the world since he became an ispettore?’ Rizzardi asked, but affection glistened through the apparent sarcasm.
‘It took long enough,’ Brunetti said with the residual anger he felt at the years it had taken Vianello to be given what he had so long deserved.
‘Scarpa?’ Rizzardo asked, naming Vice-Questore Patta’s personal assistant and showing just how intimate he was with the real workings of the Questura.
‘Of course. He managed to block it for years, ever since he got here.’
‘What changed things?’
Brunetti gazed away evasively and began to say, ‘Oh, I’ve no…’ but Rizzardi cut him short.
‘What did you do?’
‘I threatened Patta that I’d ask for a transfer to Treviso or Vicenza.’
‘And?’
‘He caved in.’
‘Did you think that would happen?’
‘No, quite the opposite. I thought he’d be happy to have the chance to get rid of me.’
‘And if Patta had refused to promote him, would you have gone?’
Brunetti raised his eyebrows and pulled up the corner of his mouth in another evasion.
‘Would you?’
‘Yes,’ Brunetti said and walked towards the door. ‘Call me when you’re done, all right?’
Back downstairs, Brunetti found Vianello in the kitchen, sitting opposite Signora Gallante, a white porcelain teapot and a jar of honey between them. Each had a cup of yellow tea. Signora Gallante started to get to her feet when she saw Brunetti, but Vianello leaned across the table and put a hand on her arm. ‘Stay there, Signora. I’ll get the Commissario a cup.’
He got up and with the sort of ease that usually comes with long familiarity, opened a cabinet and pulled down a cup and saucer. He sat them in front of the now-seated Brunetti and turned back to open a drawer and get him a spoon. Silently, he poured out a cup of linden tea and took his place again across from the Signora.
Vianello said, ‘The Signora’s just been telling me a bit about Signorina Leonardo, sir.’ Signora Gallante nodded. ‘She said she was a good girl, very considerate and thoughtful.’
‘Oh, yes, sir,’ the old woman interrupted. ‘She used to come down here for tea once in a while, and she always asked me about my grandchildren, even asked to see pictures of them. They never made any noise, she and Lucia: study, study, study; it seems that’s all they ever did.’
‘Didn’t friends ever visit them?’ Vianello asked when Brunetti made no move to do so.
‘No. Once in a while I’d see a young person on the steps, a boy or a girl, but they never caused any trouble. You know how students like to study together. My sons always did that when they were in school, but they made a lot more noise, I’m afraid.’ She started to smile, but then remembering just what had brought these two men to her table, her smile faded and she picked up her teacup.
‘You said you met Lucia’s mother, Signora,’ Brunetti began. ‘Did you ever meet Signor and Signora Leonardo?’
‘No, that’s impossible. They’re both gone, you know.’ When she saw Brunetti’s confusion, she tried to explain. ‘That is, her father’s dead. She told me he died when she was just a little girl.’
When Signora Gallante said nothing else, Brunetti asked, ‘And the mother?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Claudia never spoke about her, but I always had the sense that she was gone.’
‘Do you mean dead, Signora?’
‘No, no, not exactly. Oh, I don’t know what I mean. It’s just that Claudia never said she was dead; she just made it sound like she was gone, as if she was somewhere else and was never coming back.’ She thought for a moment, as if trying to recall conversations with the girl. ‘It was all very strange, now that I think about it. She usually used the past tense when she spoke about her mother, but once she spoke of her as though she were still alive.’
‘Do you remember what she said?’ Vianello asked.
‘No, no, I can’t. I’m very sorry, gentlemen, but I just can’t. It was something
‘It took long enough,’ Brunetti said with the residual anger he felt at the years it had taken Vianello to be given what he had so long deserved.
‘Scarpa?’ Rizzardo asked, naming Vice-Questore Patta’s personal assistant and showing just how intimate he was with the real workings of the Questura.
‘Of course. He managed to block it for years, ever since he got here.’
‘What changed things?’
Brunetti gazed away evasively and began to say, ‘Oh, I’ve no…’ but Rizzardi cut him short.
‘What did you do?’
‘I threatened Patta that I’d ask for a transfer to Treviso or Vicenza.’
‘And?’
‘He caved in.’
‘Did you think that would happen?’
‘No, quite the opposite. I thought he’d be happy to have the chance to get rid of me.’
‘And if Patta had refused to promote him, would you have gone?’
Brunetti raised his eyebrows and pulled up the corner of his mouth in another evasion.
‘Would you?’
‘Yes,’ Brunetti said and walked towards the door. ‘Call me when you’re done, all right?’
Back downstairs, Brunetti found Vianello in the kitchen, sitting opposite Signora Gallante, a white porcelain teapot and a jar of honey between them. Each had a cup of yellow tea. Signora Gallante started to get to her feet when she saw Brunetti, but Vianello leaned across the table and put a hand on her arm. ‘Stay there, Signora. I’ll get the Commissario a cup.’
He got up and with the sort of ease that usually comes with long familiarity, opened a cabinet and pulled down a cup and saucer. He sat them in front of the now-seated Brunetti and turned back to open a drawer and get him a spoon. Silently, he poured out a cup of linden tea and took his place again across from the Signora.
Vianello said, ‘The Signora’s just been telling me a bit about Signorina Leonardo, sir.’ Signora Gallante nodded. ‘She said she was a good girl, very considerate and thoughtful.’
‘Oh, yes, sir,’ the old woman interrupted. ‘She used to come down here for tea once in a while, and she always asked me about my grandchildren, even asked to see pictures of them. They never made any noise, she and Lucia: study, study, study; it seems that’s all they ever did.’
‘Didn’t friends ever visit them?’ Vianello asked when Brunetti made no move to do so.
‘No. Once in a while I’d see a young person on the steps, a boy or a girl, but they never caused any trouble. You know how students like to study together. My sons always did that when they were in school, but they made a lot more noise, I’m afraid.’ She started to smile, but then remembering just what had brought these two men to her table, her smile faded and she picked up her teacup.
‘You said you met Lucia’s mother, Signora,’ Brunetti began. ‘Did you ever meet Signor and Signora Leonardo?’
‘No, that’s impossible. They’re both gone, you know.’ When she saw Brunetti’s confusion, she tried to explain. ‘That is, her father’s dead. She told me he died when she was just a little girl.’
When Signora Gallante said nothing else, Brunetti asked, ‘And the mother?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Claudia never spoke about her, but I always had the sense that she was gone.’
‘Do you mean dead, Signora?’
‘No, no, not exactly. Oh, I don’t know what I mean. It’s just that Claudia never said she was dead; she just made it sound like she was gone, as if she was somewhere else and was never coming back.’ She thought for a moment, as if trying to recall conversations with the girl. ‘It was all very strange, now that I think about it. She usually used the past tense when she spoke about her mother, but once she spoke of her as though she were still alive.’
‘Do you remember what she said?’ Vianello asked.
‘No, no, I can’t. I’m very sorry, gentlemen, but I just can’t. It was something
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