very thick shoulders and neck. I’d like you to see if you can stop it and get a picture of him we can use for identification.’ Before Pucetti could ask, Brunetti said, without explanation, ‘We can’t show a photo of him as he is.’
Pucetti looked over at the officers’ computer, the same machine that had been there for years. ‘It would be much easier if I could work on this on my own equipment at home, sir,’ he said, not panting, but visibly keen to be let off the leash.
‘Then go and do it. If anyone asks, tell them it’s part of the murder investigation,’ he said, knowing that the only person likely to ask was Lieutenant Scarpa, the looming nemesis of the uniformed branch, Patta’s assistant, his eyes and ears. Then, in his automatic response to keep information from the Lieutenant, Brunetti amended this: ‘No, if anyone asks, better to say I’m sending you over to San Marco to get some papers from the Commissariat there.’
‘I’ll be as vague as I can be, sir,’ Pucetti said seriously. Brunetti caught Vianello’s fleeting grin.
‘Good.’ Turning to Vianello, Brunetti said, ‘There are some other things.’ He glanced at his watch to suggest that it was time to go and get a coffee.
By the time Vianello had gone back to his desk and picked up his jacket, Pucetti had disappeared. On the way down to the bar at Ponte dei Greci, Brunetti told Vianello about the autopsy, the man’s strange disease, and his own certainty that he had seen him before, confirmed by the video that Pucetti had taken home to watch and copy.
Still talking, Brunetti led the way into the bar. Bambola, the assistant to the owner, nodded as they passed him on their way to the booth at the back. Within minutes, he was there, carrying two coffees and two glasses of water, along with a plate with four pastries. He spread them on the table and went back to the bar.
Brunetti picked up a brioche. It would soon be time for lunch, but so far that day he had seen the body of a murdered man; strongly reprimanded Pucetti, his favourite among the uniformed branch; Signorina Elettra had had a personal conversation with him; and the man who brought him his coffee was a Black African in a long white dress. ‘By the time we retire, Signorina Elettra will be coming to work in a ball gown and tiara, and Bambola will be sacrificing chickens in the back room,’ he observed to Vianello and took a bite of his brioche.
Vianello sipped at his coffee and picked up a raisin-filled snail-shaped pastry and observed, ‘By the time we retire, we’ll be a colony of China, and Bambola’s children will be teaching at the university.’
‘I like the second part,’ Brunetti said, then asked, ‘You been reading your catastrophe books again, Lorenzo?’
Vianello, as ever, had the grace to smile. He and Signorina Elettra were the declared ecologists at the Questura, though Brunetti had recently observed evidence that their ranks were growing; further, it had been some time since he had heard the epithet
talibano dell’ecologia
attributed to either of them. Foa had requested that fuel efficiency be made a consideration in all future purchases of police boats; fear of Signorina Elettra’s wrath kept everyone from placing the wrong sort of garbage in the receptacles located on every floor; and even Vice-Questore Patta had upon occasion been persuaded to use public transportation.
‘
A proposito
,’ he went on, ‘Signorina Elettra stopped herself just short of a denunciation of cows this morning; or rather, I stopped her. Do you have any idea what that’s all about?’
Vianello picked up his second pastry, a dryish-looking thing covered with fragments of nuts. ‘The days of Heidi are over, Guido,’ he said and took a bite.
‘Which means?’ Brunetti asked, his own second pastry poised in the air.
‘Which means that there are too many cows, and we can’t afford to keep them or raise them or eat them any longer.’
‘“We” being?’
Pucetti looked over at the officers’ computer, the same machine that had been there for years. ‘It would be much easier if I could work on this on my own equipment at home, sir,’ he said, not panting, but visibly keen to be let off the leash.
‘Then go and do it. If anyone asks, tell them it’s part of the murder investigation,’ he said, knowing that the only person likely to ask was Lieutenant Scarpa, the looming nemesis of the uniformed branch, Patta’s assistant, his eyes and ears. Then, in his automatic response to keep information from the Lieutenant, Brunetti amended this: ‘No, if anyone asks, better to say I’m sending you over to San Marco to get some papers from the Commissariat there.’
‘I’ll be as vague as I can be, sir,’ Pucetti said seriously. Brunetti caught Vianello’s fleeting grin.
‘Good.’ Turning to Vianello, Brunetti said, ‘There are some other things.’ He glanced at his watch to suggest that it was time to go and get a coffee.
By the time Vianello had gone back to his desk and picked up his jacket, Pucetti had disappeared. On the way down to the bar at Ponte dei Greci, Brunetti told Vianello about the autopsy, the man’s strange disease, and his own certainty that he had seen him before, confirmed by the video that Pucetti had taken home to watch and copy.
Still talking, Brunetti led the way into the bar. Bambola, the assistant to the owner, nodded as they passed him on their way to the booth at the back. Within minutes, he was there, carrying two coffees and two glasses of water, along with a plate with four pastries. He spread them on the table and went back to the bar.
Brunetti picked up a brioche. It would soon be time for lunch, but so far that day he had seen the body of a murdered man; strongly reprimanded Pucetti, his favourite among the uniformed branch; Signorina Elettra had had a personal conversation with him; and the man who brought him his coffee was a Black African in a long white dress. ‘By the time we retire, Signorina Elettra will be coming to work in a ball gown and tiara, and Bambola will be sacrificing chickens in the back room,’ he observed to Vianello and took a bite of his brioche.
Vianello sipped at his coffee and picked up a raisin-filled snail-shaped pastry and observed, ‘By the time we retire, we’ll be a colony of China, and Bambola’s children will be teaching at the university.’
‘I like the second part,’ Brunetti said, then asked, ‘You been reading your catastrophe books again, Lorenzo?’
Vianello, as ever, had the grace to smile. He and Signorina Elettra were the declared ecologists at the Questura, though Brunetti had recently observed evidence that their ranks were growing; further, it had been some time since he had heard the epithet
talibano dell’ecologia
attributed to either of them. Foa had requested that fuel efficiency be made a consideration in all future purchases of police boats; fear of Signorina Elettra’s wrath kept everyone from placing the wrong sort of garbage in the receptacles located on every floor; and even Vice-Questore Patta had upon occasion been persuaded to use public transportation.
‘
A proposito
,’ he went on, ‘Signorina Elettra stopped herself just short of a denunciation of cows this morning; or rather, I stopped her. Do you have any idea what that’s all about?’
Vianello picked up his second pastry, a dryish-looking thing covered with fragments of nuts. ‘The days of Heidi are over, Guido,’ he said and took a bite.
‘Which means?’ Brunetti asked, his own second pastry poised in the air.
‘Which means that there are too many cows, and we can’t afford to keep them or raise them or eat them any longer.’
‘“We” being?’
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