me what it is.’ The words were harsh, but the tone was not.
‘I’m here with someone who knows you,’ Guarino said, ‘and I’d like you to tell him that I can be trusted.’
‘You do me too much honour, Filippo,’ Avisani said with arch humility. They heard the sound of paper rustling, and then the voice came through the speaker, saying, ‘Ciao, Guido. My phone told me the number was from Venice, and my notebook just told me it’s the Questura, and God knows you’re the only person there who would trust me.’
Brunetti said, ‘Dare I hope you’ll say I’m the only person here you’d trust?’
Avisani laughed. ‘You might not believe this, either of you, but I’ve had stranger calls.’
‘And so?’ Brunetti asked, trying to save time.
‘Trust him,’ the journalist answered without hesitation and without explanation. ‘I’ve known Filippo for a long time, and he’s to be trusted.’
‘That’s all?’ Brunetti asked.
‘That’s enough,’ the journalist said and hung up. Guarino returned to his chair.
‘You realize what was also proven by that call?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes, I know,’ Guarino said: ‘that I can trust you.’ He nodded, seemed to digest this new information, and then went on in a more sober voice, ‘My unit studies organized crime, specifically its penetration north.’ Even though Guarino spoke earnestly and was perhaps finally telling the truth, Brunetti remained cautious. Guarino covered his face with his hands and made a washing gesture. Brunetti thought of racoons, always trying to clean things off. Elusive creatures, racoons.
‘Because the problem is so multifaceted, it’s been decided to try to approach it by applying new techniques.’
Brunetti held up a monitory hand and said, ‘This isn’t a meeting, Filippo: you can use real language.’
Guarino gave a short laugh, not a particularly pleasant sound. ‘After seven years working where I do, I’m not sure I still know how to use it.’
‘Try, Filippo, try. It might be good for your soul.’
As if in an attempt to remove the memory of everything he had said so far, Guarino sat up straighter and began for the third time. ‘Some of us are trying to stop them coming north. There’s not much hope of that, I suppose.’ He shrugged, and went on. ‘My unit is trying to keep them from doing certain things after they get here.’
The crux of this visit, Brunetti realized, lay in the nature of those still undisclosed ‘certain things’. ‘Like shipping things they should not?’ he asked.
Brunetti watched the other man struggle with the habit of reticence, refusing to give him any encouragement. Then, as if he had suddenly tired of playing cat and mouse with Brunetti, Guarino added, ‘Shipping, but not contraband. Garbage.’
Brunetti returned his feet to the top of the drawer and leaned back in his chair. He studied the doors to his armadio for some time and finally asked, ‘The Camorra runs it all, don’t they?’
‘In the South, certainly.’
‘And here?’
‘Not yet, but there’s more and more evidence of them. It’s not as bad as Naples, though, not yet.’
Brunetti thought of the stories of that afflicted city that had filled the papers over the Christmas holidays and refused to go away, of the mountains of uncollected garbage, some of it rising to the first floor of the buildings. Who had not watched the desperate citizens burn not only the stinking heaps of uncollected rubbish but also their mayor in effigy? And who had not been appalled to see the Army sent in to restore order in time of peace?
‘What’s next?’ Brunetti asked. ‘UN peacekeepers?’ ‘They could have worse,’ Guarino said. Then, angrily, ‘They do have worse.’
Because the investigation of the Ecomafia was in the hands of the Carabinieri, Brunetti had always responded to the situation as a citizen, one of helpless millions who watched the news as trash smouldered on the streets and the Minister of Ecology reprimanded the citizens of Naples for not separating their rubbish, while the mayor improved the ecological situation by banning smoking in public parks.
‘Is that how Ranzato was involved?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes,’ Guarino answered. ‘But not with the bags in the streets of Naples.’
‘What, then?’
Guarino had grown still, as if his nervous motions hadbeen a physical manifestation of his evasiveness with Brunetti and there was no longer any need for them. ‘Some of Ranzato’s trucks went to Germany and France to pick up cargo, took it south, and then came back here with fruit and vegetables.’ A second later, the old Guarino said, ‘I shouldn’t have told you that.’
Unperturbed, Brunetti said, ‘Presumably, they didn’t go to pick