Doctored Evidence by Donna Leon

his mother a decade ago and still held her prisoner. He had no idea how Scarpa had learned about her, indeed, had no proof that he knew, but then why else the lieutenant’s frequent references to their mothers? And why his repeated, and falsely humorous, suggestion that any lapse of memory or efficiency on the part of anyone at the Questura must be a sign of senility?
    Ignoring the remark, Brunetti continued up to his office. He closed the door, set the bag on his desk, removed his jacket and held it up to look at the front. Grey linen and one of his favourites, it had broad black stains running horizontally across the front; he doubted that any cleaning could remove them. He draped it on the back of his chair and loosened his tie. It was only then that he noticed how filthy his hands were, so hewent down to the bathroom on the floor below and washed them, then splashed water on his face and ran his wet hands around the back of his neck.
    Seated at his desk, he pulled the bag towards him, spread it open, and drew the stack of papers from it. Abandoning the idea of trying to sort them into categories, he began to read them over as they lay in the pile. Gas bills, ENEL, water and garbage bills, all paid through her account at Uni Credit: these were clipped together according to utility and arranged in chronological order. There was a sheaf of letters of complaint from neighbours, Signora Gismondi among them, about the noise of her television. They dated back seven years and had all been sent
raccomandate
. There was a photocopy of her marriage certificate, a letter from the Ministero dell’ Interno to her husband, acknowledging receipt of his report of 23 June 1982.
    There followed a stack of letters, all addressed to either Signora Battestini or her husband, sometimes to both. He opened them and read quickly through the first paragraph of each, then glanced quickly through the rest of the letters to see if there was anything that might be important. Some were painfully pro forma letters from a niece, Graziella, written in a very unschooled hand, each thanking her for a Christmas gift, though the gift was never specified. Over the course of the years, Graziella’s handwriting and painfully simple grammar remained unchanged.
    One of the envelopes bearing Graziella’sname and return address contained no letter: instead, he found a sheet of paper written in the sharp, spiky letters of a different hand. Along the left margin ran a list of four sets of initials, and to the right of each of them a series of numbers or, in some cases, numbers preceded by or followed by a letter or letters. A voice spoke his name from the door, and he looked up to see Vianello. Instead of a greeting, Brunetti surprised him by asking, ‘You like crossword puzzles, don’t you?’
    Nodding, the inspector came across the room and sat in one of the chairs in front of Brunetti’s desk. Brunetti passed him the sheet of paper and said, ‘What do you make of this?’
    Vianello took the sheet, laid it flat on the surface of his superior’s desk, and, propping his chin in both palms, looked down at it. Brunetti continued to go through the other papers, leaving Vianello to it.
    After a number of minutes but without taking his eyes from the paper, Vianello asked, ‘Do I get a clue?’
    â€˜It was in the attic of the old woman who was murdered last month.’
    A few more minutes passed and finally Vianello asked, ‘Have you got a phone book, sir? The yellow pages.’
    Curious, Brunetti bent down and pulled the Venice yellow pages out of his bottom drawer.
    The inspector opened the book at the front and flipped through a few pages. Then he picked up the sheet of paper and laid it on top ofthe open book. He placed his right forefinger on the first item on the list and ran his left down a page of the book which Brunetti could not see. Apparently finding what he was looking for, Vianello moved his right finger