Death had resulted from trauma and loss of blood; the extensive damage to brain tissue had caused so much neurological impairment that the affected organs would soon have ceased to function, even had she been found before she bled to death.
The police examination of the scene of death appeared to have been, at best, cursory. Only one room had been dusted for prints, and there were just four photos in the file, all of Signora Battestini’s body. These gave little evidence of whatever else might have been in the room and none at all of the ‘hurried search’ the report said appeared to have taken place. Brunetti had no idea if this laxity resulted from the rapid conclusion that the Romanian woman must have been guilty: he hoped it had not become standard procedure. He checked for the signatures at the bottom of the written report describing the scene, but the initials were illegible.
Next was the passport Florinda Ghiorghiu had been carrying. If the document was false, then what was the real name of this woman buried in Villa Opicina? He didn’t even know that much, since nothing in the report actually said where she had been buried. The photo showed dark eyes and dark hair, the face utterly devoid of a smile: she stared at the camera as though she feared it was going to harm her. In a way, it had: the photo had led to the passport, leading to the job, leading to the scene on the train and her doomed flight across the tracks.
The next sheet of paper was a photocopy of Florinda Ghiorghiu’s residence and work permits. Repeated on them both was the information on the passport. She had been granted permission to remain in Italy for six months, though the date of entry into Italy stamped on her passport was more than a year ago. Signora Gismondi had said the woman had appeared in the late spring: that left eight or nine months unaccounted for.
That was all. There was no information about how Florinda Ghiorghiu had come to be working for Signora Battestini. There were no receipts acknowledging that she had been paid, neither from employer nor employee. Brunetti knew that this was standard and that most of these women worked in the black economy – indeed, most of those who took care of the steadily ageing population were undocumented women, either from Eastern Europe or the Philippines – so the absence of such papers did not surprise him.
He picked up the file and went downstairs, conscious of how unprofessional his behaviour was going to be. When he entered her office, Signorina Elettra glanced up calmly, as if expecting him.
‘I checked the records at the Ufficio Stranieri for the Veneto,’ she began, then added, ‘Don’t worry. I did it legally. All that information is here in our computer.’
He ignored this. ‘What did you find?’
‘That Florinda Ghiorghiu had a completely legitimate work permit,’ she said, but then she looked up at him and smiled.
‘And what else?’ he asked in response to her smile.
‘That there are three women using the same passport.’
‘What?’
‘Three,’ she repeated. ‘One here in Venice, another in Milano, and a third in Trieste.’
‘But that’s impossible.’
‘Well,’ she conceded, ‘it should be impossible, but apparently it’s not.’ Before he could ask if it was the same woman, applying for work in different cities, she explained, ‘One of them started working in Trieste while the one registered here was working for Signora Battestini.’
‘And the other?’
‘I don’t know. I have trouble with Milano.’
Rather than ask her to unravel the enigma of this remark, he said, ‘Isn’t there some central office or register for these things?’
‘There’s meant to be,’ she agreed, ‘but there’s no cross-referencing between provinces. Our records include only the Veneto.’
‘Then how did you find out?’ he asked with real curiosity and without a hint of uneasiness as to the legality of her methods.
She gave his question long consideration and finally answered, ‘I think I’d rather not say, Commissario. That is, I could easily invent an answer so technically complex you’d never understand it, but I think it would be more honest simply to say that I’d rather not tell you.’
‘All right,’ he agreed, knowing she was right. ‘But you’re sure?’
She nodded.
As if she’d read his mind, she said, ‘The fingerprints,’ referring to the government’s boast that, within five years, it would have a complete fingerprint register of everyone living in the country, foreign or Italian. Brunetti had laughed when he first heard about the proposal: the railways can’t keep the trains on the tracks, schools collapse at the faintest tremors of the earth, three people can use the same passport; and they want to collect more than fifty million sets of fingerprints.
An English friend of his had once remarked that living here was like living in something he called ‘the loony bin’. Brunetti had had no idea of what the loony bin actually was, nor where it was located, but that hadn’t prevented him from believing that his friend was correct: further, he thought it as precise a description of Italy as any he had ever heard.
‘Do you know where they are, these other women? Do you have their addresses?’
‘I do for the woman living in Trieste, but not for the one in Milano.’
‘Have you checked the other provinces?’
‘No. Just the North. It’s not really worth the time to check the rest. No one much troubles with things like residence or work permits down there.’
As always, when his own prejudices were expressed he heard how they sounded and felt no small chagrin. ‘Down there’, ‘The South.’ How many times had he heard those phrases, how many times had he used them? He thought he had been careful and never spoken like that in front of the kids, at least not in the tone of contempt and distaste that he still so often heard. But Brunetti could not deny that he had long since come to the conclusion that the South was a problem with no solution, that it would remain a criminal netherworld long after he had ceased to have any professional interest in it.
These reflections were interrupted by his sense of fair play and by intruding memories of some of the things he’d recently witnessed here in the oh-so-superior North. He was pulled from these reflections by Signorina Elettra’s voice, saying, ‘. . . can go and look at her apartment’.
‘What was that?’ he asked, ‘I was thinking about something else. What did you say?’
‘That it might be an idea to see if you can have a look at the things in her apartment to try and get a sense of what might have happened.’
‘Yes, by all means,’ he agreed. He pointed to the file he’d placed on her desk and asked, ‘Were her keys in the original?’
‘No. Nothing.’
‘There’s no reference to them, either. Scarpa didn’t say whether the apartment was still sealed, did he?’
‘No.’
Brunetti considered this. If there were no keys, then he’d have to ask Scarpa for them, which he did not want to do. To request them from Signora Battestini’s next of kin would alert people, who might well fall into the category of suspects, that the police were taking a renewed interest in the case, and that would be enough to alarm them into caution.
At last he turned to Signorina Elettra and asked, ‘Could I borrow your picks?’
7
IT WAS ALMOST lunchtime and Brunetti, long familiar with his wife’s insistence on knowing how many people would be home for any meal, called to tell her he would not be.
‘Wonderful,’ she responded.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, not disguising his surprise.
‘Oh, don’t be a such baby, Guido. The kids are both at friends’ houses for lunch, so I can read while I eat.’
‘What are you going to eat?’ he asked.
‘Don’t you want to know what I’m going to read?’
‘No. I want to know what you’re going to eat.’
‘So you’ll know what you’re missing?’
‘Yes.’
‘And sulk?’
‘No.’
&n
bsp; There was a long pause and, even down the line, he could all but hear her mind working. Finally she asked, ‘If I promise to eat only grissini and cheese and then eat the peach that has the spot on it, will you feel better?’
‘Oh, don’t be silly, Paola,’ he insisted but he did so with a laugh.
‘Done,’ she declared. ‘And in order to reward you for the lunch you miss, I promise to cook you swordfish steaks and shrimp for dinner.’
‘In the tomato sauce?’
‘Yes. And if I have time, I’ll use the rest of the peaches and make ice-cream.’
‘And maybe a little less garlic than you usually use?’ he asked, taking advantage of what he thought was a strong bargaining position.
‘In the ice-cream?’
He laughed and hung up, telling himself to remember when he got home to ask her what she was reading.
That left him free to go over to Signora Battestini’s apartment, which he thought would be best done just after lunchtime, when most people would be in their houses, and the heat would have driven the tourists from the streets. As a reluctant alternative to a proper meal, he decided to have some tramezzini, and after serious reflection decided that Boldrin was the best place. Besides, it was more or less on the way if he decided to walk and would get him to the apartment at about one.
Olga, the boy cat, was lying asleep in his usual place on the floor in front of the bar, and Brunetti was pleased to see that his hair had finally grown back, though it lacked the grey silkiness of years before. The illness that had struck down the neighbourhood cat three years ago was already urban myth: one story claimed someone had poured acid on him, while another blamed his shocking baldness on a sudden allergy. Regardless of their belief, many people had helped pay the veterinary bills during Olga’s long convalescence, Brunetti among them. Brunetti stepped over him and approached the bar.
Two tramezzini with prosciutto and zucchini, however excellent, and two glasses of white wine could not, even in a moment of delirium, be called lunch, but the thought of their superiority to Paola’s bread sticks, cheese and mouldy peach allowed him to consider them as something less rigorous than a penance.
When he reached the address, he saw that the shutters were closed. The single doorbell bore the name ‘Battestini’, so he couldn’t employ his ordinary ruse of ringing a bell at random and saying he was visiting someone else whose name was listed by the bells. If he spoke Veneziano, this always worked. Now, instead, he would have to use the picks. Resisting the urge to look around to check if anyone could see him, he put his hand in the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the smallest of the picks. It was a simple lock and he was quickly inside, again careful not to look behind him as he pushed the door open.
The entrance was pleasantly cool after the heat outside: the walls were freshly whitewashed, and light streamed in from the windows above the door. He started up towards the second floor and found that the walls of the staircase were equally clean, the marble steps gleaming. The door to the apartment had no name beside it, though this would hardly be necessary if she owned the entire building. He bent to study the lock, saw that it was a simple Cisa, a model he’d opened a number of times before. He chose the medium-sized pick this time, inserted it into the lock, closed his eyes to give his full attention to his fingers, and started hunting for the first tumbler.
It took him less than a minute to turn the lock. He pushed open the door, felt on the wall until he found the light, and when he switched it on was at first puzzled that a woman such as Signora Battestini would have chosen to live in such cool simplicity: a pale, machine-made carpet on the floor, two spotless white easy chairs, a dark blue sofa that looked as though it had never been sat upon, and a low glass table with a shallow wooden platter at the centre. He realized then what must have happened: the crime scene tape had been removed, either by complacent police or eager relatives, and the place had been speedily redecorated. He took a closer look at the furniture and saw that what looked like maple was really cheap laminate, the sort of thing a landlord would put in an apartment meant to be rented by the week.
He walked towards the back of the apartment, and in all the rooms he saw the same cool hand at work: everywhere white furniture and walls and always one contrasting dark piece of furniture. Only the bathroom displayed any signs of what the apartment might once have been: new fixtures had been installed, but the pink tiles remained, some of them dull and opaque with age.
He opened closets and found new sheets and towels, some still in their plastic packaging; in the kitchen new dishes and cutlery. He looked under the beds and on the top shelves of the closets, but he found no evidence of the former owner. For fear of alerting the neighbours that someone was in the apartment, he left the shutters closed, and the trapped heat crawled over his body.
He left the apartment and went up the next flight of stairs. Ignoring the door he found at the landing, he climbed on up to the next floor. At the top was a door, the wood dry and splintery with age. Twin flanges were screwed into the door and jamb, and a padlock joined the metal rings on either side. He went back down the stairs and into what had been Signora Battestini’s apartment, but no matter where he looked, he could find no tools. Finally he went into the kitchen and took one of the new, apparently unused, stainless steel kitchen knives and went back up to the attic door.
Though the wood of the door jamb was dry, it still took some effort to unscrew the flange and jerk it free. He pulled open the door and looked into the low attic. Luckily, there were two windows, neither very clean, at the other end, and they provided enough light to give some idea of the dimensions of the room and the objects scattered in it.
A double bed with a carved wooden frame, the sort he remembered from his grandmother’s home, stood against one wall, beside it a matching marble-topped dresser, a leprous mirror attached to the back. Two easy chairs stood sideways to the wall, looking at one another, with between them a pink Formica clothing hamper.
A number of cardboard boxes were stacked just below the windows; as he crossed the room towards them, grime crunched under his feet. He pulled open the one on top of the first pile, relieved it was not taped shut, and found nothing but old shoes. He lifted it off the pile and set it on the floor, then opened the second. This seemed to hold the detritus of kitchen drawers: a carving knife with a mould-flecked bone handle, a corkscrew, a jumble of unmatched silverware, two dirty potholders, and pieces of metal the purpose of which he could not fathom. The third, heavier than the other two, was filled with small clumps of newspaper. He unwrapped one and saw that the date was from two weeks before. Inside, nestling in the sports pages, was a badly painted statue of the Madonna, appearing displeased that she was destined to spend at least the immediate future wrapped up in the latest cycling drug scandal. Beside her, in the first page of the Economy section of the Gazzettino, he found another triumph of what Paola called ‘ChiesaKitsch’, a Plexiglas sphere in which snow fell on a plastic Nativity scene. He rewrapped the ball and set the box aside.
The next box contained doilies and antimacassars, all bearing faint stains, cloths that must have come from the kitchen, as well as tea towels he was reluctant to touch. The one below that held a dozen or so cotton shirts, all white and all meticulously ironed and folded. Beneath them were six or seven dark coloured striped ties, each in a separate cellophane envelope. The next box was heavier and when he opened it he found papers of all sorts: old magazines, newspapers, envelopes that appeared still to contain letters, postcards, receipts for bills, and other pieces of paper he could not make out in the dim light. There was no way Brunetti could hope to carry it all away with him, so he had no choice but to sort through it and take what looked interesting.
The heat covered him, pressed against his skin, crawled up his nose, carrying dust with it. He dropped the papers back into the box and started to remove his jacket, which clung to him through his shirt, both of them soaked. Just as he pulled it clear of his shoulders, he heard the sound of a door
closing below him, and he froze, the jacket halfway down his upper back.
He heard voices, one high-pitched – either a woman or a child – and the deeper resonance of a man. The voices drowned out whatever noise their feet made on the steps. He tried to remember if he had turned off the light and closed the door to the apartment behind him. It had the kind of lock that clicked shut without the key. He knew he’d left it open when he first came up to the attic and could only hope he’d thought to close it the second time.
The voices grew nearer, each answering the other with sufficient frequency for him to abandon the idea that the first voice was that of a child. He heard a door open, then close, and the voices stopped. He closed his eyes, the better to hear them. He had no idea which apartment they had entered, the one directly below him or Signora Battestini’s one floor down. He had not been at all conscious of the noise his feet made on the wooden floor, but now he tested it by shifting minimally to one side and froze again at the protest from the boards.
He pulled his jacket back on and leaned forward to set the papers back in the box. He looked at his watch and saw that it was five minutes before two. At five past, he leaned over to pick up the papers and turned them to the light to try to read them. He soon realized the impossibility of concentrating on the papers, not with two people in the apartment downstairs, so he placed them in the box once more. Before long, his back began to stiffen, and he swivelled around at the waist a few times to relieve tension.
Another quarter of an hour passed before he heard the voices again, the door having opened silently. What story could he give, should they decide to come up the stairs and find him in the attic? Technically, it was still a crime scene, so he could argue his right to be there. But the picked lock and the jemmied door to the attic suggested something beyond regular police procedure and were sure to cause trouble.
The voices remained at the same level for a while, then gradually grew fainter. Finally, he heard the front door close, and as the silence spread through the building, Brunetti took two steps backward and stretched his arms high above his head, catching his right hand in a spider’s web. He pulled it back instantly, wiping it on the front of his jacket. He turned and walked to the door of the attic and then back to the boxes, shaking his hands in front of him to rid himself of accumulated stress.