‘I think we’ve seen enough, Pucetti,’ he said and turned back to where he thought Vianello was waiting.
‘Right, Commissario,’ Pucetti said and started towards him.
Brunetti stepped away from Pucetti, called Vianello’s name and, when he answered, pointed the beam in the direction of his voice. Neither of them saw what happened. Behind him, he heard Pucetti take a sharp breath — of surprise, not of fear — and then he heard a long slithery noise that he was able to identify only in retrospect as the sound of Pucetti’s foot sliding suddenly forward on the frozen mud.
He felt something slam into his back and he had a moment’s terror at the thought that it was one of the barrels. Then a thud, then silence, then a sudden cry from Pucetti.
He turned slowly, moving his feet carefully, and pointed the light towards Pucetti’s voice. The young officer was on his knees, wiping his left hand across the front of his coat, moaning while he did so. He stuffed his hand between his knees and began to rub it back and forth against the cloth of his trousers.
‘Oddio, oddio,’ the young man moaned and astonished Brunetti by spitting on his hand before wiping it again. He scrambled to his feet.
‘Vianello, the tea,’ Brunetti shouted and turned to point the light wildly, no longer sure where Vianello was, nor the door.
‘I’m here,’ the Ispettore said, and suddenly Brunetti had him transfixed in the light, thermos in one hand. Brunetti pulled Pucetti forward and locked his own hand around his lower arm, shoving Pucetti’s hand towards Vianello. The young man’s palm and part of the back of his hand were covered with traces of some black substance, much of which he had managed to wipe on to his clothing. Amidst the black, the skin was red, in places peeling back and already bleeding.
‘This is going to hurt, Roberto,’ Vianello said. He raised the thermos above the young man’s hand, and at first Brunetti didn’t understand what he was doing. But when the liquid spilled out, steaming, he realized that the Ispettore hoped that it would cool at least minimally before hitting the burnt flesh of Pucetti’s hand.
Brunetti tightened his grip, but there was no need to do that. Pucetti understood and stood motionless as the tea hit and then splashed across his hand. Brunetti stepped back, the better to keep the light steady on what was happening. The stream fell, leaving a halo of vapour all around it. Time seemed without end. ‘Here,’ Vianello finally said and handed Brunetti the thermos.
The Ispettore pulled off his parka and ripped a piece of the fleece lining from the inside. He dropped the jacket in the mud and used the ragged strip to wipe between the young man’s fingers, as thoughtful and careful as a mother. When he had most of the black goo removed, he took back the thermos and dribbled more tea across Pucetti’s hand, turning the hand carefully to see that the liquid went everywhere before running off on to the ground.
When the thermos was empty, Vianello dropped it and said to Brunetti, ‘Give me your handkerchief.’ Brunetti gave it to him, and Vianello wrapped it around Pucetti’s hand, tying it in a knot on the back. He picked up the thermos, pulled the young man to him in a one-armed hug, then said to Brunetti, ‘Let’s get him to the hospital.’
25
The doctor at the Pronto Soccorso at the Mestre hospital took almost twenty minutes to clean Pucetti’s hand, soaking it in a mild cleansing liquid and then in a disinfectant to lower the risk of infection from what was, in essence, a burn. He said that whoever had thought to wash his hand had probably saved it, or at least prevented the burns from being far worse than they were. He slathered on salve and wrapped Pucetti’s hand until it looked like a white boxing glove, then gave him something for pain and told him to go to the hospital in Venice the next day, and every day for a week, to have the dressing changed.
Vianello stayed with Pucetti while Brunetti was out in the corridor talking to Ribasso, having reached the Carabiniere after some difficulty. The Captain seemed not at all surprised by Brunetti’s account and, when Brunetti finished telling him about Pucetti, replied, ‘You’re lucky my sharpshooters decided to leave you alone.’
‘What?’
‘My men saw you drive in and go up the ladder, but one of hem thought of checking the registration. Good thing you used an official car or there might have been trouble.’
‘How long have you been there?’ Brunetti asked, fighting to keep his voice neutral.
‘Since we found him.’
‘Waiting?’ Brunetti asked, his mind running after possibilities.
‘Of course. It’s strange they’d leave him so close to where the stuff is,’ Ribasso said, offering no explanation. Then he went on, ‘Sooner or later, someone has to come for what’s in there.’
‘And if they don’t?’
‘They will.’
‘You sound very sure about that.’
‘I am.’
‘Why?’
‘Because someone must have been paid to let them stock-pile it there, and if they don’t move it, there will be trouble.’
‘So you wait?’
‘So we wait,’ Ribasso answered. ‘Besides, we’ve got lucky. A new magistrate’s been assigned to Guarino’s murder, and it looks like she might be serious.’
Brunetti, silent, left him to his optimism.
Then Ribasso asked, ‘What happened to your man? They told me it looked as if you had to help him to your car.’ ‘He fell and put his hand down into the mud.’ Hearing Ribasso’s sudden intake of breath, Brunetti said,
‘He’ll be all right. He’s seen a doctor.’
‘Is that where you are, the hospital?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let me know what happens to him, all right?’
‘Of course,’ Brunetti said, and then asked, ‘How bad is it in there?’
‘You name a chemical and it’s in that mud.’ After a long pause he said, ‘And blood.’
Brunetti allowed an even longer period to pass and asked, ‘Guarino’s?’
‘Yes.’ He added, ‘And the mud matches what was on his clothes and shoes.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Ribasso said nothing.
‘You find the bullet?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes. In the mud.’
‘I see.’ Brunetti heard a door open behind him and saw Vianello put his head out. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Take care of your man,’ Ribasso said.
‘What is it, Lorenzo?’ Brunetti asked as he flipped his phone closed.
Vianello held out his own telefonino. ‘It’s Griffoni. She’s been trying to get you. So she called me.’
‘What’s she want?’ Brunetti asked.
‘She wouldn’t say,’ the Ispettore said, handing the phone to Brunetti.
‘Yes?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Someone called Vasco’s been trying to find you, but your phone was turned off; then it was busy. So he called me.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That the man you’re looking for is there.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Brunetti said. He went back into the other room, where Vianello stood leaning against the wall. The doctor did nothing to disguise his displeasure at Brunetti’s arrival. ‘It’s Vasco. He’s there.’
‘The Casinò?’
‘Yes.’
Instead of answering, Vianello looked at the dull-eyed Pucetti, who sat bare-chested on the edge of the examining table, propping his bandaged hand up with the other. He turned to Brunetti and smiled, ‘It doesn’t hurt any more, Commissario.’