‘Many of the people I’ve spoken to,’ Brunetti began, ‘have told me he was a good man. And you used the term yourself. Could you tell me what you mean by it?’
A look of real confusion spread across Fontana’s face. ‘But everyone knows what that means.’ He looked towards Vianello for confirmation, but the Inspector remained silent.
Finally Brunetti allowed himself to say it. ‘There are many people who would not think he was good once they learned he was homosexual.’
‘But that’s ridiculous,’ Fontana snapped. ‘I told you: he was a good man. For the last year he’d been collecting clothing for that woman – that servant – what’s her name?’
‘Zinka?’ Brunetti suggested.
‘Yes. He’d been collecting clothing for her family in Romania and mailing it to them. And I know his friend Penzo is trying to get her a permesso di soggiorno. And he had the patience of a saint with his mother. He’d have done anything to keep her happy. And he really was incapable of dishonesty. Of any sort.’ Then, as the memory came back, he said, ‘Ah, I’d forgotten. He told me, about two months ago, that he was thinking about moving, but he couldn’t bear the thought of how much it would upset his mother.’
‘Did he say why?’
Fontana shook his head. ‘Nothing I could understand. Something about work and its not being right that they lived in that palazzo. But he didn’t really explain it.’
‘Do you think he would have moved?’ Brunetti asked.
Fontana closed his eyes and raised his eyebrows. When he opened his eyes, he met Brunetti’s gaze and said, ‘If it meant disturbing his mother . . .’ before his voice trailed away.
‘You really think that apartment is so important to her?’ Brunetti asked with surprise he could not hide.
‘You’ve spoken to my aunt?’
‘Yes.’
‘You saw her little red cheeks and her stylish hair?’
‘Yes.’
Fontana leaned forward so quickly in his chair that Vianello moved aside hurriedly to get away from him. ‘My aunt is a harpy,’ Fontana said with a violence that astonished Brunetti and left Vianello with his mouth ajar. ‘If she doesn’t get what she wants, other people have to pay for it, and she wants that apartment. Like she has never wanted anything in her life.’
No one in the room found the proper thing to say for some time, until Brunetti asked, ‘And was that enough to stop your cousin from doing what he wanted to do?’
‘I don’t know, but when I think about it now, I think that’s what made him so nervous the last few times I saw him or spoke to him.’
‘Did your cousin ever mention a Judge Coltellini?’ Brunetti asked suddenly.
Fontana could not disguise his surprise. ‘Yes. He did. For the last few years, well, maybe two. He was very taken with her. She was always very pleasant to him, seemed to appreciate his work.’ Fontana paused and then added, ‘Araldo would get crushes on women every once in a while, especially women where he worked who had more power or responsibility than he did.’
‘What would happen with these women?’
‘Oh, he got tired of them, sooner or later. Or they’d do something he didn’t approve of, and then they’d sink back under the waves and be treated just like anyone else.’
‘Did that happen with Judge Coltellini?’ As he asked the question, Brunetti was aware of how much this man, and their dealings with him, had changed since he had come into his office. The meekness was gone; so was the timidity. In place of the appearance of uncertainty, Brunetti saw both intelligence and sensitivity. His initial nervousness, then, could be attributed to the fear that any involvement with the forces of order brought to the average citizen.
Brunetti tuned into Fontana’s answer in mid-sentence. ‘. . . that made things change. When he didn’t talk about her – I noticed the change because he had been so taken with her – I asked about her, and he said he had been mistaken about her. And that was that. He refused to say anything else.’
‘Have you seen your aunt since his death?’
Fontana shook his head. He sat quietly for a while, and then said, ‘The funeral’s tomorrow. I’ll see her there. Then I hope I never have to see her again. Ever.’
Brunetti and Vianello waited.
‘She ruined his life. He should have gone to live with Renato when he had the chance.’
‘When was that?’ Brunetti asked.
When Fontana looked at him, Brunetti saw that his eyes