He had barely finished the word ‘policeman’, when the taller of the two men sprang away from the other and reached inside his jacket. His hand came out carrying a pistol, but the instant Brunetti saw him move, he ducked back inside the still-open door and pulled his own pistol from its holster.
Nothing happened. There was no noise, no shot, no shouting. He heard footsteps, the slamming of what sounded like a car door and another; then a large motor spring into life. Instead of going out on to the dock again to see what was happening, Brunetti ran back through the corridor and out of the front door of the building, where his driver was waiting, motor running to keep the car warm, while he read Il Gazzettino dello Sport.
Brunetti pulled open the passenger door and leaped into the car, seeing the driver’s panic disappear when he recognized him. ‘A truck, going out of the far gate. Swing round and follow it.’ Even before Brunetti’s hand reached the car phone, the driver had tossed his paper into the back seat and had the car in gear and spinning round towards the back of the building. As they rounded the corner, the driver pulled the wheel sharply to the left, trying not to hit one of the boxes that had fallen from the open doors of the truck. But he couldn’t avoid the next one and their left wheels passed over it, splattering it open and spewing small bottles in a wide wake behind them. Just beyond the gates Brunetti could see the truck moving off down the highway in the direction of Padova, its rear doors flapping open.
The rest was as predictable as it was tragic. Just beyond Resana, two Carabinieri vehicles were drawn up across the road, blocking traffic. In an attempt to get past them, the driver of the truck swerved to the right and on to the high shoulder of the road. Just as he did, a small Fiat, driven by a woman on the way to pick up her daughter at the local asilo, slowed at the sight of the police block. The truck, as it came back on to the road, swung into the other lane and slammed into her car broadside, killing her instantly. Both men, Bonaventura and the driver, had been wearing their seat-belts, so neither was hurt, though they were severely shaken by the crash.
Before they could free themselves from their seat-belts, they were surrounded by Carabinieri, who pulled them down from the truck and flung them face forward against its doors. They were quickly surrounded by four Carabinieri carrying machine-guns. Two others ran to the Fiat but saw there was nothing to be done.
Brunetti’s car pulled up and he got out. The scene was absolutely silent, unnaturally so. He heard his own footsteps approaching the two men, both of whom were breathing heavily. Something metal clanged to the ground from the direction of the truck.
He turned to the sergeant. ‘Put them in the car,’ was all he said.
24
There was some discussion about where the men should be taken for questioning, whether back to Castelfranco, which had territorial jurisdiction over the scene of their capture, or back to Venice, from which city the investigation had begun. Brunetti listened to the police discuss this for a few moments, then cut into the conversation with a voice of iron: ‘I said put them in the car. We’re taking them back to Castelfranco.’ The other policemen exchanged glances, but no one contradicted him and it was done.
Standing in Bonino’s office, Bonaventura was told he could call his lawyer, and when the other identified himself as Roberto Sandi, the foreman of the factory, he was told the same. Bonaventura named a lawyer in Venice with a large criminal practice and asked that he be allowed to call him. He ignored Sandi.
‘And what about me?’ Sandi asked, turning to Bonaventura.
Bonaventura refused to answer him.
‘What about me?’ Sandi said again.
Still, Bonaventura remained silent.
Sandi, who spoke with a pronounced Piedmontese accent, turned to the uniformed officer next to him and demanded, ‘Where’s your boss? I want to talk to your boss.’
Before the officer could respond, Brunetti stepped forward and said, I’ll be in charge of this,’ even though he wasn’t sure of that at all.
‘Then it’s you I want to talk to,’ Sandi stated, looking at him with eyes that glimmered with malice.
‘Come now, Roberto,’ Bonaventura suddenly broke in, placing his hand on Sandi’s arm. ‘You know you can use my lawyer. As soon as he gets here we can talk to him.’
Sandi shook off his hand with a muttered curse. ‘No lawyer. Not yours. I want to talk to the cop.’ He addressed Brunetti: ‘Well? Where can we talk?’
‘Roberto,’ Bonaventura said in a voice he tried to make menacing, ‘you don’t want to talk to him.’
‘You don’t tell me what to do any more,’ Sandi spat. Brunetti turned, opened the door to the office, and took Sandi into the hall. One of the uniformed officers followed them outside and led them down the corridor. Opening a door to a small interview room, he said, ‘In here, sir,’ and waited for them to enter.
Brunetti saw a small desk and four chairs. He sat down, waiting for Sandi. When the latter was seated, Brunetti glanced across at him and said, ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’ Sandi asked, still filled with the anger Bonaventura had provoked.
‘What do you want to tell me about the shipments?’
‘How much do you already know?’ Sandi demanded.
Ignoring the question, Brunetti inquired, ‘How many of you are involved in it?’
‘In what?’
Instead of answering immediately, Brunetti propped his elbows on the table, folded his hands, and rested his mouth on the backs of his knuckles. He remained like that for almost a minute, staring across at Sandi, then repeated, ‘How many of you are involved in it?’
‘In what?’ Sandi asked again, this time allowing himself a small smile, the sort children use when they ask a question they think will embarrass the teacher.
Brunetti raised his head, placed his hands on the desk, and pushed himself to his feet. Saying nothing, he went to the door and knocked on it. A face appeared beyond the wire-mesh screen. The door opened and Brunetti left the room, closing the door behind him. He signalled the guard to remain there and went back up the corridor. He peered into the room where Bonaventura was being held and saw that he was still there, though no one was with him. Brunetti stood at the one-way window for ten minutes, watching the man inside. Bonaventura sat sideways to the door, trying not to look at it or to respond to the sound of footsteps when people walked by.
Finally Brunetti opened the door without knocking and went in. Bonaventura’s head shot round. ‘What do you want?’ he asked when he saw Brunetti.
‘I want to talk to you about the shipments.’
‘What shipments?’
‘Of drugs. To Sri Lanka. And Kenya. And Bangladesh.’
‘What about them? They’re perfectly legitimate. We’ve got all the documents at the office.’
Brunetti had no doubt of that. He stayed by the door, leaning back against it, one foot propped up behind him, arms folded over his chest. ‘Signor Bonaventura, do you want to talk about this or do you want me to go back and have a word with your foreman again?’ Brunetti made his voice sound very tired, almost bored.
‘What’s he been saying?’ Bonaventura asked before he could stop himself.
Brunetti stood and watched him for a time, then said again, ‘I want to talk about those shipments.’
Bonaventura decided. He folded his arms in imitation of Brunetti. ‘I’m not saying anything until I see my lawyer.’
Brunetti left and went back to the other room, where the same officer was standing outside. He stepped away from the door when he saw the commissario and opened it for him.