Free The Golden Egg by Donna Leon

closed the door before we took him to the boat.’
    â€˜Do you remember what the room looked like?’ Brunetti asked.
    Forti paused to remember and then said, ‘It was awfully small, sir, and with only one tiny window, and the house opposite is very close, so there wasn’t much light. Not that there would be, not that early.’ He glanced at Brunetti, then added, ‘It’s in my report, sir.’
    â€˜Did the Carabinieri send a squad, do you know?’
    â€˜Probably not, sir. We called them and told them it looked like an accident, so I doubt they’d bother.’
    On the tip of Brunetti’s tongue was the temptation to remind Forti that doing one’s job – and checking the scene of an unaccounted death was included in that – 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 cleaner’s in his notebook and dialled; the phone was picked up on the fifth ring. ‘
Lavasecco
,’ a woman’s voice answered, not bothering with the name.
    â€˜
Buon dì, Signora,
’ he said, ‘This is Commissario Brunetti.’
    Instead of greeting him, she said, ‘Your wife’s jacket and three pairs of your slacks are ready, Commissario. But your grey jacket has a stain on the right sleeve that didn’t come out, so we’re putting it through again.’
    â€˜Ah,’ said a momentarily confused Brunetti. ‘Thank you, Signora, but that’s not what I wanted to ask you about.’
    â€˜Davide?’
    â€˜Yes. 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€˜Renata doesn’t come in until after lunch, Commissario, if you want to talk to us both. This is a slow period for us: everyone’s got their winter things back already, and it’s 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.’
    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?
    â€˜Of course, Signora. Thank you,’ 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 cleaner’s, Brunetti took a grey pullover from his drawer and slipped it on under his jacket. As he kissed Paola goodbye, she asked, ‘Is this the first sign of winter?’
    â€˜A bit early for that, I’d say,’ Brunetti answered. ‘But I think it’s the hardening up of autumn.’
    â€˜Nice phrase,’ she said, stepping back from him and studying his face. ‘Did you make it up?’
    Puzzled, Brunetti had to think about that. ‘I must have,’ he said. ‘I don’t remember having heard anyone say it.’
    â€˜Not bad,’ 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 didn’t have to think about
how to get to the dry cleaner’s but followed what he thought of as his own GPS – Guido’s Personal System – 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