‘Have a seat, Signor Vio,’ Brunetti said as he approached the table. He waited for Vio to pull back the chair and sit. When he did not, Brunetti sat and reached towards a switch on the top of the table, flipped it to the right, and said, ‘Our conversation will be recorded, Signor Vio. This way there will be no doubt about what we discussed. I hope that’s all right with you.’ Brunetti added this last in a way that made it clear he neither hoped nor cared whether it was all right with Signor Vio.
Vio pulled out the chair and lowered himself into it gingerly, one hand on the back of the chair, a motion which Brunetti translated into the visual equivalent of Argumentum ad Misericordiam, the appeal to pity. Brunetti pulled himself back from the thought of the young woman in the hospital, still unconscious, warning himself not to fall into the same error by assuming this man’s guilt because of what the girl had suffered. Vio sat, upright as a Victorian maiden, back not touching that of the chair, and made no attempt to hide his nervousness as his eyes shifted around the room. He had a two-day-old beard behind which Brunetti could see the perfect teeth of his generation. His breathing was shallow and quick.
Brunetti had brought no papers with him. Sometimes people were disconcerted when he seemed to remember details about them, facts, without having to consult a document. He sat opposite Vio; Griffoni had taken the chair to Brunetti’s left; Pucetti stood to the right, leaning against the wall, arms at his sides, playing the role of the uniformed officer ready to leap across the table and restrain the person being questioned at the first sight of misconduct.
‘Could you tell me where you work, Signor Vio?’ Brunetti started in a neutral tone.
‘Work?’ Vio repeated, as if asking the meaning of the word. He coughed a few times and put his right hand to his mouth.
‘Your job, Signor Vio. You have a job, don’t you?’
Vio sought a more comfortable position, seemed to wince at the motion, and returned to his stiff, upright position. ‘Yes. I do. Work, that is. For my uncle.’ Any Venetian hearing him speak would know he came from Giudecca and from a family of workers, probably generations of workers; further, they would not be surprised to learn he had left school early.
‘And what do you do for your uncle?’ Griffoni asked.
Vio’s eyes snapped towards the sound of her voice, as if women were not meant to have one. He gave her question some thought and answered, speaking to Brunetti, not to her, ‘I load and unload what my uncle has to transport in the city. Sometimes I’m in charge of the boat; sometimes not.’ He breathed, Brunetti thought, like an old person: how could he make a living hauling heavy objects? How indulgent must his uncle be?
‘Do you mean that sometimes you drive the boat?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have a licence, Signor Vio?’
‘Yes, I do,’ he said and swivelled to the left. As he reached for his pocket, he winced and froze, then moved cautiously back to his position looking across at Brunetti.
‘That’s all right, Signor Vio,’ Brunetti said. ‘We can easily check.’
Vio’s eyes opened in surprise, but he said nothing.
‘What sort of boat do you drive for your uncle?’ Griffoni asked.
‘Sort? It’s a transport boat. He has three different sizes,’ Vio started to explain, but he was cut short by a cough. When it stopped, Vio continued. ‘I can handle them all.’
‘I see,’ Griffoni said, ‘And is your licence good for all three sizes of boat?’
Vio nodded and she said, not unkindly, ‘You have to say something, Signor Vio.’
The young man cleared his throat before he asked, ‘What do I have to say?’ To Brunetti, it looked as though Vio tried to take a deep breath to calm himself but failed at that and settled for a few quick breaths.
Brunetti smiled across at him and explained, making himself sound almost avuncular, ‘We’re recording the conversation, so you have to answer the question with words.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Vio muttered and stared across at the switch. ‘Thank you. Yes, the licence. Mine is valid for all of the boats.’
‘Do you have a boat of your own?’ Brunetti asked.
‘I have a pupparin,’ Vio answered, ‘but I don’t need a licence for that.’
‘I had one when I was your age,’ Brunetti offered with every semblance of truth. ‘But I never wanted a motor for it.’
‘Me neither, Signore.’
‘Then what do you do for Redentore?’ Brunetti asked, sounding both curious and concerned. Didn’t he have his own boat, big enough for a group of friends to go out into the bacino to see the fireworks? What sort of Venetian would miss the chance to do that?
The young man’s face relaxed a bit. ‘My uncle lets me take one of his boats.’
‘Oh, that’s very kind of him,’ Griffoni broke in to say. ‘It must be nice for you that he trusts you so much.’
‘Well, he knows I’m a good pilot,’ Vio said, obviously proud to be able to say it. He coughed again. This time he pulled out a not very clean white handkerchief and wiped at his mouth when the coughing stopped.
Behind him, Brunetti heard Pucetti shift his feet. He considered the differences between these two young men, so similar in age, yet one so bright and one so naive.
‘It must be nice to be able to take your friends out into the laguna,’ Griffoni said admiringly, quite as though it was her dream in life to go out on the water in a boat with friends.
‘Yes, it is, Signora,’ Vio answered.
This was too easy, Brunetti thought, reluctant to drop the net over the boy’s empty head. And why, he asked himself, did he think of Vio as a boy?
‘Do you do that?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Do what, Signore?’ Vio asked.
Brunetti smiled before he answered. ‘Take friends out into the laguna.’
Because he was opposite Vio, Brunetti could see on his face the moment the question registered. The young man had apparently thought that the slight warming of tone on the part of his two interlocutors was a sign of their goodwill, that he had managed to impress them as a good employee and thus a good person who, obviously, was there by mistake. Brunetti’s question put an end to that dream and brought Vio back to the cruel reality that he was in the Questura, and the police were interrogating him.
‘Oh,’ Vio said, his hands grasping at one another, ‘that doesn’t happen very often. Redentore.’ He looked at his hands, stopped their embrace, and placed them palms down in front of him, where he could keep a close eye on them.
‘Redentore was months ago,’ Brunetti reminded him. ‘Have you been out with friends since then?’
‘No!’ Vio’s answer came too fast and too loud. ‘I work on the weekends. I don’t have time.’ Any other defence was cut off by a short bark of a cough and then another series of quick breaths.
‘Really?’ Griffoni asked when he stopped, quite as though she were in possession of different information. She twisted her mouth