‘Barrels of what?’
‘Barrels of dangerous substances.’
‘Not drugs?’ Vizotti asked quickly, a question Brunetti found interesting but would not pause to consider just now.
‘No, not drugs. Liquids, perhaps powders.’
‘How many barrels?’
‘Perhaps several truckloads.’
‘Is this about that man they found out here?’
Seeing no reason to lie, Brunetti said, ‘Yes.’
There ensued a long silence, during which Brunetti could almost hear Vizotti plunking down on the scales the possible consequences of lying against those of telling the truth. Brunetti knew enough of the man to know that Vizotti’s thumb would be pressed down on the side that held self-interest.
‘You know where he was found?’ Vizotti asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Some of the men were talking — I don’t remember who they were — and they said something about the storage tanks out in that area. Where the body was.’
Brunetti recalled the scene, the abandoned rust-eaten tanks that served as a background to the body in the field.
‘And what did they say about them?’ he asked in his mildest voice.
‘That some of them look like they’ve doors now.’
‘I see,’ Brunetti said. ‘If you hear anything else, I’d be. .’
But Vizotti cut him short, saying, ‘There won’t be any more.’ Then the line went dead.
Brunetti replaced his phone quietly. ‘Well, well, well,’ he allowed himself to say. He felt enmeshed in ambiguity. The case was not theirs, but Patta had ordered him to investigate it. The Carabinieri had control over the investigation of illegal shipping and dumping, and Brunetti had no authorization from a magistrate to make inquiries, certainly not to make an unauthorized raid. Well, if he and Vianello went alone, it could hardly be described as a raid on to private property, could it? They would be doing nothing more than going back to have another look at the scene of the murder, after all.
He was just getting to his feet to go down and talk to Vianello when the phone rang. He looked at it, let it ring three more times, then decided to answer it.
‘Commissario?’ a man’s voice asked.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Vasco.’
It took Brunetti a moment to struggle through the events of the last few days, during which he stalled for time by saying, ‘Good of you to call.’
‘You remember me, don’t you?’ the man asked.
‘Of course, of course,’ Brunetti said and, with the lie, memory returned. ‘At the Casinò. Have they come back?’
‘No,’ Vasco said. ‘I mean yes.’ Which was it, an irritated Brunetti wanted to ask. Instead he waited and the other man explained, ‘That is, they were here last night.’
‘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.’
24
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.