The Girl of his Dreams Read online

  Pucetti had done as told and had shown the photos of the dead girl to his colleagues downstairs; he had left copies of the photos at the Carabinieri station at San Zaccaria, asking that they be circulated to see if anyone recognized her. As he spoke, he placed the folder with the remaining photos on his superior's desk.

  When the younger man had stopped talking, Brunetti asked, 'But no one recognized her?'

  'No one here, not yet. I put two of the photos on the noticeboard’ Pucetti said. 'One of the Carabinieri over at San Zaccaria said he thought she'd been brought in there about a month ago, but he wasn't sure. He said he'd check the records and talk to the men who filed the report.'

  'Let's hope he does it,' remarked Vianello, who had greater experience of the Carabinieri and their ways.

  'I think he will,' protested Pucetti. 'The fact that it's a child seemed to bother him. Seemed to bother everyone I spoke to, in fact.'

  Glances passed between the three men.

  'You going to speak to her son?' Vianello asked, reminding Brunetti that the boy had still to be questioned to corroborate his mother's story.

  'She wouldn't risk that,' Brunetti said, not certain why he knew this but no less certain about it for that.

  'Commissario,' Pucetti began in a tentative voice, 'may I ask something?' At his superior's nod, the young officer continued, 'You sound, at least from what I've heard you say, like you think this Vivarini woman is guilty of something, or trying to hide something.'

  Brunetti resisted the urge to pat Pucetti on the shoulder, nor did he smile. 'Signora Vivarini said she didn't notice that anything was missing. A wedding ring, a pocket watch, a pair of cuff links, and another ring.'

  Pucetti listened attentively, filing away what Brunetti said.

  'She was surprised when the police showed up, I think genuinely.' Pucetti nodded, adding this to his information. 'And as anyone would be expected to be,' Brunetti added, and Pucetti nodded again.

  Brunetti toyed with the idea of asking Pucetti to comment on this, to tell them what he thought, but he resisted the temptation and continued. 'At no time during our conversation - and Vianello and I were in her house for at least half an hour - did she think to ask about the child who was pulled out of the water near her home’

  'Does that mean you suspect her of that?' Pucetti asked, unable to stop his astonished emphasis of the last word.

  'No,' Brunetti said. 'But she didn't ask about the child, even when I told her we found the objects in the possession of someone we were investigating. That's why I'm suspicious.'

  The first expression Brunetti saw flash across Pucetti's face was akin to dislike, and he was surprised at how much it offended him to see it there. But the younger man shook his head, glanced at his feet for some time, then came up with a smiling face. 'She should have, shouldn't she?'

  Brunetti glanced across at Vianello and was relieved to see that he was smiling, too. The Inspector said to Pucetti, 'Little kid drowns in front of your house, and then the police show up, asking about things that have gone missing. Seems to me that, if the cops are there for half an hour, you'd have enough time to begin to wonder if maybe there's some sort of connection between the two things. After all, it's not as if people drown here every day, is it?'

  'But what connection are you looking for?' Pucetti asked.

  Brunetti raised his eyebrows, tilting his chin to one side to suggest endless possibilities. 'It could be nothing but coincidence. We've got the advantage that we know the girl had the ring and the watch, so we know that she was in the house. Signora Vivarini doesn't necessarily have to know the girl was there, so she might not see the connection, but it's still strange that she didn't ask about her’

  'That's all?' Pucetti asked.

  'For the moment, yes,' Brunetti answered.

  18

  Later in the same day on which Pucetti had distributed the photos of the Gypsy girl, Brunetti found himself at his desk, the file with the remaining photos placed consciously to one side, as if that would help him to put them to the back of his mind. Almost with relief, he heard someone knock on his door and called, 'Avanti.'

  Signorina Elettra entered, saying, 'Do you have a moment, Commissario?'

  'Of course, of course,' he said, gesturing to a chair.

  She closed the door and crossed the room, and sat down, crossing her legs. She carried no papers, but her posture suggested she planned to be there for some time.

  'Yes, Signorina?' Brunetti said with an easy smile.

  'I've done what you asked, Dottore, and been busy finding out about that priest.

  'Which one?' he asked.

  'Ah, there's only one: Padre Antonin’ she answered, then, before he could enquire, she added, 'The other one, Leonardo Mutti, is a member of no religious order, at least not one that has the sanction of the Vatican.'

  'May I ask how you discovered this?'

  'It was easy enough to get his date and place of birth: he's resident here, so all I had to do was check the files at the Comune.' A minimal gesture of her right hand indicated the surpassing ease of this. 'And then all my friend had to do was run his name and date of birth through their files.' She paused here to add, 'The recordkeeping at the Vatican is a marvel: they keep track of everything.'

  Brunetti nodded.

  'There's no sign of anyone called Leonardo Mutti either as a member of the regular clergy or in any recognized order of monks or priests.'

  'Recognized?'

  'My friend tells me they've got files on all of the acknowledged orders - that is, the ones they control -as well as on some of the fringe groups - those Lefevre lunatics and people like that - but Mutti's name doesn't appear as a member of any of them, either.'

  'Were you able to check those records yourself?' Brunetti asked, more from politeness than from any clear understanding of what this might entail.

  'Ah, no,' she said, hand raised to wave off the very thought. "They're too good for me. I told you, they're a marvel: it's almost impossible to get into their system. Only with the proper authorization.'

  'I see,' he said, as though he did. 'And Antonin? What did your friend find out about him?'

  'That he was removed from his parish in Africa four years ago and sent to some small town in Abruzzo, but then it looks like some strings got pulled for him, and he ended up here, chaplain in the hospital’ 'What sort of strings?'

  'I don't know, and he couldn't find out. But Antonin was in what you might call internal exile for a year or so before he was transferred here.' When Brunetti remained silent, she said, 'Usually, when they're sent back like that - under a cloud, as it were - they stay where they've been sent for far longer, often for the rest of their careers.'

  'Why was he removed?' Brunetti asked.

  'He was accused of running a scam’ she said, then added, 'I should have told you that to begin with, I suppose.'

  'What sort of scam?'

  'The usual thing they do in Africa and in lots of the missions in the Third World: letters back home, telling how great the need for help is, how little they have, and how poor the people are.' To Brunetti it sounded so very much like the letters Antonin had sent to Sergio.

  'But Padre Antonin's mission moved into the modern age’ she said with something like admiration in her voice. 'He set up a website with photos of his jungle parish and his happy congregation filing into church for Mass. And the new school that had been built with donors' money’ She tilted her chin and asked, 'When you were a boy, Signore, did you get to ransom babies?'

  'Ransom?'

  'With the little cardboard collection box that you put your pocket money in, and the money went to ransom a pagan baby and save him for Jesus?'

  ‘I think they had them at school, but my father wouldn't let me give them anything’ Brunetti said.

  'We had them, too,' she said, failing to say whether she had or had not contributed to the salvation of pagan souls for Jesus. There was something she wasn't telling him; he had no idea what it was, b
ut he had no doubt that it would soon be revealed. 'Padre Antonin used the same tactic on his website’ she explained. 'By sending money to a bank account, you could pay for the education of a child for one year.'

  Brunetti, who had a number of Indian orphans in his fiscal care, found himself growing uncomfortable.

  'He spoke of education and vocational training, not about religion, at least on the website’ she explained. Then, before he could ask, she said, ‘I suppose he assumed that people who consulted a website would be more interested in education than in religion.'

  'Perhaps’ Brunetti said, then asked, 'And?'

  'And then the whole thing blew up when someone looking at the website noticed that the photos of Antonin's happy congregation were also used on the site of a school run by some bishop in Kenya. Not only that, but the pious stories of hope and faith were the same, as well.' She smiled. ‘I suppose they thought there would be no ecclesiastical cross-checking, if I might call it that.' Then, her cynicism slipping through, she asked, 'Besides, all Black people look alike, don't they?'

  Ignoring this last, Brunetti enquired, 'What happened?'

  'The person who noticed it was a journalist working on an article about these missionary groups.'

  'A journalist with or without sympathy?' Brunetti asked.

  'Luckily for Antonin, with.' 'And so?'

  'And so he reported it to someone at the Vatican, who had a quiet word with Antonin's bishop, and Padre Antonin found himself suddenly transferred to Abruzzo.'

  'And the money?'

  'Ah, here it becomes interesting,' she said. 'It turns out that Antonin had nothing to do with the money: it all went to an account his bishop had set up in his own name, along with a percentage of the money raised by the bishop in Kenya who was using Antonin's photos. Antonin never had any idea how much money they raised: he didn't care so long as they had enough to run the school and feed the children.' She smiled at the simplicity of the man.

  'He served as a kind of front man, I suppose you could say,' she went on. 'He was European, had contacts in Italy, knew people here who could design a website, and he knew how to appeal to people's generosity.' She smiled again, a cooler smile. 'If it hadn't been for the journalist, he'd probably still be there, saving souls for Jesus.'

  Indignant, as much for Antonin as because of what his initial response to the story revealed about his own prejudices, Brunetti said, 'Didn't he protest? He was innocent.'

  'Poverty. Chastity. Obedience’ She paused after each word. 'It seems Antonin takes them all seriously. So he obeyed the command of Rome and came back, did his job in Abruzzo. But then it seems someone found out what had really happened - the journalist probably told someone - and Antonin was sent here.'

  'Has he told anyone the truth?' Brunetti asked.

  She shrugged. 'He does his job, takes care of the people in the hospital, buries the dead.'

  'And tries to stop people from being caught up in similar scams?' Brunetti ventured.

  'So it would seem’ she said reluctantly, preferring, regardless of the evidence, to keep her suspicions of the clergy intact. She leaned forward and began to get to her feet. 'Do you want me to continue looking into Leonardo Mutti?'

  Though Brunetti's best instincts warned him not to waste more time on this, he now felt he owed Antonin a favour. 'Yes, please. Antonin kept insisting that he was from Umbria, so perhaps you could see if you can find anything there.'

  'Yes, Commissario’ she said, finally getting to her feet. 'Vianello told me about the little girl. Terrible.'

  Did she mean the death, or the disease, or the fact that she probably died while robbing an apartment, or that no one had come to claim her? Rather than answer this, Brunetti said, ‘I can't get rid of the sight of her.'

  'Vianello said the same, sir’ she said. 'Perhaps it will be better when it's settled.'

  'Yes. Perhaps’ Brunetti replied. When he said no more, she left his office and went back to her own.

  Three days later, a phone call from the Carabinieri substation at San Zaccaria was transferred to him. 'You the one looking for the Gypsy?' a man's voice asked. 'Yes.'

  'They told me to call you.' 'And you are?'

  'Maresciallo Steiner’ the man answered, and at the name Brunetti realized that the accent lurking in the man's voice was German.

  'Thank you for calling, Maresciallo’ Brunetti said, opting for politeness, though he had a feeling it might not cut much ice.

  ‘Padrini showed me the photo your guy left, said you wanted to know about her’

  'Yes, that's correct.'

  'My boys brought her in here a couple of times. Usual stuff: call a female officer, wait for her to get here, then search the kid. Search the other ones that got brought in with her, too. That happened twice. Then get in touch with their parents.' A pause followed, then Steiner added, 'Or the people who say they're the parents. Then wait for the parents to come, or if they don't show up, take the kids out to the camp and hand them over. That's the procedure. No comments, no charges, and not even a little tap on the back of the wrist to remind them not to do it again.' Steiner's words suggested sarcasm, but his tone expressed only tired resignation.

  'Could you tell me exactly who recognized her?' Brunetti asked.

  'As I told you, two of my men. Pretty girl: didn't look like one of them. So they remembered her.'

  'Could I come down there and talk to them?' Brunetti asked.

  'Why? You guys going to handle the case?'

  Immediately on his guard to avoid whatever turf war the Maresciallo might be imagining, Brunetti said amicably, 'I'm not sure there's much of a case to handle, Maresciallo. What I'd like to do is get a name and, if possible, an address from your records, then get a positive identification from her parents ...' Brunetti paused here, then added in a tone of complicit camaraderie,'... or the people claiming to be her parents.'

  All Brunetti heard was a muffled grunt from Steiner, perhaps of agreement, perhaps of appreciation. He went on. 'As soon as we have that, we can consign her body to them and close the case.'

  'How'd she die?' the Carabiniere asked.

  'Drowned. Just as it said in the papers,' Brunetti answered, then added, 'for once.' This time Brunetti heard a short grunt of agreement. 'No signs of violence: I figure she fell into the canal. Probably didn't know how to swim’ he said, without a thought of adding, 'poor thing.'

  'Yeah, it's not like they spend a lot of time at the beach, is it?' Steiner asked, and Brunetti mumbled something that might sound like agreement.

  'You still want to bother coming down here?' Steiner asked. ‘I can give you all the information on the phone.'

  'No, it'll look better on my report if I can say I came down and talked to you about it’ Brunetti said, as if confiding in an old friend. 'Any chance I could talk to your men, too?'

  'Wait a minute and I'll see who's here’ Steiner said and set the phone down. After a long time, he picked it up. 'No, both of them have gone off duty. Sorry.'

  'Could I get the information from you, then, Maresciallo?'

  'I'll be here.'

  Brunetti thanked him, said he'd be there in ten minutes, and replaced the phone.

  Because he was in a hurry, he didn't stop to tell anyone where he was going. It might be better, in any case, to visit Steiner alone, if only to make it appear to him that the police had no great interest in the death of the child and were merely trying to clear their records. Brunetti had no particular reason to want to keep information from the Carabinieri: his urge towards secrecy was entirely atavistic.

  On his walk to the Carabinieri station, Brunetti's imagination conjured up a picture of Steiner as a kind of Tyrolean Ubermensch: tall, blond, blue-eyed, firm of chin and purpose. The man into whose office he was shown, however, was so short and dark that he must often be mistaken for a Sardinian or a Sicilian. He had black hair so dense and wiry Brunetti thought he would have the devil's own time finding anyone able to cut it for him. Strangely enough, his eyes
were clear grey and looked out of place on his dark-skinned face.

  'Steiner,' he said as Brunetti entered. The two men shook hands, and Brunetti, after turning down the ritual offer of a coffee, asked the Maresciallo to tell him whatever he could about the girl or her family.

  'I've got the file here,' the Maresciallo said, picking up a manila folder and putting on a pair of thick-lensed glasses. He waved the file in the air. 'They're busy people.' Setting it down on his desk, he added, 'Everything's here: our reports, more from the squad in Dolo, also from the social services.'

  Steiner opened the file; he picked up the first few pages and began to read: 'Ariana Rocich, daughter of Bogdan Rocich and Ghena Michailovich.' Steiner glanced at Brunetti over the top of his glasses, and when he noticed that he was taking notes, said, "The file is yours. I had copies made of everything.'

  'Thank you, Maresciallo,' Brunetti said and replaced the notebook in his pocket.

  Steiner returned his attention to the papers and went on, as though there had been no interruption, 'Or at least those are the names on their papers. Doesn't mean much.'

  'Fake?' Brunetti asked.

  'Who knows?' Steiner asked in return and let the pages flutter to his desk. 'Most of the ones we have here come from ex-Yugoslavia: they've come in with UN refugee status, or their documents are from countries that don't exist any more.' With a finger that was surprisingly long and delicate, he pushed the folder forward on his desk, saying, 'Some of them already have Italian passports: been here so long. This bunch, though, came from Kosovo. Or said they did. No way of knowing. Probably doesn't make any difference, anyway. Once they're here, there's no getting rid of them, is there?'

  Brunetti muttered something, then asked, 'You said that your men brought other children in with her.' Steiner nodded. 'Same parents? What's their name? Rocich?'

  Steiner leafed quickly through the papers and placed some to the side, face down. Finally he pulled one out and read through it, then said, 'There are three of them. That is, this girl Ariana, and two others.' He looked up and said, 'You know we can't keep records for children, but I asked around: that's what's in here.' At Brunetti's nod, Steiner went on. 'My boys told me they've caught her twice, both times during a burglary.' Brunetti knew that no one under the age of fourteen could be arrested by the police, only taken into protective custody until they could be returned to their parents or the adult in whose care they were. No records could be kept, but memory was not yet illegal.