Free Through a Glass Darkly by Donna Leon

he always been like this?’ he asked, then clarified the question by adding, ‘I don’t mean the drinking: I mean his temper and the violent language.’
    She nodded. ‘A few years ago, the police had to come and stop a fight.’
    â€˜Involving him?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜What happened?’
    â€˜He was in a bar, and someone said something he didn’t like – he never told me about it, so I don’t know what it was. I know this onlyfrom what other people have told me – and he said something back, and then one of them hit the other – I never learned who. And someone called the police, but by the time they got there, the other men had stopped them, and nothing happened. That is, no one was arrested and no one made a
denuncia
.’
    â€˜Anything else?’ Brunetti asked.
    â€˜Not that I know about. No.’ She seemed relieved that she could put an end to his questions.
    â€˜Has he ever been violent with you?’
    Her mouth fell open. ‘What?’
    â€˜Has he ever hit you?’
    â€˜No,’ she said with such force that Brunetti could only believe her. ‘He loves me. He’d never hit me. He’d cut off his hand first.’ Strangely enough, Brunetti believed this, too.
    â€˜I see,’ he said, and then added, ‘That must make this even more painful for you.’
    She smiled when he said that. ‘I’m glad you can understand.’
    There seemed nothing more to ask her, and so Brunetti thanked her for coming to speak to him and asked if she wanted to tell him anything else.
    â€˜Just fix this, please,’ she said, sounding decades younger.
    â€˜I’ll try,’ Brunetti said. He asked for her
telefonino
number, wrote it down, then got to his feet.
    He walked downstairs with her and out on to the embankment. It was warmer than when hehad arrived a few hours before. They shook hands and she turned towards SS Giovanni e Paolo and the boat that would take her to Murano. Brunetti stood on the
riva
for a few minutes, looking across at the garden on the other side and running through his memory for personal connections. He went back into the Questura and up to the officers’ room, where he found Pucetti.
    The young officer stood when his superior entered. ‘Good morning, Commissario,’ he said. Was that a tan he saw on Pucetti’s face? Brunetti had signed the forms authorizing staff leave during the Easter holiday, but he couldn’t recall if Pucetti’s name had been on it.
    â€˜Pucetti,’ he said as he drew near the desk. ‘You have family on Murano, don’t you?’ Brunetti could not remember why this piece of information had lodged in his memory, but he was fairly certain that it had.
    â€˜Yes, sir. Aunts and uncles and three cousins.’
    â€˜Any of them work at the
fornaci
?’
    He watched Pucetti run through the list of his relatives. Finally he said, ‘Two.’
    â€˜They people you can ask things?’ Brunetti asked, not having to specify that the question referred to their discretion more than to the information they might possess.
    â€˜One of them is,’ Pucetti said.
    â€˜Good. I’d like you to ask about Giovanni De Cal. He owns a
fornace
out there.’
    â€˜I know it, sir. It’s on Sacca Serenella.’
    â€˜Do you know him?’ Brunetti asked.
    â€˜No, sir. I don’t. But I’ve heard about him. Is there anything specific you’d like to know?’
    â€˜Yes. He’s got a son-in-law he hates and whom he may have threatened. I’d like to know if anyone thinks he’d actually do anything or if it’s just talk. And I’d like to know if there’s any word that he’s thinking of selling his
fornace
.’
    Brunetti watched Pucetti suppress the impulse to salute as he said, ‘Yes, sir.’ Then the younger man asked, ‘Is there any hurry? Should I call him now?’
    â€˜No, I’d