The Death of Faith (17 page)

Aside from that of Signorina da Prè, two of the wills mentioned the
casa di cura.
Signora Cristanti had left five million lire, certainly not an enormous sum, and Signora Galasso, who had given the bulk of her estate to a nephew in Torino, had left it two million lire.

Brunetti had worked for the police for too long not to know that people would kill for sums this small, and many quite casually, but he had also learned that few careful killers would risk detection for such trifles. It seemed unlikely, therefore, that these sums could have served as sufficient motive for anyone involved with the
casa di cura
to be moved to take the risk of killing these old people.

Signorina da Prè sounded, from her brother’s description, like an abandoned old woman who had been moved, toward the end of her life, to act charitably toward the institution where she had spent her last lonely years. Da Prè had said no one had opposed his having contested his sister’s will. Brunetti could not imagine that anyone who would kill in order to inherit would allow their bequest so easily to be taken from them.

He checked the dates and saw that both the Lerini and Galasso wills that contained the bequests to the
casa di cura
had preceded their deaths by considerably more than a year. Of the remaining wills, two had been signed more than five years before death, and in the last case, twelve. It would take greater imagination and cynicism than Brunetti’s to invent a sinister scenario here.

The fact that nothing criminal had taken place made sense, though rather perverse sense, to Brunetti, for by imagining secret, malign events at the
casa di cura,
events which she alone could see, Suor’Immacolata could thus justify her decision to leave the order that had been her spiritual and physical home from the time she was an adolescent. Brunetti had seen guilt present itself in stranger forms, surely, but he had seldom seen so little real reason for guilt. He realized that he did not believe her, and it filled him with heavy sadness that she would have so soured the beginning of her
vita nuova.
She deserved better of life, and of herself, than this dangerous invention.

The papers, copies of the five wills and the few notes he had sketched after his visits to the people he and Vianello had visited, found their way, not into the hands of Signorina Elettra, but into his bottom drawer, where they rested for another three days.

* * * *

Patta returned from vacation, less interested in police work than when he left. Brunetti profited from this by making no mention of Maria Testa or her story. Spring advanced, and Brunetti went to visit his mother in the nursing home, a visit made more painful by his renewed awareness of the absence of the instinctive charity of Suor’Immacolata.

The young woman made no further attempt to contact him, and so Brunetti allowed himself to indulge in the virtue of hope, hope that she had abandoned her story, forgotten her fears, and begun her new life. Brunetti even went so far one day as to decide to go out to the Lido to visit her, but when he looked for the file, he couldn’t find it or the piece of paper with her address on it, nor could he remember the name of the people who had helped her find a job. Rossi, Bassi, Guzzi, a name that sounded something like that, Brunetti recalled, but then the irritation of Vice-Questore Patta’s return to the Questura caught up with him, and he forgot all about her until, two days later, he answered his phone and found himself speaking to a man who identified himself as Vittorio Sassi.

‘Are you the man that Maria talked to?’ Sassi asked.

‘Maria Testa?’ Brunetti asked in return, though he knew which Maria the man meant.

‘Suor’Immacolata.’

‘Yes, she came to see me a few weeks ago. Why are you calling me, Signor Sassi? What’s wrong?’

‘She’s been hit by a car.’

‘Where?’

‘Out here on the Lido.’

‘Where is she?’

‘They took her to the emergency ward. That’s where I am now, but I can’t get any information about her.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘Yesterday afternoon.’

‘Then why have you waited so long to call me?’ Brunetti demanded.

There was a long silence.

‘Signor Sassi?’ Brunetti said, and when he had no answer, he asked in a softer voice, ‘How is she?’

‘Bad.’

‘Who hit her?’

‘No one knows.’

‘What?’

‘She was going home from work late yesterday afternoon, on her bicycle. It looks like a car hit her from behind. It was going very fast. Whoever was driving didn’t stop.’

‘Who found her?’

‘A man in a truck. He saw her lying in a ditch at the side of the road. He brought her to the hospital.’

‘How bad is she?’

‘I don’t know, not really. When they called me this morning, they told me that one of her legs was broken. But they think there might be brain damage.’

‘Who thinks that?’

‘I don’t know. What I’m telling you is what the person I talked to on the phone told me.’

‘But you’re at the hospital?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did they know to get in touch with you?’ Brunetti asked.

‘The police went to her pensione yesterday — her address was in her bag, I think — and the owner gave them my wife’s name. He remembered that we’d taken her there. But they didn’t bother to call me until this morning, and I came right over here.’

‘Why did you call me?’

‘When she went into Venice last month, we asked her where she was going, and she said she was going to talk to a policeman named Brunetti. She didn’t say what it was about, and we didn’t ask, but we thought, well, we thought that if you’re a policeman you’d want to know about what happened to her.’

‘Thank you, Signor Sassi. I’m very glad you called me,’ Brunetti said, then asked, ‘How has she been acting since she saw me?’

If Sassi thought this a peculiar question, his voice gave no hint of it. ‘Just the same as always. Why?’

Brunetti chose not to answer this and, instead, asked, ‘How long are you going to be there?’

‘Not much longer. I’ve got to get back to work, and my wife has the grandchildren.’

‘What’s the name of her doctor?’

‘I don’t know that, Commissario. It’s chaos out here. The nurses are on strike today, so it’s hard to find someone who will tell me anything. And no one seems to know anything about Maria. Can you come out here? Maybe they’d pay some attention to you.’

‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’

‘She’s a very good woman,’ Sassi said.

Brunetti, who had known her for six years, understood fully how true those words were.

When Sassi hung up, Brunetti called down to Vianello and told him to get a pilot and a boat and be ready to leave for the Lido in five minutes. He had the operator connect him with the hospital at the Lido and asked to speak to the person in charge of the emergency ward. His call was transferred to gynaecology, surgery, and the kitchen before he hung up in disgust and ran down the steps to Vianello, Bonsuan, and the waiting launch.

As they surged across the
laguna,
Brunetti told Vianello about Sassi’s call.

‘Bastards,’ Vianello said when he heard about the hit-and-run driver. ‘Why didn’t they stop? Just leave her for dead at the side of the road.’

‘Maybe that’s what they wanted to do,’ Brunetti said and watched as the sergeant suddenly understood.

‘Of course,’ he said, eyes closing at the simplicity of it. ‘But we didn’t even go to the
casa di cura
to ask any questions. How would they know she’d talked to us?’ Vianello asked.

‘We don’t have any idea of what she’s done since she came to see me, do we?’

‘No, I suppose we don’t. But she couldn’t have been foolish enough to just go and accuse someone, could she?’

‘She’s been in a convent most of her life, Sergeant.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means that she probably thinks it’s enough to tell someone that they’ve done wrong, and they’ll march down to the police, say they’re sorry, and hand themselves over.’ When he heard how flippant he sounded, Brunetti immediately regretted having spoken so lightly. ‘I mean she’s probably not a very good judge of character, and most motives wouldn’t make much sense to her.’

‘I suppose you’re right, sir. A convent probably isn’t the best preparation for this filthy world we’ve made.’

Brunetti could think of no response to make to this, so he said nothing until the boat pulled into one of the landings restricted for ambulances at the back of the Ospedale al Mare. They jumped from the boat, telling Bonsuan to wait until they had some idea of what was going on. A gaping door led to a white, cement-floored corridor.

A white-coated attendant came hurrying down it toward them. ‘Who are you? What are you doing down here? No one’s allowed to come into the hospital this way.’

Ignoring what he said, Brunetti pulled out his warrant card and flashed it at the man. ‘Where’s the emergency ward?’

He watched as the man thought about resisting or opposing them, but then he saw the usual Italian refusal to resist authority, especially uniformed authority, assert itself, and the man gave them directions. Within minutes, they were standing at a nurses’ desk, behind which double doors opened onto a long, brightly lit corridor. No one was at the desk, and no one answered Brunetti’s repeated calls for attention.

After a few minutes, a man in a rumpled white coat pushed his way out through the doors. ‘Excuse me,’ Brunetti said, holding up a hand to stop the man.

‘Yes?’ he asked.

‘How do I find out who’s in charge of the emergency room?’

‘Why do you want to know?’ the man asked in a harried voice.

Again, Brunetti pulled out his warrant card and showed it. The man peered at it and then back to Brunetti. ‘What is it you want to know, Commissario? I’m the person doomed to be in charge of this ward.’

‘Doomed?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Sorry. That’s an exaggeration. I’ve been here for the last thirty-six hours because the nurses have decided to go on strike. I’m trying to take care of nine patients with the help of one orderly and one intern. But I don’t think telling you all this is going to help me much.’

‘Sorry, doctor. I can’t arrest your nurses.’

‘Pity. How can I help you?’

‘I’ve come to see a woman who was brought in here yesterday. Hit by a car. I was told she has a broken leg and some damage to the brain.’

The doctor recognized the description immediately. ‘No, her leg’s not broken. It was her shoulder, and it’s only dislocated. And there are a few ribs that might be broken. But the head injury’s the thing I was worried about.’

‘Was, doctor?’

‘Yes. We sent her over to the Ospedale Civile less than an hour after she was brought in here. Even if I had the staff to work on her, we don’t have the equipment to treat a cranial injury like that.’

Not without difficulty, Brunetti bridled his anger at having come out here on a fool’s errand and asked, ‘How bad is it?’

‘She was unconscious when they brought her in. I put her shoulder back in place and bandaged her ribs, but I don’t know enough about head injuries. I did some tests. I wanted to see what was going on inside her head, to see why she wouldn’t come out of it. But she was in and out of here so quickly I had no time to be sure.’