Suffer the Little Children by Donna Leon Page B

services and the Children’s Court to see that they’re taken care of.’
    Brunetti chose to let this lie and continued, ‘I see. So in each case, you . . .’ Brunetti triedto think what word he was supposed to use here. Repossessed? Confiscated? Stole? – ‘got the baby and handed it over to social services.’
    â€˜That was our responsibility,’ agreed Marvilli simply.
    Brunetti asked, ‘And Pedrolli? What will happen to him?’
    Marvilli considered before answering, ‘That will depend on the examining magistrate, I suppose. If Pedrolli decides to cooperate, then the charges will be minor.’
    â€˜Cooperate how?’ Brunetti asked. From Marvilli’s silence, Brunetti realized that he had asked the wrong question, but before he could ask another, Marvilli shot back his cuff and looked at his watch. ‘I think I have to get back to headquarters, Signori.’ He moved sideways and out of the booth. When he was standing, he asked, ‘Will you let me pay for this?’
    â€˜Thanks, Captain, but no,’ Brunetti answered with a smile. ‘I’d like to be able to save two lives in one day.’
    Marvilli laughed. He offered his hand to Brunetti and then, with a polite, ‘Goodbye, Inspector,’ leaned across the table and shook Vianello’s hand as well.
    If Brunetti expected him to make some remark about keeping the local police informed, perhaps to ask them to share with the Carabinieri any information they might obtain, he was disappointed. The Captain thankedBrunetti again for the coffee, turned and left the bar.
    Brunetti looked at the plates and discarded napkins. ‘If I have another coffee, I’ll be able to fly back to the Questura.’
    â€˜Same here,’ muttered Vianello, then asked, ‘Where do we start?’
    â€˜With Pedrolli, I think, and then perhaps we should find this clinic in Verona,’ Brunetti answered. ‘And I’d like very much to know how the Carabinieri found out about Pedrolli.’
    Vianello gestured towards the place where Marvilli had been sitting. ‘Yes, he was very coy about that, wasn’t he?’
    Neither proposed a solution, and finally, after a contemplative silence, Vianello said, ‘The wife’s probably at the hospital. You want to go and talk to her?’
    Brunetti nodded. He got to his feet and went over to the bar.
    â€˜Ten Euros, Commissario,’ said Sergio.
    Brunetti placed the bill on the counter then half turned to the door, where Vianello was already waiting for him. Over his shoulder, Brunetti asked, ‘Bambola?’
    Sergio smiled. ‘I saw his real name on his work permit, and there was no way I was going to be able to pronounce it. So he suggested I call him Bambola, since it’s as close as anyone can get to his real name in Italian.’
    â€˜Work permit?’ Brunetti asked.
    â€˜At that
pasticceria
in Barbaria delle Tolle,’ Sergio said, pronouncing the name of the
calle
in Veneziano, something Brunetti had never heard a foreigner succeed in doing. ‘He actually has one.’
    Vianello and Brunetti left the bar, heading back to the Questura. It was not yet seven, so they went to the squad room, where there was an ancient black and white television on which they could watch the early morning news. They sat through the interminable political reports, as ministers and politicians were filmed speaking into microphones while a voiceover explained what they had supposedly said. Then a car bomb. Government denials that inflation was rising. Three new saints.
    Gradually, other officers drifted in and joined them. The programme moved on to a badly focused film of a blue Carabinieri sedan pulling up at the Questura in Brescia. A man with his face buried in his handcuffed hands emerged from the car. The voiceover explained that the Carabinieri had effected night-time raids in Brescia, Verona, and Venice to close up a ring of