Drawing Conclusions (3 page)

He glanced at the buildings on his right, just opposite the apse. The shadowy form of a woman stood outlined in the light from a window on the fourth floor of one of them. Resisting the impulse to raise his hand to her, Brunetti went over to the building. The number was nowhere evident on the façade, but her name was on the top bell.

He rang it and the door snapped open almost immediately, suggesting that she had gone to the door at the sight of a man walking into the
campo
. Brunetti had been the solitary walker at this hour, tourists apparently evaporated, everyone else at home and in bed, so the odd man out had to be the policeman.

He walked up the steps, past the shoes and the papers: to a Venetian, this amoeba-like tendency to expand one’s territory beyond the confines of the walls of an apartment seemed so entirely natural as barely to merit notice.

As he turned into the last ramp of stairs, he heard a woman’s voice ask from above him, ‘Are you the police?’

‘
Sì
, Signora,’ he said, reaching for his warrant card and stifling the impulse to tell her she should be more prudent about whom she let into the building. When he reached the landing, she took a half-step forward and put out her hand.

‘Anna Maria Giusti,’ she said.

‘Brunetti,’ he answered, taking her hand. He showed her the card, but she gave it the barest glance. He estimated she was in her early thirties, tall and lanky, with an aristocratic nose and dark brown eyes. Her face was stiff with tension or tiredness; he guessed that, in repose, it would soften into something approaching beauty. She drew him towards her and into the apartment, then dropped his hand and took a step back from him. ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said. She looked around and behind him to verify that no one else had come.

‘My assistant and the others are on their way, Signora,’ Brunetti said, making no attempt to advance farther into the apartment. ‘While we wait for them, could you tell me what happened?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, bringing her hands together just at her waist in a visual cliché of confusion, the sort of gesture women made in the movies of the fifties to show their distress. ‘I got home from vacation about an hour ago, and when I went down to Signora Altavilla’s apartment, I found her there. She was dead.’

‘You’re sure?’ Brunetti asking, thinking it might upset her less if he asked it that way rather than asking her to describe what she had seen.

‘I touched the back of her hand. It was cold,’ she said. She pressed her lips together. Looking at the floor, she went on. ‘I put my fingers under her wrist. To feel her pulse. But there was nothing.’

‘Signora, when you called, you said there was blood.’

‘On the floor near her head. When I saw it, I came up here to call you.’

‘Anything else, Signora?’

She raised a hand and waved it towards the staircase behind him, as if pointing to things in the one below. ‘The front door was open.’ Seeing his surprise, she quickly clarified this by saying, ‘Unlocked, that is. Closed, but unlocked.’

‘I see,’ Brunetti said. He was silent for some time and then asked, ‘Could you tell me how long you’ve been away, Signora?’

‘Five days. I went to Palermo on Wednesday, last week, and just got home tonight.’

‘Thank you,’ Brunetti said, then asked solicitously, ‘Were you with friends, Signora?’

The look she shot him showed just how bright she was and how much the question offended her.

‘I want to exclude things, Signora,’ he said in his normal voice.

Her own voice was a bit louder, her pronunciation clearer, when she said, ‘I stayed in a hotel, the Villa Igiea. You can check their records.’ She looked away from him in what Brunetti thought might be embarrassment. ‘Someone else paid the bill, but I was registered there.’

Brunetti knew this could be easily checked and so asked only, ‘You went into Signora Altavilla’s apartment to …?’

‘To get my post.’ She turned and walked into the room behind her, a large open space with a peaked ceiling that indicated the room had – how many centuries before? – originally been an attic. Brunetti, following her in, glanced up at the twin skylights, hoping to see the stars beyond them, but all he saw was the light reflected from below.

At a table she picked up a piece of paper. Brunetti took it from her outstretched hand: he recognized the beige receipt for a registered letter. ‘I had no idea what it could be and thought it might be something important,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to find out, so I went down to see if the letter was there.’

In response to Brunetti’s inquisitive glance, she continued. ‘If I’m away, she gets my post, and then leaves it out when I come home, or I go down and get it from her.’

‘And if she’s not there when you get home?’ Brunetti asked.

‘She gave me the keys, and I go in to get it.’ She turned to face the windows, beyond which Brunetti saw the illuminated apse of the church. ‘So I went down and let myself in. And the letters were where she always put them: on a table in the entrance.’ She ran out of things to say, but Brunetti waited.

‘And then I went and looked in the front room. No reason, really – but there was a light on – she always turns them out when she leaves a room – and I thought maybe she hadn’t
heard me. Though that doesn’t make any sense, does it? And I saw her. And touched her hand. And saw the blood. And then I came back up here and called you.’

‘Would you like to sit down, Signora?’ Brunetti asked, indicating a wooden chair that stood against the nearest wall.

She shook her head, but at the same time took a step towards it. She sat down heavily, then gave in to weakness and leaned against the back. ‘It’s terrible. How could anyone …’

Before she could finish her question, the doorbell rang. He went to the speaker phone and heard Vianello announce himself, saying he was with Dottor Rizzardi. Brunetti pushed the button to release the downstairs door and replaced the phone. To the seated woman he said, ‘The others are here, Signora.’ Then, because he had to ask, he said, ‘Is the door locked?’

She looked up at him, confusion spread across her face. ‘What?’

‘The door downstairs. To the apartment. Is it locked?’

She shook her head two, three times and seemed so unconscious of the gesture that he was relieved when she stopped it. ‘I don’t know. I had the keys.’ She searched the pockets of her jacket but found no keys. She looked at him, confused. ‘I must have left them downstairs, on top of the post.’ She closed her eyes, then, after a moment, said, ‘But you can go in. The door doesn’t lock on its own.’ Then she raised a hand to catch his attention. ‘She was a good neighbour,’ she said.

Brunetti thanked her and went downstairs to find the others.

Brunetti found Vianello and Rizzardi waiting in front of the door to the apartment. Vianello and he exchanged nods, having seen one another only that afternoon, and Brunetti shook hands with the pathologist. As always, the doctor was turned out like an English gentleman emerging from his club. He wore a dark blue pinstripe suit with the conspicuously invisible signs of hand tailoring. His shirt looked as though he had put it on while starting up the stairs to the apartment, and his tie was what Brunetti vaguely classified as ‘regimental’, though he had no certain idea of what that meant.

Though he knew the doctor had recently returned from a vacation in Sardinia, Brunetti thought Rizzardi looked tired, which he found unsettling. But how to ask a doctor about his health?

‘Good to see you, Ettore,’ he said. ‘How …’ Brunetti started to ask, quickly changing his question to the less intrusive, ‘… was your vacation?’

‘Busy. Giovanna and I had planned to spend our time on the beach, under an umbrella, reading and looking at the sea.
But at the last minute Riccardo asked if we’d like to take the grandkids with us, and we couldn’t say no, so we had an eight-year-old and a six-year-old.’ Brunetti saw pass across his face the look common to people who had suffered violent assault. ‘I’d forgotten what it’s like to have children around.’

‘And there went sitting under the umbrella and reading and looking at the sea, I assume,’ Brunetti said.

Rizzardi smiled and shrugged it away. ‘We both loved it, but I feel better if I pretend we didn’t.’ Then, idle chat over, the doctor adjusted his tone and asked, ‘What is it?’

‘The woman upstairs came home from vacation, didn’t find her post left out for her, so she came down and let herself in to look for it and found the woman in the apartment dead.’

‘And she called the police and not the hospital?’ Vianello interrupted.

‘She said she saw blood: that’s what made her call,’ Brunetti explained.

The door, Brunetti noticed, was an old-fashioned wooden one with a horizontal metal handle, the type of door seldom seen any more in this theft-beleaguered city. Though Signora Giusti’s entry would certainly have damaged or destroyed any fingerprints on the handle, Brunetti was still careful to open it by pressing his open palm against the end of the handle to push it down.

Entering, he saw a table against the wall to his left, with a set of keys lying on top of some envelopes. Light came in from an open door on his right and from another at the end of the corridor, at the front of the apartment. He walked to the first of them and leaned into the room, but all he saw was a simple bedroom with a single bed and a chest of drawers.

Habit made him open the door on the opposite side of the corridor, careful again to touch only the end of the handle. Enough light filtered past him for Brunetti to see a smaller room with another single bed, a bedside table next to it, and a low chest of drawers. The door to a bathroom stood ajar.

He turned and continued towards the room at the end of the corridor, vaguely conscious that the other men were glancing into the rooms as he had. Inside, the woman lay on her right side, back to him, blocking the door with the side of her foot, one arm outstretched, the other trapped beneath her. She looked no bigger than a child; surely she couldn’t weigh fifty kilos. There was a patch of blood a bit smaller than a compact disc, dry and dark now, on the floor beside her and partially covered by her head. Brunetti stood and took in the short white hair, the dark blue cardigan made of thick cashmere, the collar of a yellow shirt, and the thin sliver of gold on her ring finger.

Brunetti considered himself the least superstitious of men and took pride in his intense respect for reason and good sense and all the virtues he associated with the proper functioning of the mind. This, however, in no way prevented him from accepting the possibility of less tangible phenomena – he had never been able to find a clearer way to express it. Something that, though unseen, left traces. He felt those traces here: this was a troubled death. Not necessarily violent or criminal: only troubled. He sensed it, though vaguely and fleetingly, and as soon as the sensation rose to the level of conscious thought, it vanished, to be dismissed as nothing more than a stronger than usual response to the sight of sudden death.

He quickly scanned the room and registered furniture, two floor lamps, a row of windows, but his intense awareness of the woman at his feet made it difficult for him to concentrate on anything else.

He returned to the corridor. There was no sign of Vianello, but the pathologist waited a few steps away. ‘She’s in here, Ettore,’ Brunetti said. As the doctor approached, Brunetti was distracted by the sound of footsteps from below. He heard men’s voices, a deep one followed by a lighter tone, and then a door closed.

The footsteps continued towards the apartment, and then Marillo, the assistant lab technician, appeared at the open door, two men close behind him carrying the cases of their trade. Marillo, a tall, thin Lombard who seemed incapable of understanding anything save the simple, literal truth of any statement or situation, greeted Brunetti then came into the apartment, moving forward to allow his own men to enter behind him. The last man closed the door and Marillo said, ‘Man downstairs wanted to know what all the noise was about.’

Brunetti greeted the men, but when he turned back to where Rizzardi had been, he realized the pathologist had gone into the other room. He told the men Vianello would tell them where to begin photographing and dusting for prints. He found Rizzardi bent over the woman’s body, his hands carefully stuffed into the pockets of his trousers. He stood upright as Brunetti approached and said, ‘It could have been a heart attack. Perhaps a stroke.’

Brunetti pointed silently to the small circle of blood, and Rizzardi, who had been in the room long enough to take a careful look around, pointed in his turn to a radiator that stood below a window not far from where the woman lay.

‘She could have fallen against it,’ Rizzardi said. ‘I’ll have a better idea when I can turn her over.’ He took a step back from the woman’s body. ‘So let’s get them to take the photos, all right?’ he asked.

With any other doctor, Brunetti might have lost patience at his refusal to read the bloodstain as a sign of violence, but he was familiar with Rizzardi’s insistence that he concern himself only with the immediately evident physical cause of death and only when he saw it or could prove it for himself. On occasion, Brunetti had managed to get the doctor to speculate, but it was no easy task.

Brunetti allowed his attention to drift away from the doctor and the woman at his feet. The room seemed to be in order save for two sofa cushions on the floor and a leather-bound
book lying face down beside them. There was a wardrobe, but both doors were closed.

The photographer entered, saying, ‘Marillo and Bobbio are dusting for prints, so I came down here to do her first.’ He walked past Brunetti, towards the body, right hand fiddling with a knob on his camera.

Brunetti left him to it. He heard the low murmur of Rizzardi’s voice behind him but ignored it as he walked back along the corridor.

In the larger bedroom, Vianello, wearing thin plastic gloves, stood in front of the open drawers of the chest. He was leaning forward to examine some papers that lay on the top of the chest. As Brunetti watched, Vianello slid the top sheet to the side with the tip of his finger, then read the one below before shifting it aside to read the last one.