CB19 A Question of Belief (2010) (24 page)

‘No, it’s not much for anyone to work on, is it?’ Brunetti agreed. ‘I really called to tell you I miss you and the kids with all my heart and wish I were there.’

‘Get this settled and come up. We can always stay another week.’

‘And spoil the children?’ he asked with false horror.

‘And have a vacation,’ she corrected him. They exchanged
further pleasantries and Brunetti set the phone down feeling refreshed.

He began to run over his conversation with Signora Fulgoni. He had asked her to confirm when she and her husband had returned, and she had given him a time defined by the sounding of the midnight bell: few answers could be more precise. Then he had asked her how long they had been in the building, and her answer had been equally precise. It was when he asked her how they had found out about the apartment that her demeanour had changed.

‘Well, let’s just find out about that, shall we?’ he said out loud.

Vianello, whom Brunetti found in the squad room, assured him that it would be a relatively simple task to find information about the rental contract because he had recently learned how to access – in the use of that euphemism he betrayed Signorina Elettra as his teacher – the files of the Commune. Good as his word, and using the names of Puntera and the Fulgonis, he had the date of the contract within minutes as well as the number of the file at the Uffico di Registri where a copy of it could be found.

‘Do we have to go over there to find out how much rent they’re paying?’ Brunetti asked.

Vianello started to speak, hesitated, gave quite an embarrassed look, and said, ‘No, not really.’

‘I’m assuming the amount of the rent’s not in here,’ Brunetti said, tapping the screen with his fingernail.

‘No,’ Vianello said, then immediately corrected himself and said, ‘I mean yes.’

‘Which is it, Lorenzo?’ Brunetti asked.

‘It’s in the contract, certainly, but it wouldn’t be in the computer files of the Uffico di Registri.’

‘Then where would it be?’

‘In Fulgoni’s tax declarations.’

‘They’re in there, too?’ Brunetti asked with a friendly nod
in the direction of the computer, making it thus a metonym for information itself.

‘Yes.’

‘Well?’ Brunetti said, waving an impatient hand at the screen.

‘I don’t know how to get to them,’ Vianello confessed.

‘Ah,’ Brunetti said and went back to his office. In face of the likelihood that Patta was still in his office, Brunetti called Signorina Elettra and asked if she could check Pantera’s tax records and see what rent he was being paid for the three apartments in the
palazzo
on the Misericordia.

‘Nothing easier, Commissario,’ she said. He replaced the phone, fighting to prevent the casualness of her response from lessening his regard for Vianello.

He stared at the wall for a few moments and then called her back. When she answered, he said, ‘While you’re having a look at that information, could you see if there’s a list of his legal expenses and the names of any lawyers he’s paid money to in the last few years? And any fines he might have paid for any of his companies. Or damages in a legal case. In fact, anything that connects him to lawyers or the courts.’

‘Of course, Signore,’ she said, and Brunetti gave silent thanks that the heavens had blessed him with this modern Mercury who so effortlessly carried messages between him and what he had come to think of over the years as Cyber-Heaven. A man of his age, with the prejudices of a person raised on paper, he was deeply unsettled by the idea that so much personal and private information was electronically available to any person able to find the way to it. Of course, he was perfectly willing to profit from Signorina Elettra’s depredations, but that did not stop him from viewing her activities as just that: depredations.

Suddenly Brunetti was overcome by a wave of something approaching exhaustion. There was the heat, the solitude in which he was living, the need to defer to Patta in order to do
what he thought right, and then there was the bloodstain on the pavement of the courtyard, the blood of that good man, Fontana.

He left the Questura without speaking to anyone, took the Number One to San Silvestro, where he went into Antico Panificio and ordered a take-out pizza with hot sausage, ruccola, hot pepper, onion and artichokes, then went home and sat on the terrace and ate it while drinking two beers and reading Tacitus, the bleakness of whose vision of politics was the only thing he could tolerate in his current state. Then he went to bed and slept deeply and well.

When he arrived at the Questura the following morning, the officer on duty told Brunetti that Ispettore Vianello wanted to speak to him. In the squad room, Vianello stood talking to Zucchero, but the young officer moved away when he saw Brunetti come in.

‘What is it?’ Brunetti asked when he reached Vianello’s desk.

‘I’ve been calling the Fontanas in the phone book and one of them, Giorgio, said the dead man was his cousin. When I asked if we could go and talk to him, he said he’d rather come here.’

‘Did it sound like he had anything to tell us?’

Vianello made an open-handed gesture of uncertainty. ‘That’s all he said, that he’d come in now and talk to us.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘That you’d be here by nine.’

‘Good,’ Brunetti said. ‘Come up with me.’ Vianello’s phone rang, and at a nod from Brunetti, he answered it with his name. He listened a moment, then said, ‘Good. Would you show him the way up to Commissario Brunetti’s office, please.’

He hung up and said, ‘He’s here.’

Quickly, they went upstairs. Brunetti threw open the
windows, but that made little difference; the room remained sultry with trapped heat and stale air. A few minutes later, Zucchero knocked on the door jamb and said, ‘There’s a visitor for you, Commissario: Signor Fontana.’ He saluted neatly and stepped back.

Araldo Fontana had been described as a small, undistinguished man, as though he were a minor character in a dull novel. Brunetti had had a chance to see the real Fontana the day before, but cowardice – there is no better word for it – had kept him from asking Rizzardi to show him.

The man who came into Brunetti’s office looked like a character who had tried, and failed, to free himself from the pages of the same novel. He was of medium height, medium build, and had hair that was neither light nor dark brown, nor was there much of it. He stopped inside the door, stepped away from it quickly when Zucchero closed it behind him, and asked, ‘Commissario Brunetti?’

Brunetti walked over to shake his hand.

‘Giorgio Fontana,’ the man said. His grip was light and quickly gone. He looked at Vianello, then walked over and extended his hand to him. Vianello took it, saying, ‘We spoke before. I’m Vianello, the Commissario’s assistant.’

Vianello pointed to the chair beside his, then waited until the other man was seated before taking his own chair. Brunetti returned to his place behind his desk.

‘I’m very glad you came to speak to us, Signor Fontana,’ Brunetti said. ‘We’d begun a search for your cousin’s relatives, and you’re the first we’ve managed to contact.’ Brunetti spoke as though to suggest the police had already found the names, which was not the case. He gave what he hoped was a smile both grateful and gracious and said, ‘You’ve saved us time by coming to talk to us.’

Fontana moved his lips in something that might have been a smile. ‘I’m afraid I’m the only one,’ he said. Seeing their glances, he went on, ‘My father was Araldo’s father’s only
brother, and I’m his only child. So I’m all the family you have to look for,’ he concluded with a very small smile.

‘I see,’ said Brunetti. ‘Thank you for telling us. We’re grateful for any help you can give us.’

‘What sort of help?’ Fontana asked, almost as if he feared they were going to ask him for money.

‘Telling us about your cousin, his life, his work, any friends of his. Anything you think it might be important for us to know.’

Fontana gave his nervous smile again, looked back and forth between them, at his shoes, and then, eyes still lowered, asked, ‘Will this be in the papers?’

Brunetti and Vianello exchanged a quick glance; Vianello’s lips tightened in the half-grimace one gives at the discovery of something that might prove interesting.

‘Everything you tell us, Signore,’ Brunetti said in his most official voice, the one he used when it served his purposes to assert something other than what he knew to be the truth, ‘will be kept in strictest confidence.’

His reassurances caused no visible signs of relaxation in Fontana, and Brunetti began to suspect this was a man who did not know how to relax or, if he did, would not be capable of doing it in the presence of another person.

Fontana cleared his throat but said nothing.

‘I’ve spoken to your aunt, but in this painful time, it seemed unkind to ask her to speak about her son.’ Effortlessly, he transformed those things he had neglected to do into reality and said, ‘This afternoon, we have appointments with some of his friends.’

‘Friends?’ Fontana asked, as if uncertain about the meaning of the word.

‘The people who worked with him,’ Brunetti clarified.

‘Oh,’ Fontana said, averting his eyes.

‘Do you think colleagues would be a more accurate word, Signore?’ Vianello interrupted to ask.

‘Perhaps,’ Fontana finally said.

Brunetti asked, ‘Did he talk about the people he worked with?’ When Fontana did not answer the question, he said, ‘I’m afraid I have no idea how close you were to your cousin, Signor Fontana.’

‘Close enough,’ was the only response he got.

‘Did he talk about work with you, Signore?’ Brunetti asked.

‘No, not much.’

‘Could I ask you,’ Brunetti began with an easy smile, ‘what you did talk about, then?’

‘Oh, things, family things,’ was his sparse reply.

‘His family or yours?’ Vianello asked in a soft voice.

‘They’re the same family,’ Fontana said with some asperity.

Vianello leaned forward and smiled in Fontana’s direction. ‘Of course, of course. I meant did you talk about your side of the family or his?’

‘Both.’

‘Did he talk about your aunt, his mother?’ Brunetti asked, puzzled that they could have spent so much time talking about so small a family.

‘Seldom,’ Fontana said. His eyes moved back and forth between them, and he always looked at the person who asked him a question, attentive to him while he answered, as if he had been taught this as a child and it was the only way he knew how to behave.

‘Did he ever talk about himself?’ Brunetti asked in a voice he worked at keeping low and steady and warm with interest.

Fontana looked at Brunetti for a long time, as if searching for the trap or the trick that was sure to come. ‘Sometimes,’ he finally answered.

If they kept at it this way, Brunetti realized, they would still be here for the first snow, and Fontana would still be looking
back and forth between them. ‘Were you close?’ he finally asked.

‘Close?’ he repeated, as if he had already forgotten being asked this question.

‘In the way of friendship,’ Brunetti explained with no end of patience. ‘Could you talk openly to one another?’

At first Fontana stared at him, as if puzzled at this novel way for two men to interact. But after some thought he said, in a lower voice, ‘Yes.’

‘Did he talk about his private life with you?’ Brunetti asked, imitating the voice of the priest who had heard his first confession, decades ago. He thought he saw Fontana relax minimally and said, ‘Signor Fontana, we want to find who did this.’ Fontana nodded a few times, and Brunetti repeated, ‘Did he talk about his life?’

Fontana looked from Brunetti to Vianello and then he looked at his knees. ‘Yes,’ he said in a voice that was barely audible.

‘Is that why you’ve come to talk to us, Signor Fontana?’ Brunetti asked, wishing he had thought to ask this earlier.

Eyes still lowered, Fontana said, ‘Yes.’

Brunetti had no idea which part of Fontana’s life, personal or professional, could have caused his death, but no trace of this uncertainty was audible in his voice when he said, ‘Good. I think the reason for his death might be there.’

This was enough to encourage Fontana to remove his attention from his knees. He looked at Brunetti, who was struck by the sadness in his eyes. Fontana said, ‘So do I.’

‘Could you tell us about him, then, Signore?’ Brunetti asked.

‘He was a good man,’ Fontana began, surprising Brunetti by using the same words as Signora Zinka. ‘My uncle was a good man, and he raised Araldo that way.’ If Brunetti found it strange that Fontana did not mention his cousin’s mother, he kept it to himself.

‘We were always close when we were kids, maybe less so as we got older, but I guess that’s normal.’ It was said as a statement, but Brunetti sensed that it was really a question. Fontana took a breath and went on. ‘But then I married and had children. And things changed.’ Brunetti smiled at this and did not glance in Vianello’s direction. ‘I had less time for Araldo then.’

‘Did you still see him?’

‘Oh, of course. He’s the godfather of both of my children, and he took it seriously.’ Fontana paused and looked away from them, out the window at the roof of the Casa di Cura across the canal. It seemed to Brunetti that the mention of his children had strengthened Fontana; it had certainly strengthened his voice. Brunetti made no attempt to call his attention back.

They waited and, after some time, Fontana said, ‘He was homosexual, Araldo.’

Brunetti nodded, a nod that both acknowledged the remark and declared that the police already knew this.

Fontana reached into his pocket and brought out a cotton handkerchief. He wiped his face and put the handkerchief back. ‘He told me years ago, perhaps fifteen, perhaps more than that.’

‘Were you surprised?’ Brunetti asked.

‘I think I wasn’t,’ Fontana said. Absently, he glanced down at his lap and pinched the crease in his trousers, ran his fingers back and forth along it, though the gesture made no difference against the weight of humidity in the room, in the city. ‘No, I wasn’t. Not really,’ he corrected. ‘I’d thought for years that he was. Not that it mattered to me.’