CB19 A Question of Belief (2010) (25 page)

‘Did it matter to his parents, do you think?’ Vianello asked. ‘Were they surprised?’

‘His father was dead when he told me.’

‘And his mother?’ the Inspector asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Fontana said. ‘She’s a great deal smarter
than she lets on. She might have known. Or suspected.’

‘Would it have bothered her?’ Vianello asked.

Fontana shrugged, started to say something, stopped, then went on, speaking quickly, ‘So long as no one knew about it and he paid the rent, she wouldn’t care, not really.’

Brunetti interrupted to remark, ‘That’s an unusual thing to say about a man’s mother.’

‘She’s an unusual woman,’ Fontana said, giving him a sharp look.

A silence fell. Interesting as a discussion of Signora Fontana might be, Brunetti thought it was of little use to them. It was time to get back to Fontana’s death, so he asked, ‘Did your cousin ever say anything about his private life?’

‘Do you mean sex?’ Fontana asked.

‘Yes.’

Fontana tried again to help the crease in his trousers, but again the humidity won. ‘He told me,’ he began and stopped to clear his throat a few times. ‘He told me once that he envied me.’ He stopped.

‘Envied you what, Signor Fontana?’ Brunetti was finally forced to ask him.

‘That I love my wife.’ He looked away from Brunetti after he said this.

‘And why was that?’ Brunetti asked.

Again Fontana cleared his throat, gave a few coughs, and said, not looking at him, ‘Because – this is what he said – he never managed to make love with anyone he really loved.’

Brunetti nodded again, suggesting that he was already in possession of this information. In his most sympathetic voice he said, ‘That must have made his life very difficult.’

Fontana gave the phantom of a shrug and said, ‘In a way, but not really.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ Brunetti said, though, thinking of Fontana’s mother, perhaps he did.

‘That way, he could separate his emotional life from his sexual life. He loved me and his mother and his friend Renato, but we were already – what’s the right way to say this? – out of bounds sexually.’ He paused, as if considering what he had just heard himself say, then went on. ‘Well, Renato isn’t, I suppose. But I think Araldo couldn’t stand confusion of any sort in his life. So by separating them, those two things, then he didn’t have confusion. Or he thought he didn’t.’ Again, that shrug, and Fontana said, ‘I don’t know how to explain this, but it makes sense to me. Knowing him, I mean. How he is. Was.’

‘You said a moment ago, Signore, that you think this might
have had something to do with his death,’ Brunetti said. ‘Could you explain that to us, please?’

Fontana folded his hands primly on his lap and said, speaking to Brunetti, ‘By keeping things separate, he was free – if that’s the word – to have anonymous sex. When we were younger . . . that sort of thing was all right, I suppose. And then I, well, I changed. But Araldo didn’t.’

After the silence had grown long, Brunetti asked, ‘Did he tell you this?’

Fontana tilted his head to one side. ‘Sort of.’

‘Excuse me,’ Brunetti said. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’ He probably did, but he wanted to hear from Fontana what the other man had in mind.

‘He’d tell me things, answer questions, sort of hint at things,’ Fontana said, abruptly getting to his feet. But all he did was pull his trousers away from the back of his thighs and take a few steps on the spot to let them fall free from his body. He sat down again and said, ‘I knew what he meant to say, even if he didn’t say it.’

‘Did he tell you where this took place?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Here and there. In other people’s homes.’

‘Not in his?’

Fontana gave Brunetti a severe look and asked, ‘Have you met his mother?’

‘Of course,’ Brunetti said, glancing at the surface of his desk and then back at Fontana.

As if as a form of apology for the sharpness of his last remark, Fontana offered this: ‘Once, when I went to visit them, the speaker phone and door latch were broken, so I had to call Araldo on my
telefonino
, and he came down to let me in. As we were crossing the courtyard, he stopped and looked around. Then he said something about it being his little love nest.’

‘What did you say?’ Vianello broke in to ask.

‘I was embarrassed, so I ignored him and pretended he
hadn’t said anything.’ A moment passed and he said, ‘I didn’t know what to say. We’d been so close as kids, and then he’d say something like this. I didn’t understand.’

‘Maybe he was embarrassed, as well,’ Brunetti suggested. Then, more appositely, ‘Did he ever mention anyone by name or make a remark that would allow you to identify one of his . . .‘ Brunetti struggled to find the right word: ‘lovers’ seemed wildly wrong, given what Fontana had been telling him. ‘. . . partners?’

Fontana shook his head. ‘No. Nothing. Araldo would have thought that was wrong.’ He waited for them to ask him about that, and when they did not, he continued. ‘It was all right for him to talk about his own life, but he never said anything about anyone else: no names, not even ages. Nothing.’

‘Just that he couldn’t love them?’ asked Vianello in a sad voice.

Fontana nodded, then whispered, ‘Or shouldn’t.’

After that, the information Fontana provided was routine: his cousin had never introduced him to anyone who was other than a friend from school or a colleague at work, nor had he ever spoken with particular affection of anyone except Renato Penzo, whom he had praised as a good friend. He had always gone on vacation with his mother and had once joked that it was more work than going to work.

In recent months he had seemed nervous and preoccupied, and when Giorgio commented on this, his cousin had told him only that he was having trouble at work and at home.

‘Many of the people I’ve spoken to,’ Brunetti began, ‘have told me he was a good man. And you used the term yourself. Could you tell me what you mean by it?’

A look of real confusion spread across Fontana’s face. ‘But everyone knows what that means.’ He looked towards Vianello for confirmation, but the Inspector remained silent.

Finally Brunetti allowed himself to say it. ‘There are many people who would not think he was good once they learned he was homosexual.’

‘But that’s ridiculous,’ Fontana snapped. ‘I told you: he was a good man. For the last year he’d been collecting clothing for that woman – that servant – what’s her name?’

‘Zinka?’ Brunetti suggested.

‘Yes. He’d been collecting clothing for her family in Romania and mailing it to them. And I know his friend Penzo is trying to get her a
permesso di soggiorno
. And he had the patience of a saint with his mother. He’d have done anything to keep her happy. And he really was incapable of dishonesty. Of any sort.’ Then, as the memory came back, he said, ‘Ah, I’d forgotten. He told me, about two months ago, that he was thinking about moving, but he couldn’t bear the thought of how much it would upset his mother.’

‘Did he say why?’

Fontana shook his head. ‘Nothing I could understand. Something about work and its not being right that they lived in that
palazzo
. But he didn’t really explain it.’

‘Do you think he would have moved?’ Brunetti asked.

Fontana closed his eyes and raised his eyebrows. When he opened his eyes, he met Brunetti’s gaze and said, ‘If it meant disturbing his mother . . .’ before his voice trailed away.

‘You really think that apartment is so important to her?’ Brunetti asked with surprise he could not hide.

‘You’ve spoken to my aunt?’

‘Yes.’

‘You saw her little red cheeks and her stylish hair?’

‘Yes.’

Fontana leaned forward so quickly in his chair that Vianello moved aside hurriedly to get away from him. ‘My aunt is a harpy,’ Fontana said with a violence that astonished Brunetti and left Vianello with his mouth ajar. ‘If she doesn’t get what she wants, other people have to pay for it, and she
wants that apartment. Like she has never wanted anything in her life.’

No one in the room found the proper thing to say for some time, until Brunetti asked, ‘And was that enough to stop your cousin from doing what he wanted to do?’

‘I don’t know, but when I think about it now, I think that’s what made him so nervous the last few times I saw him or spoke to him.’

‘Did your cousin ever mention a Judge Coltellini?’ Brunetti asked suddenly.

Fontana could not disguise his surprise. ‘Yes. He did. For the last few years, well, maybe two. He was very taken with her. She was always very pleasant to him, seemed to appreciate his work.’ Fontana paused and then added, ‘Araldo would get crushes on women every once in a while, especially women where he worked who had more power or responsibility than he did.’

‘What would happen with these women?’

‘Oh, he got tired of them, sooner or later. Or they’d do something he didn’t approve of, and then they’d sink back under the waves and be treated just like anyone else.’

‘Did that happen with Judge Coltellini?’ As he asked the question, Brunetti was aware of how much this man, and their dealings with him, had changed since he had come into his office. The meekness was gone; so was the timidity. In place of the appearance of uncertainty, Brunetti saw both intelligence and sensitivity. His initial nervousness, then, could be attributed to the fear that any involvement with the forces of order brought to the average citizen.

Brunetti tuned into Fontana’s answer in mid-sentence. ‘. . . that made things change. When he didn’t talk about her – I noticed the change because he had been so taken with her – I asked about her, and he said he had been mistaken about her. And that was that. He refused to say anything else.’

‘Have you seen your aunt since his death?’

Fontana shook his head. He sat quietly for a while, and then said, ‘The funeral’s tomorrow. I’ll see her there. Then I hope I never have to see her again. Ever.’

Brunetti and Vianello waited.

‘She ruined his life. He should have gone to live with Renato when he had the chance.’

‘When was that?’ Brunetti asked.

When Fontana looked at him, Brunetti saw that his eyes had grown sadder still. ‘It doesn’t matter, does it? He could have, and should have, but he didn’t, and now he’s dead.’

Fontana got to his feet, reached across the desk and shook Brunetti’s hand, then Vianello’s. He didn’t bother to say anything else but walked to the door and let himself out of the office.

The silence in the room remained after Fontana left, neither Brunetti nor Vianello willing to disturb it. After some time, Brunetti got up from his desk and went over to the window, but he found no puff of air to ward off the sodden weight of the day or of Fontana’s words. ‘My family is sleeping under eiderdowns, and we have to go to a funeral tomorrow,’ he said, looking out the window.

‘Nothing better for me to do with Nadia and the kids gone,’ Vianello said wistfully. ‘I’ll probably start talking to myself soon. Or eating at McDonald’s.’

‘Probably less harmful to talk to yourself,’ Brunetti observed. Then, more seriously, ‘You listen while I talk, all right?’

Vianello folded his arms across his chest, and slid down in his chair with his feet stuck out in front of him, crossed at the ankles.

Brunetti leaned back against the windowsill, propped his hands beside him, and said, ‘The DNA sample that Rizzardi took from Fontana’s body’s no use unless we can match it to
someone. Penzo and Fontana weren’t lovers, for whatever that’s worth. The mother may have known he was gay, but she seems to have cared more about keeping the apartment. Fontana had some sort of crush on Judge Coltellini, and then it ended for reasons yet to be discovered. Fontana liked anonymous sex. Someone at the Tribunale is saying he liked dangerous sex. He argued with both neighbours; we don’t know about what. Some cases brought before Judge Coltellini have had inordinately long delays. Fontana wouldn’t talk about her. He wanted to move out of the apartment but probably lacked the courage to do it.’

Vianello crossed his ankles the other way. Brunetti went back to his desk and sat. ‘It’s a jigsaw puzzle: we’ve got lots of pieces, but we don’t have any idea how they fit together.’

‘Maybe they don’t,’ observed Vianello.

‘What?’

‘Maybe they don’t fit together. Maybe he picked someone up and brought him back to the courtyard. And things got out of control.’

Brunetti propped his head on one hand and said, ‘I’m hoping this suggestion doesn’t result from some idea that gay sex always has to be dangerous.’ His voice was neutral, but his intention was not.

‘Guido,’ Vianello said in an exasperated way, ‘give me some credit, all right? We’ve got lots of little facts and even more inferences, but we also have someone whose head was bashed against a marble statue three times, and that’s not something that happens to a good man, not unless he’s doing something very rash.’

‘Or dealing with a man who is not good and who
is
rash,’ Brunetti added quickly.

‘I think we . . .’ Vianello began but was interrupted by Pucetti, who catapulted through the door, his momentum carrying him almost up against Vianello’s chair. ‘The Ospedale,’ he managed to blurt out, then leaned over to take
two deep breaths. ‘We had a call,’ he said, but even as he spoke, Brunetti’s phone rang.

‘Commissario,’ a voice Brunetti did not recognize said, ‘the Ospedale called. Something’s going on in the lab.’

‘What?’

‘It sounds like a hostage situation, sir.’

‘A
what
?’ Brunetti asked, wondering if everyone there had been watching too much television.

‘It sounds like there’s someone locked in the lab, making threats.’

‘Who called you?’ Brunetti demanded.

‘The
portiere
. He said people escaped from the lab. One of them called him.’

‘What do you mean, “escaped”?’ Brunetti demanded. He covered the mouthpiece and told Vianello, ‘Go down and get Foa. I want a launch.’ Vianello nodded and was gone. Pucetti went out with him.

Brunetti returned his attention to the phone just in time to hear the explanation. ‘The
portiere
said that’s what the person who called him told him.’