But could someone who had worked for the Finanza for a decade have been so stupid as not to realize that the calls were recorded? Brunetti knew, from long experience, that even when phone calls were recorded, they were not necessarily listened to again. Targhetta may well have put his trust in bureaucratic incompetence and hoped that his lapse would pass unnoticed, or, from the sound of his voice, he may have been so surprised that he had responded instinctively and tried to silence the caller without any thought of the consequences.
There remained only one piece of the puzzle or, thought Brunetti as he pulled out the paper on which he'd drawn lines between the names of the people involved, only one line to draw: the one connecting Targhetta and Spadini. That was easy: geometry had long ago taught him that a straight line was the shortest distance between two points. But that did not get him any closer to understanding the connection: that would depend upon his penetrating the silence of the Pellestrinotti.
23
As soon as he decided that he needed to speak to Targhetta, Brunetti spent some time debating whether to call Paola and tell her he was going out to Pellestrina. He didn't want her to question his motives, nor was he much inclined to examine them himself. Better, then, just to have Bonsuan take him out and have done with it.
He didn't want to take Vianello, though he did not bother to analyse his motives for that decision. He did, however, rewind the tape, stick it in his pocket, and stop in the officers' room to borrow a small battery-powered tape recorder, just on the off chance that he might find someone on Pellestrina who would be willing to listen to it and perhaps identify the voice of the caller.
The day had turned cooler, and there were dark clouds to the north, enough to give him reason to hope that rain might finally be on the way. He remained below deck in the cabin on the way out, reading through yesterday's newspaper and a boating magazine one of the pilots had left behind. By the time they reached Pellestrina, he had learned a great deal about 55 horsepower motors, but nothing further about Carlo Targhetta or Vittorio Spadini.
As they were pulling in, he went upstairs and joined Bonsuan in the cabin.
Glancing back towards the city, Bonsuan said, ‘I don't like this.'
'What, coming out here?' Brunetti asked.
'No, the feel of the day.'
'What does that mean?' Brunetti asked, suddenly impatient with sailors and their lore.
'The way the air feels. And the wind. It feels like bora.'
The newspaper had forecast fair weather and rising temperatures. Brunetti told him this but Bonsuan snorted in disgust. 'Just feel it,' he insisted. 'That's bora. We shouldn't be out here.'
Brunetti looked ahead of them and saw bright sun dancing on still water. He stepped out of the cabin as the boat pulled up to the dock. The air was still, and when Bonsuan killed the motor, not a sound disturbed the peaceful silence of the day.
Brunetti jumped off and moored the boat, feeling quite proud of being able to do so. He left Bonsuan to find other old sailors to discuss the weather with and went to the village and the restaurant where his investigation had begun.
When he entered, there was a moment's pause in the conversation, but then it jump-started itself as everyone attempted to fill the silence created by the arrival of a commissario of police. Brunetti went to the counter and asked for a glass of white wine, looking around him while he waited for it, not smiling but not looking as if he had any particular reason to be there.
He nodded to the barman when he brought the wine and held up a hand to prevent his turning away. 'Do you know Carlo Targhetta?' he asked, deciding to waste no more time in futile attempts to outwit the Pellestrinotti.
The barman tilted his chin to one side to give every indication that he was considering the question, then said, 'No, sir. Never heard of him.'
Before Brunetti could turn to the old man standing beside him at the counter, the barman announced, in a voice loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room, 'Anyone here know someone called Carlo Targhetta?'
A chorus repeated the same response, 'No, sir. Never heard of him.' With that, normal conversation resumed, though Brunetti registered the quick exchange of complicit smiles.
He directed his attention to his wine and reached idly for that day's Gazzettino, lying folded on the bar. He flipped it to the front page and started to read the headlines. Gradually, he felt the room's attention wander away from him, especially at the entrance of a beefy-faced man who came in saying that it had started to rain.
He spread the paper on the bar. With his left hand, he pulled the tape recorder from his pocket and slipped it under the newspaper. He'd run the tape back to the place where the caller had accused Spadini directly of a crime and his voice had grown heated and loud. He lifted the corner to look at the recorder. He thumbed the VOLUME dial, set his right forefinger on the PLAY button, and let the paper fall back into place. Keeping his finger on the button, he raised his glass and took a sip, his attention seemingly devoted entirely to the newspaper.
Three men went outside to see about the rain, and the men left in the bar grew quiet, waiting for them to come back and report.
Brunetti pressed PLAY. 'That bastard Spadini's fishing up millions every day. And he never pays a lira in taxes. It's all black. Everything he earns is black.'
The glass of wine fell from the hand of the old man standing beside him and shattered on the floor. 'Maria Santissima’ he exclaimed. 'It's Bottin. He's not dead.'
His voice drowned out the next exchange on the tape, but the entire bar heard Targhetta say, '... we prefer to be a bit more certain about just who is making the denuncia.'
'Oh, Dio,' said the old man, reaching a feeble hand towards the counter and propping his weight on it. 'It's Carlo.'
Brunetti slipped his hand under the newspaper and pushed the STOP button. The loud click rang out in the silence, wounding it but not altering it. The old man was silent, though his lips continued to move in muttered prayer or protest.
The door opened and the three men came back, their shoulders dark and their heads wet with the rain. Joyously, like children let out of school early, they cried out, 'It's raining, it's raining,' then fell silent when they sensed the charged atmosphere in the room.
'What's wrong?' one of them asked, putting the question to no one in particular.
Brunetti said, in an entirely normal voice, 'They told me about Bottin and Spadini.'
The man he addressed looked around the bar for confirmation and found it in the averted eyes and continuing silence. He shook his arms, spraying water around him, then went to the bar and said, 'Give me a grappa, Piero.'
The barman set it down in front of him without speaking.
Talk gradually resumed, but quietly. Brunetti signalled to the waiter and pointed to the old man beside him. He brought a glass of white wine for the old man, who took it and drank it down like water, replacing the glass loudly on the bar. Brunetti nodded, and the waiter refilled it. Turning to face him, Brunetti asked, 'Targhetta?'
'His nephew’ the old man said and swallowed the second glass. 'Spadini's?'
The man looked at Brunetti and held his glass out to the waiter, who filled it again. Instead of drinking it, the old man set it on the bar and stared into it. He had the rheumy eyes of the habitual drinker, the man who woke up to wine and went to sleep with it on his tongue.