Wilful Behaviour (10 page)

When she was gone, the girl went on, ‘I got back and went upstairs and opened the door to the apartment and went in, and I saw her on the floor. At first I thought she’d fallen or something, but then I saw the rug. I stood there and I didn’t know what to do. I think I screamed. I must have because Signora Gallante came up and brought me down here. That’s all I remember.’

‘Was the door locked?’ Brunetti asked. ‘The door to your apartment?’

She considered this for a moment, and Brunetti could sense her reluctance in having to keep returning to the memory of that scene. Finally she said, ‘No, I don’t think it was. That is, I don’t
remember
using my key.’ There was a long silence, and then she added, ‘But I could be wrong.’

‘Did you see anyone outside?’

‘When?’

‘When you got home.’

‘No,’ she said with a quick shake of her head. ‘There wasn’t anyone.’

‘Even people you know, neighbours,’ Brunetti asked and then, at her quick, suspicious glance, he explained, ‘They might have seen someone.’

Again she shook her head. ‘No, no one.’

These questions, Brunetti knew, were probably less than useless. He’d seen the colour of the blood on the carpet and knew it meant Claudia had been dead for a considerable time. The medical examiner would be able to tell him more accurately, but Brunetti would not be surprised to learn that she had lain there all night. He needed to establish in this girl’s mind the importance of answering his questions so that, when he got to the ones that might lead to whoever had done this, she would answer without thinking of the consequences, perhaps for someone she knew.

Signora Gallante came back into the room, saying, ‘The doctor’s here, sir.’

Brunetti got to his feet and said something he tried to make comforting to the girl, then left the room. Signora Gallante went in with a glass of water in her hand. Behind her came a man who looked far too young to be a doctor, the only proof that he was, the black leather bag, obviously new, that he carried in his right hand.

10

AFTER A FEW
minutes, Signora Gallante came out of the bedroom and approached Brunetti and Vianello. ‘The doctor suggested she stay here with me until her parents can get here from Milano and take her home.’

‘Have you called them?’

‘Yes. As soon as I called you.’

‘Are they coming?’

‘I spoke to her mother. She’s been here a few times to visit Lucia, so she knew who I was. She said she’d call her husband at work, and then she called back and told me they were leaving immediately to come here.’

‘How?’

‘I didn’t ask,’ Signora Gallante said, surprised at such a question. ‘But the other times they came by
car
, so I suppose that’s how they’ll come this time.’

‘How long ago did you speak to them?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Oh, half an hour, perhaps an hour ago. It was right after I went up and found Lucia and brought her down here. I called the police first, and then I called her parents.’

Though this would limit the time Brunetti would have to speak to Lucia and complicate all future contact with her, he said, ‘That was very kind of you, Signora.’

‘I tried to think of what I’d want to happen if it were one of my granddaughters, and then it was easy.’

Brunetti couldn’t stop himself from glancing towards the door of the bedroom. ‘What did the doctor say?’

‘When I told him that her parents were coming, he said he wouldn’t give her a sedative, but he asked me to give her some linden tea with lots of honey. To work against the shock,’ she added.

‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ Brunetti said, hearing footsteps outside the apartment and eager to speak to the medical examiner. ‘Perhaps the Ispettore can stay here with you while you do that,’ he said, with a significant glance at Vianello, who needed no urging to see to questioning Signora Gallante about Claudia or about anyone who might have visited her in her apartment.

With a polite goodbye, Brunetti left the apartment and went back upstairs. Dottor Rizzardi was already kneeling beside the dead girl, plastic-gloved fingers wrapped around her out-thrust
wrist
. He glanced up when he heard Brunetti come in and said, ‘Not that there’s any hope, but it’s what the regulations require.’ He looked down at the dead girl, removed his hand, and said, ‘She’s dead.’ He allowed silence to expand from those terrible words, then got to his feet. A photographer, who had come in with the doctor, stepped close to the body and shot a few pictures, then moved in a slow circle around her, taking photos from every angle. He moved away and took one last shot from the doorway, then slipped his camera inside its case and went outside to wait for the doctor.

Knowing Rizzardi better than to suggest anything or to point to the colour of the dried blood, Brunetti asked, ‘When would you say?’

‘Probably some time last night, but it could have been almost any time. I won’t know until I have a look at her.’ Rizzardi meant ‘inside her’. Both of the men knew that, but neither of them could or would say it.

Looking at her again, the doctor asked, ‘Presumably, you want to know what did it?’

‘Yes,’ Brunetti said, moving automatically to stand beside the doctor. Rizzardi handed him a pair of transparent gloves and waited while Brunetti slipped them on.

Working together, the two men knelt and slid their hands under her body. Slowly, with the sort of gentleness with which large men usually handle babies, they raised her shoulder and then her hip and turned her over on to her back.

No knife, no instrument or implement, lay
beneath
her body, but the sticky holes in the front of her cotton blouse made the cause of death shockingly visible. There were, Brunetti thought at first, four of them, but then he noticed another higher up, near her shoulder. The wounds were all on the left side of her body.

Rizzardi opened the two top buttons of her shirt and pulled it aside. He glanced at the wounds, actually pulled one of them open, reminding Brunetti of some perverse poem Paola had once read to him about the wounds in Christ’s body looking like lips. ‘Some of these look bad enough,’ Rizzardi said. ‘Once I’ve done the autopsy, I’ll be able to tell you for sure, but there’s little doubt.’ He closed the blouse and carefully rebuttoned it. He nodded to Brunetti and they got to their feet.

‘I know it’s only stupid superstition, but I’m glad her eyes are closed,’ Rizzardi said. Then, with no preparation, ‘I’d say you’re looking for a person who isn’t very tall, not much taller than she was.’

‘Why?’

‘The angle. It looks as if they went in more or less horizontally. If it had been a taller person, they would have gone downward at an angle, depending on how tall the killer was. I can make a rough calculation after I measure them, but that’s my first guess.’

‘Thanks.’

‘It’s precious little, I’m afraid.’

Rizzardi moved towards the door, and Brunetti followed in his wake. ‘There won’t be much more to tell you, but I’ll call your office when I’m finished.’

‘Do you have the number of Vianello’s
telefonino
?’

‘Yes,’ Rizzardi answered. ‘Why don’t you have your own?’

‘I do. But I keep leaving it at work or at home.’

‘Why doesn’t Vianello just give you his?’

‘He’s afraid I’ll lose it.’

‘My, my, hasn’t the sergeant come up in the world since he became an ispettore?’ Rizzardi asked, but affection glistened through the apparent sarcasm.

‘It took long enough,’ Brunetti said with the residual anger he felt at the years it had taken Vianello to be given what he had so long deserved.

‘Scarpa?’ Rizzardo asked, naming Vice-Questore Patta’s personal assistant and showing just how intimate he was with the real workings of the Questura.

‘Of course. He managed to block it for years, ever since he got here.’

‘What changed things?’

Brunetti gazed away evasively and began to say, ‘Oh, I’ve no…’ but Rizzardi cut him short.

‘What did you do?’

‘I threatened Patta that I’d ask for a transfer to Treviso or Vicenza.’

‘And?’

‘He caved in.’

‘Did you think that would happen?’

‘No, quite the opposite. I thought he’d be happy to have the chance to get rid of me.’

‘And if Patta had refused to promote him, would you have gone?’

Brunetti raised his eyebrows and pulled up the corner of his mouth in another evasion.

‘Would you?’

‘Yes,’ Brunetti said and walked towards the door. ‘Call me when you’re done, all right?’

Back downstairs, Brunetti found Vianello in the kitchen, sitting opposite Signora Gallante, a white porcelain teapot and a jar of honey between them. Each had a cup of yellow tea. Signora Gallante started to get to her feet when she saw Brunetti, but Vianello leaned across the table and put a hand on her arm. ‘Stay there, Signora. I’ll get the Commissario a cup.’

He got up and with the sort of ease that usually comes with long familiarity, opened a cabinet and pulled down a cup and saucer. He sat them in front of the now-seated Brunetti and turned back to open a drawer and get him a spoon. Silently, he poured out a cup of linden tea and took his place again across from the Signora.

Vianello said, ‘The Signora’s just been telling me a bit about Signorina Leonardo, sir.’ Signora Gallante nodded. ‘She said she was a good girl, very considerate and thoughtful.’

‘Oh, yes, sir,’ the old woman interrupted. ‘She used to come down here for tea once in a while, and she always asked me about my grandchildren, even asked to see pictures of them. They never made any noise, she and Lucia: study, study, study; it seems that’s all they ever did.’

‘Didn’t friends ever visit them?’ Vianello asked when Brunetti made no move to do so.

‘No. Once in a while I’d see a young person on
the
steps, a boy or a girl, but they never caused any trouble. You know how students like to study together. My sons always did that when they were in school, but they made a lot more noise, I’m afraid.’ She started to smile, but then remembering just what had brought these two men to her table, her smile faded and she picked up her teacup.

‘You said you met Lucia’s mother, Signora,’ Brunetti began. ‘Did you ever meet Signor and Signora Leonardo?’

‘No, that’s impossible. They’re both gone, you know.’ When she saw Brunetti’s confusion, she tried to explain. ‘That is, her father’s dead. She told me he died when she was just a little girl.’

When Signora Gallante said nothing else, Brunetti asked, ‘And the mother?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Claudia never spoke about her, but I always had the sense that she was gone.’

‘Do you mean dead, Signora?’

‘No, no, not exactly. Oh, I don’t know what I mean. It’s just that Claudia never said she was dead; she just made it sound like she was gone, as if she was somewhere else and was never coming back.’ She thought for a moment, as if trying to recall conversations with the girl. ‘It was all very strange, now that I think about it. She usually used the past tense when she spoke about her mother, but once she spoke of her as though she were still alive.’

‘Do you remember what she said?’ Vianello asked.

‘No, no, I can’t. I’m very sorry, gentlemen, but I just can’t. It was something about liking
something
, a colour or a food or something like that. Not a specific thing like a book or a movie or an actor, just something general; now that I think about it, it might have been a colour, and she said something like, “My mother likes…” and then she said the name of the colour, whatever it was, perhaps blue. I really don’t remember, but I know I thought at the time how strange it was that she spoke of her as though she were still alive.’

‘Did you ask her about it?’

‘Oh, no. Claudia wasn’t the sort of girl you could ask. If she wanted you to know something, she’d tell you. Otherwise, she spoke of other things or just ignored the question.’

‘Did that offend you?’ Vianello asked.

‘Perhaps at first, but then I realized what she was like and that there was nothing I could do about it. Besides, I liked her so much it didn’t matter, didn’t matter at all.’ Signora Gallante picked up her cup and held it to her mouth, lowering her face as if to drink from it, but then the tears got the better of her and she had to put the cup down and reach for a handkerchief. ‘I don’t think I want to talk about this any more, gentlemen.’

‘Of course, Signora,’ Brunetti said, finishing his tea, which had grown cold while they talked. ‘I’ll just see if the doctor’s finished and have a word with Lucia if that’s possible.’

Signora Gallante clearly disapproved of this, but she said nothing and busied herself with wiping away her tears.

Brunetti went to the door of the bedroom and
knocked
, then knocked again. After a time, the door was opened by the doctor, who put his head out and asked, ‘Yes?’

‘I’d like to speak to Signorina Mazzotti, Dottore, if that’s possible.’

‘I’ll ask her,’ the doctor said and closed the door in Brunetti’s face. After a few minutes he pulled the door open and his head appeared again. ‘She doesn’t want to talk to anyone.’

‘Dottore, would you explain to her that what we want to do is find the person who killed her friend. I know Signorina Mazzotti’s parents are on their way from Milano to take her home, and as soon as that happens it will be very difficult to speak to her.’ Brunetti didn’t mention the fact that he had the legal right to forbid her to leave the city. Instead, he added, ‘We’d be very grateful if she’d agree to talk to us now. It would help us a great deal.’

The doctor nodded his understanding and, Brunetti thought, his sympathy and closed the door again.

When, at least five minutes later, the doctor opened the door again, Lucia Mazzotti stood behind him. She was taller and thinner than he’d thought and now, seeing her full face, he saw just how pretty she was. The doctor held the door for her and she stepped out into the corridor. Brunetti led her into the sitting room and waited while she took a seat on a straight-backed chair. ‘Would you like the doctor to stay here while we talk, Signorina?’ he asked.