Drawing Conclusions - Donna Leon [10]
Vianello nodded. ‘Kids there still have to eat, I suppose. And buy books.’ He stripped off the gloves and put them into the pocket of his jacket.
Just then the photographer came to the door and told Brunetti that Rizzardi wanted to see him. The dead woman had been turned on to her back, both arms at her sides: looking at her, Brunetti could not recapture the feeling conveyed to him by the first sight of the body. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open, her spirit fled. There could be no hope that a spirit still lingered near this body. One might choose to debate where it had gone, or even if it had ever existed, but there could be no question about the absence of life here.
Above the corner of her right eye, just above the eyebrow, Brunetti saw a cut, the flesh around it swollen and discoloured. The cut had leaked a dark paste, similar in consistency to sealing wax, into her hair and was obviously the source of the blood on the floor. Her cardigan was unbuttoned, and her yellow shirt had been pulled to one side when she was turned on to her back, exposing an oblong smudge on the outer left-hand side of her collarbone.
Unconsciously, Brunetti moved his hands close together in front of his thighs, fingers bent, to measure the distance between his thumbs. When he glanced at Rizzardi, he saw that the doctor was staring at his hands.
‘Her eyes would be bloodshot,’ Rizzardi said, reading the message of violence in his hands.
From behind him, Brunetti heard someone let out a long stream of breath. He turned to see Vianello, whom he had not heard arrive. The Inspector’s face wore a look of practised neutrality.
Brunetti looked back at the dead woman. One of her hands was clenched tight, as if frozen in the act of trying to keep her spirit from leaving: the other lay open, the fingers loose, encouraging the spirit to depart.
‘Can you do it tomorrow morning?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Will you take a look at everything?’
Rizzardi’s response was a sigh, followed by ‘Guido,’ said in a low voice, in which could be heard an effort at patience.
Rizzardi looked at his watch: Brunetti knew the doctor had to put the time she was declared dead on the death certificate, but the pathologist seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time deciding. He finally looked at Brunetti. ‘There’s nothing more for me here, Guido. I’ll send you the report as soon as I can.’
Brunetti nodded his thanks, saw that it was already almost 1 a.m., and thanked the doctor for coming, even though he knew Rizzardi had no choice in the matter. The doctor turned to leave, but Brunetti moved closer to him, placed his hand briefly on his upper arm, saying nothing.
‘I’ll call you when I’m finished,’ Rizzardi said. He moved away from Brunetti’s hand, and left the apartment.
4
Brunetti closed the door, dissatisfied with his exchange with Rizzardi and disappointed by his own need to make the doctor see things as he wanted him to see them. Before he could speak to Vianello, they heard noise from below: again, a door opening, then an exchange of male voices. Marillo came to the door of the bedroom where he was working with his men and said, ‘The doctor called a while ago for them to come and get her: I guess that’s them.’
Neither Brunetti nor Vianello answered, and the noises of the technicians working in the other room ended. The men in the apartment awaited the arrival of their colleagues who dealt with the dead, their voices and bodies stilled by the magic spell that approached. Brunetti opened the door. The two men who appeared on the landing, however, looked quite ordinary and wore the long blue coats of hospital orderlies. One of them carried a rolled-up stretcher under his arm: all of the men in the apartment knew that a third member of the squad waited downstairs with the black plastic casket into which the body would be placed before they took it outside to the waiting boat.
There were nods and muttered salutations; most of them