Beastly Things by Donna Leon Page B

Brunetti inquired and took a bite.
    ‘“We” being the people in the developed world – which is just a euphemism for rich world – who eat too much beef and too many dairy products.’
    ‘Are you worried about health?’ Brunetti interrupted to ask, mindful of cholesterol levels, something he had never given any thought to, and curious about when and where Vianello and Signorina Elettra had their cell meetings.
    ‘No, not really,’ said a suddenly serious Vianello. ‘I’m thinking about those poor devils in what we aren’t allowed to call backward countries any more who have their forests cut down so big companies can raise meat to sell to rich people who shouldn’t be eating it anyway.’ He saw that his coffee cup was empty and took a drink of water. Then he surprised Brunetti by saying, ‘I think I don’t want to talk about this any more. Tell me about the man.’
    Brunetti pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and used a napkin to draw a rough duplicate of the sketch Bocchese had made of the murder weapon, careful to curve the blade up at the point. ‘This is the sort of knife that killed him. It’s about twenty centimetres long, very narrow. It went in three times. Lower back, right-hand side. The report – I haven’t read it yet – will tell exactly what it cut, but Rizzardi said he bled to death.’
    ‘In the water?’ Vianello said, putting his pastry back on the plate.
    ‘He was alive long enough to breathe in some water, but not long enough to drown. Bocchese and I talked about where it could have happened and how it could have been done. Either he was in a boat, which doesn’t sound right to me – too much risk of being seen, and Bocchese said there’s no sign of that sort of dirt on his clothing. Or they did it in a house and slid him in from the water door, or maybe it happened at the end of a
calle
, where it runs into the water, and they just tossed him in.’
    ‘Big chance of being seen, either way,’ Vianello observed. ‘Or heard.’
    ‘Less from a house, I think. Also less chance that anyone would have heard.’
    Vianello stared through the window of the bar, his eyes on the passers-by, his attention on the possibilities of the murder. After some time, he returned his attention to Brunetti and said, ‘Yes, a house sounds better. Any idea where?’
    ‘I haven’t seen Foa yet,’ Brunetti said, reminding himself to do this as soon as possible. ‘They found the man’s body at about six at the back of the Giustinian, in Rio del Malpaga. Foa should be able to calculate …’ Brunetti stopped himself from saying ‘the drift’, so appalling did he find the expression, and substituted ‘where he might have started from.’
    This time Vianello closed his eyes, and Brunetti watched him do exactly what he had: summon up the decades-old map the Inspector had in his memory and walk his way through the neighbourhood, checking the canals and, to the degree that he could, the direction of the water in the canals. He opened his eyes and looked at Brunetti. ‘We don’t know which way the tide was flowing.’
    ‘That’s why I have to talk to Foa.’
    ‘Good. He’ll know,’ Vianello said and pushed his way out of the booth. He went over to the bar and paid, waited for Brunetti to join him, then together they went back to the Questura, both of them keeping their eyes on the water in the canal that ran to their right, looking for motion and wondering which way the tide was flowing when the dead man went into the water.

9
    AS HE ENTERED the Questura, Brunetti glanced at his watch and saw that it was after one; if he left now, he might still reach home in time to eat something. Again, the events of the day flowed through his mind, this time coloured by too much caffeine and sugar: why had he eaten two pastries when he knew he was supposed to go home? Was he some untutored youth, unable to resist the lure of sweet things?
    Turning to Vianello, he said, ‘I’ll be back after lunch. I’ll