The Girl Of His Dreams Part 13

'Could you tell me exactly who recognized her?' Brunetti asked.

'As I told you, two of my men. Pretty girl: didn't look like one of them. So they remembered her.'

'Could I come down there and talk to them?' Brunetti asked.

'Why? You guys going to handle the case?'

Immediately on his guard to avoid whatever turf war the Maresciallo might be imagining, Brunetti said amicably, 'I'm not sure there's much of a case to handle, Maresciallo. What I'd like to do is get a name and, if possible, an address from your records, then get a positive identification from her parents ...' Brunetti paused here, then added in a tone of complicit camaraderie,'... or the people claiming to be her parents.'

All Brunetti heard was a m.u.f.fled grunt from Steiner, perhaps of agreement, perhaps of appreciation. He went on. 'As soon as we have that, we can consign her body to them and close the case.'

'How'd she die?' the Carabiniere asked.

'Drowned. Just as it said in the papers,' Brunetti answered, then added, 'for once.' This time Brunetti heard a short grunt of agreement. 'No signs of violence: I figure she fell into the ca.n.a.l. Probably didn't know how to swim' he said, without a thought of adding, 'poor thing.'

'Yeah, it's not like they spend a lot of time at the beach, is it?' Steiner asked, and Brunetti mumbled something that might sound like agreement.

'You still want to bother coming down here?' Steiner asked. 'I can give you all the information on the phone.'

'No, it'll look better on my report if I can say I came down and talked to you about it' Brunetti said, as if confiding in an old friend. 'Any chance I could talk to your men, too?'

'Wait a minute and I'll see who's here' Steiner said and set the phone down. After a long time, he picked it up. 'No, both of them have gone off duty. Sorry.'

'Could I get the information from you, then, Maresciallo?'

'I'll be here.'

Brunetti thanked him, said he'd be there in ten minutes, and replaced the phone.

Because he was in a hurry, he didn't stop to tell anyone where he was going. It might be better, in any case, to visit Steiner alone, if only to make it appear to him that the police had no great interest in the death of the child and were merely trying to clear their records. Brunetti had no particular reason to want to keep information from the Carabinieri: his urge towards secrecy was entirely atavistic.

On his walk to the Carabinieri station, Brunetti's imagination conjured up a picture of Steiner as a kind of Tyrolean Ubermensch: Ubermensch: tall, blond, blue-eyed, firm of chin and purpose. The man into whose office he was shown, however, was so short and dark that he must often be mistaken for a Sardinian or a Sicilian. He had black hair so dense and wiry Brunetti thought he would have the devil's own time finding anyone able to cut it for him. Strangely enough, his eyes were clear grey and looked out of place on his dark-skinned face. tall, blond, blue-eyed, firm of chin and purpose. The man into whose office he was shown, however, was so short and dark that he must often be mistaken for a Sardinian or a Sicilian. He had black hair so dense and wiry Brunetti thought he would have the devil's own time finding anyone able to cut it for him. Strangely enough, his eyes were clear grey and looked out of place on his dark-skinned face.

'Steiner,' he said as Brunetti entered. The two men shook hands, and Brunetti, after turning down the ritual offer of a coffee, asked the Maresciallo to tell him whatever he could about the girl or her family.

'I've got the file here,' the Maresciallo said, picking up a manila folder and putting on a pair of thick-lensed gla.s.ses. He waved the file in the air. 'They're busy people.' Setting it down on his desk, he added, 'Everything's here: our reports, more from the squad in Dolo, also from the social services.'

Steiner opened the file; he picked up the first few pages and began to read: 'Ariana Rocich, daughter of Bogdan Rocich and Ghena Michailovich.' Steiner glanced at Brunetti over the top of his gla.s.ses, and when he noticed that he was taking notes, said, "The file is yours. I had copies made of everything.'

'Thank you, Maresciallo,' Brunetti said and replaced the notebook in his pocket.

Steiner returned his attention to the papers and went on, as though there had been no interruption, 'Or at least those are the names on their papers. Doesn't mean much.'

'Fake?' Brunetti asked.

'Who knows?' Steiner asked in return and let the pages flutter to his desk. 'Most of the ones we have here come from ex-Yugoslavia: they've come in with UN refugee status, or their doc.u.ments are from countries that don't exist any more.' With a finger that was surprisingly long and delicate, he pushed the folder forward on his desk, saying, 'Some of them already have Italian pa.s.sports: been here so long. This bunch, though, came from Kosovo. Or said they did. No way of knowing. Probably doesn't make any difference, anyway. Once they're here, there's no getting rid of them, is there?'

Brunetti muttered something, then asked, 'You said that your men brought other children in with her.' Steiner nodded. 'Same parents? What's their name? Rocich?'

Steiner leafed quickly through the papers and placed some to the side, face down. Finally he pulled one out and read through it, then said, 'There are three of them. That is, this girl Ariana, and two others.' He looked up and said, 'You know we can't keep records for children, but I asked around: that's what's in here.' At Brunetti's nod, Steiner went on. 'My boys told me they've caught her twice, both times during a burglary.' Brunetti knew that no one under the age of fourteen could be arrested by the police, only taken into protective custody until they could be returned to their parents or the adult in whose care they were. No records could be kept, but memory was not yet illegal.

'The other two kids,' the Maresciallo continued, 'belong to the same family - at least the same surname is on their papers - though with them you never know who the real father is.'

'Do they live in the same place?' Brunetti asked.

'You don't mean in a house, do you, Commissario?' Steiner asked.

'Of course not. I mean camp. Do they all live in the same one?'

'It would seem so,' Steiner said. 'Outside of Dolo. It's been there about fifteen years, ever since things fell apart in Yugoslavia.'

'How many people are there?'

'You mean in that camp or altogether?'

'Both, I suppose.'

'It's impossible to say, really,' Steiner answered, removing his gla.s.ses and tossing them down on the open file. 'In the camp, there can be from fifty to a hundred, sometimes more if they have a party or a meeting: a wedding or some sort of celebration. The best we can do is count the caravans or the cars and then multiply by four.' Steiner smiled and ran one hand through his hair: Brunetti thought he could hear the noise it made. 'No one knows why we use that number,' Steiner confessed, 'but 'but we do.' we do.'

'And in total? In Italy, I mean.'

This time Steiner ran both hands through his hair, and Brunetti really did hear the noise. 'That's anyone's guess. The government says forty thousand, so it could be forty thousand. But it could just as easily be a hundred thousand. No one knows.'

'No one counts?' Brunetti asked.

Steiner looked across at him. 'I thought you were going to ask if no one cares,' he said.

'That, too, I suppose,' Brunetti answered, no longer feeling so distant from the man.

'Certainly no one counts,' Steiner said. 'That is, they count the people in the camps, if you can call what we do counting. And then they count the camps all over the country. But the numbers change every day. They move around a lot, so some never get counted and some get counted more than once. Sometimes they move when it begins to be dangerous for them to stay in one camp.' Steiner gave him a long look and then added, 'And if you'd like me to say something I shouldn't say, I'll add that the people who see them - or who want them to be seen - as a danger to society tend to count more of them than people who don't.'

'Why is that?' Brunetti asked, though he had a pretty good idea.

'The neighbours get tired of having their cars stolen or their houses broken into or having their children beaten up in school by the kids from the camps. That is, the ones who go to school. So groups, or you could call them gangs, start to form outside the camps, and if the number of nomads in the country is a high one, then these groups feel justified in wanting to get rid of them. And they begin to make life uncomfortable for them.'

Seeing that Brunetti was following his explanation, he decided not to describe how life was made uncomfortable and went on, 'So one morning there are fewer campers and fewer Mercedes. And for a while no one breaks into houses in the area and their kids go to school and behave better while they're there.' Steiner gave Brunetti a long look and then asked, 'You want me to speak frankly?'

'It's what I most want.'

'Another thing that makes them move is if we start coming around too often with their kids, bringing them back after we've found them in houses or coming out of houses or walking around with screwdrivers stuck in their socks or in the waistbands of their skirts. After we've brought them back five or six times, they move.' 'And then what happens?'

'They go somewhere else and begin to break into houses there.'

'Just like that?' Brunetti asked.

Steiner shrugged. 'They pack up and move and continue living as they always have. It's not as if they've got rent or mortgages to pay or jobs to go to, like the rest of us.'

'It sounds like you have very little sympathy for them,' Brunetti risked saying.

Steiner gave a shrug. 'No, it's not that, Commissario, but I've been arresting them and taking their children home for years, so I don't have any illusions about them.'

'And you think people do?' Brunetti asked.

'Some do. About equality and respect for culture and different traditions.' Much as he listened for it, Brunetti could detect no hint of sarcasm or irony.

'There's also guilt about what happened to them during the war,' the Carabiniere continued, adding, 'Understandably so. As a consequence, they get treated differently'

'Which means what?'

'Which means if you or I refused to send our children to school and, instead, sent them out to rob houses, we wouldn't keep those children very long.'

'And that's not the case for them?'

'I hardly think you have to ask me that, Commissario,' Steiner said, more than a bit of asperity in his tone. He ran his right hand through his hair again then changed the subject by asking, 'Now that you know who she is, what do you plan to do?'

'Her parents have to be informed' Steiner nodded.

After giving the Maresciallo some time to comment, an opportunity the other man ignored, Brunetti said, 'I found the body, so I suppose I should be the one to tell them'

Steiner studied Brunetti for a moment, then said, 'Yes' 'Is there someone from the social services who knows them?' Brunetti asked.

'There's a number of them.'

'I'd prefer it to be a woman,' Brunetti said. 'To tell the mother.'

Brunetti thought he saw Steiner grimace, but then the Maresciallo got to his feet. He picked up the file, came around the desk, and held it out to Brunetti. 'Some of the reports of the social workers are in here.' Brunetti looked at the folder but made no move to take it.

Steiner gave a smile and a small shake of the folder. 'I need a cigarette, but I have to go outside to smoke it,' he said. 'Read this while I'm gone, and when I come back, tell me what you'd like to do, all right?'

Brunetti reached up and took the file. Steiner left the office, closing the door quietly behind him.

19.

What was that book Paola always talked about whenever she taught d.i.c.kens? London Something and the London Something? London Something and the London Something? Brunetti had been shocked the first time she read to him from it, shocked not only by the information the book contained, but by the apparent gusto with which she read it to him. When he had balked at the accounts of scores of people living in window-less rooms, of young children hunting for re-sellable garbage in a faeces-filled river, she had called him 'lily-livered', whatever that meant. When he had refused to believe the accounts of precocious s.e.xuality presented by the author or had blanched at the list of occupations pursued by children, Paola had accused him of wilful blindness. Brunetti had been shocked the first time she read to him from it, shocked not only by the information the book contained, but by the apparent gusto with which she read it to him. When he had balked at the accounts of scores of people living in window-less rooms, of young children hunting for re-sellable garbage in a faeces-filled river, she had called him 'lily-livered', whatever that meant. When he had refused to believe the accounts of precocious s.e.xuality presented by the author or had blanched at the list of occupations pursued by children, Paola had accused him of wilful blindness.

His thoughts fled to those pa.s.sages as he read the reports of the social workers who had visited the Rom camp outside Dolo where the Rocich family lived. The family's home was a 1979 roulotte roulotte for which no registration papers existed. Nor, apparently, did it have a source of heat. for which no registration papers existed. Nor, apparently, did it have a source of heat.

As Steiner had suggested, to call it the family's home was to impose the conventions of one society upon members of another. The car which was parked nearest to the roulotte roulotte was registered to Bogdan Rocich, possessor of a UN refugee doc.u.ment. The woman sharing the was registered to Bogdan Rocich, possessor of a UN refugee doc.u.ment. The woman sharing the roulotte roulotte with him, also the possessor of a UN doc.u.ment, was Ghena Michailovich. Three children, Ariana, Dusan, and Xenia, were entered on the pa.s.sport of the woman, whose name appeared on their birth certificates, as did that of Bogdan Rocich. with him, also the possessor of a UN doc.u.ment, was Ghena Michailovich. Three children, Ariana, Dusan, and Xenia, were entered on the pa.s.sport of the woman, whose name appeared on their birth certificates, as did that of Bogdan Rocich.

Bogdan Rocich, also known to the authorities by a long list of aliases, had a long criminal record, stretching back sixteen years, when he presumably entered the country. The crimes he had been arrested for included: robbery, a.s.sault, the sale of drugs, possession of a weapon, rape, and public drunkenness. He had been sentenced only for possession of a weapon: the witnesses of his other crimes, most of whom had been his victims, had in every case retracted their accusation before the case came to trial. One witness had disappeared.

The woman, Ghena Michailovich, born in what was now Bosnia, had also been arrested many times, though her crimes consisted of nothing more serious than shoplifting and pickpocketing. She had been convicted twice, and both times had been consigned to house arrest because she was the mother of three children. She, too, enjoyed the use of a list of aliases.

Brunetti read through all of the arrest reports of the parents, then turned to the doc.u.ments concerning the children. All three were known to the social services.

Because they had been born in Italy, there was no uncertainty about their age. The oldest, Xenia, was thirteen; the boy, Dusan, twelve. The dead girl, Ariana, had been eleven.

When he read the age of the dead child, Brunetti lowered the papers to the desk and turned his head to gaze out the window and into the courtyard at the centre of the Carabinieri station. A pine tree stood at the far corner, some sort of fruit tree a few metres in front of it, so Brunetti saw the sweet green of the still unfolded leaves outlined against the darker green of the needles. Below them, the new gra.s.s was almost electrically bright, and against the low stone wall of the inner courtyard he saw the thin shoots of what would become tulips poking up from the earth. Suddenly a bird swooped in from the left and disappeared into the upper branches of the pine tree, emerging a few seconds later to fly off. He sat for a few minutes, watching the bird return again and again. Building a house.

He looked back at the papers. The three children were enrolled at two schools in Dolo, though all of them were so frequently absent as to render the word 'enrolled7 notional.

The doc.u.ments from the schools gave no indication of their scholastic achievements and were confined to listing the days on which the children did not appear in cla.s.s and the days on which they did not present themselves for their year-end exams. Dusan had twice been sent home for being involved in fights, though the report contained no explanation of the cause of those fights. Xenia had once attacked a boy in her cla.s.s and had broken his nose, but nothing had come of that, either. No special mention was made of Ariana.

The door opened behind him and Steiner returned. He carried two small white plastic cups. 'There's only one sugar' he said, as he set the coffee down in front of Brunetti.

'Thank you' Brunetti said, as he closed the folder and set it on the desk in front of him. The coffee was bitter: he didn't mind.

Steiner walked around his desk and sat down again. He finished his coffee, crushed the cup and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. 'You willing to talk about what you've found?' he asked Brunetti. As if to emphasize the question, he leaned forward and placed his extended palm on the folder.

'The girl had a ring and a watch' Brunetti said, reluctant to explain where Rizzardi had found the ring. 'They belong to a man called Giorgio Fornari, who lives in San Marco, near where the girl's body was found. I spoke to the wife - went to see her - and she seemed surprised when I produced them. When she showed me where they had been left, she realized another ring and a pair of cuff links were missing. I think she was genuinely surprised the things had been stolen.'

'Was there anything else worth stealing in the house?'

'Nothing Gypsies steal' Brunetti said. 'Rom, I mean' he quickly added.

'That's just for the reports' Steiner said. 'You can call them Gypsies here.'

Brunetti nodded.

'Who else lives in the house?' Steiner asked.

'Her husband was away, in Russia on some sort of business trip, and should be back soon. There's a son, eighteen, who was at the opera with his mother that night.' Steiner raised his eyebrows at this, but Brunetti ignored him. 'And there's a daughter, sixteen. She came in while we were there.' 'Anyone else?'

'A cleaning woman, but she doesn't live with them.'

Steiner leaned back in his chair, and in a gesture Brunetti found familiar, he pulled a side drawer open with one foot and crossed both of them on top of it. He folded his arms, rested his head against the back of his chair. He stared out the window and studied the trees. Perhaps he even watched the bird.

Finally Steiner said, 'Either someone came in and surprised her or not. Either she fell or someone helped her to fall.' He studied the trees and the bird a bit longer. 'We can't be certain about either of those things, at least not now. But we can be sure of one thing.'

"That she wasn't alone?' Brunetti offered.

'Exactly.'

'The other two have been arrested with her a few times,' Brunetti added.

This time, Steiner brought both hands to his head and scratched at it vigorously, as though it were a friendly dog. When he finished, he returned his attention to the tree for some time, then glanced over at Brunetti and said, 'I think this is where we have to stop and consider things.'

'Like the fact that they're minors?' Brunetti suggested. At Steiner's nod, he added, 'and the fact that jurisdiction becomes an issue.'

Again, the Carabiniere nodded, then surprised Brunetti by asking. 'Is your boss Patta?'

'Yes.'