Free Friends in High Places by Donna Leon

called me on Friday,’ Brunetti said and paused to allow Vianello to question him. When he did not, Brunetti went on, ‘He said he wanted to talk to me about something that was going on at his office, but he was calling me on his telefonino, and when I told him it wasn’t secure, he said he’d call me back.’
     
    ‘And didn’t?’ Vianello interrupted.
     
    ‘No,’ said Brunetti with a shake of his head. ‘I waited here until after seven. I even left my home number, in case he called, but he didn’t. And then, this morning, I saw his picture in the paper. I went over to the hospital as soon as I saw it, but it was too late.’ He stopped and again waited for Vianello to comment.
     
    ‘Why did you go to the hospital, sir?’
     
    ‘He was afraid of heights.’
     
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
     
    ‘When he came to my apartment, he . . .’ Brunetti began, but Vianello cut him off.
     
    ‘He came to your apartment? When?’
     
    ‘Months ago. It was about the plans or the records they have for my apartment. Or that they don’t have. It doesn’t really matter; anyway, he came and asked to see some papers. They’d sent me a letter. But it’s not important why he came; what’s important is what happened when he was there.’
     
    Vianello said nothing, but his curiosity was written large on his broad face.
     
    ‘I asked him, when we were talking about the building, to come out on the terrace and have a look at the windows in the apartment below ours. I thought they’d show that both floors had been added at the same time, and that, if they had, it might affect their decision about the apartment.’ As he spoke, Brunetti realized he had no idea at all what decision, if any, the Ufficio Catasto had come to.
     
    ‘I was out there, leaning over and looking down at the windows on the floor below us, and when I turned back to him, it was as if I’d shown him a viper. He was paralysed.’ When he saw the scepticism with which Vianello greeted this, he temporized, ‘Well, that’s what it looked like to me. Frightened, at any rate.’ He stopped talking and glanced at Vianello.
     
    Vianello said nothing.
     
    ‘If you had seen him, you’d understand what I mean,’ Brunetti said. “The idea of leaning over the terrace terrified him.’
     
    ‘And so?’ Vianello asked.
     
    ‘And so there was no way he would dare to go out on scaffolding, and even less that he would do it alone.’
     
    ‘Did he say anything?’
     
    ‘About what?’
     
    ‘Being afraid of heights?’
     
    ‘Vianello, I just told you. He didn’t have to say anything; it was written all over his face. He was terrified. If a person is that frightened of something, he can’t do it. It’s impossible.’
     
    Vianello tried a different tack. ‘But he didn’t say anything to you, sir. That’s what I’m trying to make you see. Well, make you consider. You don’t know it was the idea of looking over the side of the terrace that frightened him. It could have been something else.’
     
    ‘Of course it could have been something else,’ Brunetti admitted with exasperation and disbelief. ‘But it wasn’t. I saw him. I talked to him.’
     
    Gracious, Vianello asked, ‘And so?’
     
    ‘And so if he didn’t go up that scaffolding willingly, he didn’t fall off it accidentally.’
     
    ‘You think he was killed?’
     
    ‘I don’t know that that’s true,’ Brunetti admitted. ‘But I don’t think he went there willingly, or if he went to the place willingly, he didn’t go out on the scaffolding because he wanted to.’
     
    ‘Have you seen it?’
     
    ‘The scaffolding?’
     
    Vianello nodded.
     
    ‘There’s been no time.’
     
    Vianello pushed back the sleeve of his jacket and looked at his watch. ‘There’s time now, sir.’
     
    ‘The Vice-Questore wants me in his office at four,’ Brunetti answered, glancing down at his own watch. He had twenty minutes to wait before his meeting. He caught Vianello’s look.