‘And what would that have been?’
‘That he had been talking to us,’ Guarino said after only the faintest hesitation.
‘How did he get mixed up in this to begin with?’ Brunetti asked, fully aware that Guarino had not yet explained what it was the dead man had been involved with.
Guarino made a small grimace. ‘That was what I asked him the first time I talked to him. He said that when the business started to go bad, he used up their savings, his and his wife’s, then he went to the bank to try to take out a loan. Well, another loan: he already had a large one.
‘They turned him down, of course,’ Guarino went on. ‘That’s when he began not registering jobs or payments, even if he was paid by cheque or bank transfer.’ He shook his head in silent criticism of such folly. ‘As I told you, he was an amateur. Once he started to do that, it was only a question of time until he got caught.’ With clear regret, as if reproaching the dead man for some minor offence, he said, ‘He should have known.’
Absently, Guarino rubbed at his forehead and continued. ‘He said that he was frightened at the beginning. Because he knew he was no good at accounting. But he was desperate, and. .’ Guarino left that unfinished, then resumed. ‘A few weeks later — this is what he told me — a man came to see him at his office. He said he’d heard he might be interested in working privately, not bothering with receipts, and if so he had some work to offer him.’ Brunetti said nothing, so Guarino continued. ‘The man he talked to,’ he said, ‘lives here.’ He watched for Brunetti’s reaction, then said, ‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘Who is he?’
Guarino raised a hand, as if to push the question away. ‘We don’t know. He said the man never used a name and he never asked. There were bills of lading in case the trucks were stopped, but everything written on them was fake. He told me that. The destination, what was in the trucks.’
‘And what was in the trucks?’
‘That doesn’t matter. I’m here because he was murdered.’
‘Am I supposed to believe the two things aren’t related?’ Brunetti asked.
‘No. But I’m asking you to help me find his killer. The other case doesn’t concern you.’
‘And neither does his murder,’ Brunetti said mildly. ‘My superior saw to that when it happened: he decided it was a territorial matter, and the case belonged to Mestre, which has administrative control over Tessera.’ Brunetti filled his voice with deliberate punctiliousness.
Guarino got to his feet, but all he did was walk over to the window, as Brunetti did in moments of difficulty. He stared at the church, and Brunetti stared at the wall.
Guarino came back to his chair and sat down again. ‘The only thing he ever said about this man was that he was young — about thirty — good looking, and dressed like he had money. I think “flashy” was the word he used.’
Brunetti stopped himself from saying that most Italian men of thirty were good looking and dressed like they had money. He asked, instead, ‘How did he know he lives here?’ He was finding it difficult to disguise his mounting displeasure at Guarino’s reluctance to provide specific information.
‘Trust me. He lives here.’
‘I’m not sure they’re the same thing,’ Brunetti said.
‘What aren’t?’
‘Trusting you and trusting the information you’ve got.’
The Maggiore considered this. ‘One time when this man was out in Tessera, he got a call on his telefonino just as they were going into the office. He went back into the corridor to talk to whoever it was, but he didn’t close the door. He was giving directions to someone, and he told them to take the Number One to San Marcuola and to call him when he got off, and he’d meet him there.’
‘He was sure about San Marcuola?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes.’
Guarino glanced at Brunetti and smiled again. ‘I think we should stop sparring with one another now,’ he said. He sat up straighter and asked, ‘Shall we begin all over again, Guido?’ At Brunetti’s nod, he said, ‘My name is Filippo.’ He offered the name as if it were a peace offering, and Brunetti decided to accept it as such.
‘And the dead man’s name?’ asked a relentless Brunetti.
Guarino did not hesitate. ‘Ranzato. Stefano Ranzato.’
It took Guarino some time to explain in greater detail Ranzato’s descent from entrepreneur to tax evader to police spy. And from there to corpse. When he had finished, Brunetti asked, quite as though the Maggiore had not already refused to answer the question, ‘And what was in the trucks?’
This, Brunetti realized, was the moment of truth. Either Guarino would tell him or he would not, and Brunetti was by now very curious which choice the other man would make.
‘He never knew,’ Guarino said, then seeing Brunetti’s expression, he added, ‘At least that’s what he told me. He was never told, and the drivers never said anything. He’d get a call, and then he’d send his trucks where he was told to send them. Everything in order: bills of lading. He said very often things seemed legitimate to him, shipping from a factory to a train or from a warehouse to Trieste or Genova. And he said at the beginning it was a lifesaver’ — Brunetti heard him stumble over that word — ‘for him because it was all off the books.’ Brunetti had the feeling that Guarino would be perfectly content to sit there for ever, talking about the dead man’s business.
‘None of this explains why you’re here, though, does it?’ Brunetti interrupted to ask. Instead of answering, Guarino said, ‘I think it’s a wild goose chase.’ ‘Try to be a little more specific, and then perhaps we’ll see about that,’ Brunetti suggested.
Guarino, looking suddenly tired, said, ‘I work for Patta.’ Then he added, by way of explanation, ‘Sometimes I think everyone works for Patta. I didn’t know his name until today, when I met him, but I recognized him immediately. He’s my boss, and he’s most of the bosses I’ve ever had. Yours just happens to be called Patta.’
‘I’ve had a few who don’t have the same name,’ Brunetti said, but added, ‘just the same nature.’ Guarino’s answering smile helped both of them relax again.
Relieved to see that Brunetti understood, Guarino went on, ‘Mine — my Patta, that is — sent me here to find the man who got the phone call at Ranzato’s office.’
‘So he expects you to go to San Marcuola and stand there and shout Ranzato’s name and see who looks guilty?’
‘No,’ Guarino answered without a smile. He scratched at his ear, and said, ‘None of the men in my squad is Venetian.’ In response to Brunetti’s startled look, he said, ‘Some of us have been working here for years, but it’s not the same as having been born here. You know that. We’ve checked the arrest records for anyone who lives near San Marcuola with a history of violence, but the only two men we’ve found are both in jail. So we need local help, the sort of information you have, or can get, and we can’t.’
‘You don’t know where to look for what you want to know,’ Brunetti said, stretching out a palm in front of him. ‘And I don’t know what was in those trucks,’ he continued, putting out the other. He moved them up and down in a balancing gesture.
Guarino gave him a level glance and then said, ‘I’m not at liberty to discuss that.’
Encouraged by this frankness, Brunetti changed course. ‘Did you speak to his family?’