endless process of moving papers from one part of his desk to another. His banker had told him, years ago, that all copies of any bank transactions, no matter how innocuous, had to be placed in an archive for ten years before they could be destroyed.
His eyes wandered away from the page, following his attention, and he found himself imagining an Italy entirely covered, to the height of a man’s ankles, with papers, reports, photocopies, carbon copies, tiny receipts from the bars, shops and pharmacies. And in this sea of paper, it still took a letter two weeks to get to Rome.
He was distracted from this train of thought by the arrival of Sergeant Vianello, who came to tell him that he’d managed to arrange a meeting with one of the petty criminals who sometimes gave them information. The man had told Vianello he had something interesting to exchange; but because the thief was afraid of being seen with anyone from the police, Brunetti had to meet him in a bar in Mestre, which meant he had to take the train to Mestre after lunch and a bus to the bar. It was not the kind of place a person went to in a taxi.
It all came to nothing, as Brunetti had secretly known it would. Encouraged by newspaper reports of the millions the government was giving to those who had turned on the Mafia and were testifying against it, the young man wanted Brunetti to advance him five million lire. The idea was absurd, the afternoon a dead loss, but at least it kept him in motion until well after four, when he got back to his office to find an agitated Vianello waiting for him.
‘What is it?’ Brunetti asked when he saw the expression on Vianello’s face.
‘That man in Treviso.’
‘Iacovantuono?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about him? Has he decided not to come?’
‘His wife’s been killed.’
‘How?’
‘She fell down the stairs in their apartment building and broke her neck.’
‘How old was she?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Thirty-five.’
‘Medical problems?’
‘None.’
‘Witnesses?’
Vianello shook his head.
‘Who found her?’
‘A neighbour. A man coming home for lunch.’
‘Did he see anything?’
Again, Vianello shook his head.
‘When did it happen?’
‘The man said he thinks she might still have been alive when he found her, a little before one. But he isn’t sure.’
‘Did she say anything?’
‘He called 113, but by the time the ambulance got there she was dead.’
‘Have they spoken to the neighbours?’
‘Who?’ Vianello asked.
‘The Treviso police.’
‘They haven’t spoken to anyone. I don’t think they’re going to speak to anyone.’
‘Why not, for the love of God?’
‘They’re treating it as an accident.’
‘Of course it would look like an accident,’ Brunetti exploded. When Vianello said nothing, Brunetti asked, ‘Has anyone spoken to the husband?’
‘He was at work when it happened.’
‘But has anyone spoken to him?’
‘I don’t think so, sir. Other than to tell him what happened.’
‘Can we get a car?’ Brunetti asked.
Vianello picked up the phone, punched in a number and talked for a moment. After he hung up he said, ‘There’ll be one waiting for us in Piazzale Roma at five thirty.’
‘Let me call my wife,’ Brunetti said. Paola wasn’t home, so he told Chiara to tell her that he had to go to Treviso and would probably be home late.
During his more than two decades as a policeman, Brunetti had developed an instinct that very often proved accurate and that allowed him to sense failure well before he encountered it. Even before he and Vianello set foot outside the Questura, he knew that the trip to Treviso was doomed and that any chance they had ever had of getting Iacovantuono to testify had died with his wife.
* * * *
It was seven before they got there, eight before they persuaded
His eyes wandered away from the page, following his attention, and he found himself imagining an Italy entirely covered, to the height of a man’s ankles, with papers, reports, photocopies, carbon copies, tiny receipts from the bars, shops and pharmacies. And in this sea of paper, it still took a letter two weeks to get to Rome.
He was distracted from this train of thought by the arrival of Sergeant Vianello, who came to tell him that he’d managed to arrange a meeting with one of the petty criminals who sometimes gave them information. The man had told Vianello he had something interesting to exchange; but because the thief was afraid of being seen with anyone from the police, Brunetti had to meet him in a bar in Mestre, which meant he had to take the train to Mestre after lunch and a bus to the bar. It was not the kind of place a person went to in a taxi.
It all came to nothing, as Brunetti had secretly known it would. Encouraged by newspaper reports of the millions the government was giving to those who had turned on the Mafia and were testifying against it, the young man wanted Brunetti to advance him five million lire. The idea was absurd, the afternoon a dead loss, but at least it kept him in motion until well after four, when he got back to his office to find an agitated Vianello waiting for him.
‘What is it?’ Brunetti asked when he saw the expression on Vianello’s face.
‘That man in Treviso.’
‘Iacovantuono?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about him? Has he decided not to come?’
‘His wife’s been killed.’
‘How?’
‘She fell down the stairs in their apartment building and broke her neck.’
‘How old was she?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Thirty-five.’
‘Medical problems?’
‘None.’
‘Witnesses?’
Vianello shook his head.
‘Who found her?’
‘A neighbour. A man coming home for lunch.’
‘Did he see anything?’
Again, Vianello shook his head.
‘When did it happen?’
‘The man said he thinks she might still have been alive when he found her, a little before one. But he isn’t sure.’
‘Did she say anything?’
‘He called 113, but by the time the ambulance got there she was dead.’
‘Have they spoken to the neighbours?’
‘Who?’ Vianello asked.
‘The Treviso police.’
‘They haven’t spoken to anyone. I don’t think they’re going to speak to anyone.’
‘Why not, for the love of God?’
‘They’re treating it as an accident.’
‘Of course it would look like an accident,’ Brunetti exploded. When Vianello said nothing, Brunetti asked, ‘Has anyone spoken to the husband?’
‘He was at work when it happened.’
‘But has anyone spoken to him?’
‘I don’t think so, sir. Other than to tell him what happened.’
‘Can we get a car?’ Brunetti asked.
Vianello picked up the phone, punched in a number and talked for a moment. After he hung up he said, ‘There’ll be one waiting for us in Piazzale Roma at five thirty.’
‘Let me call my wife,’ Brunetti said. Paola wasn’t home, so he told Chiara to tell her that he had to go to Treviso and would probably be home late.
During his more than two decades as a policeman, Brunetti had developed an instinct that very often proved accurate and that allowed him to sense failure well before he encountered it. Even before he and Vianello set foot outside the Questura, he knew that the trip to Treviso was doomed and that any chance they had ever had of getting Iacovantuono to testify had died with his wife.
* * * *
It was seven before they got there, eight before they persuaded
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