11
The tobacconist's words lingered with Brunetti as he walked towards the restaurant: he wondered if they would some day apply to Vianello and the clams or whether the sergeant would turn out to be one of those rare men who have the strength of character to stop themselves from doing what they want to do. As for himself, Brunetti believed he was not particularly strong-willed and knew he often manipulated situations so that he could avoid having to make the decision to do something he didn't want to do.
Two years ago, when Paola had finally nagged him into having a complete physical exam, he had told the doctor not to bother with the tests for cholesterol and diabetes, leaving it to the doctor to infer that the tests were not necessary because he'd recently had them done. In truth, Brunetti had not wanted to know the results because he had not wanted to have to do whatever he would have to do if the results were bad. Whenever he thought of his deceit and the possible consequences to his family, he told himself he had never felt healthier in his life and to stop worrying about it.
And three years ago, when an Albanian suspect had been arrested for having beaten the two eleven-year-old prostitutes who helped to support him, Brunetti had done nothing to prevent his being assigned for questioning to a detective who had a daughter the same age and another whose fifteen-year-old daughter had been assaulted by another Albanian. Nor had he ever enquired as to just what happened during the examination, though the suspect had quickly confessed to the crimes.
Before he could examine his conscience further, he reached the restaurant and went in. From behind the counter, where he was making coffee for a few men standing at the bar, the owner acknowledged his arrival with a nod. 'Your officer is in the back,' he said. All of the men at the counter turned to look at Brunetti, and he felt the same intense stare he'd been given by the two men in the store. Ignoring it, he moved to the curtained doorway, pushed aside the strips of plastic, and went into the dining room.
Vianello sat at the same table, a bottle of mineral water and a half-litre of white wine in front of him. As Brunetti pulled out the chair opposite him, Vianello leaned forward and poured some water, then some wine, into the glasses at Brunetti's place.
Brunetti drank down the glass of water, surprised at how thirsty he was, curious as to whether it could be a delayed response to the fear - he admitted that it was fear - he had felt when he turned his back on the two men. Looking across at Vianello, he asked, 'Well?'
"The waiter, Lorenzo Scarpa, hasn't been back to work since we were here. The boss says he called and said he had to go and take care of a friend, but he didn't say where the friend lived, and he didn't give any idea of how long he'd be gone.' Brunetti asked nothing about this, so Vianello continued. ‘I went to his place - the boss gave me his address - but his neighbours can't remember seeing him for a few days, say they don't have any idea where he is.'
'And the brother, Sandro?'
'Surprisingly enough, he's still here. Well, he's been here. His boat is still out, left before dawn this morning and still isn't back.'
'What could that mean?'
'Anything, really,' Vianello said. "That the fish are running and he doesn't want to stop or that he's had engine trouble. The boss here seemed to think it's nothing more than a run of good luck, lots of fish.'
Vianello sipped at his wine, then went on. 'Signora Bottin died of cancer five years ago. Her relatives have had nothing to do with Giulio or Marco since she died.'
'Why?' Brunetti asked.
"That house on Murano. They disputed her will, but as it had been left to her by her parents and Bottin agreed that it should go to the son entirely, there was really no case they could make for it'
'And since then?'
'There's been no contact between them, it seems.'
'Where'd you learn this?'
"The owner of the bar. He seemed to think it was innocent enough to tell me at least this much.'
Brunetti wondered what new dispute would now result about ownership but asked, instead, 'And this Giacomini the waiter told us about?'
Vianello pulled out his notebook and flipped it open. 'Paolo Giacomini, another fisherman. The owner says he lives in Malamocco, but for some reason he keeps his boat here. He's known as a troublemaker, someone who likes to cause bad blood between people.'
'And the trouble between Scarpa and Bottin?'
'No one would tell me anything about it except that there was some sort of run-in between them a year or so ago. Either they collided or came close and got their nets tangled. Whatever it was, there's been bad feeling between them ever since.'
'We can try the police in Chioggia,' Brunetti suggested.
'Probably the best thing, if it happened there,' Vianello agreed. 'If that's where the denuncia was made, perhaps they can tell us something. I get the feeling that these people take care of things in their own way. And they've all taken a vow of silence where Bottin is concerned. No one can remember anything about him; certainly no one has a bad word to say about him.'
'Yet Signora Follini told me that, whatever happened, it happened because of him, not because of the son.'
'So now what do we do?' Vianello asked.
'First we have lunch,' Brunetti answered, 'then we go and see if we can find this Giacomini.'
The meal passed off pleasantly enough, in part because Brunetti made no comment upon Vianello's choices and in part because he restrained himself from having clams, though he did eat an enormous platter of coda di rospo which the owner assured him had been caught that morning. The owner had not succeeded in replacing Lorenzo Scarpa and had to wait on tables himself, so the meal took a long time to arrive, a situation worsened by the entrance of a string of Japanese tourists just as Brunetti and Vianello ordered.
Their guide seated them at two long tables against the walls, where they seemed quite happy to wait for their meal while smiling and bowing to one another, the guide, Brunetti and Vianello, and the owner. Their behaviour was so exquisitely restrained and polite that Brunetti was amazed that anyone should ever speak badly of them. When he and Vianello were finished, they paid their bill, again in cash, received no receipt and got to their feet. Automatically, Brunetti bowed in the direction of the Japanese, waited for Vianello to do the same and for the Japanese to respond, then led his sergeant out to the bar section, where they had coffee but refused grappa.
It had grown still warmer while they were inside, and they rejoiced in the heat of the day. It brought back the sense of boyish freedom they'd experienced when they set out that morning. Back at the police launch, they found no sign of Bonsuan, though a string of fish was hanging in the water from a stanchion on the other side of the boat.
Neither of them much minded having to wait, and they were happy enough to sit on a wooden bench that looked across the waters in the general direction of Venice, though all they could see was the water of the laguna, a few boats moving across it, and the topless, endless sky.
'Where do you think he's gone?' Brunetti asked.
'Bonsuan or Scarpa?' 'Bonsuan.'
'He's probably in some bar, learning more in five minutes than we have in two days.'
'Wouldn't surprise me in the least,' Brunetti said, removing his jacket and turning his face up to the sun. Vianello was prevented from doing the same only by the fact that he was wearing uniform.
After about ten minutes, Brunetti was awakened from a semi-doze by Vianello's voice, saying, 'Here he comes.'
He opened his eyes, looked to the right, and saw Bonsuan, wearing his dark uniform slacks and a white shirt with a large black stain on one shoulder, walking in their direction. When the pilot reached them, Brunetti moved to the left, making a space for him on the bench between them.