The Girl of his Dreams Read online

  As he listened, Brunetti performed a similar reconstruction of events. Any unwatched street door was fair game to the gangs of thieves who roamed the city. Because they were minors, nothing could be done to them, and, if arrested, they were quickly returned to the care of their parents, or to the people presenting evidence that they were the parents. And then just as quickly the children were back at work.

  The classic means of forced entry was the screwdriver, and who would prosecute a child found with a screwdriver in her pocket? Once inside a building, they went to the apartments which, from the outside, had been shuttered or, at night, showed no light. Nothing but una porta blindata could stop them entering, and once inside nothing could prevent them from taking whatever they chose, though usually they limited themselves to money and gold. Wedding rings and watches.

  At the same time as one part of his mind was recalling all of this, another was drawing up a list of what had to be done: check the files to see if a child matching her description had ever been arrested; show her photo around the Questura and to the Carabinieri; have Foa check the tide charts to try to figure out where she might have gone into the water eight to ten hours before they found her. He knew it would probably be futile to find out whether anyone had reported a burglary the night of her death: most people didn't bother, and if someone had interrupted her, then they might have seen her go into the water, and that would make it certain they would not inform the police. The way to begin, then, was to trace the ring and the watch.

  Rizzardi was no longer speaking, though Brunetti had not noticed when he stopped. Suddenly annoyed with himself for avoiding what he knew he had to address, Brunetti said, 'You said there are signs of sexual activity. Could it be the ... could it be the ring?'

  'The ring didn't cause gonorrhoea’ the pathologist answered with troubling coolness. 'The lab hasn't had time to confirm the samples, but that's what it is. The results will be back in a few days, but you can be sure that's what they'll say.'

  'Is there any other way she ...' Brunetti began and let the sentence drift away.

  'None. The infection is pretty well established; it's the only way she could have got it.'

  'Can you tell when ... ?' began a reluctant Brunetti.

  Rizzardi cut him off. 'No.'

  After some time, Brunetti asked, 'Anything else?' 'No.'

  'Then thanks for calling, Ettore.' 'Let me know if ...' began an equally reluctant Rizzardi.

  'Yes. Of course’ Brunetti said and replaced the phone.

  He picked it up immediately and dialled the number of the officers' room. Pucetti answered. 'Go over to Rizzardi at the hospital and ask him for a bag with a ring and a watch. Make sure you sign a receipt for it. Take them down to Bocchese and let him check them for prints and anything else he can find on them, and then bring them up to me.'

  'Yes, sir’ the young officer said.

  'Before you go to the hospital, go down to Bocchese and ask him to send me the photos of the head and face of the girl who drowned. And tell Dottor Rizzardi that I'd like to see any photos he took. That's all.'

  'Yes, sir’ Pucetti said and was gone.

  Brunetti's mind suddenly filled with a scene from The Trojan Women: the Greek - what was his name, Tal-some-thing? - bringing the shattered body of little Astyanax to his grandmother. As the soldiers with the boy's body passed by the River Scamander, the soldier tells Hecuba, he had let the waters run over the child's body to clean his wounds. What was it she says to him? 'A little child like this made you afraid. The fear that comes when reason goes away' But what to fear from this girl?

  Impatience struck him, and he went downstairs to get the photos from Bocchese.

  Before taking the photos back to his office, Brunetti stopped and asked Vianello to come with him, explaining to him on the way everything that Rizzardi had told him and talking about what they had to do now. Back at his desk, Brunetti opened the file of photos that the technician had given him and they saw again the face of the dead child.

  There were more than twenty photos, and in all of them she lay like the princess in a fairy tale, a halo of tangled golden hair radiating out from her face. That, however, was only a first impression and quickly gone, for it was then the viewer observed the paving stones on which the princess lay and the ratty, greying cotton cardigan bunched around her neck. One photo showed the tip of a black rubber boot; another caught a single moss-covered step, a crushed cigarette packet in one corner. No prince was coming here.

  'Her eyes were light, weren't they?' Vianello asked as he set down the last photo.

  ‘I think so,' Brunetti answered.

  'I suppose we should have realized; from the long skirt, if from nothing else,' Vianello said. He wrapped his arms around his chest and stood, looking at the photos on Brunetti's desk. 'There's no way of knowing, though, whether she is or she isn't,' he added.

  'Isn't what?'

  'A Gypsy’ Vianello said.

  Voice coloured by his lingering irritation at the pathologist's words, Brunetti answered, 'Rizzardi said we were supposed to call them Rom.'

  'Oh. How very correct of the doctor.'

  Regretting that he had said anything, Brunetti changed the subject. 'If no one's reported a burglary’ which had been the case when Brunetti stopped in the squad room downstairs, 'then either the people haven't discovered it yet or, just as easily, they did discover the break-in and chose not to report it.'

  Vianello interrupted before Brunetti could add another possibility, saying, 'No one reports a burglary any more.'

  Both men had spent their professional lives working for the police and thus had long ago learned the sovereign truth of crime statistics: to the degree that the process of reporting a crime is made difficult and time-consuming, the numbers of reported crimes will diminish.

  Brunetti ignored Vianello's remark and stated the next possibility: 'Or they discovered her at it, frightened her off, and saw her fall.'

  Vianello turned his head quickly away and stared out of the window of Brunetti's office.

  'Well?' Brunetti asked. Its unpleasantness in no way diminished its likelihood.

  'There were no marks on her body?' Vianello asked.

  'No. Rizzardi didn't mention any'

  Vianello considered this for a long time and then asked, 'Do you want to say it or do you want me to?'

  Brunetti shrugged. He was the superior officer, so it was probably his responsibility to give voice to the last possibility. 'Or they discovered her at it and pushed her off the roof.'

  Vianello nodded and remained silent. 'In either of the last cases, they'd never call us,' the Inspector finally said. 'So what do we do?'

  'We see if there's any way to identify the owner of the watch and the ring, and then we go and talk to them.'

  ‘I’ll go down and ask Foa about the tides,' Vianello said and left to do that.

  16

  Vianello was back quickly, explaining that Foa had had no need to consult a map. If the girl had gone into the water any time around midnight and had been found in front of Palazzo Benzon before nine, then it was most likely that she had gone in somewhere along Rio de Cá Corner or Rio di San Luca or, more likely, Rio di Cá Michiel, which ran right alongside the palazzo. The tides had been very low the previous night, and so the body would not have travelled far in the time it was in the water. The pilot had also explained that, if no damage was visible on the body, then it was unlikely that it had floated into the heavier traffic in the centre of the canal and all but impossible that it had floated across from the San Polo side.

  Vianello had no sooner finished repeating all of this than Pucetti came in, carrying more photos in a folder and a small envelope with the ring and the pocket watch. He handed them to Brunetti, saying, 'Bocchese said the only things on these are smudges that are probably from the girl. Nothing else.'

  Brunetti opened the folder and was relieved to see that it contained photos only of the girl's head and face. Her hair had been brushed back,
and in one photo her eyes were open: a deep emerald green. Not only years, but great beauty, had been stolen from her.

  He opened the envelope and slid the ring and watch out on to the desk. Judging by the size, the ring was a man's, a broad gold band with a tiny hatching pattern around both edges. 'Hand-made, I'd say,' offered Vianello.

  He held it up to the light and looked inside. 'GF - OV, 25’10’84.'

  'How does it open?' Pucetti asked, nodding toward the watch, which he did not touch. A few grains of Bocchese's black dusting powder had fallen from it on to Brunetti's desk.

  Brunetti picked it up and pressed the knob on the top. Nothing happened. He turned the watch over and saw a tiny flange on the edge, then prised the back open with his fingernail. In a delicate italic script was written, 'Per Giorgio, con amore, Orsola.' The date was 25’10’94.

  'Well, it lasted at least ten years’ observed Vianello.

  'Let's hope they got married here’ Brunetti said, reaching for the phone. As indeed they had. Giorgio Fornari had married Orsola Vivarini on the twenty-fifth of October 1984.

  Vianello took the phone book and flipped to the Fs. He quickly found a Giorgio Fornari, but the address was in Dorsoduro. Looking iip, he said, 'Whatever happened, it didn't happen there, did it?' Before either of them could answer, he flipped to the back of the book and checked the Vs. 'Nothing.'

  ‘Pucetti’ Brunetti said, turning to the young officer. Take the photos downstairs and see if anyone recognizes her. If not, or even if someone does, take them over to the Carabinieri and see if you can get anything from them’ Brunetti knew that photos were taken of the children who were arrested for burglary, but since regulations demanded that the photos be sent to the Ministry of the Interior, the local police were left with no visual record save memory by which to identify repeat offenders.

  When the younger man was gone, Brunetti said, 'I think we should go over to Dorsoduro and see how Signor Fornari lost his watch and his wedding ring.' He glanced at his own watch and saw that, if they left now and walked along the riva to the traghetto at San Marco, they would be there before lunchtime. Before they left the Questura, however, Brunetti checked the address in Colli, Campielli, e Canali and located the building at the end of Fondamenta Venier.

  By the time they reached Ponte del Vin, they found themselves encased in people walking in the direction of the Piazza or strolling towards them from it. On the top of the bridge, Vianello gazed at the sea of heads and shoulders in front of them. ‘I can't’ he whispered. Brunetti turned and led them back towards the imbarcadero and the boat that would take them to the San Zaccaria stop.

  Despite their change of direction, the tide continued to sweep around them: comment was superfluous. When they reached the imbarcadero, they found that the snake of people waiting for the boat extended all the way back to the riva. Without hesitation, both men walked around to the right and up to the metal chain blocking entry.

  Immediately they were approached by a hatchet-faced blonde dressed in jeans so tight they seemed to put her breathing, if not her life, at risk.

  'This is an exit,' she said in a shrill voice, shooing her hands at them in a flutter of exasperation. 'And you'll block the people who want to get off.'

  'This is a police warrant card,' Vianello said, producing it from his pocket and stepping over the chain to show it to her, 'and you're blocking the police in the performance of their duties.' She acknowledged no defeat, but whatever she said was drowned as the engine of the approaching vaporetto slipped into reverse. She wheeled around and stood, hands on hips in front of them, as though afraid they would try to slip on to the boat while the arriving passengers were still trying to get off.

  They waited patiently, and when the flood from the boat ebbed, she had to move away to unhook the chain that blocked the waiting passengers. They walked on board with them.

  As the boat pulled away from the landing, Brunetti nudged Vianello with his elbow and said, 'Resistance to an officer in performance of his duties. Three-year suspended sentence if it was a first offence.'

  'I'd make it five’ Vianello said. 'For the jeans if for nothing else.'

  'Ah’ Brunetti sighed with mock exaggeration, 'where have they gone, those good old days when we could intimidate anyone we wanted to?'

  Vianello laughed out loud. ‘I think having this many people around all the time makes me bad tempered.'

  'Get used to it, then.'

  'To what?' Vianello asked.

  'Bad temper, because it's just going to get worse. Last year sixteen million, this year twenty: God alone knows what it'll be like in a year’

  Talking about this and saying the things each of them had said a hundred times, they passed the time until the vaporetto pulled up at the Zattere stop. It was not yet twelve, so they decided to see if they could find Fornari before they thought about lunch.

  The day had softened, and the walk along the Zattere smothered them in light and beauty. Vianello, who appeared not to have freed himself of the weight of all those tourists, asked, 'What do we do when the Chinese start coming?'

  'They already have, I think.'

  'Part of the twenty million?' Seeing Brunetti's nod, Vianello added, 'Then what do we do when there are twenty million of them, plus the others?'

  ‘I don't know,' Brunetti said, letting his eyes feast on the facade of the Redentore on the far side of the canal, 'Ask for a transfer, I suppose.'

  After considering this possibility, Vianello asked, 'Could you live anywhere else?'

  By way of answer, Brunetti nodded with his chin at the church across the canal. 'No more than you, Lorenzo’ he answered.

  They cut to the left before the ex-Swiss Consulate, then right, and into Calle de Mezo, and then they were there. Only there was no there there. That is, Signor Fornari and his wife, though they did indeed own the apartment on the third floor, did not live in it. Or so they were informed by the woman who owned the apartment two floors down, whose bell they rang when they saw that neither Fornari nor Vivarini was listed on the bells beside the front door.

  French people lived there now, she informed them, as though Signor Fornari had rented the place to a pack of marauding Visigoths. He and his wife lived now in her mother's apartment, had been there ever since the old Signora had had to be put into the Casa di Dio six years ago. Lovely people, yes, Signora Orsola and Signor Giorgio, he selling kitchens and she running the family business: sugar. And such lovely children, Matteo and Ludovica, both of them so beautiful, and .. ‘

  Before she could continue, perhaps, with praise of the next generation, Brunetti asked if she by any chance had the phone number and address of Signor Fornari. This conversation took place entirely between the woman at her front window and Brunetti standing on the pavement below, and was open to anyone who passed by or who chose to open a window in any of the nearby buildings. At no time did the woman enquire who the Veneziano-speaking man was, nor did she display any reluctance in giving him both the address and phone number of Giorgio Fornari and his wife.

  'San Marco,' Vianello repeated as they turned away from the closing window. Impatient, the Inspector dialled Pucetti and asked him to check where the address was. While they waited for the young officer to locate it, the two men continued to walk towards Cantinone Storico, having decided it was the best bet for lunch.

  Vianello stopped walking. He pressed the phone closer to his ear, muttered something Brunetti did not hear, then thanked Pucetti and snapped the phone closed. 'It looks like the building backs on to Rio di Ca Michiel,' Vianello said.

  Because they were in a hurry, they decided not to have pasta and settled for a single dish of shrimp with vegetables and coriander. They shared a bottle of Gottardi pinot noir, turned down dessert, and finished with coffee. Feeling full but still faintly unsatisfied, Brunetti and Vianello walked out to the Accademia. Crossing the bridge, they discussed things other than what they might expect at the address they were heading towards. By unspoken agreement, they ignored the
rows of vu cumprà who lined the steps of the bridge on both sides, confining their discussion to the sorry state of the surface of the steps and the growing need for repair or replacement of many of them.

  'You think they deliberately choose materials that will wear out quickly?' Vianello asked, pointing down at one of the gaps in the surface beneath them.

  'Humidity and millions of feet are just as sure to do the job for them, I think’ Brunetti said, knowing as he spoke that, however true, this explanation in no way excluded the other.

  Talking idly, they crossed in front of the people seated at Paolin, eating the first gelati of springtime, turned left and wove their way back towards the canal. At the end of a narrow calk that led down to the Grand Canal, they rang the bell marked Fornari.

  'Si?' a woman's voice enquired.

  ‘Is this the home of Giorgio Fornari?' Brunetti asked in Italian, rather than Veneziano.

  'Yes, it is. What do you want?'

  "This is Commissario Guido Brunetti, of the police, Signora. I'd like to speak to Signor Fornari.'

  'What's wrong?' she asked with that involuntary intake of breath he had heard many times.

  'Nothing, Signora. I'd like to speak to Signor Fornari.'

  'He's not here.'

  'May I ask who you are, Signora?' 'His wife’

  'Then perhaps I could speak to you?' 'What is this about?' she asked with mounting impatience.

  'Some missing property’ he said. After a moment's silence, she said, 'I don't understand.'

  'Perhaps I could come up and explain it to you, Signora’ Brunetti suggested.

  'All right’ she said. A moment later the latch on the front door snapped open.

  'Take the lift’ the woman's voice came from the speaker beside them. 'Top floor.'

  The lift was a tiny wooden box which held them with room to spare for a third person, a very thin third person. In mid-passage, the box gave a sudden small jerk, and Brunetti turned aside in surprise. He saw two grim-faced men looking as startled as he felt, then recognized himself and Vianello, who met his eyes in the mirror on the side wall.