closed the door before we took him to the boat.â
âDo you remember what the room looked like?â Brunetti asked.
Forti paused to remember and then said, âIt was awfully small, sir, and with only one tiny window, and the house opposite is very close, so there wasnât much light. Not that there would be, not that early.â He glanced at Brunetti, then added, âItâs in my report, sir.â
âDid the Carabinieri send a squad, do you know?â
âProbably not, sir. We called them and told them it looked like an accident, so I doubt theyâd bother.â
On the tip of Brunettiâs tongue was the temptation to remind Forti that doing oneâs job â and checking the scene of an unaccounted death was included in that â was not dependent on whether it was a bother or not, but instead he thanked him for his information and hung up.
He found the phone number of the dry cleanerâs in his notebook and dialled; the phone was picked up on the fifth ring. â
Lavasecco
,â a womanâs voice answered, not bothering with the name.
â
Buon dì, Signora,
â he said, âThis is Commissario Brunetti.â
Instead of greeting him, she said, âYour wifeâs jacket and three pairs of your slacks are ready, Commissario. But your grey jacket has a stain on the right sleeve that didnât come out, so weâre putting it through again.â
âAh,â said a momentarily confused Brunetti. âThank you, Signora, but thatâs not what I wanted to ask you about.â
âDavide?â
âYes. I saw him in your shop over the years, and I wanted to come by and talk to you about him, you and your colleague.â
âRenata doesnât come in until after lunch, Commissario, if you want to talk to us both. This is a slow period for us: everyoneâs got their winter things back already, and itâs too soon for them to be wearing them again. All we get these days is linen. People mostly wash their summer things themselves. Must be the financial crisis.â
In recent months, criminals had taken to blaming their activities on the financial crisis. The Euro sank; salaries remained the same. What else could I do but rob the bank? Brunetti wondered what next would be blamed on the financial crisis. Bad taste?
âOf course, Signora. Thank you,â Brunetti said, checked his watch, spent an hour reading through some of the papers on his desk, and then went home for lunch.
8
Clouds gathered as they were having lunch, so before leaving to go to the dry cleanerâs, Brunetti took a grey pullover from his drawer and slipped it on under his jacket. As he kissed Paola goodbye, she asked, âIs this the first sign of winter?â
âA bit early for that, Iâd say,â Brunetti answered. âBut I think itâs the hardening up of autumn.â
âNice phrase,â she said, stepping back from him and studying his face. âDid you make it up?â
Puzzled, Brunetti had to think about that. âI must have,â he said. âI donât remember having heard anyone say it.â
âNot bad,â she commended him and moved towards her study.
As he opened the door to the
calle
, Brunetti felt that autumn had grown even harder while they were at lunch. He was glad of the sweater and wished he had thought to take a scarf, as well. He didnât have to think about
how to get to the dry cleanerâs but followed what he thought of as his own GPS â Guidoâs Personal System â and was there in ten minutes.
When he entered, he was enveloped in the familiar smell: slightly sharp, vaguely chemical, but so familiar as not to cause alarm. Two women clients stood in front of the counter, the owner behind it, making change from the cash register. A paper-wrapped parcel lay flat on the counter between them. Half visible behind the curtain that separated the back room stood the tall