‘He didn’t see me, Commissario.’ And then she was gone. When he reached the door to his office, she had already disappeared down the steps.
Brunetti walked down slowly. In the squad room he found Vianello at his desk and still on the phone, half turned away, but Brunetti saw immediately what Signorina Elettra had meant. The Ispettore was hunched over the phone, his free hand rolling a pencil back and forth on his desk. From this distance, it looked to Brunetti as if his eyes were closed.
Again and again, the Inspector rolled the pencil across his desk, not speaking. As Brunetti watched, Vianello tightened his lips, then relaxed them. The pencil never stopped moving. Finally he pulled the phone away from his ear, slowly, with great effort, as though there were a magnetic field between the receiver and his ear. He held it in front of him for at least ten seconds, and Brunetti heard the voice coming through the line: female, old, querulous. Vianello opened his eyes and studied the surface of his desk. Then, slowly, tenderly, as though he were replacing the person from whom the voice was still coming, he set the phone down.
The Inspector sat for a long time, looking at the phone. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped at his forehead, then returned it to his pocket and got to his feet. By the time he turned towards the door, Brunetti had removed all emotion from his face and was taking a stride towards his assistant, the sheaf of papers clutched in his hand.
Before Brunetti could mention the papers, Vianello said, ‘Let’s go down to the bridge. I need a drink.’
Brunetti refolded the papers, but because he wasn’t wearing his jacket he folded them smaller and slipped them into the back pocket of his trousers.
They walked out on to the pavement in front of the Questura and Brunetti realized that his sunglasses were upstairs in the pocket of his jacket. He could not stop himself from raising his left hand to protect his eyes from the glare. ‘I wonder if this is what it’s like to be in a lineup,’ he said. Squinting, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dazzle; then, keeping his hand above his eyes, he started towards the bar.
Inside, Bambola stood behind the counter, his djellaba looking as fresh as a document just pulled from an envelope.
It was after eleven, so both men ordered a spritz, Vianello asking Bambola to put them in water glasses with lots of ice. When the drinks came, Vianello picked them up and headed toward the booth farthest from the door. It was an airless corner, but Brunetti had given in to the heat: nothing could make it worse, but at least there they could talk in peace.
When they were seated opposite one another, Brunetti decided to abandon all pretence that he had not understood the nature of the phone call and asked, ‘Your aunt?’
Vianello sipped at his drink, took a longer swallow, and set the icy glass on the table. ‘Yes.’
‘You looked worried,’ Brunetti prompted.
‘I suppose I am,’ Vianello said, wrapping both hands around his glass, a gesture more common with hot drinks than with cold. ‘I’m also trapped.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I can’t shout at her, which is what I want to do. It’s a normal enough response when people do this.’ He looked at Brunetti and quickly away.
‘When people do what?’ Brunetti asked.
Their eyes met for an instant, but then Vianello looked at his glass again and said, ‘Go crazy. Take leave of their senses.’ He picked up the glass with both palms and set it down on the surface a few times, creating a pattern of rings, then he slid the glass through them, erasing them all.
‘What’s she done?’
‘She hasn’t done it yet,’ Vianello said. ‘But she will. I told you, Zia Anita has a strong will, and when she makes up her mind there’s no changing her.’
‘What’s she decided to do?’ Brunetti asked, and finally took a sip of his drink. It was by now so watery as to be almost tasteless, but it was cold and so he drank it.
‘She wants to sell the business.’
‘I thought it was your uncle’s.’
‘It was. Well, it was his, and now it belongs to his sons. But only in name.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Legally it all belongs to her. When he opened it, bought the building where the workshop and offices are, his commercialista told him it would be better for taxes if he put it in