‘You certainly seem to have done so,’ Patta was unable to stop himself from saying. Brunetti ignored the remark or at least allowed no response to it to show on the bland face he raised to his superior.
‘You seem to have no idea of who the dead woman is,’ Patta said.
‘The woman upstairs said her name was Costanza Altavilla, Dottore,’ Brunetti said in what he tried to make sound like a helpful voice.
Barely managing to suppress his exasperation, Patta said, ‘She’s the mother of my son’s former veterinarian; that’s who she is.’ Patta paused to allow the significance of this to register on Brunetti, then added, ‘I met her once.’
It was seldom that Patta left Brunetti utterly without words, but Brunetti had, over the years, developed a defensive response even to that rare event. He put his most serious expression on his face, nodded sagely a few times, and let out a long, and very thoughtful, ‘Hmmmm.’ He did not understand why, time after time, Patta was deceived by this, as he was again. Perhaps his superior had no coherent memory, or perhaps he was incapable of responding to outward manifestations of extreme deference in any other way, as an alpha dog is incapable of attacking a dog that flips over and shows its soft underbelly and throat.
Brunetti knew that there was nothing he could say. He could not risk saying ‘I didn’t realize that,’ without Patta’s hearing sarcasm, nor could he ask Patta to explain a relationship the importance of which he must obviously think self-evident. And, to the degree that he valued his job, he could not express curiosity about the fact that Patta’s son had a veterinarian rather than a doctor. He waited, head tilted to one side in the manner of a very attentive dog.
‘Salvo used to have a husky. They’re very delicate, especially in this climate. He was plagued with eczema because of the heat. Dottor Niccolini was the only one who seemed able to do anything to help him.’
‘What happened, sir?’ Brunetti asked, honestly curious.
‘Oh, Salvo had to give the dog away. It became too much trouble for him. But he formed a good opinion of the doctor and certainly would want us to help him in any way possible.’ There was no doubt about it: Brunetti heard the sound of real human concern in Patta’s voice.
Even after all these years, Brunetti had not learned to predict when Patta, in some unguarded moment, would give evidence of fellow feeling with humanity. He was always unmanned by it, seduced into the suspicion that trace elements of humanity were still to be found in his superior’s soul. Patta’s recidivism into his ordinary heartlessness had not broken Brunetti of his willingness to be deceived.
‘Is he still here?’ Brunetti asked, wondering if Patta had contacted Signora Altavilla’s son but unwilling to ask.
‘No, no. He got a job somewhere else. Vicenza. Verona. I forget which.’
‘I see,’ Brunetti said, nodding as if he understood. ‘And is he still working as a veterinarian, do you think?’
Patta lifted his head, as if he’d suddenly detected a strange odour. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘We have to contact him. There was no address book in the apartment, and I couldn’t go upstairs at that hour to ask the woman who lives there. But if he’s still a veterinarian, he should be listed in one of those two cities.’
‘Of course we should contact him,’ Patta said with quickly manufactured irritation, quite as if Brunetti had opposed the idea. ‘I hardly thought I’d have to explain something that simple to you, Brunetti.’ Then, to prevent Brunetti from getting to his feet, he continued, ‘I want this settled quickly. We can’t have people in this city thinking they aren’t safe in their homes.’
‘Indeed, Vice-Questore,’ Brunetti said instantly, curious to know who might have suggested to Patta that Signora Altavilla’s death might lead to thoughts of safety. ‘I’ll have a look, and I’ll call Signora Giusti…’
‘Who?’ Patta asked suspiciously.
‘The woman upstairs, sir. She seems to have known the dead woman quite well.’
‘Then she ought to know how to get hold of the son,’ Patta said.
‘I hope so, Dottore,’ Brunetti said and started to get to his feet.
‘What do you intend to do about the press?’ Patta asked him, voice cautious.
‘Have they been in touch with you, sir?’ Brunetti asked, settling back into his chair.
‘Yes,’ Patta answered and gave Brunetti a long stare, as if he suspected that either he or Vianello – or quite possibly Rizzardi – had spent the rest of the early morning hours on the phone to reporters.
‘What have they asked?’
‘They know the woman’s name, and they’ve asked about the circumstances of her death, but nothing more than they usually ask.’
‘What have you told them, sir?’
‘That the circumstances of her death are already under examination and we expect a report from the medico legale some time today or tomorrow.’
Brunetti nodded in approval. ‘Then I’ll see about getting in touch with the son, sir. The woman upstairs will surely know how to find him.’ Then, before Patta could ask, Brunetti said, ‘She was in no condition to answer questions last night, sir.’ When Patta did not answer, Brunetti said, ‘I’ll go and speak to her.’
‘About what?’
‘About her life, about the son, about anything she can think of that might provide us with reason for concern.’ He mentioned nothing about Palermo, nor did he say Vianello was going to speak to the neighbours below, fearing that Patta would jump to the conclusion that Signora Giusti was involved in her neighbour’s death.
‘“Concern”, Brunetti? I think it might be wiser to get the results of the autopsy before you begin to use words like “concern”, don’t you?’ Brunetti found himself almost comforted by the return of the Patta he knew, the master of evasion who so ably managed to deflect all attention that was not entirely positive or laudatory. ‘If the woman died a natural death, then it doesn’t concern us, and so I think we ought not to use that word.’
Instantly, as if he feared the press would somehow get hold of this remark and pounce upon its callousness, Patta amended it for those silent listeners, ‘Professionally, I mean, of course. At the human level, her death is, as is anyone’s, terrible.’ Then, as if prodded by his son’s voice, he added, ‘And doubly so, given the circumstances.’
‘Indeed,’ Brunetti affirmed, resisting the impulse to bow his head respectfully at the sibylline opacity of his superior’s words, and allowing a moment to pass in silence. ‘I believe there’s nothing we can say to the press at the moment, sir, certainly not until Rizzardi has told us what he found.’
Patta fell upon Brunetti’s uncertainty hungrily. ‘Then you think it was a natural death?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ Brunetti answered, keeping to himself the mark near the woman’s collarbone. If the physical evidence did point to a crime, it would fall to Patta to reveal this news, thus reaffirming his role as chief protector of the safety of the city.
‘When we have the results, you should be the one to speak to the press, sir. They’ll certainly pay more attention to anything that comes from you.’ Brunetti wrapped the fingers of his right hand into a fist. Not even a beta dog had to continue lying on its back for so long, he told himself, suddenly tiring of his role.
‘Right,’ Patta said, restored to his good humour. ‘Let me know what Rizzardi tells you as soon as you see him.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘And find her son. His name is Claudio Niccolini.’