‘Of course,’ Brunetti agreed. ‘What else is he lying about?’
‘He’s probably convinced himself that he doesn’t eat much; that he’s fat because he has some hormonal disorder, or thyroid condition, or dysfunction of some gland we have in common with the animals, so he’d know about it.’
‘They’re all possible, aren’t they?’ Brunetti, who didn’t believe it for an instant, inquired.
‘Anything’s possible,’ Vianello answered with heavy emphasis on the second word. ‘But it’s far more likely that he’s fat because he eats too much.’
‘And was he lying about Nava?’
‘That he didn’t know him?’
‘Yes.’
At the foot of a bridge, Vianello turned to Brunetti. ‘I think so. Yes.’ Brunetti remained silent, encouraging the Inspector to continue. ‘It’s not so much that he was lying about knowing him – though I think he was – as that he was lying about everything about the macello. I got the feeling that he wanted to distance himself in every way possible.’
Brunetti nodded. What Vianello said merely put into words his own sense of their meeting with Meucci.
‘And you?’ Vianello asked.
‘It’s hard to believe they never met,’ Brunetti said. ‘They’re both veterinarians, so they’d go to the same professional meetings. And if Nava was qualified to take on a job like that, then there must be some common background.’ As Vianello started up the bridge, Brunetti added from behind him, ‘And Nava must have had questions about the job.’
He fell into step beside the Inspector, saying, ‘It’s obvious he already knew we’d been to the macello and talked to people there. So why did he deny knowing it?’
‘How stupid does he think we are?’ Vianello burst out.
‘Probably very,’ Brunetti said, almost without thinking. Being underestimated, he had learned – however unflattering it might be – always conveyed an advantage. If the person doing the underestimating wasn’t very bright to begin with – and Brunetti had a sense that Meucci was not – that increased the advantage.
He took his phone from his pocket and dialled Signorina Elettra’s number. When she answered, he said, ‘I wonder if your friend Giorgio could take an interest in a veterinarian named Gabriele Meucci?’
Giorgio. Giorgio: the man at Telecom, though surely not the man who came to install the phone. Giorgio, who appeared not to have a surname, nor a history, nor any human characteristics other than a slavish need to fulfil Signorina Elettra’s every whim and an ability to retrieve or trace any phone call she requested, regardless of country of origin, name of caller, or destination. Did one light a candle to Giorgio; did one send him a case of champagne at Christmas? It hardly mattered to Brunetti, who wanted only to continue to believe in the existence of Giorgio, for to doubt Giorgio’s existence created the possibility that the illegal, invasive buccaneering in the telephone records of private citizens and state organizations that had been going on for more than a decade had not been Giorgio’s doing but, instead, had had its detectable – and flagrantly criminal – origin in emails originating from a computer traceable to the office of the Vice-Questore of the city of Venice.
‘I have to speak to him about something else,’ she said blandly. ‘I could certainly ask.’
‘So kind,’ Brunetti said and flipped closed his phone.
He glanced aside at Vianello and saw a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘What is it?’ Brunetti asked.
‘It’s like what’s in those psychological profiles of serial killers.’
Not willing to admit that Vianello had lost him, Brunetti limited himself to a mere ‘In what way?’
‘The psycho-people say they start by hurting animals and then go on to killing them, and then it’s fires and hurting people, and the next thing you know, they’ve killed thirty people and buried them in the back garden and never feel regret or remorse for any of it.’
‘And your point?’ Brunetti asked.
‘That’s what’s happened to us. We started by having her find a phone number for us, when she was supposed to be working for Patta. Then we asked her for another number, and then for some information about the person whose phone it was, and then if they’d made a call to some other number. And now we’ve got her looting the records of Telecom and breaking into bank accounts and tax records.’ The Inspector stuffed his fists into the pockets of his jacket. ‘If I think about what would happen if…’ He broke off, unwilling to give it voice.
‘And?’ Brunetti asked, waiting for the comparison with serial killers, who certainly did not show this sort of compunction.
‘And we like doing it,’ Vianello said. ‘That’s the frightening part.’
Brunetti waited a full minute for the waves created by Vianello’s last remark to abate and for the air around them to grow perfectly still, and then he said, ‘I think we should stop and have a coffee before we go back to work.’
As they approached the Questura, they saw Foa kneeling on the wooden prow of the police launch, cleaning the windscreen with a chamois cloth. Vianello called out a friendly greeting and Foa said, addressing Brunetti, ‘I’ve checked the charts, sir.’
Brunetti resisted the urge to say that it was about time that he had; instead he asked, ‘And what do they tell you? Us?’
With the ease of a young man who spent most of his time on boats, Foa got to his feet and, bracing his hands on the top of the windscreen, flipped himself over it effortlessly, landing upright on the deck. ‘There was a neap tide that night, Commissario,’ he said, pulling a sheet of paper from his pocket.
Brunetti recognized a map of the area around the Giustinian Hospital. Holding it towards them, Foa said, ‘The tide turned at three twenty-seven that morning, and they found him at six, so if Dottor Rizzardi’s right and he was in the water for about six hours, then he wouldn’t have gone far from where he went in. Not unless he got slowed down by something.’ Then, before either could comment or question, he added, ‘That’s assuming he drifted back the way he came, which he probably did.’
‘And in the slack tide?’ Brunetti asked.
‘It’s longest with the neap tide, sir, so the water would have been still a long time,’ Foa said. The pilot tapped at a point on the map. ‘This is where they found him.’ Then he moved his finger back and forth along Rio del Malpaga. ‘My guess is that he went in somewhere on either side of that spot.’ Foa shrugged. ‘Unless he was snagged for a while on something, as I said: a bridge, a mooring cable, a piling. Unless that happened, then I’d guess he went in not more than a hundred metres from where they found him.’
Over the bent head of the pilot, Vianello and Brunetti exchanged a glance. A hundred metres, Brunetti thought. How many water doors would there be? How many calli coming to a dead end at the water? How many unlit angles where a boat could stop and unburden itself of its cargo?
‘You have a girlfriend, don’t you, Foa?’
‘A fiancée, sir,’ Foa answered promptly.
Brunetti all but heard Vianello’s teeth grinding together as he stopped himself from saying that one did not exclude the other. ‘Good. And you have your own boat, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir, a sandolo.’
‘With a motor?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Foa answered with mounting confusion.
‘Good, then what I want the two of you to do is take a camera and go up and down Rio del Malpaga, taking photos of all the water gates.’ He pulled the map towards him and pointed to the place Foa had indicated. ‘And then go back and walk in front of the houses – both sides of the canal – and find the street numbers of the buildings where the gates are, then give the list to Signorina Elettra.’
‘Do you want me to copy the names on the doorbells while we’re there, sir?’ Foa asked, and moved a step higher in Brunetti’s estimation.