He'd observed this phenomenon sufficient times no longer to be surprised by it: what did surprise him was the sophistication of the money's removal from the banks and then from the country. The sophistication and the speed. The transfers had been made on the Monday after her death, long before any legal action could have been taken regarding the will. This suggested that one – or both – of the women had only to learn of Signora Battestini's death to make a move, and that in its turn suggested that the old woman had kept a close eye on the accounts and would have noticed any withdrawal when the monthly statements arrived.
He made a note to question the postman and check if the statements were delivered to her home. Though Brunetti had found no sign of them in the attic, four statements from different banks – five if he included her normal account at the Uni Credit – could certainly not have passed unobserved by even the most negligent of postmen.
In his youth, Brunetti had considered himself an intensely political man. He had joined and supported a party, rejoiced in its triumphs, convinced that its accession to power would bring his country closer to social justice. His disillusionment had not been swift, though it had been hastened by the presence of his wife, who had reached a state of political despair and black cynicism well before he allowed himself to follow her lead. He had denied, both in word and in belief, the first accusations of dishonesty and endemic corruption against the men he had been sure would lead the nation to a bright and just future. But then he had looked at the evidence against them, not as a true believer, but as a policeman, and his certainty of their guilt had been immediate.
Since then, he had stayed clear of politics entirely, bothering to vote only because to do so set an example for his children, not because he now believed it could make any difference. In the years during which his cynicism had grown, his former friendships with politicians had languished, and his dealings with them had become formal rather than cordial.
He tried to think of someone in the current administration whom he could trust and came up with no name. Shifting his attention to the magistracy, he did come up with one name, the judge in charge of the investigation into the environmental damage caused by the petrochemical complexes in Marghera. Not a young man, Judge Galvani was currently the object of a well-orchestrated campaign to force him into retirement.
Brunetti found his number in the list of city employees he had been issued some years ago and dialled it. A male secretary answered, said the judge was not available, then, when Brunetti informed him that it was a police matter, said he might be. When Brunetti said he was calling at the request of the Vice-Questore, the secretary admitted that the judge was there and transferred the call..
'Galvani’ a deep voice said.
'Dottore, this is Commissario Guido Brunetti. I'm calling to ask if you could spare some time to speak to me.'
'Brunetti?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I know your superior’ Judge Galvani surprised him by saying.
'Vice-Questore Patta, sir?' Brunetti asked.
'Yes. He seems to have no good opinion of you, Commissario.'
'That's unfortunate, sir, but I fear it's out of my control.'
'Indeed’ the judge answered. 'What would you like to talk to me about?'
'I'd prefer not to say that on the phone, sir.'
Brunetti had often read the phrase 'a pregnant pause' in novels. This seemed to be one. At last Galvani asked, 'When would you like to see me?'
'As soon as possible.'
'It's almost six’ Galvani said. 'I'll leave here in about half an hour. Shall we meet at that place on the Ponte delle Becarie?' he asked, describing an enoteca not far from the fish market. 'At six-thirty?'
'That's very kind of you, sir’ Brunetti said. 'I'm wearing…' he began but Galvani cut him off.
'I know who you are’ the judge said and replaced the phone.
When Brunetti walked into the bar, he recognized Judge Galvani instantly. The older man stood at the counter, a glass of white wine in front of him. Short, squat, dressed in a suit that was greasy at neck and cuffs, with the enlarged nose of the heavy drinker, Galvani looked like anything other than a judge: a butcher, perhaps, or a stevedore. But Brunetti knew that he had only to open his mouth and speak, in a beautifully modulated voice from which Italian flowed in the well-articulated consonants and vowels most actors only dream of pronouncing, for the real man to step forth from behind the physical disguise. Brunetti went to stand beside him and said, putting out his hand, 'Good evening, Dottore.'
Galvani's grip was firm, warm and brisk. 'Shall we try to find a place to sit?' he asked, turning towards the tables at the back of the room, most of them occupied at this hour. Just as he turned, three men got up from a table on the left, and Galvani headed for it quickly, Brunetti staying behind to order a glass of Chardonnay.
When he got to the table, Galvani was already seated, but he got halfway to his feet when Brunetti reached him. Though curious about the case against the petrochemical factories in Marghera, where two of his uncles had worked before dying of cancer, Brunetti said nothing, knowing that the judge could not and would not speak of it.
Galvani raised his glass to Brunetti, and took a sip. He set his glass down on the table and asked, 'Well?'
'It's connected with the woman who was murdered last month, Maria Battestini. It seems that, at her death, she had a number of bank accounts with a total of more than thirty thousand Euros on deposit. The accounts were opened about ten years ago, when both her husband and son worked for the school board, and deposits were made until she died.' Brunetti paused, picked up his glass but set it down untasted. He took the stem between thumb and forefinger and rotated it nervously. Galvani said nothing.
‘I am of the opinion that the woman accused of the murder of Signora Battestini did not kill her,' Brunetti continued, 'though I do not have any physical evidence to offer in support of that belief. If she didn't kill her, then someone else did. So far the only anomaly in what we know about the dead woman is the existence of these bank accounts.' Again he paused, but still he did not taste the wine.
'And where do I come into this, if I might ask?' Galvani asked.
Brunetti glanced at the judge. "The first thing we need to do is establish the source of these payments. Since both men worked at the school board, that's the first place I would like to look.'
Galvani nodded, and Brunetti continued. 'You've been on the bench for decades here, sir, and I know you've had reason during those years to examine the workings of some of the city bureaucracies’ Brunetti said, not a little proud of his delicacy in describing what the conservative press often described as Galvani's 'mad crusade' against city administrations. 'So I hoped you would have some familiarity with the school board and the way it works.' Galvani met this remark with a cool, appraising glance, and Brunetti added, 'Really works, that is.'
The judge's nod was minimal, but it was sufficient to encourage Brunetti to go on. 'Or if you could suggest some reason, or perhaps some person, that might be able to explain these payments. Or perhaps the existence of some irregularity that might be better left undetected.'
'"Irregularity?"' Galvani asked. At Brunetti's nod, the judge smiled. 'How elegantly you put it.'
'For want of a better word’ Brunetti explained.
'Of course’ the judge said, sat back in his chair, and smiled again. On a face so ugly, Galvani's smile was strangely sweet. ‘I know very little about the school board, Commissario. Or, more accurately, I know but do not know, which seems to be the way most of us go through life: believing things because someone has hinted at them or suggested them, or because such an explanation is the only one that corresponds with other things we know.' He took another small sip from his glass and set it down.