Through a Glass Darkly (29 page)

‘I don't know who did the job, but it was a
mess,' Biaggi continued. ‘Someone had cut a round plate out of tin or something, then they soldered a kind of flange thing on to the back, so the circle could be swung back and forth over the opening of the pipe to open and close it. But they didn't know what they were doing when they put the pipe in: they didn't use enough solder, and so it had started to leak.'

‘And what did you do?' Brunetti asked.

‘I closed it off.'

‘How?' Brunetti asked.

‘I pried off the circle thing and covered over the hole in the pipe. I used plastic and a good adhesive, so it'll last as long as that tank will,' Biaggi said proudly.

‘And the other tanks? Did they have the same problem?'

Biaggi shrugged. ‘I got called to fix a leak, not to check their whole system.'

‘Just where was this hole?' Brunetti asked.

Biaggi repeated his gesture in attempting to recall the tanks, then said, ‘About forty centimetres down, maybe a little less.'

‘What sort of liquid would there be at that depth, Signor Biaggi?' Brunetti asked.

‘Well, if they're at full production, and a lot of water is coming in,' he began, then added for clarification, ‘that would be if the water was running for three or more people in the
molatura
– in that case, with full flow, it would be water with a lot of sediment in it.'

‘And if there were less work going on?' Brunetti asked.

Again, Biaggi made that very feminine pursing of his lips. ‘There'd still be a fair amount of sediment in it.'

‘Where did the old pipe go?' Brunetti asked.

Again, Biaggi played the scene back, then said, ‘The angle was bad from where I had to stand, so I couldn't see into it, how far it went or where it went. Into the back wall. That's all I'm sure of. But it's sealed now. There's no chance it will leak again.'

‘Could you say how long ago the original work was done?' Brunetti asked.

‘You mean the soldering?'

‘Yes.'

‘No, not exactly. Ten years ago. Maybe more, but that's just a guess. No way to tell, really.'

Biaggi glanced at his wristwatch, leading Brunetti to say. ‘Just one more question, Signore. Would it be possible for someone to find that pipe?'

The question confused the man and he asked, ‘You mean the opening in the tank?'

‘Yes.'

‘But why would anyone want to do that?'

‘Oh, I don't know,' Brunetti answered easily. ‘But if they wanted to, could they find it there in the tank?'

Biaggi looked at his employer, who nodded. He looked at his watch again, rubbed his hands together, making a dry, sandpapery noise, and finally said, ‘If he knew it was there, I suppose he could find it with his hand, by hunting around. The water's off at both ends at night, so
I guess if he opened the drain at the end and let the water run out, he could have a look, at least down to the level of the sediment. Then, when he wanted to fill it up again, all he'd have to do is close the drain again and go into the other room and turn the water on and wait until the tanks were full again. Easy.'

With a smile he attempted to make reassuring, Brunetti said, ‘I'm sorry, but I've just thought of another last question, but I promise it really will be the last.'

Biaggi nodded, and Brunetti said, ‘Did they give you any idea of how long the tank had been leaking?'

‘A month or so, I'd say,' came Biaggi's quick response.

‘You seem very sure of that,' Brunetti observed.

‘I am. It looked like someone tried to fix it. That is, it looks like someone tried to solder the disc into place over the hole in the pipe, but there was no way that was going to work. When I asked about it, the manager said the guys had been complaining about the wet floor for a couple of weeks.' He gave Brunetti an interrogative smile, as if to ask if he'd answered enough questions, and Brunetti smiled in return, got to his feet, and held out his hand.

‘You've been very helpful, Signor Biaggi. It's always nice to talk to a man who knows his job.'

When Biaggi, made faintly uncomfortable by praise, had left, Repeta asked, making no attempt to disguise the curiosity Brunetti's
questions had provoked in him, ‘Are you a man who knows your job, Commissario?'

‘I'm beginning to think so,' Brunetti said, thanked him, and went back to the Questura.

BRUNETTI'S MIND TURNED
to tactics. Patta was sure to reject the idea that a man like Fasano – already possessed of some political clout and on his way to acquiring more – could be involved in crime. Nor was he likely to authorize Brunetti to conduct a full investigation based on nothing more than bits and pieces of information and the patterns into which they might be made to fit. Evidence? Brunetti sniffed at the very word. He had nothing more than suspicions and events that could be interpreted in a particular way.

He dialled Bocchese's internal number. The technician answered with his name.

‘You have time to look at that sample yet?' Brunetti asked.

‘Sample?'

‘That Foa brought you.'

‘No. I forgot. Tomorrow?'

‘Yes.'

Brunetti knew he should stop thinking about this until he had the results of Bocchese's analyses: before that, he could have no certain idea of what had gone on or what had gone into the field behind the two factories. De Cal grew wild at the thought that his son-in-law, the environmentalist, would some day be involved with his factory and would sooner sell it than let it pass to his daughter and thus to her husband. Sell it instead to Gianluca Fasano, rising star in the polluted firmament of local politics, his advance heralded by his deep concern for the environmental degradation of his native city. Some environmentalists were apparently more equal than others to De Cal.

None of this would have merited a second glance, were it not for Giorgio Tassini, a man whom the random forces of life had driven into an erratic orbit. Searching for proof that would free him of the guilt of having destroyed his daughter's life, what had he stumbled upon?

Brunetti tried to recall his conversation with Tassini, unsettled by the realization that it had taken place only a few days before. When Brunetti had asked him if De Cal knew about the pollution, Tassini had replied that
both
of them knew what was going on, leaving Brunetti to draw the obvious conclusion that he
meant De Cal's daughter. But that was before Foa had given Brunetti a detailed map of Murano, one that provided latitude and longitude readings as well as the location of all buildings, and confirmed that the last coordinates on Tassini's paper indicated a point within Fasano's factory.

His phone rang as he sat at his desk, staring at the map and shifting and reshifting the pieces of information in his mind. Distracted, he answered with his name.

‘Guido?' asked a voice he recognized.

‘Yes.'

Something in his tone provoked a long pause. ‘It's me, Guido. Paola. Your wife. Remember me?'

Brunetti grunted.

‘Then food? You remember food, Guido, don't you? Something called lunch?'

He looked at his watch, amazed to see that it was after two. ‘Oh, my God,' he said. ‘I'm sorry. I forgot.'

‘To come home or to eat?' she asked.

‘Both.'

‘Are you all right?' she asked with real concern.

‘It's this thing with Tassini,' he said. ‘I can't figure it out, or I can't find any proof of what I think is true.'

‘You will,' she said, and then added, ‘or else you won't. In either case, you will always remain the bright star of my life.'

He took this as it was meant. ‘Thank you, my
dear. I need to be told that once in a while.'

‘Good.' There followed a long pause. ‘Will . . .' she started to say.

Brunetti spoke at the same moment. ‘I'll be home early.'

‘Good,' she said and hung up.

Brunetti looked at the map again. Nothing had changed, but it all suddenly seemed less terrible, though he knew this should not be so.

When in doubt, provoke. It was a principle he had learned, over the years, from Paola. He checked Pelusso's office number in his address book.

‘Pelusso,' the journalist answered on the third ring.

‘It's me, Guido,' Brunetti said. ‘I need you to place something.'

Perhaps responding to Brunetti's tone, Pelusso did not ask the sort of ironic question an opening like this would usually provoke him to. ‘Where?' was all he asked.

‘Preferably on the front page of the second section.'

‘Local news, huh? What sort of thing?'

‘That the authorities – I don't think you have to name them, but it would be nice if the article could suggest it's the Magistrato alle Acque – have learned of the presence of dangerous substances in a field in Murano and are about to begin an investigation of their source.'

Pelusso made a humming noise, as if to convey that he was writing this down, then asked, ‘What else?'

‘That the investigation is related to another one currently under way.'

‘Tassini?' Pelusso asked.

After only minimal hesitation, Brunetti said, ‘Yes.'

‘You want to tell me what this is about?'

‘Only if it doesn't appear in the article,' Brunetti said.

It took Pelusso some time to answer, but he finally said, ‘All right.'

‘It looks like Tassini's employers were using some sort of illegal system to get rid of dangerous waste.'

‘What were they doing?'

‘Same thing they did until 1973: just dumping it all into the
laguna
.'

‘What sort of waste?'

‘From the
molatura
. Ground particles of glass and minerals,' Brunetti answered.

‘Doesn't sound very toxic to me.'

‘I'm not sure that it is,' Brunetti agreed. ‘But it's illegal.'

‘And
che brutta figura
if one of those employers is the same man whose name is now beginning to be linked to the environmental cause,' Pelusso observed.

‘Yes,' Brunetti said, realizing as he said it that he was saying far too much, and to a journalist. ‘This can't appear,' he added. ‘What we're saying now.'

‘Why do you want it printed, then?' Pelusso asked, voice stern with unexpressed displeasure.

Brunetti chose to answer the question and ignore the way in which it had been asked. ‘It's like opening an ant hill. You do it, and then you wait to see what happens.'

‘And who comes out,' Pelusso added.

‘Exactly.'

Pelusso laughed, his irritation forgotten, then said, ‘It's not even three. I'll have it in tomorrow morning. Nothing easier; don't worry.'

It was only then that Brunetti thought to ask, ‘Will there be any trouble if the whole thing's false and there's no sign of pollution?'

Pelusso laughed again, harder this time. ‘How long have you been reading the
Gazzettino
, Guido?'

‘Of course,' came Brunetti's chastened response. ‘How silly of me.'

‘No need to worry, really,' Pelusso said.

‘But you might be questioned about your source,' Brunetti said, in what he tried to make a joking tone. ‘And then I'd be looking for a job.'

‘Since the information came to me from a source inside the mayor's office,' Pelusso said indignantly, no doubt in the voice he would use were he to be questioned by his employers, ‘I can hardly be expected to reveal it.' After a moment, Pelusso continued, ‘It'll run right next to the story about the Questura.'

‘What story?' Brunetti asked, knowing this was what his friend wanted him to say.

‘About the women at the Ufficio Stranieri. You've heard about what's going on, haven't you?'

Relieved at his own ignorance, Brunetti could say, honestly, ‘No. Nothing.' When Pelusso remained silent, Brunetti asked, ‘What is it?'

‘I've got a friend who's familiar with the office,' Pelusso said, leaving it to Brunetti to translate what ‘friend' might mean to an investigative journalist.

‘And?'

‘And he told me that two women who have been there for decades asked for, and were given, early retirement this week.'

‘I'm sorry, Elio,' said an impatient Brunetti, ‘but I don't know what you're talking about.'

Not at all unsettled by Brunetti's tone, Pelusso continued. ‘My friend said they'd been accepting payments from people for years for filing their applications for residence and work permits, and keeping the money.'

‘That's impossible,' Brunetti protested. ‘Don't they have to give them receipts?'

‘The story I was told,' Pelusso went on with sweet patience, ‘was that they were the only ones working in the office, and they'd ask for cash from the people who came in alone or without an Italian agent. The story I heard said that one of them would ask for the payment, and then send the applicant to the other woman, who had a register, and signing this register was supposed to be their receipt. Seems they'd been doing it for years.'

‘But who'd believe that? Signing a register?' demanded Brunetti.

‘People in a strange country, they don't speak
much Italian, and it's a city office, and there's two women saying the same thing. Seems to me lots of people would sign it. And it seems they did.'

Brunetti asked, ‘So what happened?'

‘Someone complained to the Questore about it, and he had them in his office the same day. With the register. They're both on administrative leave now, but they retire at the end of the month.'

‘And the people who signed the register? What happens to them? Did they get their permits?'

‘I don't know,' Pelusso said. ‘You want me to find out?'

For a moment, Brunetti was tempted, but good sense intervened and he answered, ‘No. Thanks. It's enough to know it happened.'