Suffer the Little Children (14 page)

When he finally returned to his office and began to read what he had printed out, he was surprised at the consistency across the various websites. Though the numbers and percentages differed minimally, there was no doubt as to the steep decline in birth rates in most Western countries, at least among the native populations. Immigrants had more children. He knew there was some politically correct manner in which this essential statistical truth was meant to be phrased: ‘cultural variation', ‘differing cultural expectations'. Phrase it as you chose: poor people had more children than rich people, just as poor people had always had more children than rich people. In the past, more of them had died, carried off by disease and poverty. But now, at home in the West, far more of them survived.

At the same time that the number of children born to immigrants was increasing all over Europe, their hosts were having difficulty even in reproducing themselves. European women were older now when they had their first child than they had been a generation ago. Fewer people bothered to get married. The cost of housing had risen dramatically, limiting the chance that young working people could easily set up a household of their own. And who today could afford to have a baby on only one salary?

All of those things, Brunetti knew, merely created options which people could choose to
exercise, not physical impediments which could not be overcome. The steady decline in the number of viable sperm, however, was not a matter of choice. Pollution? Some genetic change? An undetected disease? Repeatedly, the websites made mention of a group of substances called phthalates, present in all manner of common products, including deodorants and food packaging: it would seem that there existed an inverse proportion between their presence in a man's blood and a lowered sperm count. Though the clear implication that these substances were responsible for a half-century of decreasing sperm counts was common, none of the articles dared to name them as a direct cause. Brunetti had always been of a mind that rising economic expectations must have exerted as strong an influence on the birth rate as falling sperm counts. After all, if there had been millions of sperm in the past, there were still half that number, and that should surely suffice.

One report stated that the sperm counts of immigrant men began to decline after they had lived in Europe for a few years, which would certainly lend credence to the theory that pollution or environmental contamination was the cause. Wasn't it the lead water pipes that were said to have contributed to the decline in health and fertility among the population of Imperial Rome? Not that it made any difference now, but at least the Romans had had no idea of that possible connection: it fell to later ages to
discover the probable cause, and then do nothing to moderate their behaviour.

Historical reflection was cut short by the arrival of Vianello. As he came in, smiling broadly and holding up a few sheets of paper, the Inspector said, ‘I used to hate white collar crime. But the more I learn, the more I like it.' He placed the papers on Brunetti's desk and took a seat.

Brunetti wondered if Vianello were planning a career move; not for a moment did he doubt the involvement of Signorina Elettra in whatever change had taken place in Vianello's assessment.

‘“Like it”?' Brunetti asked, indicating the papers, as though they were the instruments of Vianello's conversion.

‘Well,' Vianello tempered, aware of Brunetti's amusement, ‘in the sense that you don't have to go chasing after them or lurk in the rain outside their doors for hours, waiting for them to come out, so that you can follow them.'

At Brunetti's continued silence, the Inspector went on. ‘I used to think it was boring, sitting around, reading through tax and financial declarations, checking credit card statements and bank records.'

Brunetti stopped himself from observing that, since most of these activities were illegal unless performed with an order from a judge, it was perhaps better that a policeman, at the very least, find them boring.

‘And now?' Brunetti enquired mildly.

Vianello shrugged and smiled at the same time. ‘And now I seem to be developing a taste for it.' He needed no prompting from Brunetti to explain: ‘I suppose it's the thrill of the chase. You get a scent of what they might be up to: figures that don't add up or that are too big or too small, and then you begin to hunt through other records or you find their names in some other place where you didn't expect to find them or where they shouldn't be. And then the numbers keep coming in and they get stranger and stranger, and then you see what it is they're up to and how to keep an eye on them or trace them into other places.'

Without his realizing it, Vianello's voice had grown louder, more impassioned. ‘And you just sit there, at your desk, and soon you know everything they're doing because you've learned how to trace them, and so everything they do comes back to you.' Vianello paused and smiled. ‘I suppose this is how a spider must feel. The flies don't know the web is there, can't see it or sense it, so they just buzz around and do whatever it is flies do, and you just sit there, waiting for them to land.'

‘And then you snap them up?' Brunetti asked.

‘You could put it that way, I suppose,' Vianello answered, looking equally pleased both with himself and with his extended metaphor.

‘More specifically?' Brunetti asked, looking in the general direction of the papers. ‘Your doctors and their accommodating pharmacists?'

Vianello nodded. ‘I've had a look at the bank records of the doctors my, er, my contact mentioned. Going back six years.' Even in the face of the patent illegality of Vianello's offhand, ‘had a look', Brunetti remained a Sphinx.

‘They live very well, of course: they're specialists.' They would, then, earn a great deal of their income in cash: did there exist the specialist who would provide a receipt for a private visit? ‘One of them opened a bank account in Liechtenstein four years ago.'

‘Is that when the appointments started?' Brunetti asked.

‘I'm not sure, but my contact told me it's been going on a number of years.'

‘And the pharmacists?'

‘That's the strange thing,' Vianello said. ‘There are only five pharmacies in the city that are authorized to make the appointments: I think it has to do with their computer capacity. I've started to look into their records.' Again, Brunetti left that alone.

‘None of the ones I've checked has increased his average bank savings or credit card spending during this time,' said a disappointed Vianello. Then, as if to encourage himself, he added, ‘But that doesn't necessarily exclude them.'

‘How many of them have you checked?' Brunetti asked.

‘Two.'

‘Hmm,' Brunetti said. ‘How long will it take you to check the others?'

‘A couple of days.'

‘There's no doubt about the existence of these fake appointments?'

‘None. I just don't know yet which pharmacists are involved.'

Brunetti ran quickly over the possibilities. ‘Sex, drugs, and gambling. Those are usually the reasons people are willing to take illegal risks to make money.'

‘Well, if those were the only reasons, then the ones I've already checked would be excluded,' Vianello said, sounding unconvinced.

‘Why?'

‘Because one of them is seventy-six, and the other lives at home with his mother.'

Brunetti, who was of the opinion that neither of these things necessarily excluded a man from interest in sex, drugs, or gambling, asked, ‘Who are they?'

‘The old one's Gabetti. Heart condition, goes into the pharmacy only twice a week, no children, only a nephew in Torino he's going to leave it all to.'

‘So you exclude him?' Brunetti asked.

‘Some people might, but I certainly don't,' Vianello said with sudden heat. ‘He's one of those classic misers. Took over the pharmacy from his father about forty years ago. Hasn't done a thing to it since then: I'm told that if you look in the back rooms, you'd think you were in Albania or some place like that. And I'm told you don't want to see the toilet he has there. Never married, never lived with anyone: all he does is make money and invest
it and watch it grow. It's his only joy in life: money.'

‘And you think he'd do something like this?' Brunetti asked, not attempting to disguise his scepticism.

‘Most of the appointments made for the three doctors by a pharmacy come from Gabetti's.'

‘I see,' Brunetti said, letting the information filter into his mind. ‘What about the other one?'

Vianello's face changed and he gave an involuntary nod, as if expressing agreement with Brunetti's theory. ‘This one's very religious; still lives with his mother, to whom he seems to be devoted. There's not much gossip about him, certainly nothing that says he's particularly interested in money. I can't find anything in his bank records.'

‘There's usually something, especially if they're religious,' said Brunetti: if Vianello could be suspicious of a greedy man, then he could reserve for himself the right to have doubts about a religious one. ‘If he's not interested in sex and drugs, what is he interested in?'

‘The Church: I told you,' Vianello said, amused by Brunetti's surprise. ‘He's a member of one of those Catechumeni groups: prayer meetings twice a week, no alcohol, not even wine with meals, no . . . no anything, it would seem.'

‘How'd you learn all this?' Brunetti asked.

‘I've asked a number of people about him,' Vianello said obliquely. ‘But believe me, there's nothing to find out about this guy. He lives for
his mother and for the Church.' Vianello paused for some time, ‘And for priding himself, from what I've heard, on leading a virtuous life and lamenting the fact that other people do not. Though he'd probably be the one who gets to define virtue.'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘Because he refuses to sell condoms in his pharmacy.'

‘What?'

‘He can't refuse to sell prescription drugs, like contraceptive pills or the morning-after pill, but he has the right to refuse to sell rubbers, and that's his choice.'

‘In the third millennium?' Brunetti asked and buried his face in his hands for a moment.

‘As I said, he's the one who gets to define virtue.'

Brunetti removed his hands from his face. ‘And the others, the ones you haven't looked into yet?'

‘I know one of them, Andrea at San Bortolo, and he'd never do something like this.'

‘Are you still going to check them all?' asked Brunetti.

‘Of course,' Vianello said, sounding wounded at the question.

To change the subject, Brunetti asked, ‘But how did you manage to find out the appointments came from these pharmacies?'

Vianello made no attempt to disguise the pride he took in being able to explain. ‘The hospital files can be arranged to list appointments by date
or patient or doctor or by who made them. We simply arranged all of the specialist appointments for the last year,' he said – not bothering to explain who ‘we' were nor how they came by those records – ‘by who made them and then drew up a list of the ones that were made by those pharmacies. Then we made a list of appointments made in the last two weeks and called all of those patients and said we were running a survey of client satisfaction with ULSS.' He waited to see what degree of astonishment Brunetti would demonstrate at the unlikelihood of this, and when his superior said nothing, he went on. ‘Most of them had in fact been seen by the doctor they had an appointment with, but nine of them said they didn't know anything about an appointment. We said immediately that it must have been a computer error – we even pretended to check and then sounded embarrassed when we had to admit it was an error – and apologized for having disturbed them.' He smiled, and said, ‘All of the appointments were made by Gabetti.'

‘Weren't you afraid one of them would mention your call at the pharmacy?' Brunetti asked.

Vianello waved away the suggestion. ‘That's the genius of it,' he said, not without admiration. ‘None of these people would have any idea what sort of mix-up could have taken place, and I think they all believed us when we said it was an error in the computer system.'

Brunetti let the possibilities run through his
imagination for a moment and then asked, ‘But what if one of them really got sick and they had to schedule the same examination, and the computer showed they'd already had it performed?' he asked.

‘Then I imagine they'd do what any one of us would do: insist they'd never had the exam and blame it on the computer. And since the person they'd be dealing with would be some paper-pusher at ULSS, they'd probably believe it.'

‘And then the appointment would be scheduled?'

‘Probably,' Vianello said easily. ‘Besides, the possibility that anyone would get suspicious about this is virtually non-existent.'

‘And if they did, it's state money that's being wasted, anyway, isn't it?'

‘I'm afraid so,' Vianello said. ‘It would just be another case of civil servants who make a mistake.'

Neither man spoke for some time, and then Brunetti asked, ‘But you still haven't found a pharmacist with the money.'

‘It's got to be somewhere,' Vianello insisted. ‘We can start taking a closer look tomorrow.'

‘It sounds as if nothing will persuade you away from believing this,' Brunetti said with a certain measure of asperity.

‘Perhaps,' Vianello answered quickly, almost defensively. ‘But the idea is too good for someone not to make use of it. ULSS is a sitting duck.'

‘And if you're wrong?' Brunetti asked with some force.

‘Then I'm wrong. But I'll still have learned a lot about new ways to find things with the computer,' Vianello said, and good will slipped back into the room.