CB14 Blood From A Stone (2005) Read Online Free PDF Page A

and waited for him.
    When the uniformed man was back, Brunetti told him that, if he saw any of the other vu cumprà , he was to tell them that their colleague was dead and ask them to call the police if they had any information about him. He made a particular point of telling the officer to make it clear to them that they would not have to give their names or come to the Questura and that all the police wanted from them was information.
    Brunetti used his telefonino to call the Questura. He gave his name, repeated what he had just told the crime scene officer, emphasizing that callers were not to be asked their names, and instructed that all calls relating tothe shooting were to be recorded. He called the Carabinieri and, unsure of his authority, asked their cooperation in treating any relevant calls they might receive with the same discretion, and when the maresciallo agreed, asked if they would record their calls as well. The maresciallo observed he was very doubtful that any information would be volunteered by the vu cumprà but nevertheless agreed to do so.
    There seemed little else for Brunetti to do, so he wished the young officer a good evening, hoped it would get no colder, and, having decided it would be faster to walk, turned towards Rialto and home.

4
    Paola sat, mouth agape, fearing that everything she had ever tried to do as a parent had failed miserably and she had produced a monster, not a child. She stared at her daughter, her baby, her bright, shining angel, and wondered if demonic possession were possible.
    Up until that point, dinner had been a normal enough affair, at least as normal as a meal can be when it has been delayed by murder. Brunetti, who had been called from home only minutes before they sat down, had phoned a little after nine, saying he would still be some time. The children’s complaints that they were on the verge of expiring from hunger had by then worn down Paola’s resistance, so she fed them, putting her own dinner and Guido’s back in theoven to keep warm. She sat with the children, sipping idly from a glass of prosecco that gradually grew warm and flat as the children ate their way through enormous portions of a pasticcio made of layers of polenta, ragù, and parmigiano. To follow there was only roasted radicchio smothered in stracchino, though Paola marvelled that either one of her children could possibly eat anything else.
    ‘Why’s he always have to be late?’ Chiara complained as she reached for the radicchio.
    ‘He’s not always late,’ a literal-minded Paola answered.
    ‘It seems that way,’ Chiara said, selecting two long stalks and lifting them on to her plate, then carefully spooning melted cheese on top.
    ‘He said he’d be here as soon as he could.’
    ‘It’s not like it’s so important or anything, is it? That he has to be so late?’ Chiara asked.
    Paola had explained the reason for their father’s absence, and so she found Chiara’s remark not a little strange.
    ‘I thought I told you someone was killed,’ she said mildly.
    ‘Yes, but it was only a vu cumprà ,’ Chiara said as she picked up her knife.
    It was at this remark that Paola’s mouth fell open. She picked up her glass of wine, pretended to take a sip, moved the platter of radicchio towards Raffi, who appeared not to have heard his sister, and asked, ‘What do you mean by, “only”, Chiara?’ Her voice, she was glad to note, was entirely conversational.
    ‘Just what I said, that it wasn’t one of us,’ her daughter answered.
    Paola tried to identify sarcasm or some attempt to provoke her in Chiara’s response, but there was no hint of either. Chiara’s tone, in fact, seemed to echo her own in terms of calm dispassion.
    ‘By “us”, do you mean Italians or all white people, Chiara?’ she asked.
    ‘No,’ Chiara said. ‘Europeans.’
    ‘Ah, of course,’ Paola answered, picking up her glass and toying with the stem for a moment before setting it down, untasted. ‘And where