Donna Leon - A Question of Belief

Before Brunetti could ask, she explained, ‘Any woman who has been living with a man like that has probably changed in the course of two years, and not for the better.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said her work was still excellent, and then he changed the subject.’

‘I see,’ Brunetti said. ‘You want to ask your sister to talk to her classmate?’

Signorina Elettra gave a sharp shake of her head and lowered her eyes to her desk. ‘They don’t speak,’ was the only explanation she offered.

‘What else?’ he asked, seeing that there were still some papers she had not uncovered.

‘He’s got an account at the UniCredit.’ She handed him a bank statement of the movements for the last six months in the account of Stefano Gorini. Brunetti studied it, looking for a pattern, but there was none. Sums, always cash and never in excess of five hundred Euros, moved in and out of the account each month. The current total was less than two thousand Euros.

‘Any suggestion of how he supports himself?’

She shook her head. ‘He could have generous friends, or he could be living off Signorina Montini, or he could, for all I know, be very lucky at roulette or cards. The money washes in and flows away, and there’s never a deposit or withdrawal large enough to cause the least curiosity.’

‘Credit card bills?’ Brunetti asked.

‘It would seem he doesn’t have one.’

‘ Mirabile dictu ,’ Brunetti said. ‘And this in the new millennium.’

‘But he might have a telefonino ,’ Signorina Elettra said, and explained, ‘I won’t know until this afternoon, perhaps not until tomorrow.’

She read Brunetti’s surprise and said, by way of explanation, ‘Giorgio’s on vacation.’

‘So you have to ask someone else?’

Her expression showed her bewilderment at his failure to understand client loyalty. ‘No, he’ll try it from Newfoundland, but he’s not sure he can get it to me today: he said it might be complicated to patch into the Telecom system from there.’

‘I see,’ said Brunetti, who didn’t. ‘I’d like to think of a way to keep an eye on his house.’

‘I looked it up in Calli, Campi, e Campielli , sir, and it doesn’t look like it would be easy. You’d need people permanently in Campo dei Frari and in San Tomà, and even then you wouldn’t be sure whoever went into or came out of the calle had been to that address.’

‘Can you think of anyone here who lives around there?’ he asked.

‘Let me check,’ she said and turned to her computer. Brunetti assumed she was pulling up the personal files of the people who worked in the Questura. It was less than two minutes before she said, ‘No, sir. No one lives within two bridges of it.

‘Given his record,’ Signorina Elettra added, placing her hand on the papers to call their attention back to Gorini: ‘With or without Signorina Montini, it’s not likely that he’s living here in quiet retirement.’

‘And if he’s learned anything from past experiences,’ continued Brunetti, ‘he’ll avoid hiring employees or doing anything that would open him up to licensing rules or official certification of any sort. So why not become a fortune-teller?’

‘It’s not far off being a psychologist, is it?’ Signorina Elettra asked.

However comforting it is to have one’s prejudices confirmed, Brunetti still chose to remain silent.

When he looked at her again, Signorina Elettra had her chin cupped in her left hand, the right resting on the corner of her keyboard. ‘No,’ she said after what seemed a long consultation with the blank screen. ‘There’s really no way we can watch the house. And if the Vice-Questore found out what we were doing, there’d be trouble.’

‘Are you afraid of that?’ he asked.

A quiet puff of dismissal escaped her lips. ‘Not for me. Or you, for that matter. But he’d take it out on Vianello and on any officers involved in it, and Scarpa would join in. It’s not worth it.’

She sat up straight and hit a few keys. ‘Here, take a look at him.’

Brunetti moved behind her just as the photo of a man, in the classic pose of the newly-arrested, came up on the screen. ‘It’s from the time in Aversa, so it’s fifteen years old,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t find anything more recent.’

‘Didn’t he renew his carta d’identità ?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Yes, but in Naples, five years ago: they’ve lost the file.’

‘Do you believe them?’ he asked, made suspicious only by the location, not by the event itself, which was common enough.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I asked someone I know, and I believe him. They didn’t scan the photo into the computer, and then they lost the paper file.’ She tapped the screen with her forefinger. ‘So all we’ve got is this.’

The expressionless face that looked out at them, even with the long sideburns and shaggy hair Gorini had worn when the photo was taken, was well proportioned and handsome; the dark eyes tilted up above prominent cheekbones, giving the face a definite Tartar look. The nose was long, skewed a bit to one side, and there was a thickening of the bone just before the bridge. The mouth was broad and well shaped. The combination of features, Brunetti had to admit, amounted to a look of powerful masculinity. He could find no memory of having seen an older version of Gorini in the city.

He pointed to the photo. ‘I’d like you to give copies of this to some to Scarpa’s bloodhounds — without telling the Lieutenant.’ He saw that she wanted to say something, and so added, ‘Tell them it’s an old photo of someone who lives in the city, and it’s just part of the training to see if they can spot him.’

She smiled as she said, ‘To deceive the Lieutenant — in however minor a way — is to know joy.’

Before he could leave her office, Signorina Elettra asked, ‘Are you still curious about Signor Fontana?’

Fontana? Fontana? What did that name have to do with Vianello’s aunt? Then it came back to him — that ‘decorous man’ — and he said, ‘Ah, yes. Certainly.’

‘As you told me, he’s an usher at the Tribunale, so it was very easy to find him. He’s worked there for thirty-five years, lives with his mother, never married. Never taken a day off sick. Only day he’s ever missed work was the day of his father’s funeral, thirty-four years ago.’

Brunetti stopped her there with an abruptly raised hand. ‘Never missed a day of work? Well, one day, for his father’s funeral. And you say this man is a civil servant?’

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Should I get you a chair, Commissario?’

‘Thank you, no,’ he said in a very quiet voice. He placed one hand flat on her desk and made a business of supporting himself with it, head cast down limply. ‘I’m sure if I just stand here quietly for a moment, I’ll be all right.’ After that moment had passed, he shook his head a few times and lifted his hand tentatively from her desk. ‘Pucetti said yesterday that he’d seen something he would tell his grandchildren about. I think the same thing has just happened to me. Absent only once in thirty-five years.’ He gazed at the far wall, as though he were watching a flaming hand write the numbers. Then, suddenly tired of foolery, he said, ‘What else?’

‘He and his mother rent an apartment up near San Leonardo. They lived in Castello until three years ago, when they moved into an apartment in a palazzo on the Misericordia.’

‘Very nice,’ Brunetti said, suddenly alert. ‘Does the mother work?’

‘No. Never.’

‘Be interesting to know how he pays the rent, wouldn’t it?’ Brunetti asked.

‘I doubt he’d have difficulty paying it,’ she surprised him by saying.