Donna Leon - About Face

‘And?’

‘And Terrasini lost heavily, perhaps forty thousand Euros.’

‘The other one; was it the same man who was with him last time?’

‘No,’ Vasco said. ‘It was a woman.’

Brunetti did not bother asking for a description: he knew who it had to be. ‘How long were they there?’

‘It was my night off, Commissario, and the man on duty couldn’t find your phone number. He didn’t think to call me, so I didn’t know about it until I got here this morning.’

‘I see,’ Brunetti said, fighting the impulse to shout at Vasco or at the other man, or at all men. Controlling this, he said, ‘I appreciate your calling me. I hope. .’ He let his voice drift off, since he had no idea what he hoped.

‘They might be back tonight, Commissario,’ Vasco said, failing to hide the satisfaction in his voice.

‘Why?’

‘Terrasini. After he lost, he told the croupier he’d come back soon to get it all back from him.’ When Brunetti said nothing, Vasco went on, ‘It’s a strange thing to say, no matter how much you lose. It’s not like the croupier’s taking your money: it’s the Casinò and your stupidity in thinking you can beat it.’ Vasco’s contempt for gamblers was molten. ‘The croupier told one of the inspectors it sounded like a threat. That’s what’s so strange about it: no real gambler would think that way. The croupier’s just following the rules he’s memorized: there’s nothing personal at all in it, and God knows he’s not going to keep the money he wins.’ After a moment’s reflection, he added, ‘Not unless he’s very clever.’

‘What do you make of it?’ Brunetti asked. ‘You know how to read these people: I don’t.’

‘It probably means he’s not used to gambling, at least to gambling where he loses all the time.’

‘Is there any other sort?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Yes. If he plays cards with people who are afraid of him, then they’ll let him win when they can. A man gets used to that. We get them in here once in a while; usually from the Third World. I don’t know how things are there, but a lot of these men don’t like to lose and get angry when they do. I guess it’s because it never happens to them. We’ve had to ask a few of them to leave.’

‘But he went quietly the other time, didn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ Vasco said, his voice dragging out the word. ‘But he didn’t have a woman with him. That usually makes winning more important to them.’

‘You think he’ll be back?’

There was a long silence, and then Vasco said, ‘The croupier thought so, and he’s been here a long time. He’s tough, but he was nervous about it. These guys have to walk home at three in the morning, after all.’

‘I’ll come tonight,’ Brunetti said.

‘Good. But there’s no need to get here before one, Commissario. I checked the records, and he’s always shown up after that.’

Brunetti thanked him, saying nothing about the woman, and hung up.

‘Why can’t we just go out there in daylight and have a look?’ Vianello asked after Brunetti had explained both calls to him and the need each created to go somewhere during the night. ‘I mean, we’re police; a murder victim was found there: we have every right to search the area. We still haven’t found the place where he was murdered, remember.’

‘It’s better if no one realizes we know what we’re looking for,’ Brunetti said.

‘We don’t, though, do we?’ Vianello asked. ‘Know what we’re looking for, that is.’

‘We’re looking for a couple of truckloads of toxic waste hidden somewhere near where Guarino was killed,’ Brunetti said. ‘That’s what Vizotti told me.’

‘And as I told you, we don’t know where he was killed, so we don’t know where we should be looking for these barrels of yours.’

‘They aren’t my barrels,’ Brunetti said shortly, ‘and they couldn’t have taken him a long distance, not out there. Someone would have seen them.’

‘But no one did see them, did they?’ Vianello asked.

‘You can’t bring a dead man into the petrochemical area, Lorenzo.’

‘I’d say it’s a lot easier than bringing in a few truckloads of toxic waste,’ the Ispettore answered.

‘Does this mean you don’t want to come?’ Brunetti asked.

‘No, of course it doesn’t,’ Vianello said, making no attempt to disguise his exasperation. ‘And I want to go to the Casinò, as well.’ Then, unable to stop himself from saying it, he added, ‘If this wild goose chase ends before one.’

Ignoring that, Brunetti asked, ‘Who’ll drive?’

‘Does that mean you don’t want to ask for a driver?’

‘I’d be more comfortable if it were someone we can trust.’

‘Don’t look at me,’ Vianello said. ‘I haven’t driven more than an hour in the last five years.’

‘Who, then?’

‘Pucetti.’

Fincantieri was working three shifts building cruise ships, so there was a constant stream of people leaving and entering the petrochemical and industrial area. When three men arrived in a plain sedan at nine-thirty that evening, the guard did not bother to come out of his booth: he raised a friendly hand and waved them through the gates.

‘Do you remember the way?’ Vianello asked Brunetti, who sat in the front seat of the unmarked police car beside Pucetti. The Inspector peered out of the windows on one side of the car, then the other. ‘It all looks different.’

Brunetti remembered the directions the guard had given the other day and repeated them to Pucetti. A few minutes later, they came upon the red building; Brunetti suggested they leave the car there and proceed on foot. Vianello, not a little embarrassed, asked them if they wanted anything to drink before they set off, saying that his wife had insisted he take along a thermos of tea with lemon and sugar. When they declined, he added that he had thought to put some whisky in, patting the pocket of his down parka.

The moon was almost full that night, so they had little need of Vianello’s flashlight, and he soon put it in his other pocket. The source of the eerie glow that allowed them to see their way was hard to determine: it seemed to come as much from the flaring gas burn-off at the top of a tower not far from them as from the general radiance that slipped across the laguna from Venice, a city that had conquered darkness.

Brunetti turned and looked back towards the red building, red no more at night. Distance and proportion were meaningless: they could have been passing the place where Guarino had been found, or they could be hundreds of metres from it. Ahead he saw the hulking outlines of the storage tanks, draughtsmen on this vast, flat plain. Pucetti asked, keeping his voice low, ‘If there are new doors, how do we get in?’

By way of answer, Vianello tapped the pocket of his jacket, and Brunetti knew he had brought along his set of burglar tools, scandalous should they be found on the person of a serving police officer. Even more shocking, Brunetti knew, was the skill with which the Ispettore could use them.

Droplets of humidity clung to their coats, and suddenly they were all conscious of the smell. It was not acid, nor was it the strong tang of iron, but some combination of chemical and gas that left a film on the skin and caused a faint irritation to nose and eye. Better not to breathe it; better not to walk in it.

They came abreast of the first storage tank and circled it until they came to a door that looked to have been crudely cut into the metal with a blowtorch. They stopped a few metres short of it, and Vianello cast the beam of his flashlight on the area just in front of the door. The mud there was slick and smooth, frozen and undisturbed since the last rain, some weeks before. ‘No one’s been in there,’ Vianello said unnecessarily and switched off the light.