Authors: Donna Leon
‘You said it was someone she didn’t want to talk to. What made you think that?’
‘Oh, from the way Claudia spoke to her. Well, mostly listened to her. I was in the kitchen, making dinner, but I could hear Claudia and she sounded, well, she sounded sort of angry.’
‘What did she say?’
‘I don’t know, really. I could only tell from her voice that she didn’t like talking to this woman. I was frying onions so I couldn’t hear her words, only that she didn’t like the call or the caller. Finally she hung up.’
‘Did she say anything to you about it?’
‘No, not really. She came into the kitchen and she said something about people being so stupid she couldn’t believe it, but she didn’t want to talk about it, so we talked about school.’
‘And then?’
‘And then we ate dinner. And then both of us had a lot of reading to do.’
‘Did she ever mention this again?’
‘No, not that I remember.’
‘Did she get any more calls?’
‘Not that I know about.’
‘And the man?’
‘I never answered the phone when he called, so I can’t tell you anything about him. Anyway, it’s
more
a feeling I had than anything I know for certain. Someone called her, and she’d listen for a while, saying “yes” or “no”, and then she’d say a couple of words, and then she’d hang up.’
‘You never asked her about it?’
‘No. You see, we weren’t really friends, Claudia and I. I mean, we were friends, but not the sort of friends who tell one another things.’
‘I see,’ Brunetti said, sure that even though he did not understand the distinction, his daughter certainly would.
‘And she never said anything about these calls?’
‘Not really. Besides, I was only there a couple of times when she got them.’
‘Did she get other calls, when you knew who the caller was?’
‘Once in a while. I knew the Austrian woman’s voice, and her aunt’s.’
‘The one in England?’
‘Yes.’
Brunetti could think of nothing else to ask the girl, and so he thanked her for her help and said he might have to call her again but hoped he wouldn’t have to disturb her any more about this.
‘That’s all right, Commissario. I’d like you to find the person who did it,’ she said.
22
THE NEXT DAY
when Brunetti got to the Questura, the guard at the door handed him an envelope as he came in. ‘A man said to give this to you when you came in, Commissario.’
‘What kind of man?’ Brunetti asked, looking down at the manila envelope in the man’s hand and thinking of letter bombs, terrorists, sudden death.
‘It’s all right, sir. He spoke Veneziano,’ the guard said.
Brunetti accepted the envelope and started up the stairs. It was a bit larger than letter size and appeared to contain a package of some sort, perhaps a number of papers. He squeezed it, shook it, but waited until he got to his desk to open it. He flipped it over and looked at the front, where
he
saw his name written in block capital letters in purple ink.
Only one person he knew used ink that colour: Marco Erizzo had been the first one of their group to buy and use a Mont Blanc fountain pen, and to this day he carried two of them in the pocket of his jacket.
Brunetti’s heart sank at the thought of what would be in the envelope: a package of papers could mean only one thing, and from his friend. He determined to say nothing, to give it to charity, never to speak to Marco again. The word ‘
disonorato
’ came into his mind, and he felt his throat tighten at the death of friendship.
He slipped his thumbnail under the flap, ripped the envelope open roughly, and took out a thick sheet of beige foolscap and a small, sealed envelope. He folded the page open and saw the same slanted letters and the same ink.
‘In the other envelope is some of the rosemary Maria’s son sends her from Sardinia. She said to use only about a half-teaspoon for a kilo of mussels and half a kilo of tomatoes and not to use any other spice.’
Brunetti held the smaller envelope to his nose and breathed in the odour of love.
As the day continued, however, he found that his strange lack of will regarding the death of Signora Jacobs was not to be shaken off. Rizzardi’s report arrived by fax at about eleven and stated that, though there were bruises on the dead woman’s arms, they were not inconsistent with a fall. The
actual
cause of death was a heart attack, one so severe that the pills she took might not have been sufficient to save her.
Vianello came up just before lunch to report that he had spoken to her neighbours, but, in an unsettling echo of the answers his question had earned from Claudia Leonardo’s neighbours, none of them had heard or seen anything out of the ordinary the day before. When Brunetti asked if he had spoken to the man in the tobacco shop Vianello had no idea what he was talking about, and when Brunetti explained about the key, Vianello said no one had thought to ask.
And there things stood. Patta called him into his office later that afternoon and asked what progress there had been in the murder of ‘that girl’, and Brunetti was forced to put on an earnest expression and tell him that they were investigating every possibility. More than one hundred Mafia bosses had been released from jail that week because the Ministry of Justice had not got around to bringing them to trial within the appointed time, so the press was baying at the Minister with sufficient savagery to distract them from one small murder in Venice, hence Patta seemed less disturbed than usual at the lack of progress. Not for an instant did it pass through Brunetti’s mind to suggest that Claudia Leonardo’s death might be linked to Signora Jacobs’s.
The day passed and then another. Claudia’s aunt in England besieged the Questura with questions, and then with demands for the release of Claudia’s body, which she wanted sent to her
for
burial, but the bureaucracy could not be made to provide the necessary consent and so the body remained in Venice. On the third day Brunetti realized that he had been thinking of her as ‘the body’ and not ‘the girl’, and after that he no longer read the aunt’s faxes. Signorina Elettra was sent to Milano on a training course in some new form of computer wizardry, and her absence added to the general spirit of lethargy that had fallen upon the Questura. Signora Jacobs was buried in the Protestant part of the cemetery, but Brunetti did not attend. He did, however, see that a team was sent into her apartment to photograph the art works in place and make a complete catalogue.
And so things continued to drift until, one morning, as Brunetti put on a jacket he had not worn for a week, he put his hand in the pocket and found the key to Signora Jacobs’s apartment. There was no tag, no key holder, but he recognized it instantly and, as it was a bright morning and he remembered that there was a particularly good
pasticceria
down by San Boldo, he resolved to walk down that way, have a coffee and a brioche, give back the key and have a word with the
tabacchaio
, then take the vaporetto to work.
The brioche more than justified the trip: it was crisp and soft at the same time and filled with more jam than the average person would like, which meant just enough to satisfy Brunetti. With a sense of virtue at having resisted a second, Brunetti continued on past the door to Signora Jacobs’s house and into the tobacco shop.
The man behind the counter seemed alarmed to
see
him and said, even before Brunetti could speak, ‘I know, I know I should have called you. But I didn’t want her to get into any trouble. She’s a good woman.’
Though he was just as surprised as the other man, Brunetti had the presence of mind to respond calmly, ‘I don’t doubt that. But you still should have called us. It might have been important.’ He kept his voice calm, suggesting he already knew everything the man could tell him but might perhaps like to hear it in his own words. He took out the key and held it up, as though this were the missing clue that had brought him back to hear the man’s full story.
The man put his hands down at his sides, fingers tightened into fists as if to make it unthinkable that he would accept the key. ‘No, I don’t want it.’ He shook his head to add emphasis to his assertion. ‘You keep it. After all, that’s the cause of all the trouble in the first place, isn’t it?’
Brunetti nodded and slipped the key back into the pocket of his jacket. He wasn’t sure how to play this, though he had no sense that the man felt anything more than embarrassment at not having done whatever it was he should have done about this woman, whoever she was. ‘Why didn’t you call? After all, how much trouble could she get into?’ he asked, hoping that would sound sufficiently unthreatening to lead the man into further explanation.
‘She’s illegal. And she’s working in black. She was terrified she’d be made to leave if anyone found out, that you’d send her back.’
Brunetti permitted himself a smile. ‘There’s little danger of that, unless she does something…’ he was about to say that there would be no danger unless the woman, whoever she was, did something criminal, but he didn’t want to present even this possibility to the man, and so he finished by saying, ‘stupid’.
‘I know, I know,’ the man said, raising his hands and using them to gesticulate as he spoke. ‘Just think of all the Albanians there are, doing whatever they like, robbing and killing whoever they please, and no one thinks of sending them back, the bastards.’
Brunetti allowed himself to relax and nodded to the man, as if in agreement with this opinion of the Albanians.
‘God knows, poor devils, they live in hell, but at least let them come here and work, like the rest of us. Like Salima. She’s not even a Christian, but she works like one. And the Signora, may she rest in peace, said you could trust her with anything, give her ten million lire and ask her to hold it for you for a week and she’d give it back and no need to count it.’ The man considered this and then added, ‘I wish I could get her to work here for me, but she’s afraid of the authorities – God knows what happened to her in Africa – and won’t do anything to get papers. Nothing I do or say can convince her even to try.’
‘I suppose she’s afraid she’ll be arrested,’ Brunetti suggested, making it sound as though the police were some alien force and he had nothing to do with them.
‘Precisely. That’s why I think she had trouble before, either where she came from or when she got here.’
Brunetti shook his head in sympathy; he still had no idea where this flow of information was carrying them.
‘I suppose you’ll have to speak to her, eh?’ the man asked, ‘because of the keys?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Brunetti admitted, making himself sound very reluctant.
‘That’s why I should have called you, you see,’ the man said. ‘Because I knew that sooner or later you’d have to talk to her. But I couldn’t do it to her, frighten her that way, either by telling her I was going to call or by calling you.’
‘I understand,’ Brunetti said, and at least in part this was true. He had never had much to do with illegal immigrants or their problems, but colleagues of his had told him stories of what many had experienced, not only at the hands of the police in their own countries, but at the hands of the police in this country to which they had fled in hopes of a better life. Extortion, violence and rape didn’t disappear at the borders, so if this woman was afraid of the police, which meant afraid of Brunetti, then she probably had good cause to be so. Yet he still had to speak to her. About the keys and about Signora Jacobs.
‘Maybe it would be easier if you took me to her,’ Brunetti suggested. ‘Does she live near here?’
‘I’ve got the address somewhere,’ the man said as he bent to open the bottom drawer in front of him. He pulled out a thin ledger and, first wetting
a
finger with his tongue, began to page through it slowly. On the seventh page he found what he sought. ‘Here it is. San Polo 2365. It’s over by Campo San Stin somewhere.’ He glanced up at Brunetti and tilted his head in a silent question.
Uncertain whether this was meant to ask if Brunetti knew where the address was or if he still wanted the man to go with him or if he wanted them to go now, Brunetti nodded an affirmative to all three. Without the least resistance, perhaps even curious now to see how things would turn out, the man took a set of keys from his pocket and came around the counter. While Brunetti waited for him in the
calle
, the man shut and locked the door to his shop.
During the few minutes it took them to walk to Campo San Stin, the
tabacchaio
, whose name was Mario Mingardo, explained that it was his wife who had found Salima when the woman who cleaned both for her mother and for Signora Jacobs had moved to Treviso and she’d had to look for someone new. This had proven difficult, at least until a neighbour had suggested the woman who cleaned for her, a black woman from Africa but very clean and a good worker. That had been two years ago, and since then Salima had become a fixture in their lives.
‘I don’t know much about her,’ Mingardo said, ‘except what my mother-in-law says, and the Signora.’
‘What about her family?’
‘I think she has family back there, but she never talks about them.’
They crossed over the Rio di Sant’ Agostin and were quickly out into the
campo
. ‘It’s got to be over here on the right somewhere,’ Mingardo said, turning into the first
calle
. ‘I’m just assuming she’ll be at home,’ he said. ‘She hasn’t been back since the Signora’s death and I don’t know if she’d have the courage to try to find a new job on her own.’ Mingardo took the single step up to the building, looked at the names on the bells, and rang the bottom one. Brunetti could see that the name was ‘Luisotti’, which he did not think was an African name.
‘
Sì
?’ a woman’s voice asked.
‘It’s me, Salima, Mario. I’ve come about the Signora.’
They had to wait a long time before they heard footsteps behind the door, and an even longer time elapsed before it began to open. Mingardo put out his hand and pushed it open, stepping over the threshold and holding the door for Brunetti to follow him.