Brunetti turned into Via Cappuccina at eleven-thirty that night, walking down from the train station, where he had arrived a few minutes before. He had gone home for dinner, slept for an hour, then dressed himself in what he thought would make him look like something other than a policeman. Scarpa had had smaller copies made of both the drawing and the photographs of the dead man, and Brunetti carried some of these in the inner pocket of his blue linen jacket.
From behind him and off to his right, he could hear the faint hum of traffic as cars continued to stream past on the tangenziale of the autostrada. Though he knew it was unlikely, Brunetti felt as though their fumes were all being blown down here, so dense and tight was the breezeless air. He crossed a street, another, and then another, and then he began to notice the traffic. There were the cars, gliding along slowly, windows raised, heads turned to the kerb as the drivers inspected the other traffic.
Brunetti saw that he was not the only pedestrian here, but he was one of very few wearing a shirt and tie, and he seemed to be the only one not standing still.
‘Ciao, bello.’
‘Cosa vuoi, amore?’
‘Ti factio tutto che vuoi, caro.’
The offers came at him from almost every form he passed, offers of delight, joy, bliss. The voices suggested undreamed of pleasures, promised him the realization of every fantasy. He paused under a street light and was immediately approached by a tall blonde in a white miniskirt and very little else.
‘Fifty thousand,’ she said. She smiled, as if that would serve as greater inducement. The smile showed her teeth.
‘I want a man,’ Brunetti said.
She turned away without a word and walked towards the kerb. She leaned towards a passing Audi and called out the same price. The car kept moving. Brunetti stayed where he was, and she turned back towards him. ‘Forty,’ she said.
‘I want a man.’
‘They cost a lot more, and there’s nothing they can do for you that I can’t, bello.’ She showed him her teeth again.
‘I want them to look at a picture,’ Brunetti said.
‘Gesù Bambino,’ she muttered under her breath, ‘not one of those.’ Then, louder, ‘It’ll cost you extra. With them. I do everything for one price.’
‘I want them to look at the picture of a man and tell me if they recognize him.’
‘Police?’ she asked.
He nodded.
‘I thought so,’ she said. ‘They’re up the street, the boys, on the other side of Piazzale Leonardo da Vinci.’
‘Thank you,’ Brunetti said and continued walking up the street. At the next kerb, he looked back and saw the blonde climbing into the passenger seat of a dark blue Volvo.
Another few minutes brought him to the open Piazzale. He crossed it, having no trouble making his way between the crawling cars, and saw a cluster of forms leaning up against a low wall on the other side.
As he drew near, he heard more voices, tenor voices, call out the same offers and promise the same pleasures. So much bliss to be had here.
He approached the group and saw much that he had seen while walking from the station: mouths made larger by red lipstick and all turned up in smiles meant to be inviting; clouds of bleached hair; legs, thighs, and bosoms which looked every bit as real as those he had seen before.
Two of them came and fluttered around him, moths to the flame of his power to pay.
‘Anything you want, sweetie. No rubbers. Just the real thing.’
‘My car’s around the corner, caro. You name it, I’ll do it.’
From the pack leaning against the low wall that ran along one side of the Piazzale, a voice called out to the second one, ‘Ask him if he’d like you both, Paolina.’ Then, to Brunetti directly, ‘They’re fabulous if you take them together, amore; make you a sandwich you’ll never forget.’ That was enough to set the others off into peals of laughter, laughter that was deep and had nothing of the feminine in it.
Brunetti spoke to the one called Paolina. ‘I’d like you to look at a picture of a man and tell me if you recognize him.’
Paolina turned back to the group and shouted, ‘It’s a cop, little girls. And he wants me to look at some pictures.’
A chorus of shouts came back: ‘Tell him the real thing’s better than dirty pictures, Paolina.’ ‘Cops don’t even know the difference.’ ‘A cop? Make him pay double.’
Brunetti waited until they had run out of things to say and asked, ‘Will you look at the picture?’
‘What’s in it for me if I do?’ Paolina asked, and his companion laughed to see his friend being so tough with a policeman.
‘It’s a picture of the man we found out in the field on Monday.’ Before Paolina could pretend ignorance, Brunetti added, ‘I’m sure you all know about him and what happened to him. We’d like to identify him so we can find the person who killed him. I think you men can understand why that’s important.’
He noticed that Paolina and his friend were dressed almost identically, each in tight tube tops and short skirts that showed sleek, muscular legs. Both wore high-heeled shoes with needle toes; neither could ever hope to outrun an assailant.
Paolina’s friend, whose daffodil-yellow wig cascaded to his shoulders, said, ‘All right, let’s see it,’ and held out his hand. Though the man’s feet were disguised in those shoes, nothing could disguise the breadth and thickness of his hand.
Brunetti pulled the drawing from his pocket and handed it to him. ‘Thank you, Signore,’ Brunetti said. The man gave him an uncomprehending look, as though Brunetti had begun to speak in tongues. The two men bent over the drawing, talking together in what Brunetti thought might be Sardinian dialect.
The blonde held the drawing out towards Brunetti. ‘No, I don’t recognize him. This the only picture you’ve got of him?’
‘Yes,’ Brunetti answered, then asked, ‘Would you mind asking your friends if they recognize him?’ He nodded towards the group that still hung back against the wall, tossing occasional remarks at passing cars but keeping their eyes on Brunetti and the two men.
‘Sure. Why not?’ Paolina’s friend turned back towards the group. Paolina followed him, perhaps nervous at the risk of spending time alone in the company of a policeman.
The group peeled itself away from the wall to walk towards them. The one with the drawing stumbled and caught himself from falling only by clutching on to Paolina’s shoulder. He swore viciously. The group of bright-coloured men crowded round them, and Brunetti watched as they handed the drawing round. One of them, a tall, gangly boy in a red wig, let the picture go, then suddenly grabbed it back and looked at it again. He pulled at another man, pointed down towards the picture, and said something to him. The second one shook his head, and the redhead jabbed at the picture again. The other one still did not agree, and the redhead dismissed him with an angry flip of his hand. The picture was passed around to a few more of them, and then Paolina’s friend came back to Brunetti with the redhead walking at his side.
‘Buona sera,’ Brunetti said as the redhead came up. He held out his hand and said, ‘Guido Brunetti.’
The two men stood as if rooted to the spot by their high heels. Paolina’s friend glanced down at his skirt and wiped his hand nervously across its front. The redhead put his hand to his mouth for a moment and then extended it to Brunetti. ‘Roberto Canale,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ His grip was firm, his hand warm.