Death in a Strange Country by Donna Leon Page B

clear
idea of what the young man looked like. More handsome in this photo, Foster
here had a short moustache that he had shaved off sometime before he was
killed.
     
    ‘When was ibis photo
taken?’
     
    ‘Probably when he entered
the service.’
     
    ‘How long ago was that?’
     
    ‘Seven years.’
     
    ‘How long has he been
here in Italy?’
     
    ‘Four years. In fact, he
just re-upped in order to stay here.’
     
    ‘Excuse me,’ Brunetti
said.
     
    ‘Re-enlisted. For another
three years.’
     
    ‘And he would have
remained here?’
     
    ‘Yes.’
     
    Remembering something he
had read in the file, Brunetti asked, ‘How did he learn Italian?’
     
    ‘I beg your pardon,’
Butterworth said.
     
    ‘If he had a full time
job here, that wouldn’t leave him a lot of time to learn a new language,’
Brunetti explained.
     
    ‘Tanti di noi parliamo
Italiano,’ Butterworth
answered in heavily accented but understandable Italian.
     
    ‘Yes, of course,’
Brunetti said and smiled, as he guessed he was expected to do, at the Major’s
ability to speak Italian. ‘Did he live here? There are barracks here, aren’t
there?’
     
    ‘Yes, there are,’
Butterworth answered. ‘But Sergeant Foster had his own apartment in Vicenza.’
     
    Brunetti knew the apartment
would have been searched, so he didn’t bother to ask if it had been. ‘Did you
find anything?’
     
    ‘No.’
     
    ‘Would it be possible for
me to have a look at it?’
     
    ‘I’m not sure that’s
necessary,’ Butterworth said quickly.
     
    ‘I’m not sure it’s
necessary, either,’ Brunetti said with a small smile. ‘But I’d like to see
where he lived.’
     
    ‘It’s not regular
procedure, for you to see it.’
     
    ‘I didn’t realize there
was a regular procedure here,’ Brunetti said. He knew that either the
Carabinieri or the Vicenza police could easily authorize his inspection of the
apartment, but he wanted, at least at this point of the investigation, to
remain as agreeable as possible with all of the authorities concerned.
     
    ‘I suppose it could be
arranged,’ Butterworth conceded. ‘When would you like to do it?’
     
    ‘There’s no hurry. This
afternoon. Tomorrow.’
     
    ‘I didn’t realize you were
planning to return tomorrow, Vice-Questore.’
     
    ‘Only if I don’t finish
everything today, Major.’
     
    ‘What else was it you
wanted to do?’
     
    ‘I’d like to talk to some
of the people who knew him, who worked with him.’ Brunetti had noticed, among
the papers in the file, that the dead man had attended university classes at
the base. Like the Romans, these new empire builders carried their schools with
them. ‘Perhaps to people he went to university with.’
     
    ‘I suppose something can
be arranged, though I admit I don’t see the reason for it. We’ll handle this
end of the investigation.’ He paused, as if waiting for Brunetti to challenge
him. When Brunetti said nothing, Butterworth asked, ‘When would you prefer to
see his apartment?’
     
    Brunetti glanced down at
his watch. It was almost noon. ‘Perhaps sometime this afternoon. If you could
tell me where the apartment is, then I could have my driver take me mere on my
way back to the railway station?’
     
    ‘Would you like me to go
along with you, Vice-Questore?’
     
    ‘That’s very kind of you,
Major, but I don’t think that will be necessary. If you’d just give me the
address.’
     
    Major Butterworth pulled
a pad towards him and, without having to open the file to find it, wrote an
address and handed it to Brunetti. ‘It’s not far from here. I’m sure your
driver won’t have any trouble finding it.’
     
    ‘Thank you, Major,’
Brunetti said and stood. ‘Would you have any objection if I spent some time
here on the base?’
     
    ‘Post,’ Butterworth
responded immediately. ‘This is a post. The Air Force has bases. We have posts
in me Army.’
     
    ‘Ah, I see. In Italian,
they’re both bases.