‘Buon di, Bellini,’ Brunetti said.

‘Buon di, Commissario,’ the officer responded and looked towards Ruberti for some hint about what was going on.

Ruberti gave the barest of shrugs.

Brunetti reached across the desk and pulled the stack of crime reports towards him. He saw Ruberti’s neat printing, read the time and date, the officer’s name, the name Ruberti had chosen to give the crime. Nothing else was written on the report, no name was listed under ‘Arrested’, not even under ‘Questioned’.

‘What has my wife said?’

‘As I told you, sir, she hasn’t actually really said anything. Just nodded when I asked her if she did it,’ Ruberti said. To cover the rush of air that sneaked through his partner’s lips he added, ‘Sir.’

‘I think you might have misunderstood what she meant, Ruberti,’ Brunetti said. Paola leaned forward as if about to speak, but Brunetti suddenly slapped his outstretched palm on the crime report form and crushed it together in a tight ball.

Ruberti remembered, again, times when he had been a young officer, weary with sleep and once wet with fear, and he recalled that the commissario had once or twice turned a blind eye to the terrors or errors of youth. ‘Yes, sir, I’m sure I could have misunderstood what she meant,’ he answered seamlessly. Ruberti looked up at Bellini, who nodded, not really understanding but knowing what he had to do.

‘Good,’ Brunetti said and got to his feet. The crime report was now a crushed ball in his hand. He stuffed it into the pocket of his overcoat. ‘I’ll take my wife home now.’

Ruberti got to his feet and went to stand beside Bellini, who said, ‘The owner’s there now, sir.’

‘Did you tell him anything?’

‘No, sir, only that Ruberti had come back to the Questura.’

Brunetti nodded. He leaned down towards Paola but did not touch her. She pushed herself up by the arms of her chair and stood, but she did not stand beside her husband.