Beastly Things (30 page)

Brunetti studied the two men for a moment: even seated, Papetti towered over his lawyer, who was by no means a short man. Torinese snapped his briefcase closed and set it to the left of his chair. Brunetti and Torinese both leaned
forward
at the same moment and switched on their tape recorders.

‘Dottor Torinese,’ Brunetti began formally, ‘I’d like to thank you and your client, Dottor Papetti, Alessandro Papetti, for coming to see me so quickly. There are certain matters I would like to clarify, and I think your client can be of service to me in this.’

‘And those matters are?’ Torinese asked. He was about Brunetti’s age, though he looked older, with his horn-rimmed glasses and hair slicked back from a widow’s peak. No tailor in Venice had the talent to have made his suit, nor had any of the shoemakers made those shoes. The thought of expensive shoes brought Brunetti’s mind back to the matter at hand.

‘First, there is the murder of Dottor Andrea Nava, who worked at the slaughterhouse of which Dottor Papetti is the director,’ he supplied. ‘I’ve already spoken to Dottor Papetti about this, but since then I have come into possession of new information, and that makes it necessary for me to ask the Dottore more questions.’ Brunetti knew that the demon of formality had taken over his speech, but in his awareness that everything they said would eventually be printed out, signed, dated, and entered into the public record, he could not behave otherwise.

He saw Torinese preparing to speak and so went on, ‘Avvocato, I would like, if you would permit it, not to have to filter everything through you.’ Before the lawyer could object, Brunetti said, ‘I believe this would make things easier, both for me and for your client. You have the right, of course, to interrupt whenever you see fit to do so, but it would be better for your client – and I can ask only that you invest me with your confidence in this – if we could speak directly.’

As Torinese and Papetti exchanged a glance, Brunetti’s
mind
wandered to a phrase – he wondered why his thoughts kept retreating to the Bible – ‘You have been weighed in the balance.’ He waited, wondering whether the two men would find him wanting.

Apparently they did not, for Papetti, after a brief nod from his lawyer, said, ‘I’ll speak to you, Commissario. Though I must say it’s like speaking to a different man from the one who came to my office.’

‘I’m the same man, Dottore: I assure you of that. I’m merely better prepared than I was the last time we spoke.’ Presumably, if Papetti now believed he was not an incompetent, he would be better prepared, as well.

‘Prepared by what?’ Papetti asked.

‘As I told Avvocato Torinese, by new information.’

‘And prepared
for
what?’ Papetti asked.

Brunetti turned his attention to Torinese and said, ‘I will set the example for this conversation by telling you both the truth.’ And then to Papetti, ‘To find out the extent of your involvement in the death of Dottor Nava.’

Neither man showed surprise. Torinese, after decades of experience with sudden accusations of all sorts, was probably immune to surprise. Papetti, however, looked distressed but failed to disguise it.

Brunetti went on, speaking to Papetti, suspecting he had not had time to explain everything to Torinese. ‘We are by now aware of what was going on at the
macello
.’ Brunetti paused, to give Papetti the opportunity to ask for an explanation of that, but he did not.

‘And, given that we are now talking about murder, the legal consequences to anyone who attempts to obscure the truth of anything surrounding the murder are much more severe, something I’m sure needs no explaining to you.’ When he saw that they understood, he added, ‘I’m sure the men who work at the
macello
will understand this as
well
.’ Brunetti paused to let this register. ‘Thus I assume,’ he continued, ‘that the men who work there, especially Bianchi, will be willing to tell us what they know, either about the murder or the lesser crimes.’ Brunetti was careful not to name these lesser crimes, curious to see how Papetti would react.

Torinese, for all his training and experience, could not stop himself from glancing at his client. Papetti, however, ignored him, his attention on Brunetti, as if willing him to reveal more.

Brunetti slid the papers on his desk closer and studied them for a moment, then said, ‘I’d like to begin by asking you, Dottor Papetti, to tell me where you were on the night of the seventh.’ Then, just in case Papetti might have trouble recalling the date, he clarified by saying, ‘That’s the night between Sunday and Monday.’

Papetti glanced aside at Torinese, who said, ‘My client was at home, with his wife and children.’ The fact that Torinese was able to answer this question meant that Pacetti had both expected it and understood its importance.

‘I expect you can prove this,’ Brunetti observed mildly.

Both men nodded, and Brunetti did not bother to ask for details.

‘That, as you must know,’ he said, speaking directly to Papetti, ‘is the night Dottor Nava was killed.’ He let this register before saying, ‘We can, of course, confirm your statement by an examination of the records of your
telefonino
.’

‘I didn’t call anyone,’ Papetti said, and then, aware that his response had come too quickly, added, ‘At least I don’t remember calling anyone.’

‘As soon as we have the authorization from a magistrate, we can help you remember, Dottor Papetti. As well as whether you received any calls,’ Brunetti said with his
blandest
smile. ‘The records will also tell us where the phone was during that night, if it was moved away from your home for any reason.’ He watched Papetti as the realization smashed upon him: the computer chip in his phone left a geographic signal that could be traced and would be traced.

‘I might have had to go out,’ Papetti said; the look Torinese gave him was a confirmation to Brunetti of the lawyer’s ignorance. And a moment later, the hardening of his look was confirmation of his anger at this fact.

‘To Venice, by any chance?’ Brunetti inquired in a voice so light and friendly it held out the promise that he would follow an affirmative response with a series of suggestions for quaint points of artistic interest in the city.

Papetti seemed to disappear for a moment. He stared at the two tape recorders so intently that Brunetti all but heard the gears in his mind working as he tried to adjust to the new reality created by his
telefonino’s
betrayal.

Papetti began to cry but seemed unaware of it. The tears ran down his face and chin and under the collar of his freshly ironed white shirt as he continued to watch the red lights on the tape recorders.

Finally Torinese said, ‘Alessandro, stop it.’

Papetti looked at him, a man old enough to be his father, a man who was perhaps a professional colleague of his father, and nodded. He wiped his face with the inside of his sleeve and said, ‘She called me. On my
telefonino
.’

At this point, Torinese astonished Brunetti by saying, ‘The phone records will all have the exact times, Alessandro.’ The sadness in his voice made it clear to Brunetti that he must be a colleague, perhaps a friend, of Papetti’s father, perhaps of the man himself.

Papetti returned his attention to the tape recorder. As if speaking for the first time, he said, ‘I had dinner with a friend in Venice. It was for business. We were at Il Testiere
and
they know him, so they’ll remember us, that we were both there. After dinner, my friend went home and I went for a walk.’

He looked across at Brunetti. ‘I know that sounds strange, but I like being in the city by myself, with no people, and I wanted to be alone.’ Before Brunetti could ask, he added, ‘I called my wife and told her how beautiful it was. That will be on your records, too.’

Brunetti nodded, and Papetti went on. ‘She called me about midnight.’ Brunetti did not ask Papetti to confirm that he was speaking about Signorina Borelli: the records would do that.

‘She told me to meet her at the new dock on the Zattere, down by San Basilio. I asked her what she wanted, but she wouldn’t tell me.’

‘Did you go?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Of course I went,’ Papetti said savagely. ‘I always have to do what she says.’

Torinese cleared his throat, but neither Brunetti nor Vianello said a word.

‘When I met her there, she took me back to a house. I’m not sure where it is.’ Having said that, Papetti looked around and explained, ‘I’m not Venetian, so I get lost.’

Brunetti permitted himself a nod.

‘When we went in, there was a kind of entrance hall, with windows at the back and a few stairs. Going down, not up. She took me over, and I saw a man’s feet sticking out of the water, on the steps: his feet and legs. But his head was in the water.’ Papetti looked at the floor.

‘Nava?’ Brunetti asked.

‘I didn’t know when I first saw him,’ Papetti said, raising his eyes to Brunetti’s. He shook his head and added, ‘But I knew. I mean I didn’t see, but I knew. Who else could it be?’

‘Why did you think it had to be Nava?’ Brunetti asked. Torinese sat quietly, his face wiped of all expression, as though he were on a train, eavesdropping on a conversation in the seat in front of him.

Papetti repeated dully, ‘Who else could it be?’

‘Why did she call you?’

Papetti held up his hands and looked at them, one after the other. ‘She wanted to put him in the canal, but she couldn’t open the water door. It was … the metal bar that held it closed … was rusted shut.’

Brunetti decided to let Papetti decide when to speak again. At least a minute passed, during which Torinese examined the backs of his own hands, which were placed on his thighs.

‘She had tried to hit it open with the heel of his shoe. But it wouldn’t open. So she called me.’

‘And what did you do?’ Brunetti asked after a long wait.

‘I pulled it open. I had to step into the water to get close enough to the door to open it.’

‘And then?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Then we pushed him out into the water; then I closed the door and bolted it.’

‘And Signorina Borelli?’ Brunetti asked. One of the tape recorders made a whirring noise and the red blinked off. Torinese leaned forward and pushed a button: the red light went on again.

‘She told me to go home, said she was going home.’

‘Did she tell you what happened?’

‘No. Nothing. She asked me to open the door and then to help her push him down the steps.’

‘And you did.’

‘I didn’t have any choice, did I?’ Papetti asked and looked down again, silent.

Papetti licked his lips, sucked them into his mouth, then
licked
them again. ‘We’ve known one another a long time.’

Calmly, Brunetti asked, ‘And that gave her that much power over you?’

Papetti opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. He gave a small cough and said, ‘I once … I once did something indiscreet.’ And then he stopped.

‘With Signorina Borelli?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Did you have an affair with her?’

Papetti’s eyes widened in shock. ‘Good God, no.’

‘What happened?’

Papetti closed his eyes and said, ‘I tried to kiss her.’

Brunetti shot a glance at Vianello, who raised his eyebrows.

‘That’s all?’ Brunetti asked.

Papetti looked at him. ‘Yes. But it was enough.’

‘Enough for what?’

‘For her to get the idea.’ When Brunetti failed to understand, Papetti said, ‘About telling my father-in-law.’ Then after a moment, he added, ‘Or she planned it and that’s why she asked for a ride home. She said her car was in for servicing.’ Papetti ran both hands across his scalp. ‘Or it really was. I don’t know.’ Then, fiercely, ‘I’m a fool.’

Brunetti said nothing.

Voice unsteady, Papetti said, ‘He’d kill me.’ Then he asked, ‘What else could I do?’

It seemed to Brunetti that he had passed his entire life hearing people ask that same question. Only once, about fifteen years ago, had a man who had strangled three prostitutes said, ‘I liked it when they screamed.’ Though it had chilled Brunetti’s blood to hear it then, and still did to remember it, the man had at least spoken the truth.

‘After you put the body in the water, what did you do, Signor Papetti?’ he asked, deciding there was no way to
prove
or disprove Papetti’s story. What was not in question was the woman’s power over him.

‘I went back to Piazzale Roma and got my car and went home.’

‘Have you seen Signorina Borelli since then?’

‘Yes. At the
macello
.’

‘Has either of you spoken about this?’

Puzzled, Papetti asked, ‘No, why should we?’

‘I see,’ Brunetti answered. Turning to Torinese, Brunetti said, ‘If you have anything to say to your client, Avvocato, my colleague and I can leave you here for a while.’

Torinese shook his head, then said, ‘No, I have nothing to say.’

‘Then I would like to ask Dottor Papetti,’ Brunetti went on, ‘to tell me something more about the way things work at the
macello
.’ Torinese, he noticed, was understandably surprised by his question. His client had just confessed to helping to dispose of the body of a murder victim, and the police wanted to know about his job. To prevent Papetti from wasting time and energy by looking surprised too, Brunetti said, ‘Certain suspicions have arisen about the safety of the meat being produced there.’

‘Suspicion is not the same thing as information,’ Torinese interjected, making one of those distinctions that earn lawyers hundreds of Euros an hour.

‘Thank you for that point of law, Avvocato,’ Brunetti answered.

The lawyer looked across at Brunetti as if in search of clarification. ‘Forgive me for being vulgar, Commissario, but am I correct in assuming that we are involved in a bargaining session here?’ Knowing his gesture would not appear on the tape, Brunetti gave a small nod. ‘In which case I would like to know what sort of an offer you might
be
making my client in return for whatever information he might have to give you.’

Brunetti had to compliment the man on the eloquence of his vagueness: ‘assuming’, ‘would like’, ‘might’, and ‘might’ again. For a moment, he considered decapitating Torinese and using his smoked head as a bookend, so perfect did he find his attention to the niceties of language. Casting away that thought, he said, ‘The only offer I can make is the continued goodwill of your client’s father-in-law.’