‘Yes, something called “The Semiotics of Ethics”.’
‘Does the syllabus include theft?’ Brunetti asked.
‘No doubt.’
‘And you’re going to vote against him?’
‘Yes. And I’ve convinced two other members of the committee to vote with me. That should suffice.’
‘You said he’s politically well connected,’ Brunetti said. ‘Aren’t you afraid of that?’
She smiled the shark smile he had come to recognize when she was at her most dangerous. ‘Not at all. My father is far better connected than his patrons are, so he can’t touch me.’
‘And the others who are voting with you?’ he asked, worried that her crusade would put other people at risk.
‘One of them is his father’s lover, who loathes him, and there’s nothing he can do to her.’
‘And the other?’
‘Four of his ancestors were doges, he owns two palazzi on the Grand Canal, as well as a chain of supermarkets.’
Brunetti recognized immediately the man she meant. ‘But you’ve always said he’s an idiot.’
‘I said he’s a lousy teacher. They are not the same thing.’
‘Are you sure he’ll vote with you?’
‘I told him about the theft of books from a library. I don’t think he’s recovered yet.’
‘Is he still stealing books?’ Brunetti inquired.
‘For a while, but I had him stopped.’
‘How?’
‘The library has changed its policy. To enter the stacks, anyone less than a full professor has to have a card. His contract is not permanent, so he has no card and will not be issued one. So if he wants to use a book, he has to ask for it at the main desk, and after he’s used it, the librarians keep him there while they check the condition of the book.’
‘Condition?’
‘In the Munich Library, he sliced out pages.’
‘And this man is teaching at the university? Ethics?’
‘Not for long, dear,’ she said and got to her feet.
Brunetti ambled – there is no better word for it – into the Questura at eleven and went directly to Signorina Elettra’s office. ‘Ah, Commissario,’ she said, ‘I’ve called you twice this morning.’
‘Delayed by official business,’ he said with a smile.
‘I’ve some information for you, sir,’ she said, pushing a few sheets of paper across her desk towards him. Before he could pick them up, however, she added, ‘First you might like to look at this,’ and hit a few keys on her computer.
Leaving the papers, he came around her desk to look at the screen. He saw a head shot of a woman: dark, sultry, with hair that fell below her shoulders and out of the photo. Her expression was one of mild dissatisfaction, the sort of look which, if seen on the face of a woman as pretty as this one, triggers a masculine impulse to remove it. On a less attractive woman, it would appear as the warning sign it was. Brunetti recognized Giulia Borelli instantly: longer haired, younger, but unconfoundably the same.
He had not heard the sigh that escaped him, but he did hear Signorina Elettra observe, ‘She was younger when the photo was taken.’
‘What have you found?’
‘As you said, sir, she was previously employed by a firm called Tekknomed, where she worked in the accounts department until she left to become the assistant to Dottor Papetti. This is the photo used for her company ID. I’ll have a look at him this afternoon.’ Brunetti had no doubt about this.
She touched a few keys, and a document appeared on the screen. From what he could make of what he read, it appeared to contain a series of other Tekknomed internal documents, starting with an email from the head of the accounts department, reporting ‘certain irregularities’ in the accounts kept by Signorina Giulia Borelli. This was followed by an exchange of emails between the head of the department and the president of the company, ending with the president’s order that Signorina Borelli be relieved of her duties immediately and that she be denied access to her computer as of the time of receipt of his email. The last was a letter to her from the personnel department, saying that her contract had been cancelled as of the date of the letter.
‘They took no legal action,’ Signorina Elettra said, ‘so I don’t know what she was up to.’ She hit a few keys, and a chart filled with numbers came on to the screen. ‘As you can see,’ she said, tapping at one of the numbers, ‘their turnover is seventeen million a year.’
‘Lots of opportunity there,’ Brunetti observed, then, ‘Anything else?’
Nodding towards the papers, she said, ‘Her contract of employment with the macello guarantees her a car, six weeks of vacation, and a salary of forty thousand Euros, plus a very generous expense account.’
‘As a personal assistant?’ he asked. ‘I tremble at what Papetti must be getting.’
She held up a hand. ‘Not until this afternoon, Commissario.’
‘Of course,’ Brunetti answered and then added, deciding in the instant, ‘Vianello and I are going out to see the widow again. Can you have a car at Piazzale Roma in half an hour?’
‘Of course, Signore. Should I call her and tell her?’
‘Yes, I think we should let her know we’re coming this time,’ he said and went to get Vianello.
The woman who opened the door to them might have been the elder sister of the woman they had spoken to before. This was evident in the droop of her mouth and the darkness under her eyes as well as in the elderly deliberation with which she moved, like a person under sedation or one recovering from a serious illness. Signora Doni nodded in recognition when she saw the two men. A few beats passed before she extended her hand to them. And then, after that, it took her some time to ask them to come inside. Brunetti noticed how dusty the lenses of her glasses were.
They followed her into the same room. The table in front of the sofa was covered with newspapers neither man had to study to know were opened to the articles about her husband’s murder. Littering the open papers were cups. All appeared to have once held coffee; some still did. A kitchen towel lay across the arm of the sofa, with a plate with a desiccated sandwich beside it.
She sat on the sofa this time, absently picking up the abandoned towel, which she spread on her lap and began to fold longitudinally in three. She kept her eyes on the towel while the two men sat on the chairs facing her.
Finally she said, ‘Are you here about the funeral?’
‘No, Signora,’ Brunetti answered.
Eyes still lowered, she seemed to have run out of things to say.
‘How is your son, Signora?’ Brunetti finally asked.
She looked across at him and made a motion with her mouth that she probably thought was a smile. ‘I’ve sent him to stay with my sister. And his cousins.’
‘How did he bear the news?’ Brunetti asked, pushing away the idea that someone might some day ask Paola the same question. This was the sister he’d spoken to, who had confirmed Signora Doni’s account of their where-abouts on the night of her husband’s death.
She gestured with her right hand; the towel waved in the air, calling attention to itself. She lowered it to her lap and started to fold it again, and finally said, ‘I don’t know. I told him his father had gone to Jesus. I don’t believe it, but it’s the only thing I could think of to tell him.’ She ran her hand along the two creases in the towel. ‘It helped him, I think. But I don’t know what he’s thinking.’ She turned abruptly and replaced the towel on the arm of the sofa.
‘Did you come about Teodoro?’ she asked, her confusion audible in the emphasis she put on the last word.
‘Partly, Signora. He’s a nice little boy, and I’ve thought about him in these days.’ This, the Lord be praised, was at least true. ‘But we’ve come, I’m afraid, to ask you more questions about your husband and how he was behaving in the last few months,’ he said, having managed to avoid ‘the months before he died’, which came to the same thing, in the end.