Wilful Behaviour Part 24

Brunetti made a quick gesture, signalling Vianello to remain in the reading room, and went over to the door to Ford's office. He knocked, and a voice from inside called out, 'Avanti' 'Avanti'

He opened the door and went in.

'Ah, Commissario' Ford said, getting to his feet. 'How pleasant to see you again.' He came closer and held out his hand. Brunetti took it and smiled. 'Are you any closer to finding the person responsible for Claudia's death?' Ford asked as he shook Brunetti's hand.

'I think I have a good idea of who's responsible for her death, but that's not the same as knowing as who it was that killed her,' Brunetti said with an Olympian calm that startled even himself.

Ford took his hand from Brunetti's and said, 'What do you mean by that?'

'Exactly what I said, Signore: the reason for her death is not far to seek, nor, I suspect, is the person who killed her. It's just that I haven't managed to satisfy myself how one led to the other; not just yet, that is.'

'I have no idea what you're talking about,' Ford said, backing away from Brunetti and standing at the side of his desk, as though its wooden solidity would bolster his words.

'Perhaps your wife will. Is she here, Signore?'

'What do you want to speak to my wife about?'

The same thing, Signor Ford: Claudia Leonardo's death.'

That's ridiculous. How can my wife know anything about that?'

'How, indeed?' Brunetti asked, then added, 'Your wife is the other director of the Biblioteca, isn't she?' 'Yes, of course.'

'You didn't mention that the last time I was here,' Brunetti said.

'Of course I did. I told you she was co-director.'

'But you didn't tell me who your wife is, Signor Ford.'

'She's my wife. What more do you need to know about her than that?' Ford insisted. For a moment, Brunetti entertained the thought of what Paola's response would be if she were to hear him say the same thing about her. He did hot give voice to this speculation and instead asked again, 'Is she here?'

"That's none of your business.'

'Anything that has to do with Claudia Leonardo's death is my business.'

'You can't talk to her,' Ford said, almost shouting. can't talk to her,' Ford said, almost shouting.

Brunetti stepped back from him, saying nothing, turned and started for the door.

'Where are you going?'

'Back to the Questura to get an order from a magistrate that your wife be brought there for questioning.'

'You can't do that,' Ford said, voice even louder. can't do that,' Ford said, voice even louder.

Brunetti wheeled around and took one step towards him, his anger so palpable that the other man moved back. 'What I can and cannot do is determined by the law, Signor Ford, not by what you might or might not want. And I will talk to your wife' He turned away from the Englishman, making it clear that he had nothing else to say. He thought Ford would call him back and give in, but he did not, and so Brunetti went out into the reading room, where Vianello had propped himself against one of the tables, a book open in his hands. Neither acknowledged the other, and Vianello looked immediately back at the book.

Brunetti was halfway through the door to the stairway when Ford came out of his office. 'Wait' he called after Brunetti's retreating back. Brunetti stopped, half turned, but made no move to come back to the reading room.

'Commissario' Ford said, his voice calm but his face still suffused with the memory of anger. 'Perhaps we can talk about this.' Ford glanced at the two old men, but they looked quickly back at whatever it was they'd been reading when Ford came in. Vianello ignored them all.

The Englishman extended a conciliatory hand. 'Commissario. Come into my office and we can talk.'

Brunetti was very careful to demonstrate his reluctance and moved with willed slowness. As he pa.s.sed Vianello, he shot his finger out and pointed at the two men, and Vianello nodded. Brunetti followed the Englishman back into his office, waited while he closed the door, then went back to the chair he had sat in last time. This time Ford retreated behind his desk.

It was not difficult for Brunetti to remain silent: long experience had shown him how effective a technique it was in forcing others to talk.

Finally Ford said, 'I think I can explain' In the face of Brunetti's continuing silence, Ford went on. 'The girl was a terrible flirt' He watched to see how Brunetti responded to this and when he seemed interested, Ford went on, 'Of course, I had no idea of this when she first came here and asked to use the library. She seemed like a serious enough girl. And she stayed that way until she had the job, and then she started'

'Started what?' Brunetti asked in a tone that suggested he was both intrigued and willing to believe. Brunetti asked in a tone that suggested he was both intrigued and willing to believe.

"Oh, finding excuses to come in here to ask me about certain doc.u.ments or to help her find a book she said someone had asked about' He gave Brunetti a small smile that was probably meant to be boyish and embarra.s.sed but which Brunetti thought merely looked sly. 'I suppose, at first I found it flattering. You know, that she'd want my help or my advice. It wasn't long before I realized how simple many of the questions were and how, well, how disproportionate her thanks were' He stopped there, as if puzzled how to progress, a gentleman trapped in the dilemma of telling the truth at the cost of a young woman's reputation.

As Brunetti watched, he seemed to overcome the obstacle of false chivalry and opt to tell the truth. 'She really became quite shameless. Finally, I had no choice but to let her go.'

'Meaning?'

'I had to ask her to leave the Biblioteca.' 'You mean fire her?'

Ford smiled. 'Not exactly. She didn't work here officially. I mean, not as a regular employee. She was a volunteer, and because she was working that way, it was easier to ask her to leave.' He bowed his head but continued to speak. 'It was still very difficult to ask her to leave, very embarra.s.sing.' When Brunetti seemed puzzled by this, Ford went on, 'I didn't want to hurt her feelings.'

Brunetti had no doubt that Claudia's departure from the Biblioteca had been embarra.s.sing, but he wasn't certain that the explanation he had just given accurately described its cause. He took his bottom lip between his thumb and first two fingers and fell into what he did his best to make look like a contemplative pose. 'Did your wife know about this?'

Ford hesitated a moment before he answered; to Brunetti the fact of the hesitation, not its length, mattered.

'I never said anything to her, if that's what you mean,' Ford said, not without suggesting that it was indiscreet of Brunetti to ask. Rather than point out that he had not answered the question, Brunetti simply waited and at last the Englishman said, 'I'm afraid she may have noticed. Eleonora is very observant.' With a man like this, Brunetti reflected, she'd have every reason to be.

'Did you ever discuss the girl with your wife?' Brunetti asked.

'No, of course not,' he protested, the injured gentleman. 'Early on, I may have said something about her, that she was a good worker, but as I took no real interest in the girl I probably did nothing more than that.'

'Did Claudia work for your wife or when your wife was here in the Biblioteca?'

'Ah,' Ford said with an easy smile, 'I'm afraid I haven't explained. My wife's directorship is purely adrninistrative. That is, she deals with the bureaucracy and the red tape from the city and regional offices who take an interest in our work.' He tried a small smile. 'Because she's Italian, and more specifically because she's Venetian, she knows how to manoeuvre her way around. I'm afraid I, as a foreigner, would be quite helpless.'

Brunetti smiled in return, thinking that, if there were any adjective that might be attributed to Mr Ford, 'helpless' most decidedly was not it.

Then what do you do, Signore?'

'I attend to the daily running of the Biblioteca,' Ford said.

'I see' Brunetti answered, finally accepting Vianello's conclusions about the real purpose of the Library.

Ford remained silent, a ghost of a smile on his lips. When it was evident that he had nothing further to say, Brunetti got to his feet, saying, 'I'm afraid I still have to speak to your wife'

'She'll be very upset by that.'

'Why?'

The answer was some time in coming. 'She was very fond of Claudia and I think it would upset her to talk about her death.'

Brunetti didn't ask how she could have been so fond of a girl with whom her husband had suggested she had had almost no contact. 'I'm afraid there's nothing I can do about that, Signore. I have to speak to her.'

He watched Ford weigh the possible cost of opposing this demand. The man said he was not familiar with Italian bureaucracy, but anyone who had lived here for even a few years would know that, sooner or later, she would have to speak to the police. Brunetti waited patiently and allowed Ford more than enough time to decide. Finally he looked up at Brunetti and said, 'All right. But I'd like to speak to her first.'

'I'm afraid that's impossible' Brunetti said quite equitably. 'Only to a.s.sure her there's nothing to be afraid of' Ford added.

'I'll be very careful to do that' Brunetti said, the firmness of his tone at odds with the pleasantness of what he said.

'All right' Ford said, getting up and going towards the door to his office.

Again, Brunetti pa.s.sed through the reading room. Both of the old men were gone and Vianello was now seated at one of the tables, the book open in front of him, seemingly so absorbed in it that he didn't look up when the two men came out of Ford's office. He did, however, tap the point of his pen on a sheet of paper which lay next to the book, a sheet that appeared to contain two names and addresses.

On the landing Ford waited for Brunetti, then led the way up the stairs. At the top he opened the single door without needing to unlock it. They could be in the middle of the countryside, with attentive neighbours careful to protect one another, not in the middle of a city besieged by thieves and burglars.

Inside, the simplicity of the rooms below was banished. On the floor of the entrance hall lay a Sarouk so thick and yet so richly coloured that Brunetti felt uncomfortably daring to walk on it while wearing shoes. Ford led him into a large sitting room that looked out to the campo campo on the other side of the ca.n.a.l. A celadon bowl in that extraterrestrial green that Brunetti had never liked sat on a low table in front of a beige satin-covered sofa. on the other side of the ca.n.a.l. A celadon bowl in that extraterrestrial green that Brunetti had never liked sat on a low table in front of a beige satin-covered sofa.

Paintings, many of them portraits, hung from three walls; the fourth was lined with bookshelves. The centre of the room was covered with an enormous Nain, its pale arabesques in perfect harmony with the sofa.

'I'll just go and get her' Ford said, starting for the back of the apartment.

Brunetti held up a monitory hand. 'I think it would be better if you called her, Signor Ford.'

Managing to look both confused and offended. Ford asked, 'Why?'

'Because I'd like to talk to her and without your saying anything to her first.'

'I don't see how that could possibly make a difference,' Ford said, this time not confused but certainly offended.

'I do,' Brunetti said shortly, standing in place just to the left of the door of the room and only a short step from being able to block it with his body. 'Please call her.'

Ford made a business of standing just inside the door and calling towards the back of the apartment, 'Eleonora.' There was no response, and he called again, 'Eleonora.'

Brunetti heard a voice say something from the back, but it was impossible to distinguish what it said.

'Could you come here a moment, Eleonora' Ford called.

Brunetti thought the man might add something, but he did not. A minute pa.s.sed, another, and then both of them could hear a door closing at the back of the apartment. While he waited, Brunetti studied one of the portraits, an unhappy-looking woman in a wide starched ruff, her hair pulled severely back in a tight bun, looking out at the world in sharp disapproval of all she saw. He wondered who could have been so blind, or so cruel, to have such a portrait hanging in the house where Eleonora Filipetto lived.

Though he tried to stop himself, he found himself thinking the same thing when Eleonora Filipetto came into the room. Like the woman in the portrait, her hair was streaked with grey, but unlike hers, it hung limp and close to her head. Both women had the same tight, colourless Hps that could so easily be pulled together in dissatisfaction, as the living woman's were as she entered.

She recognized Brunetti, saw her husband, and chose to speak to Brunetti, 'Yes? What is it?' Her voice aimed at briskness but succeeded in seeming only nervous.

'I've come to ask you some questions about Claudia Leonardo, Signora' he said.

She waited, looking at him, not asking why.

The last time we met, Signora, when I was asking about Claudia, you didn't tell me you knew her.'

'You didn't ask me' she said, voice as flat as her bosom.

In such circ.u.mstances, you might have said more than that you recognized the name' he suggested.

'You didn't ask me' she repeated as though he had not just commented on that same answer.

'What did you think of Claudia?' Brunetti asked. He noticed that Ford made no attempt to catch her attention. In fact, he gradually moved over to the front of the room and stood by the window. When Brunetti glanced in his direction he saw that Ford was standing with his back to them, looking across at the facade of the church.

She looked across the room at her husband, as if she hoped to find the answer written on his back. 'I didn't think of her' she finally said.

'And why is that, Signora?' Brunetti inquired politely.

'She was a young girl who worked in the Biblioteca. I saw her once or twice. Why should I think of her?' Though the words were defiant, her tone had become more hesitant and uncertain, and she asked it as a real question, not a sarcastic one.

Brunetti decided he was tired of games. 'Because she was a young woman, Signora, and because your husband has a history of finding young women attractive.'

'What are you talking about?' she demanded too quickly, glancing quickly at her husband.

'It seems simple enough to me, Signora. I'm talking about what everyone seems to know: your husband's tendency to betray you with younger women, more attractive women.'

Her face contorted, but not in pain or in any of the emotions he might have expected as a result of the remarks he had made sound as offhand and insulting as he could. If she looked anything, she looked startled, even shocked.

'What do you mean, that people know? How can they know about it?'

Keeping his voice entirely conversational, he said, 'In the reading room, when I was waiting, even the old men talked about it, about the way he was always grabbing at t.i.ts.' He looked pointedly at her chest and slipped from the precisely articulated Italian he had been speaking into the most heavily accented and vulgar Veneziano, 'I can see why he told me he likes to get his' hands on a real pair of t.i.ts.' can see why he told me he likes to get his' hands on a real pair of t.i.ts.'

She gasped so loud that Ford, who had understood nothing of what Brunetti had said in dialect, turned from the window. He saw his wife, hands clutched to her breast, staring open-mouthed at a calm and self-possessed Brunetti, who was leaning forward and saying politely, in precise Italian, 'Excuse me, Signora. Is something wrong?'

She stood, mouth still open, drawing immense gulps of air into her lungs. 'He said that? He said that to you?' she gasped.

Ford moved quickly away from the window. He had no idea what was happening as he came towards his wife, his arms raised as if to embrace her protectively.

'Get away from me,' she said, voice tight, struggling to speak. 'You said that to him?' she hissed. 'You said that after what I did for you? First you betray me with that little wh.o.r.e and then you say that about me?' Her voice rose with every question, her face growing darker and more congested.

'Eleonora, be quiet,' Ford said as he drew even nearer. She raised a hand to push him away, and he put out one of his own to grab her arm. But she moved suddenly to the side, and his open hand came down, not on her wrist or her arm but on her breast.

She froze, and instinct or longing drove her forward, leaning into his hand, but then she pulled sharply back and raised a clenched fist. 'Don't touch me. Don't touch me there, the way you touched that little wh.o.r.e.' Her voice went up an octave. 'You won't touch her again, will you? Not with a knife in her chest where your hand was, will you?' Ford stood, frozen with horror. 'Will you?' she screamed, 'Will you?' Suddenly she pulled her fist back and brought it crashing down once, twice, three times, into his chest as the two men stood there paralysed in the face of her rage. After the third blow, she moved away from him. As suddenly as it had started, her rage evaporated and she started to cry, great tearing sobs. 1 did all of that for you, and you can still say that to him.'

'Shut up!' Ford shouted at her. 'Shut up, you fool.'

Tears streaming from her eyes, she looked up at him and asked, voice choking with sobs, 'Why do you always have to have pretty things? Both of you, Daddy and you, all you've ever wanted is pretty things. Neither of you ever wanted ...' Sobbing overcame her and choked off her last word, but Brunetti had no doubt that it was going to be 'me'.

Though Ford tried to stop Brunetti with loud bl.u.s.ter, insisting that he had no right to arrest his wife, the woman offered no resistance and said that she would go along with him. Ford in their wake, hurling threats and the names of important people at their backs, Brunetti led her to the front door. Behind it they found Vianello, lounging up against the wall, his jacket unb.u.t.toned and, to Brunetti's experienced eye, his pistol evident in its holster.

Brunetti was in some uncertainty as to what to say to Vianello, as he wasn't at all sure that what he had just heard Signora Ford say could be construed as a confession of murder. There had been no witness, save for Ford, and he could be counted upon to deny hearing what she had said or insist she'd said something else entirely. It depended, then, on his getting her to repeat her confession in Vianello's hearing or, even better, on getting her to the Questura, where she could record it or speak it while being videotaped. He knew that a future case based on his word alone would be laughed at by any prosecuting magistrate with experience in the courtroom; indeed, it would be laughed at by anyone with experience of the law.