duplicate Signorina Elettra’s search and typed in the nameof Aldo Franchini. ‘Well, well, well,’ he muttered as the system listed a man of sixty-one, living at Castello 333. Brunetti didn’t know where it was exactly, but he knew it was somewhere beyond the end of Via Garibaldi.
Franchini had been questioned, though not arrested, six months earlier in connection with an incident in Viale Garibaldi that had sent him to the hospital with a broken nose. A man sitting on a bench along the Viale had told the police that he noticed Franchini on another, a book in one hand, talking to a woman who was standing in front of him. Some time later, he heard an angry voice and looked up to see a man standing where the woman had been. With no advance warning, the man pulled Franchini to his feet and hit him, then walked away.
The assailant, who was quickly identified and arrested, had a record of petty theft and the receiving of stolen property and was under court order to remain at least one hundred metres from his former companion, whose life he had threatened. She turned out to be the woman who had been talking to the victim.
Franchini, however, refused to press charges against the assailant, saying that he had stood up when the man shouted at him and must have tripped and broken his nose when he fell.
Brunetti entered the name of the assailant, Roberto Durà, into the computer and discovered a string of arrests for minor crimes that had never sent him to jail, usually because of lack of witnesses or sufficient evidence or because the prosecuting magistrate had decided the case was not worth pursuing. He discovered that Durà was currently in jail in Treviso, sentenced three months ago to four years for armed robbery and assault.
Brunetti looked out the window and saw blue sky, clouds huffing and puffing towards the east, a perfect day for awalk down to Castello to have a look around. He stopped in the squad room on his way out, where he saw Ispettore Vianello at his desk, bent forward and speaking into his telefonino , one hand shielding the phone to trap the sound of his voice. Brunetti stopped a few metres from him and watched his face: Vianello’s eyes were closed, his face intent, as though he were urging a racehorse to win, win, win.
Brunetti had no wish to distract Vianello from the call, so he went to the desk Alvise shared with Riverre and found the former busy writing in a small notebook. When he approached, however, he saw that it was a crossword puzzle: Sudoku was perhaps too taxing for Alvise. So intent was he on the words that he did not sense the approach of his superior. Alvise actually jumped to his feet when Brunetti spoke his name.
‘ Sì , Signore, ’ he said, raising to his forehead the hand that held the pencil and putting his eye at risk.
‘When Vianello’s finished, would you ask him to come down to the bar?’
‘Of course, Commissario,’ Alvise said and, using his pencil, made a note in the margin of his puzzle book.
‘Thanks,’ Brunetti said, failing for once to find a way to engage Alvise in easy conversation. He left the Questura and went along the riva to the bar. Bambola, the Senegalese who now all but ran the place for its owner, smiled when Brunetti came in and poured him a glass of white wine. Brunetti took it, grabbed up that day’s copy of Il Gazzettino , and went to the booth at the far end, near the window, so he could see Vianello arriving. He opened the paper to the centre page. Idly, he looked at his watch: the time made him suddenly aware of how hungry he was. He took out his telefonino , thinking he’d send Paola an SMS to apologize for having forgotten about lunch, but he pushed away cowardice and called her.
She grumbled, but since she didn’t name the dishes he had missed, he knew her heart wasn’t in it. He promised to be home on time for dinner, said he loved her beyond measure, and hung up. He called over to Bambola and asked him to choose three tramezzini for
Franchini had been questioned, though not arrested, six months earlier in connection with an incident in Viale Garibaldi that had sent him to the hospital with a broken nose. A man sitting on a bench along the Viale had told the police that he noticed Franchini on another, a book in one hand, talking to a woman who was standing in front of him. Some time later, he heard an angry voice and looked up to see a man standing where the woman had been. With no advance warning, the man pulled Franchini to his feet and hit him, then walked away.
The assailant, who was quickly identified and arrested, had a record of petty theft and the receiving of stolen property and was under court order to remain at least one hundred metres from his former companion, whose life he had threatened. She turned out to be the woman who had been talking to the victim.
Franchini, however, refused to press charges against the assailant, saying that he had stood up when the man shouted at him and must have tripped and broken his nose when he fell.
Brunetti entered the name of the assailant, Roberto Durà, into the computer and discovered a string of arrests for minor crimes that had never sent him to jail, usually because of lack of witnesses or sufficient evidence or because the prosecuting magistrate had decided the case was not worth pursuing. He discovered that Durà was currently in jail in Treviso, sentenced three months ago to four years for armed robbery and assault.
Brunetti looked out the window and saw blue sky, clouds huffing and puffing towards the east, a perfect day for awalk down to Castello to have a look around. He stopped in the squad room on his way out, where he saw Ispettore Vianello at his desk, bent forward and speaking into his telefonino , one hand shielding the phone to trap the sound of his voice. Brunetti stopped a few metres from him and watched his face: Vianello’s eyes were closed, his face intent, as though he were urging a racehorse to win, win, win.
Brunetti had no wish to distract Vianello from the call, so he went to the desk Alvise shared with Riverre and found the former busy writing in a small notebook. When he approached, however, he saw that it was a crossword puzzle: Sudoku was perhaps too taxing for Alvise. So intent was he on the words that he did not sense the approach of his superior. Alvise actually jumped to his feet when Brunetti spoke his name.
‘ Sì , Signore, ’ he said, raising to his forehead the hand that held the pencil and putting his eye at risk.
‘When Vianello’s finished, would you ask him to come down to the bar?’
‘Of course, Commissario,’ Alvise said and, using his pencil, made a note in the margin of his puzzle book.
‘Thanks,’ Brunetti said, failing for once to find a way to engage Alvise in easy conversation. He left the Questura and went along the riva to the bar. Bambola, the Senegalese who now all but ran the place for its owner, smiled when Brunetti came in and poured him a glass of white wine. Brunetti took it, grabbed up that day’s copy of Il Gazzettino , and went to the booth at the far end, near the window, so he could see Vianello arriving. He opened the paper to the centre page. Idly, he looked at his watch: the time made him suddenly aware of how hungry he was. He took out his telefonino , thinking he’d send Paola an SMS to apologize for having forgotten about lunch, but he pushed away cowardice and called her.
She grumbled, but since she didn’t name the dishes he had missed, he knew her heart wasn’t in it. He promised to be home on time for dinner, said he loved her beyond measure, and hung up. He called over to Bambola and asked him to choose three tramezzini for
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