Uniform Justice by Donna Leon Read Free Book Online

had he any idea if the doctor was paying attention.
    He continued, ‘Dottore, I know how difficult this must be for you, but it’s important that I have this information.’
    Without looking up, Moro said, ‘I don’t think you do.’
    ‘I beg your pardon,’ Brunetti said.
    ‘I don’t think you have any idea of how difficult this is.’
    The truth of this made Brunetti blush. When his face had grown cool again, Moro had still not bothered to look at him. After what seemed to Brunetti a long time, the doctor raised his head. No tears stood in his eyes, and his voice was as calm as it had been when he spoke to his cousin. ‘I’d be very grateful if you’d leave now, Commissario.’ Brunetti began to protest, but the doctor cut him off by raising his voice, but only in volume: his tone remained calm and impersonal. ‘Please don’t argue with me. There is nothing at all that I have to say to you. Not now, and not in the future.’ He took his arms from their protective position around his middle and let them fall to his sides. ‘I have nothing further to say.’
    Brunetti was certain that it was futile to pursue the matter now, equally certain that he would return and ask the same question again after the doctor had had time to overcome his immediate agony. Since he had learned of the boy’s death, Brunetti had been assailed by the desire to know if the man had other children, but couldn’t bring himself to ask. He had some sort of theoretical belief that their existence would serve as consolation, however limited. He tried to put himself in Moro’s place and understand what solace he would find in the survival of one of his own children, but his imagination shied away from that horror. At the very thought, some force stronger than taboo seized him, numbing his mind. Not daring to offer his hand or to say anything further, Brunetti left the apartment.
    From the Salute stop, he took the Number One to San Zaccaria and started back towards the Questura. As he approached it, a group of teenagers, three boys and two girls, cascaded down the Ponte dei Greci and came towards him, arms linked, laughter radiating out from them. Brunetti stopped walking and stood in the middle of the pavement, waiting for this exuberant wave of youth to wash over him. Like the Red Sea, they parted and swept around him: Brunetti was sure they hadn’t even noticed him in any real sense; he was merely a stationary obstacle to be got round.
    Both of the girls had cigarettes in their hands, something that usually filled Brunetti with the desire to tell them, if they valued their health and well-being, to stop. Instead, he turned and looked after them, filled with a sense of almost religious awe at the sight of their youth and joy.
    By the time he reached his office, the feeling had passed. On his desk he found the first of the many forms that were generated by any case of suicide; he didn’t bother to fill it out. It was only after he heard from Venturi that he would know how to proceed.
    He called down to the officers’ room, but neither Vianello nor Pucetti was there. He dialled Signorina Elettra’s extension and asked her to begin a complete search through all the sources available to her, official and unofficial, for information on Fernando Moro’s careers as both a doctor and a Member of Parliament. Saying that she had already begun, she promised to have something for him later in the day.
    The thought of lunch displeased him: food seemed an irrelevant extravagance. He felt a gnawing desire to see his family, though he knew his current mood would render him so solicitous as to make them uncomfortable. He called Paola and told her he couldn’t make it home for lunch, saying that something had come up at the Questura that would keep him there and, yes, yes, he’d eat something and be home at the regular time.
    ‘I hope it’s not too bad,’ Paola said, letting him know that she had registered his tone, however neutral he had tried to