“Scacchi handled stolen artefacts from time to time,” she told Daniel. “Were you aware of this? Did you negotiate for any such item on his behalf?”
His young face reddened slightly. “He told me he dealt in antiques. That’s all.”
“Such a catchall phrase! But answer my question, please, Daniel. Did you handle any such object for him recently? This may be important. Do not worry. I am not chasing a thief. I wish to catch a murderer.”
“There were some things in the house which he wished to keep hidden,” he replied obliquely.
“Are they still here?”
“I can’t find anything of value anywhere,” he admitted. “I’ve looked high and low.”
“Why did you do that? Did you hope to sell them?”
“No!” He fell silent.
“Then why, Daniel?”
She cursed her impetuosity. His face had settled into a mask. “For my own satisfaction,” he said. “I am a musician, not a crook.”
“A musician who rarely goes to see his work rehearsed. Will you be there for the première, even? And the party afterwards?”
His eyes were on the window once more. “I’ll be there. Have you asked enough questions?”
“No. Have you provided enough answers?”
“As many as you deserve,” he replied.
She looked at Biagio. The sergeant was growing restless. He was on duty at three. The interview was going nowhere.
“I rather hoped, Daniel, that you killed them. It would have been so neat and simple, and you know how much the police like that.”
He glared at her. “What?”
“You are the one person I can find with a verifiable motive. Apart from the housekeeper, that is, and we both know she wasn’t to blame.”
There was hatred in his eyes. It surprised her.
“You should deal with matters of the estate more promptly,” she said. “Before trying to drown your misery in wine. I spoke to Scacchi’s lawyer yesterday. The old man divided his estate into three parts. To his lover, to his housekeeper, and to you. The change was made only a week ago. The lover is dead. The housekeeper immediately withdrew her claim once I told her about it. This leaves you as sole beneficiary of the will.”
Daniel Forster’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“This house is yours, Daniel,” she continued. “And everything in it. With no debts or charges upon it. Scacchi made you his heir, though he knew you for just a few weeks. Now, why do you think he did that?”
The redness had gone from his face. At that moment, Giulia Morelli believed, Daniel Forster was full of outrage and anger towards his dead benefactor, as if Scacchi had managed to pull some mysterious trick even from the city morgue, where he now lay.
“Daniel? Why?”
His mind was elsewhere, a place she could not begin to guess. Then he turned to gaze at her with a fierceness in his eyes she had not seen before.
“Tell me,” he said. “When you go home, when your work is finished, do you feel you’ve added to the sum of good in the world?”
“Naturally. There would be no other reason for us to do this job.”
“And how do you define that, Captain?”
“I don’t steal,” she replied immediately. “I don’t take bribes. I don’t invent convictions for those I simply suppose to be guilty, or look the other way for those deemed to be beyond the extent of the law.”
“So that’s how you define goodness?” he asked. “By what you don’t do?”
“In this city it is,” she replied sharply, wishing on the instant that she had given the question more thought.
Daniel Forster folded his arms and smiled. She stood up, glowered at Biagio, and mumbled some excuse about having to leave. Then she threw her card on the table.
“Talk to me again, Daniel. It would help us both. And on my mobile number only, please. Remember what I said about this city. Remember what company you keep.”
Outside, the temperature had risen by several degrees. Venice would soon be unbearable. Her mind was unusually confused. Biagio eyed her quizzically.
“Well?” she demanded.
He shrugged. “I’d been wondering what it might be like, seeing someone get the better of you.”
“Now you know. Smart English bastard.”
“I like him,” the sergeant said. “He seems honest enough.”
“Enough for what?” she wondered.
He cast her a harsh glance. “Enough to help us if he can. If he wants to, that is, and has some reason.”
Biagio was right. She knew it. Without Daniel Forster they were lost. The suspicions that rolled around her head night and day would lose their momentum. She might not even face the option of a desk in Padua.
“I’ll find a reason,” she muttered.
But Biagio was in the shadow of a nearby doorway, taking a call on his mobile. The sergeant’s face was flushed, and he was cursing rapidly into the handset. He finished and turned to her.
“What is it?” she asked, fearing the answer.
“They found Rizzo this morning. Floating facedown in one of the old docks by the port. Shot once in the head. Last night, probably.”
She closed her eyes and wished she had acted more swiftly to pump the truth out of the man. “Damn.”
He remained silent, watching her.
“I’m going to pull in Massiter,” she said. “Find out what he did last night.”
“You can’t,” he said instantly. “The case has been assigned. You can’t go near it without telling them what we’ve been doing.”
“Who’s got it?”
“Raffone.”
She was outraged. Rizzo’s murder had been given to the worst detective in the city, and one who was probably corrupt too. “Jesus. Someone really wants a result there. So what do you think we do?”
Biagio straightened himself up. Giulia Morelli wished she’d sought his opinion before. She took him too much for granted. He nodded back towards Ca’ Scacchi. “You got the Scacchi case. You use that. We find some way of leaning on this kid. If you think about it, there’s nothing else.”
She looked at Biagio. “You liked him, didn’t you?”
“Sure,” he agreed. “You didn’t?”
Daniel Forster had withheld something from her. Of that she was certain. Yet somehow she felt unable to blame him for his actions. It was impossible to believe that some selfish, dishonest motive lay behind them.
“I liked him,” she conceded. “But if we have to, Biagio, we must break him. If that’s what we need.”
The sergeant looked at his watch and said nothing. He was probably thinking about going back on shift, starting his real work.
“Did you tell anyone?” she asked.
“About what?”
“Rizzo.”
Biagio glowered at her. “The jerk was in the station. Do you think there are any secrets there?”
“No,” she replied. There were a million ways the news could have leaked out. She had to learn to trust someone. “I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Biagio said. “Listen. I go along with this for the rest of the week. Then either we have something or we give up. We forget about the whole thing. Is that agreed?”
“Naturally,” Giulia Morelli lied.