Apparently stung by Fasano's tone, Scarpa asked no further questions and the magistrate returned to the sedimentation tanks and the set of swinging discs over the openings to the pipes. All of them had been shut when Bocchese's men discovered them, and Fasano continued to maintain that he knew nothing about them. It was as Brunetti read this interchange that he first began to suspect that Fasano might get away with it. His revered father, or perhaps his no doubt equally revered grandfather, would have been responsible for those pipes, and they would have been used when it was still legal to empty into the laguna. There was no clear evidence that they had been in use recently, and so Fasano's ecological commitment was in no way compromised.
The magistrate asked nothing about Fasano's connection with Tassini and presented no evidence that he and Tassini knew one another as anything other than employer and employee. The magistrate made no mention of the phone calls between Tassini and Fasano: haf| he done so, Brunetti could easily imagine Fasano protesting that he could not be asked to recall every conversation he had with his employees. Neither Patta nor any judge in the city would authorize an investigation based on such an absence of evidence.
To what extent the investigation of the contamination of the laguna would affect Fasano's political ambitions, Brunetti had no idea. It had been some time since criminal association or the evidence of criminal behaviour had served as an impediment to political office, and so it was entirely possible that enough of the voting public would be prepared to elect Fasano mayor. Should this happen, then Brunetti would be best advised to take what small comfort he could from Patta's discomfiture and, for the rest, follow the advice Paola had passed on from her recent rereading of one of Jane Austen's novels: to save his breath to cool his tea. Besides, Patta would far rather see Fasano elected mayor than have to deal with the scandal and clamour of a murder investigation involving a rich and powerful man who was connected to men of far greater wealth and power.
His mind filled with these prospects, Brunetti felt a desire to leave the Questura, an urge so strong that it propelled him to his feet and down the stairs. Even if he did nothing more than go down to the corner to get a coffee, at least he would feel the sun on his face and perhaps catch a whiff of the lilacs from across the canal. So much seemed to have happened, and yet it was still springtime.
Indeed it was lilac he encountered, though he did so while still inside the Questura. Signorina Elettra met him on the steps, wearing a blouse he did not remember seeing before: on a field of creme silk, pink and magenta panicles vied with one another, though the victory was won by her taste.
"Ah, Commissario’ she said, as he held the door open for her, 'I'm afraid I've got bad news for you.'
Her smile denied that, and so Brunetti asked, 'Which is?'
'I'm afraid you didn't win the lottery.'
'Lottery?' Brunetti asked, distracted by the lilacs and by the sudden warmth in the air as they stepped outside.
'The Vice-Questore's received his letter from Interpol.' She wiped away her smile and said, 'I'm afraid he was not selected for the job in England.'
They were standing still, the light reflecting onto their faces from the canal. 'That news is that nation's loss, I fear,' Brunetti said in a suitably serious voice.
She smiled and said that she was sure the Vice-Questore would be strong, then turned in the opposite direction and walked away.
Brunetti noticed Foa standing on the deck of his boat, following Signorina Elettra with his eyes. When she turned the corner, the pilot returned his attention to Brunetti. 'Give you a ride somewhere, sir?' he asked.
'Not on duty?' Brunetti asked.
'Not until two, when I have to pick up the Vice-Questore at Harry's Bar.'
'Ah,' muttered Brunetti in acknowledgement of the appropriateness of his taste. 'Until then?'
'I suppose I should stay here and wait to see if there are any calls’ the pilot said, his heart not in it, 'but I'd rather you asked me to take you somewhere. It's such a beautiful day.'
Brunetti raised a hand to shield his eyes from the young sun. 'Yes, it is,' he agreed, succumbing to the contagion of Foa's restlessness. 'How about up the Grand Canal?' he asked for no real reason.
As they passed Harry's Bar, where Patta sat with some presumably powerful personage, Brunetti began to notice the return to life taking place in the gardens on either side of the canal. Crocuses tried to hide themselves under evergreens; daffodils didn't even bother. The magnolia would be out in a week, he noticed; sooner if it would only rain.
He saw the plaque marking the home of Lord Byron, a man who, like the young Brunetti, had once swum in these waters. No more.
'You want to go out to Sacca Serenella?' Foa asked with a glance at his watch. 'Lunch there and back on time?'
"Thanks, Foa, but I don't think I'll be going out there again. At least not for work.'
'Yeah, I read about it, and Vianello told me a bit,' Foa said, waving at a gondoliere who passed at some distance in front of them. 'So they get to pollute all they want and get away with it?'
"The pipes in Fasano's factory were shut off, no one knows when. Could have been years ago,' Brunetti explained. 'And there's no evidence that he knew anything about it. Might have been his father; might even have been his grandfather.'
'Cheap bastards, each and every one of them, Foa said.
'Says who?'
Foa took one hand from the wheel, unbuttoned his jacket and loosened his tie in homage to the sun. 'The father of a friend of mine who lives out there: he knew them both, the father and grandfather. And an uncle of mine who worked for the father. Said they'd do anything to save fifty lire.' As an afterthought and with the beginning of a laugh, he added, 'And a friend of mine I was at school with.'
'What's so funny?' Brunetti asked, attention on the trees in a garden to his left.
'He's a captain with ACTV now’ Foa said with a residual chuckle. 'Lives on Murano, so he knows Fasano, and his father knew the father, and so on.' This sort of familiarity was common enough, and Brunetti acknowledged it with a nod.
'He told me a couple of days ago that he had Fasano on his boat about a week ago, trying to dodge the fare. Got on without a ticket, then tried to say he forgot to stamp it. But he didn't have a ticket to stamp in the first place.'
"The captain checks them?' Brunetti asked, wondering who, if this were the case, had been left to drive the boat.
'No, no, the guys who check the tickets. Usually they only work during the day, but the last month or so they've been checking tickets at night because that's when people don't expect to be checked.' Foa broke off to shout a greeting to a man passing in a transport boat riding low in the water, and Brunetti thought the topic was over.
But Fao continued. 'Anyway, he recognized Fasano, who was standing on deck when it happened, and after the route was finished—because he knew who he was—he asked the ticket checkers what he'd said. Usual stuff: I forgot to stamp my ticket, forgot to ask to buy one when I got on board. But they've heard it all,' Foa said with another laugh. 'One of them once had a woman say she was on the way to the hospital to have a baby'
'What happened?'
'He made her open her coat, and she was as thin as . . .' Foa began, glancing at Brunetti. 'As thin as I am’ he finished.
Perhaps to cover the awkward pause, Foa went back to his original story. 'So they asked to see his identity card, but he said he didn't have it with him. Left his wallet at home. But then he found some money and paid the fine right then. Nando said Fasano was so cheap he thought he'd give his name and then try to get some friend of his to fix it for him, but he paid right then before they could take his name and send him a notice and the fine.'