Transient Desires (Commissario Brunetti #30)(6)

The screen turned black. Griffoni’s voice caused Brunetti to start, so intent had he been on the screen. ‘The camera is motion sensitive and goes black when there’s nothing to be filmed.’

At 3:05, a man appeared, walking away from the camera, head bent as he pulled a cigarette from an open packet and a lighter from his pocket. He turned sideways, as if protecting the flame from the wind, lit the cigarette, and, raising his head, took a deep pull at it. He froze, the cigarette fell from his hand, and he took three running steps towards the two motionless forms in front of him. He knelt, placed his fingers on the throat of the first, then the second, pushed himself to his knees and disappeared in the direction from which he had come.

Again the screen darkened. Almost immediately a number of people in white uniforms appeared. With breathtaking speed, they picked up the women, placed them on to gurneys, and hurried back inside. The screen darkened.

‘How long did it take them to come to get them?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Two minutes and forty seconds,’ Griffoni answered. ‘It’s at the bottom of the screen.’

‘I’ll never say a bad word about the hospital again,’ Brunetti said. Then he asked, ‘I saw the photo of her face. Who could do that to someone?’

Griffoni shrugged. ‘I’d like to go back to the hospital to see what I can find out.’

Instinctively, Brunetti asked, ‘Would you like me to go with you?’

‘Isn’t that out of your way?’ Griffoni asked. It wasn’t a yes, but it certainly wasn’t a no.

‘Not really, not if I go through Campo Santa Marina,’ he answered.

She studied her palm, and it apparently decided the issue for her. ‘We could go now. I’m not doing anything, and the Vice-Questore’s left for the day.’ Before Brunetti could ask, Griffoni said, ‘Foa told me he’s been invited to some sort of event by one of those foreign charities that wants to save the city.’

Brunetti was familiar with these organizations but doubtful that anyone had much of a chance of saving the city. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘they go to expensive restaurants, and that gives people work, and that’s all to the good.’

As if reading his mind, Griffoni gave one of those smiles of hers that seemed to use only the upper part of her face. Her mouth remained straight in disapproval, but her eyes registered delight in absurdity. ‘It’s a dinner for important Venetians, to explain to them the urgent need to save the city,’ she remarked.

‘From?’ Brunetti asked, already making a list, starting with the pollution caused by the planes of the people who came to the charity dinner.

‘I think that will be revealed this evening,’ she answered.

It came to Brunetti to ask, ‘How is it that Foa knows about this?’

‘He has to take the Vice-Questore to the first meeting, then return later to take him home from dinner.’

Brunetti’s mind fled to the notice he had been reading about the improper use of ministry cars to take officials to non-work-related events. Patta was safe: there had been no mention of boats. Cheered by that thought, he got to his feet, saying, ‘Come on, Claudia, I’ll walk you as far as the hospital.’

This time, both halves of her face smiled.





4


By the time they emerged from the Questura, the day had definitely abandoned any idea of warmth. Griffoni, who was Neapolitan, never left a building without carrying at least one more layer of clothing: today a caramel-coloured suede jacket hung over her arm that looked, to Brunetti, far more edible than the sandwich he’d had the day before.

‘Did you get that in Naples?’ he asked as she pulled it on and zipped it halfway.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ Brunetti said. ‘If I thought it would fit me, I’d knock you down and steal it.’

‘Too much time spent with criminals, I’d say,’ she answered, then added, ‘My uncle has a shop.’

Brunetti threw his head back and laughed out loud.

Uncertain whether to be offended or not, Griffoni asked, ‘What’s that about?’

Still giving the occasional gasp of quiet laughter, Brunetti said, ‘I have a Neapolitan friend – maybe he’s my best friend – and if I ever admire anything, he has an uncle or an aunt or a cousin who just happens to know where to get me one. At a very friendly price.’

‘Things that fell off a truck?’ she asked.

That set Brunetti off laughing again. When he could control himself, he said, ‘He actually told me that once. It was a pair of tennis shoes my son wanted, white, with the signature of some American tennis player, or basketball hero, on the side, and we’d had no peace in the house for a month. I told Giulio about it, when we were talking about our kids; all he did was ask what size Raffi wore. The next day UPS delivered a pair for him, with a note inside saying they’d fallen off a truck.’ He broke off to laugh again.

‘And you kept them? I mean, your son kept them?’

‘Of course he did,’ Brunetti said. ‘If I’d sent them back, Giulio would have sulked for the rest of the year.’

Griffoni and he resumed walking, amiable together, she silent for a moment, considering this. Finally she said, ‘Well, he is Neapolitan.’

‘So?’