He sensed motion on his left, then heard the men’s feet as they pushed themselves out of the benches. He turned the page, allowing his attention to be caught by the news of the farewell party given at Giacinto Gallina for a third-grade teacher who was leaving after teaching forty years in the same school.
‘Good morning, Commissario,’ Alvise said in a small voice from behind him.
‘Morning, Alvise,’ Brunetti said, tearing his eyes away from the photo of the party and turning to greet the officer.
Scarpa, as if to emphasize the equality resulting from their superior rank, limited himself to a curt nod, which Brunetti returned before turning his attention back to the party. The children had brought flowers and home-baked cookies.
When the two were gone, Brunetti folded closed the paper and asked, ‘They come in here often?’
‘Couple of times a week, I’d say.’
‘Always like that?’ Brunetti asked, gesturing towards the two men walking side by side back towards the Questura.
‘Like it’s their first date, you mean?’ Sergio asked, turning to place the glass carefully upside down on the counter behind him.
‘Something like that.’
‘Been that way for about six months. In the beginning, the Lieutenant was sort of stand-offish and made poor Alvise work hard to please him.’ Sergio picked up another glass, held it up to the light to check for spots, and began to wipe it dry. ‘Poor fool, couldn’t see what Scarpa was doing.’ Then he interjected, conversationally, ‘Real bastard, that one is.’
Brunetti pushed his cup closer to the barman, who took it and placed it in the sink.
‘You have any idea what they talk about?’ Brunetti asked.
‘I don’t think it matters. Not really.’
‘Why?’
‘All Scarpa wants is power. He wants poor Alvise to jump when he says “frog” and smile whenever he says something he thinks is funny.’
‘Why?’
Sergio’s shrug was eloquent. ‘As I said, because he’s a bastard. And because he needs someone to push around and someone who will treat him like a big shot important Lieutenant, not like the rest of you, who have the sense to treat him like the nasty little shit he is.’
At no time in this conversation did it occur to Brunetti that he was inciting a civilian to speak badly of a member of the forces of order. If truth be told, he thought Scarpa a nasty little shit, too, so the civilian was merely reinforcing the received wisdom of the forces of order themselves.
Changing the subject, Brunetti asked, ‘Anyone call me yesterday?’
Sergio shook his head. ‘Only person who called here yesterday was my wife, telling me that if I didn’t get home by ten, there’d be trouble, and my accountant, telling me I was already in trouble.’
‘With?’
‘With the health inspector.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t have a bathroom for handicapped people. I mean people with different abilities.’ He rinsed the cup and saucer and slipped them into the dishwasher behind him.
‘I’ve never seen a handicapped person in here,’ Brunetti said.
‘Neither have I. Neither has the health inspector. Doesn’t change the rule that says I’ve got to have a toilet for them.’
‘Which means?’
‘Handrail. Different seat, button on the wall to make it flush.’
‘Why don’t you?’
‘Because it will cost me eight thousand Euros to get it changed, that’s why.’
‘That sounds like an awful lot of money.’
‘It includes permissions,’ Sergio said elliptically.
Brunetti chose not to follow that up and said only, ‘I hope you can stay out of trouble.’ He put a Euro on the counter, thanked Sergio, and went back to his office.
14
Griffoni was just coming out of the Questura as Brunetti approached. Seeing her, he gave a friendly wave and quickened his pace. But by the time he reached her, he had seen that something was wrong. ‘What is it?’
‘Patta’s looking for you. He called down and asked where you were. He said he couldn’t find Vianello, so he told me to find you.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘He won’t tell me.’
‘How is he?’
‘Worse than I’ve ever heard him.’
‘Angry?’
‘No, not angry, not really,’ she answered, as if surprised at the realization. ‘Well, sort of, but it’s as if he knows he’s not allowed to be angry. It’s more like he’s frightened.’
Brunetti started towards the door of the Questura, Griffoni falling into step beside him. There was nothing he could think of to ask her. Patta was far more dangerous frightened than angry, and they both knew it. Anger usually rose from other people’s incompetence, while it was only the thought that he might himself be at risk that brought Patta close to fear, and that heightened the risk for anyone else who might be involved.
Inside, they went up the first ramp of steps together, and Brunetti asked, ‘Does he want to see you, too?’
Griffoni shook her head and, with a look of undisguised relief, went to her office, leaving Brunetti to turn towards Patta’s.
There was no sign of Signorina Elettra, probably already at lunch, so Brunetti knocked on the door and went in.
A sober-faced Patta sat at his desk, hands clenched into fists on the desk in front of him. ‘Where were you?’ he demanded.
‘Questioning a witness, sir,’ Brunetti lied. ‘Commissario Griffoni told me you wanted to see me. What is it?’ He balanced concern and urgency in his voice.
‘Sit down, sit down. Don’t stand there gaping at me,’ Patta said.
Brunetti took his place directly in front of the Vice-Questore but said nothing.
‘I’ve had a call,’ Patta began. He glanced at Brunetti, who did his best to produce a look of eager attention, then went on, ‘About that man who was here the other day.’
‘Do you mean Maggior Guarino, sir?’
‘Yes. Guarino. Whatever he called himself.’ Patta’s voice had grown more strident after he said the name, Guarino the source of his anger. ‘Stupid bastard,’ Patta muttered, surprising Brunetti by his unaccustomed use of bad language, but not making it clear whether he was referring to Guarino or the person who had called about him.
Guarino had perhaps not been telling the complete truth, but he was by no means stupid, nor did Brunetti think he was a bastard. But Brunetti made no mention of these judgements and asked, voice level, ‘What’s happened, sir?’
‘He’s got himself killed: that’s what’s happened. Shot in the back of the head,’ Patta said with no diminution of his anger, though it seemed now to be aimed at Guarino for having been killed. Murdered.
Possibilities clamoured for attention, but Brunetti pushed them away, waiting for Patta to explain. He kept the same intent expression on his face and his eyes on Patta. The Vice-Questore raised a fist and slammed it on the surface of his desk. ‘Some captain from the Carabinieri called this morning. He wanted to know if I’d had a visitor last week. He was very cagey, didn’t name the visitor, just asked if I’d had a visit from an official from out of town.’ Petulance replaced anger in his face and voice as Patta said, ‘I told him I have lots of visitors. How did he expect me to remember them all?’
Brunetti had no answer and Patta continued. ‘At first I didn’t know what he was talking about. But I had a suspicion he meant Guarino. It’s not like I have a lot of visitors, is it?’ Seeing Brunetti’s confusion at this contradiction, Patta deigned to clarify. ‘He was the only person who came last week that I didn’t know. Had to be him.’
The Vice-Questore pushed himself suddenly to his feet, took a step away from his desk, then turned and sat down again. ‘He asked if he could send me a photo.’ Brunetti had no need to feign confusion. ‘Imagine that,’ Patta went on. ‘They’d taken it with a telefonino and he sent it to me. As if he expected me to recognize him from what was left of his face.’