Transient Desires (Commissario Brunetti #30)(52)

‘There’s just one more thing,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Could you show me the original registration?’

‘Of course,’ said a suddenly affable Borgato. He went and stood in front of a shelf filled with thick file holders of different colours. After a moment, he pulled down a white one and set it on his desk.

He paged through it until he found what he wanted, turned the book to show the page to Brunetti and said, ‘Here it is.’

Brunetti opened the briefcase and pulled out one of the papers and compared it with the one in the folder, saying, ‘Very good.’ He nodded and put the paper back, then asked Borgato, ‘May I take a photo?’

‘Of course,’ Borgato offered with a rather dramatic wave of his hand.

Brunetti took out his phone and, remaining true to his role, fumbled with it a bit before turning on the camera. He took a photo of the page, moved the lens back about ten centimetres and took another one.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘A colleague of mine is seeing Signor Tantucci today, so all we have to do is send the photos he takes, and these photos to the licence office and let them sort it out.’ He considered what he’d just said and added, ‘That should be the end of it for you, Signor Borgato.’

The other man smiled for the first time. It didn’t help his appearance much. He came around and stood next to Brunetti for a moment before accompanying him to the door. He opened it, gave a handshake that was less a proof of virility than the other had been, and closed the door.

As he walked across the small office, Brunetti said, ‘Thanks for your help, Signora.’

‘Will you be coming back?’

‘Oh, no, not at all, thank heaven,’ Brunetti said, a bureaucrat pleased at having so easily settled what might have become a problem.

She smiled, and Brunetti left the office to go and meet Foa, who was waiting for him in his sandalo, sitting on one of the cross-planks with the Gazzetta dello Sport open on his lap. Brunetti knew the boat, slow and patient.

Brunetti stepped aboard, sat opposite Foa, and pulled his trench coat over his legs. The pilot wore jeans, a heavy sweater, and a blue windbreaker. ‘Where would you like to go, sir?’

‘Back to my home, Foa. I don’t think I want to go back to the Questura looking like this.’

‘I assumed that, sir,’ he said, revved the engine, and launched them back towards the Giudecca Canal.





19


At home, Brunetti changed into jeans and a sweater. He packed the shoes, the suit, and the briefcase into one of the free shopping bags the city provided for paper garbage and set it by the door. Tomorrow morning, he could pass by the church of Santi Apostoli and leave the bag at the door to the used clothing shop the parish ran there.

He ambled to the kitchen, in search of he didn’t know what. It was just after six, so dinner was still a few hours away. He took the nutcracker from a kitchen drawer and selected a few walnuts from a bowl on the counter. After eating them, he needed something to drink, and what better than the Masetto Nero he had put to rest on its side a few nights ago? He opened it and poured himself a glass, left the bottle on the counter to drink with dinner, then went back to Paola’s study to reflect upon his meeting with Vio’s uncle.

It was not Brunetti’s habit to take notes when he interviewed people or questioned suspects. He let time pass after speaking to them and waited for something to present itself as the gravest concern of the person he’d spoken to. Borgato had been irritated by the mistake with the licence, but he had not been worried. His entire demeanour had changed, however, when Brunetti had mentioned the possibility of a visit from the Guardia Costiera. He had suddenly become accommodating, had even said ‘please’.

Borgato had hastily told the implausible story of maintenance that could be performed only in Caorle, hours away, and claimed that the work could not be done by anyone in Venice. Brunetti, even though his experience with boats was limited, could find three mechanics in an hour capable of fixing anything attached to a boat; Vianello could probably find ten. Or fix the motor himself. Only a fool like Pivato would believe the story.

Borgato had said that his trip to Caorle had taken place on or about the tenth: that he had offered it suggested that it was not true. Most liars didn’t go far from the truth, so it was likely to be one of the days before or after the tenth. Why had Borgato been in the sea between Caorle and Venice around that time?

He took a sip of the wine, enjoying the taste as it rolled around on his tongue. Ordinarily, having already spoken to him, Brunetti would call Capitano Alaimo and see what he knew about strange or unusual incidents in the Adriatic two months before. His trust in Griffoni’s instincts, however, made it impossible for him to call the Capitano: if her radar had detected something amiss, Brunetti would trust in that. It left him, however, with no reliable source working for the Guardia Costiera.

He took another sip of wine, kicked off his shoes, and put his feet on the low table in front of the sofa. He needed what Paola would call an Ancient Mariner, with stories to tell. He paused there and surprised himself by realizing Paola was wrong. He needed someone who knew about the Guardia Costiera as it was now, who the good guys were, who the bad.

He went back to his jacket and retrieved his telefonino, found Capitano Nieddu’s number and dialled it.

After a few rings, her cello voice was on the line. ‘Nieddu.’