Death in a Strange Country by Donna Leon Read Free Book Online Page B

No
one would, not unless they lived init, for it was, as Bonsuan pointed
out, a dead: end that led to the water and ended there.
     
    ‘Either one would be a
perfect place,’ Bonsuan suggested. ‘No one ever passes either one of them, not
at that hour.’
     
    ‘And the tides?’
     
    ‘Last night they were
very weak. No real pull in them. And a body catches on things; that slows it
down. It could have been either one of those two places.’
     
    ‘Any other?’
     
    ‘It might have been one
of the other calle that lead into the Canal of Santa Marina, but those
are the two best places if all we’ve got is five or six hours for him to drift.’
It seemed that Bonsuan had finished, but then he added, ‘Unless he used a boat,’
leaving it to Brunetti to infer that he meant the killer.
     
    ‘That’s possible, isn’t
it?’ Brunetti agreed, though he thought it unlikely. Boats meant motors, and
late at night that meant angry heads stuck out of windows to see who it was
making all the noise.
     
    ‘Thanks, Danilo. Would
you tell the divers to go over those two places - it can wait until the morning
- and take a look? And ask Vianello to send a team over to check both of those
places to see if there’s any sign that it was done there.’
     
    Bonsuan pushed himself up
from his chair, knees creaking audibly. He nodded.
     
    ‘Who’s down there who can
take me to Piazzale Roma and then out to the cemetery?’
     
    ‘Monetti,’ Bonsuan
responded, naming one of the other pilots.
     
    ‘Could you tell him I’d
like to leave in about ten minutes?’
     
    With a nod and a mumbled,
‘Yes, sir,’ Bonsuan was gone.
     
    Brunetti suddenly noticed
how hungry he was. All he’d eaten since the morning were three sandwiches,
well, less than that, since Orso had eaten one of them. He pulled open the
bottom drawer of his desk, hoping to find something there, a box of buranei, the s-shaped cookies he loved and usually had to fight the children for, an
old candy bar, anything, but it was as empty as it had been the last time he
looked.
     
    It would have to be
coffee, then. But that would mean having Monetti stop the boat. It was a measure
of his hunger, the irritation he felt at this simple problem. But then he
thought of the women down in the Ufficio Stranieri; they usually had something
to give him if he went begging for food.
     
    He left his office and
went down the back staircase to the ground floor, pushing his way through the
large double doors and into the office. Sylvia, small and dark, and Anita,
tall, blonde, and stunning, sat at their desks opposite one another, leafing
through the papers that seemed never to disappear from their desks.
     
    ‘Buona sera,’ they both said as he came
in, then bowed again to the green-covered files that sprawled out in front of
them.
     
    ‘Do you have anything to
eat?’ he asked with more hunger than grace.
     
    Sylvia smiled and shook
her head without speaking; he came into the office only to beg food or to tell
them that one of their applicants for a work or residence permit had been
arrested and could be removed from their lists and files.
     
    ‘Don’t you get fed at
home?’ Anita asked, but at the same time she was pulling open one of the
drawers in her desk. From it she pulled a brown paper bag. Opening it, she took
out one, then two, then three ripe pears and placed them at the front of her
desk, within easy reach of his hand.
     
    Three years ago, an
Algerian who had been denied a residence permit had gone berserk in the office
when he was given the news, grabbed Anita by the shoulders, and pulled her
across her desk. He was holding her there, screaming in her face in hysterical
Arabic, when Brunetti had come in to ask for a file. Instantly, he had wrapped
an arm around the man’s neck and choked him until he released Anita, who had
fallen free to her desk, terrified and sobbing. No one had ever referred to the
incident since then, but he knew he could always find