti looked around and explained, ‘I’m not Venetian, so I get lost.’

Brunetti permitted himself a nod.

‘When we went in, there was a kind of entrance hall, with windows at the back and a few stairs. Going down, not up. She took me over, and I saw a man’s feet sticking out of the water, on the steps: his feet and legs. But his head was in the water.’ Papetti looked at the floor.

‘Nava?’ Brunetti asked.

‘I didn’t know when I first saw him,’ Papetti said, raising his eyes to Brunetti’s. He shook his head and added, ‘But I knew. I mean I didn’t see, but I knew. Who else could it be?’

‘Why did you think it had to be Nava?’ Brunetti asked. Torinese sat quietly, his face wiped of all expression, as though he were on a train, eavesdropping on a conversation in the seat in front of him.

Papetti repeated dully, ‘Who else could it be?’

‘Why did she call you?’

Papetti held up his hands and looked at them, one after the other. ‘She wanted to put him in the canal, but she couldn’t open the water door. It was… the metal bar that held it closed… was rusted shut.’

Brunetti decided to let Papetti decide when to speak again. At least a minute passed, during which Torinese examined the backs of his own hands, which were placed on his thighs.

‘She had tried to hit it open with the heel of his shoe. But it wouldn’t open. So she called me.’

‘And what did you do?’ Brunetti asked after a long wait.

‘I pulled it open. I had to step into the water to get close enough to the door to open it.’

‘And then?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Then we pushed him out into the water; then I closed the door and bolted it.’

‘And Signorina Borelli?’ Brunetti asked. One of the tape recorders made a whirring noise and the red blinked off. Torinese leaned forward and pushed a button: the red light went on again.

‘She told me to go home, said she was going home.’