Beastly Things by Donna Leon

once have urged an unmarried Brunetti to say that they were not as lovely as the person who had brought them there, but this Brunetti limited himself to responding, ‘Yes, they are,’ and then asking, ‘And what excess of colour has transformed the Vice-Questore’s office?’
    ‘Pink. I love it and he dislikes it. But he’s afraid to complain.’ She looked away for a moment, back at Brunetti, and said, ‘I read once that pink is the navy blue of India.’
    It took Brunetti a moment, and then he laughed out loud. ‘That’s wonderful,’ he said, thinking how Paola would love it.
    ‘Are you here about the dead man?’ she asked, suddenly serious.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Nothing from my friend. Maybe Rizzardi will have better luck.’
    ‘He could be from some other province,’ Brunetti suggested.
    ‘Possible,’ she said. ‘I’ve sent out the usual request to hotels, asking if they have a guest who’s missing.’
    ‘No luck?’
    ‘Only a Hungarian who ended up in the hospital with a heart attack.’
    Brunetti thought of the vast net of rental apartments and bed and breakfasts in which the city was enmeshed. Many of them operated beyond all official recognition or control, paying no taxes and making no report to the police of the people who stayed there. In the event of the non-return of a guest, how likely were the owners to report his absence to the police and bring their illegal operations to the attention of the authorities? How much easier simply to wait a few days and then claim whatever the decamping client might have left behind in lieu of unpaid rent, and that’s the end of it.
    Earlier in his career, Brunetti would have assumed that any self-respecting, law-abiding citizen would contact the police, certainly as soon as they read of the discovery of a murdered man whose description sounded so very much like the man staying in room three, over the garden. But decades spent amidst the prevarications and half-truths to which law-abiding citizens were all too prone had cured him of such illusions.
    ‘Pucetti has a photo from one of the videos. He’s sending it to the papers, and he’s asking if anyone recognizes him,’ Brunetti said. ‘But I agree with you, Signorina: people don’t disappear.’

12
    BRUNETTI FOUND VIANELLO in the officers’ room, speaking on the phone. When the Inspector saw him, a look of great relief crossed his face. He said a few words, shrugged, said a few more, and replaced the phone.
    Approaching, Brunetti asked, ‘Who?’
    ‘Scarpa.’
    ‘What’s he want?’
    ‘Trouble. It’s all he ever wants, I think.’
    Brunetti, who agreed, asked, ‘What sort of trouble this time?’
    ‘Something about the receipts for fuel and could Foa be using the police account to buy it for his own boat?’ Under his breath, Vianello muttered something Brunetti pretended not to have heard. ‘Isn’t there something in the Bible about seeing things against other people when you don’t see the same thing in your own eye?’
    ‘Something like,’ Brunetti admitted.
    ‘Patta has Foa pick him up and take him to dinner in Pellestrina , and if it’s not a nice day, take him home, and Scarpa’s worrying that Foa’s stealing fuel.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘Everybody’s nuts.’
    Brunetti, who agreed with this proposition as well, said, ‘Foa wouldn’t do it. I know his father.’ This assessment made sense to both of them and served as sufficient validation of Foa’s integrity. ‘But why’s he going after Foa now?’ Brunetti asked. Scarpa’s behaviour was often confusing, his motives always inexplicable.
    ‘Maybe he has some cousin from Palermo who knows how to pilot a boat and needs a job,’ Vianello suggested. ‘Fat chance he’d have navigating here.’
    Brunetti was tempted to ask if Vianello’s last remark had a double meaning, but instead he asked him to come out and sit on the
riva
with him and talk while they watched the boats pass.
    When they were seated on the bench, the