Fatal Remedies Part 20

All were sealed with tape and Brunetti didn't want to cut them open: leave it for the lab boys. He put one foot on to the back b.u.mper and leaned his head into the compartment close enough to read the label on the first box.

'TransLanka', it read, with an address in Colombo.

Brunetti stepped back on to the ground, closed and locked the doors. Together with della Corte he went back into the apartment.

The policemen were standing around inside, obviously finished with their search. As they came in, one of the local officers shook his head and Bonino said, 'Nothing. There was nothing on him and nothing in this place. Never seen anything like it.'

'Do you have any idea how long he's been here?' Brunetti asked.

The taller of the two officers, the one who had not fired, answered, 'I spoke to the people in the next apartment. They said they think he moved in about four months ago. Never gave any trouble, never made any noise.'

'Until tonight,' his partner quipped, but everyone ignored him.

'All right,' Bonino said, 'I think we can go home now.'

They left the apartment and started down the steps. At the bottom, della Corte stopped and asked Brunetti, 'What are you going to do? Do you want us to take you to Venice on our way back?'

It was generous of him, would surely delay them an hour to make the trip to Piazzale Roma, then back out to Padova. 'Thanks, but no,' Brunetti said. 'I want to talk to the people at the factory, so there's no sense in my going with you. I'd just have to come back.'

'What'll you do?'

'I'm sure there's a bed at the Questura,' he answered and walked towards Bonino to ask.

As he lay in that bed, thinking himself too tired to drop off, Brunetti tried to remember the last time he had gone to sleep without Paola beside him. But he could recollect only the time he'd woken without her there, the night all this had been shattered into life. Then he was asleep.

Bonino provided him with a car and driver the next morning and, by nine thirty, he was at the Interfar factory, a large, low building at the centre of an industrial park on one of the many highways that radiated out from Castelfranco. Utterly without concession to beauty, the buildings sat a hundred metres back from the road, besieged on all sides, like a piece of dead meat by ants, by the cars of the people who worked within.

He asked the driver to find a bar and offered him coffee. Though he'd slept deeply, Brunetti had not slept enough, and he felt dull and irritable. A second cup seemed to help; either the caffeine or the sugar would keep him going for the next few hours.

He entered the Interfar office a little after ten and asked if he could speak to Signor Bonaventura. On request, he gave his name and stood by the desk while the secretary called to inquire. Whatever answer she received was immediate and, as soon as she heard it, she set down the phone, got to her feet and led Brunetti through a door and down a corridor covered with light-grey industrial carpeting.

She stopped at the second door on the right, knocked, and opened it, and stood back to allow him to enter. Bonaventura sat behind a desk covered with papers, pamphlets and brochures. He stood when Brunetti came in but remained behind his desk, smiling as he approached, then leaned across it to shake Brunetti's hand. Both sat.

'You're far from home,' Bonaventura said amiably.

'Yes. I came up here on business.'

'Police business, I take it.'

'Yes.'

'Am I part of that police business?' Bonaventura asked.

'I think so.'

'If so, it's the most miraculous thing I've ever known to happen.'

'I'm not sure I understand you,' Brunetti said.

'I spoke to my foreman a few minutes ago and was just about to call the Carabinieri.' Carabinieri.' Bonaventura glanced down at his watch. 'No more than five minutes ago and here you are, a policeman, already on my doorstep, as if you'd read my mind.' Bonaventura glanced down at his watch. 'No more than five minutes ago and here you are, a policeman, already on my doorstep, as if you'd read my mind.'

'And may I ask why you were going to call them?'

'To report a theft.'

'Of what?' Brunetti asked, though he was pretty certain he knew.

'One of our trucks is gone, and the driver hasn't reported for work.'

'Is that all?'

'No. My foreman tells me it looks as if a good deal of merchandise is missing, too.'

'About a truckload, would you say?' Brunetti asked in a neutral voice.

'If the truck and the driver are both missing, that would make sense, wouldn't it?' He wasn't angry yet, but Brunetti had plenty of time to push him there.

'Who is this driver?'

'Michele de Luca.'

'How long has he worked for you?'

'I don't know, half a year or so. I don't concern myself with things like that. All I know is that I've seen him around here for months. This morning, the foreman told me his truck wasn't in the lot where it's supposed to be and that he hadn't shown up.'

'And the missing merchandise?'

'De Luca left here yesterday afternoon with a full s.h.i.+pment and was supposed to bring the truck back here before he went home, then be here at seven this morning to pick up another s.h.i.+pment. But he never turned up and the truck wasn't parked where it was supposed to be. The foreman phoned him, but there was no answer on his telefonino, telefonino, so I decided to call the so I decided to call the Carabinieri.' Carabinieri.'

It seemed to Brunetti an excessive response to what could well have been no more than an employee being late for work, but then he reflected that Bonaventura actually hadn't made the call, so he kept his surprise to himself, waiting to see how the scene would be played. 'Yes, I can see that you would,' he said. 'What was in the s.h.i.+pment?'

'Pharmaceuticals, of course. That's what we make here.'

'And where were they going?'

'I don't know.' Bonaventura looked down at the papers cluttering his desk. 'I've got the s.h.i.+pping invoices here somewhere.'

'Could you find them?' Brunetti asked, nodding towards the doc.u.ments.

'What difference does it make where they were going?' Bonaventura demanded. 'The important thing is to find this man and get the s.h.i.+pment back.'

'You don't have to worry about him,' Brunetti said, though he suspected that Bonaventura was also lying about wanting the s.h.i.+pment back.

'What does that mean?'

'He was shot and killed by the police last night.'

'Killed?' Bonaventura repeated, sounding genuinely amazed.

'The police went to question him, and he opened fire on them. He was killed when they entered his apartment.' Then, quickly changing the subject, Brunetti asked, 'Where was he taking this s.h.i.+pment?'

Disconcerted by the sudden switch of topic, Bonaventura hesitated before finally answering, 'To the airport.'

'The airport was closed yesterday. The air-traffic controllers were on strike,' Brunetti told him, but from his expression he could tell Bonaventura already knew. 'What instructions did he have if he couldn't deliver?'

'It's the same for all the drivers: bring the truck back here and put it in the garage.'

'Could he have put it in his own garage?'

'How do I know what he could have done?' Bonaventura exploded. 'The truck's gone and, from what you tell me, the driver's dead.'

'The truck's not gone,' Brunetti said softly and watched Bonaventura's face as he heard the statement. He saw him attempt to hide his shock, then as quickly try to change his expression, but all he achieved was a grotesque parody of relief.

'Where is it?' Bonaventura asked.

'By now, in the police garage.' He waited to see what Bonaventura would ask and, when he remained silent, added, 'The boxes were in the back.'

Bonaventura tried to disguise his shock, tried and failed.

'Not sent to Sri Lanka, either,' Brunetti said, then added, 'Do you think you could help me find those s.h.i.+pping invoices now, Signor Bonaventura?'

'Certainly.' Bonaventura bowed his head to the task. Idly, aimlessly, he moved papers from one side of his desk to the other, then stacked them all in a pile and went through them one by one. 'That's strange,' he said, looking up at Brunetti after he had gone through the lot, 'I can't find them here,' He got to his feet. If you'll wait, I'll ask my secretary to get them for me.'

Before he could take his first step towards the door, Brunetti got to his feet. 'Perhaps you could call her,' he suggested.

Bonaventura turned his mouth up in a smile. 'It's really the foreman who has them, and he's back at the loading dock.'

He started to move past Brunetti, who put out a hand and placed it on his arm. 'I'll come with you, Signor Bonaventura.'

'That's really not necessary,' he said with another motion of his mouth.

'I think it is,' was all Brunetti answered. He had no idea what his legal rights were here, how much authority he had to detain or follow Bonaventura. He was outside Venice, even beyond the borders of the province of Venezia, and no charges had been contemplated, much less brought, against Bonaventura. But none of that mattered to him. He stepped aside and let Bonaventura open the door of his office, then followed him down the corridor, away from the front of the building.

At the back, a door opened out on to a long cement loading dock. Two large trucks were backed up to it, rear doors open, and four men were wheeling dollies filled with cartons from doors further down the dock into the open backs of the trucks. They looked up when they saw the two men emerge from the door but then went back to their work. Below them, between the trucks, two men stood and talked, hands in the pockets of their jackets.

Bonaventura walked over to the edge of the loading dock. When they looked up at him, he called down to one of them, 'De Luca's truck's been found. The s.h.i.+pment's still in it. This policeman wants to see the s.h.i.+pping invoices.'

He had barely finished the word 'policeman', when the taller of the two men sprang away from the other and reached inside his jacket. His hand came out carrying a pistol, but the instant Brunetti saw him move, he ducked back inside the still-open door and pulled his own pistol from its holster.

Nothing happened. There was no noise, no shot, no shouting. He heard footsteps, the slamming of what sounded like a car door and another; then a large motor spring into life. Instead of going out on to the dock again to see what was happening, Brunetti ran back through the corridor and out of the front door of the building, where his driver was waiting, motor running to keep the car warm, while he read Il Gazzettino dello Sport. Il Gazzettino dello Sport.

Brunetti pulled open the pa.s.senger door and leaped into the car, seeing the driver's panic disappear when he recognized him. 'A truck, going out of the far gate. Swing round and follow it.' Even before Brunetti's hand reached the car phone, the driver had tossed his paper into the back seat and had the car in gear and spinning round towards the back of the building. As they rounded the corner, the driver pulled the wheel sharply to the left, trying not to hit one of the boxes that had fallen from the open doors of the truck. But he couldn't avoid the next one and their left wheels pa.s.sed over it, splattering it open and spewing small bottles in a wide wake behind them. Just beyond the gates Brunetti could see the truck moving off down the highway in the direction of Padova, its rear doors flapping open.

The rest was as predictable as it was tragic. Just beyond Resana, two Carabinieri Carabinieri vehicles were drawn up across the road, blocking traffic. In an attempt to get past them, the driver of the truck swerved to the right and on to the high shoulder of the road. Just as he did, a small Fiat, driven by a woman on the way to pick up her daughter at the local vehicles were drawn up across the road, blocking traffic. In an attempt to get past them, the driver of the truck swerved to the right and on to the high shoulder of the road. Just as he did, a small Fiat, driven by a woman on the way to pick up her daughter at the local asilo, asilo, slowed at the sight of the police block. The truck, as it came back on to the road, swung into the other lane and slammed into her car broadside, killing her instantly. Both men, Bonaventura and the driver, had been wearing their seat-belts, so neither was hurt, though they were severely shaken by the crash. slowed at the sight of the police block. The truck, as it came back on to the road, swung into the other lane and slammed into her car broadside, killing her instantly. Both men, Bonaventura and the driver, had been wearing their seat-belts, so neither was hurt, though they were severely shaken by the crash.

Before they could free themselves from their seat-belts, they were surrounded by Carabinieri, Carabinieri, who pulled them down from the truck and flung them face forward against its doors. They were quickly surrounded by four who pulled them down from the truck and flung them face forward against its doors. They were quickly surrounded by four Carabinieri Carabinieri carrying machine-guns. Two others ran to the Fiat but saw there was nothing to be done. carrying machine-guns. Two others ran to the Fiat but saw there was nothing to be done.

Brunetti's car pulled up and he got out. The scene was absolutely silent, unnaturally so. He heard his own footsteps approaching the two men, both of whom were breathing heavily. Something metal clanged to the ground from the direction of the truck.

He turned to the sergeant. 'Put them in the car,' was all he said.

24.

There was some discussion about where the men should be taken for questioning, whether back to Castelfranco, which had territorial jurisdiction over the scene of their capture, or back to Venice, from which city the investigation had begun. Brunetti listened to the police discuss this for a few moments, then cut into the conversation with a voice of iron: 'I said put them in the car. We're taking them back to Castelfranco.' The other policemen exchanged glances, but no one contradicted him and it was done.

Standing in Bonino's office, Bonaventura was told he could call his lawyer, and when the other identified himself as Roberto Sandi, the foreman of the factory, he was told the same. Bonaventura named a lawyer in Venice with a large criminal practice and asked that he be allowed to call him. He ignored Sandi.

'And what about me?' Sandi asked, turning to Bonaventura.

Bonaventura refused to answer him.

'What about me?' Sandi said again.

Still, Bonaventura remained silent.

Sandi, who spoke with a p.r.o.nounced Piedmontese accent, turned to the uniformed officer next to him and demanded, 'Where's your boss? I want to talk to your boss.'

Before the officer could respond, Brunetti stepped forward and said, I'll be in charge of this,' even though he wasn't sure of that at all.

'Then it's you I want to talk to,' Sandi stated, looking at him with eyes that glimmered with malice.

'Come now, Roberto,' Bonaventura suddenly broke in, placing his hand on Sandi's arm. 'You know you can use my lawyer. As soon as he gets here we can talk to him.'

Sandi shook off his hand with a muttered curse. 'No lawyer. Not yours. I want to talk to the cop.' He addressed Brunetti: 'Well? Where can we talk?'

'Roberto,' Bonaventura said in a voice he tried to make menacing, 'you don't want to talk to him.'

'You don't tell me what to do any more,' Sandi spat. Brunetti turned, opened the door to the office, and took Sandi into the hall. One of the uniformed officers followed them outside and led them down the corridor. Opening a door to a small interview room, he said, 'In here, sir,' and waited for them to enter.

Brunetti saw a small desk and four chairs. He sat down, waiting for Sandi. When the latter was seated, Brunetti glanced across at him and said, 'Well?'

'Well what?' Sandi asked, still filled with the anger Bonaventura had provoked.

'What do you want to tell me about the s.h.i.+pments?'

'How much do you already know?' Sandi demanded.

Ignoring the question, Brunetti inquired, 'How many of you are involved in it?'