Her surprise was evident in her eyes – the first time anything appeared to have touched her. ‘Yes, I think so,’ she said without hesitation.
‘Has your husband other family?’
‘A brother and a sister, and one cousin, but he emigrated to Argentina years ago.’
‘No one else?’
‘No, no one in the direct family.’
‘Is Signor Zambino a friend of your husband’s?’
‘Who?’
‘Awocato Giuliano Zambino.’
‘Not that I know of, no.’
‘I believe he was your husband’s lawyer.’
‘I’m afraid I know very little about my husband’s business,’ she said and Brunetti was forced to wonder how many women he had heard tell him the same thing over the course of the years. Very few of them turned out to have been telling the truth, so it was an answer he never believed. At times he was uncomfortable about how very much Paola knew about his own business dealings, if that’s what one called the identities of suspected rapists, the results of gruesome autopsies, and the surnames of the various suspects who appeared in the newspapers as ‘Giovanni S, 39, bus driver, of Mestre’ or ‘Federico G, 59, mason, of San Dona di Piave’. Few secrets resisted the marriage pillow, Brunetti knew, so he was sceptical about Signora Mini’s professed ignorance. Nevertheless, he let it pass unquestioned.
They already had the names of the people she had been at dinner with the night her husband was murdered, so there was no need to pursue that now. Instead, he asked, ‘Had your husband’s behaviour changed in any way during the last weeks? Or days?’
She shook her head in strong denial. ‘No, he was just the same as always.’
Brunetti wanted to ask her exactly what that was, but he resisted and instead got to his feet. ‘Thank you, Signora, for your time and help. I’m afraid I will have to speak to you again when we have more information.’ He saw that she took no pleasure in that prospect but thought she wouldn’t deny a request for further information. His last words came unsummoned: ‘I hope this time is not too painful for you and that you find the courage to bear it.’
She smiled at the audible sincerity of his words, and again he saw sweetness in that smile.
Vianello stood, took his overcoat, and handed Brunetti his. Both men put them on and Brunetti led the way to the door. Signora Mitri got up and followed them to the threshold of the apartment.
There, Brunetti and Vianello took their leave of her and made their way downstairs to the atrium, where the palm trees still flourished.
15
Outside, neither man spoke for some time as they made their way back to the embarcadero. Just as they arrived, the 82 from the station was pulling in, so they took that, knowing it would make the wide sweep of the Grand Canal and take them to San Zaccaria, a short walk from the Questura.
The afternoon having grown colder, they went inside and took seats towards the front half of the empty cabin. Ahead of them, two old women sat with their heads together, talking in loud Veneziano about the sudden cold.
‘Zambino?’ Vianello asked.
Brunetti nodded. ‘I’d like to know why Mitri had a lawyer with him when he went to talk to Patta.’
‘And one who sometimes takes on criminal defence work,’ Vianello added unnecessarily. ‘It’s not as if he’d done anything, is it?’
‘Maybe he wanted advice on what sort of civil case he could bring against my wife if I managed to stop the police from proceeding with criminal charges the second time.’
‘There was never any chance of that, was there?’ Vianello asked in a voice that made evident his regret.
‘No, not once Landi and Scarpa were involved.’
Vianello muttered something under his breath, but Brunetti neither heard it nor asked the sergeant to repeat what he had said. ‘I’m not sure what happens now.’
‘About what?’
‘The case. If Mitri’s dead, it’s unlikely that his heir will press civil charges against Paola. Although the manager might.’
‘What about…’ Vianello trailed off as he wondered what to call the police. He decided and called them, ‘our colleagues?’
‘That depends on the examining magistrate.’
‘Who is it? Do you know?’
‘Pagano, I think.’
Vianello considered this, summoning up years of experience working with and for the magistrate, an elderly man in the last years of his career. ‘He’s not likely to ask for a prosecution, is he?’
‘No, I don’t think so. He’s never got on well with the Vice-Questore, so he’s not likely to be urged into it or to enjoy being cajoled.’
‘So what’ll happen? A fine?’ At Brunetti’s shrug, Vianello abandoned that question and asked instead, ‘What now?’
‘I’d like to see if anything’s come in, then go and talk to Zambino.’
Vianello looked down at his watch. ‘Is there time?’
As often happened, Brunetti had lost track entirely of how much time had passed and was surprised to see that it was well past six. ‘No, I suppose not. In fact, there’s not much sense in going back to the Questura, is there?’
Vianello smiled at this, especially as the boat was still tied up at the Rialto landing. He got up and made for the door. Just as he got to it, he heard the boat’s engines shift into a different gear and saw the sailor flip the mooring rope off the stanchion and start to secure it to the boat. ‘Wait,’ he called out.
The sailor didn’t respond, didn’t even look back at him, and the engine revved up even higher.
‘Wait.’ Vianello shouted louder, but still failed to achieve any result.
He pushed his way through the people on deck and placed his hand lightly on the arm of the sailor. ‘It’s me, Marco,’ he said in an entirely normal voice. The other looked at him, saw the uniform, recognized his face and waved a hand at the captain, who was glancing back towards the confusion on deck through the glass window of his cabin.
The sailor waved again and the captain slipped the boat suddenly into reverse. A few people on deck tottered as they tried to keep their balance. A woman fell heavily against Brunetti, who put out an arm and held her upright. He hardly wanted to be involved in a charge of police brutality or whatever would result if she fell, but he had grabbed her before he had time to think about this and, when he released her, was glad to see her grateful smile.
Slowly, the boat reversed itself in the water and headed the half-metre back to the embarcadero. The sailor slid the gate open, and Vianello and Brunetti stepped across to the wooden platform of the landing dock. With a wave, Vianello thanked him; the engines surged and the boat pulled forward.
‘But why did you get off?’ Brunetti asked. It was his stop, but Vianello should have stayed on until he got down to Castello.
‘I’ll take the next one. What about Zambino?’
‘Tomorrow morning,’ Brunetti answered. ‘But late. I’d like to have Signorina Elettra see if she can find out anything she might have missed so far.’
Vianello nodded in approval of this. ‘She’s a miracle,’ he said. ‘If I knew him well, I’d say Lieutenant Scarpa is afraid of her.’
‘I do know him well,’ Brunetti answered, ‘and he is afraid of her. Because she isn’t, not in the least, frightened of him. And that makes her one of very few people at the Questura who aren’t.’ Since he and Vianello were two more among those very few, he could speak like this. ‘It also makes him very dangerous. I’ve tried to say something to her, but she discounts him.’
‘She shouldn’t,’ Vianello said.
Another boat appeared under the bridge and started towards the landing. When all the passengers had got off, Vianello stepped across the open space on to the deck. ‘A domani, capo,’ he said. Brunetti waved in acknowledgement and turned away even before the other passengers started to board the boat.