‘I’m waiting for you to apologize for being stupid.’
This time, it was Flavia who said nothing. Finally, to his considerable relief, her voice softened and she said, ‘All right, and for being rash, as well. I suppose I’ve got used to being able to push people around. And maybe I’m still looking for trouble about me and Brett.’
Apologies over, Flavia returned to the issue at hand. ‘I don’t know if she can be convinced to let someone stay in the apartment with her.’
‘Flavia, I have no other way to protect her.’ Suddenly, he heard a loud noise down the phone, something that sounded like heavy machinery. ‘What’s that?’
‘A boat.’
‘Where are you?’
‘On the Riva degli Schiavoni.’ She explained, ‘I didn’t want to call you from the house, so I went for a walk.’ Her voice changed. ‘I’m not far from the Questura. Are you allowed to accept visitors during the day?’
‘Of course,’ he laughed. ‘I’m one of the bosses.’
‘Would it be all right if I came over and saw you? I hate talking on the phone.’
‘Of course. Come when you want. Come now. I’ve got to wait for a phone call, but there’s no sense in your walking around in the rain all afternoon. Besides,’ he added, smiling to himself, ‘it’s warm here.’
‘All right. Do I ask for you?’
‘Yes, tell the officer at the door that you have an appointment, and he’ll bring you up to my office.’
‘Thanks. I’ll be there soon.’ She hung up without waiting for his goodbye.
As soon as he replaced the phone, it rang again, and he answered it to find Carrara.
‘Guido, your Signor La Capra was in the computer.’
‘Yes?’
‘It was the Chinese ceramics that made it easy to find him.’
‘Why?’
‘Two things. There was a celadon bowl that disappeared from a private collection in London about three years ago. The man they finally sent down for it said that he had been paid by an Italian to get that specific piece.’
‘La Capra?’
‘He didn’t know. But the person who turned him in said that La Capra’s name was used by one of the middle men who arranged the deal.’
‘ “Arranged the deal”?’ Brunetti asked. ‘Just like that, set up the robbery of a single piece?’
‘Yes. It’s getting more and more common,’ Carrara answered.
‘And the second?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Well, this one is only rumoured. In fact, we have it listed in with the “unconfirmed”.’
‘What is it?’
‘About two years ago, a dealer in Chinese art in Paris, a certain Philippe Bernadotte, was killed in a mugging while he was out walking his dog one night. His wallet was taken, and his keys. The keys were used to get into his house, but, strangely enough, nothing was stolen. But his papers had been gone through, and it looked like a number of them had been removed.’
‘And La Capra?’
‘The man’s partner could remember only that, a few days before he was killed, Monsieur Bernadotte had referred to a serious argument with a client who had accused him of selling a piece he knew was false.’
‘Was the client Signor La Capra?’
‘The partner didn’t know. All he remembered was that Monsieur Bernadotte repeatedly referred to the client as “the goat”, but at the time his partner thought it was a joke.’
‘Were Monsieur Bernadotte and his partner capable of selling a piece they knew to be false?’ Brunetti asked.
‘The partner, not. But it appears that Bernadotte had been involved in a number of sales, and purchases, that were open to question.’
‘By the art theft police?’
‘Yes. The Paris office had a growing file on him.’
‘But nothing was taken from his home after he was killed?’
‘It would seem not, but whoever killed him also had the time to remove whatever they wanted from his files and from his inventory lists.’
‘So it’s possible that Signer La Capra was the goat that he mentioned to his partner?’
‘So it would seem,’ agreed Carrara.
‘Anything else?’
‘No, but we’d appreciate learning anything else you have to tell about him.’
‘I’ll have my secretary send you what we’ve got, and I’ll let you know anything we find out about him and Semenzato.’
‘Thanks, Guido.’ And Carrara was gone.
What was it Count Almaviva sang? ‘E mi far à il destino ritrovar questo paggio in ogni loco! Just so, it seemed to be Brunetti’s destiny to find La Capra everywhere he looked. Somehow, though, Cherubino seemed significantly more innocent than did Signor La Capra. Brunetti had learned more than enough to convince him that La Capra was involved with Semenzato, possibly in his death. But all of it was entirely circumstantial; none of it would have the least value in a court of law.
He heard a knock at his door and called, ‘Avanti! A uniformed policeman opened the door, stood back and allowed Flavia Petrelli to enter. As she passed in front of the policeman, Brunetti saw the flash of the officer’s hand moving in a smart salute before he closed the door. Brunetti had not the least doubt about whom the gesture was intended to honour.
She wore a dark brown raincoat lined with fur. The chill of the early evening had brought colour to her face, which, again, was bare of make-up. She came quickly across the room and took his outstretched hand. ‘So this is where you work?’ she asked.
He came around his desk and took the coat which the heat in the room rendered unnecessary. While she looked about her, he put the coat on a hanger on the back of his door. He saw that the outside of the coat was wet, glanced back at her, and saw that her hair was wet as well. ‘Don’t you have an umbrella?’ he asked.
Unconsciously, she put her hand up to her hair and pulled it away, surprised to find it wet. ‘No, it wasn’t raining when I left the house.’
‘When was that?’ he asked, coming back across die room towards her.
‘After lunch. After two, I suppose.’ Her answer was vague, suggesting that she really couldn’t remember.
He pulled a second chair up beside the one that faced his desk and waited for her to sit before sitting opposite her. Even though he had seen her only a few hours ago, Brunetti was struck by the change in her appearance. This morning, she had seemed calm and relaxed, ready to join with him in an Italianate attempt to convince Brett to consider her own safety. But now she seemed stiff and on edge, and the tension showed in the lines around her mouth that, he was sure, hadn’t been there this morning.
‘How’s Brett?’ he asked.
She sighed and swept the fingers of one hand to the side in a dismissive gesture. ‘At times, it’s like talking to one of my children. She agrees with everything I say, admits that everything I say is right, and then decides to do precisely what she wants.’