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across at him, ‘It seems there is a small clause near the end of the ministerial decree, making provision for local entities to apply for supplementary funding.’
    Conscious of how formulaic their conversation sometimes became, he asked, ‘Funding for what purpose, Signorina?’
    ‘To help with research at the local level into …’ she began. A quiet sigh escaped her lips and she held up a hand . The other, like the tongue of a mother cat too long prevented from licking its newest-born, began to smooth the keys, and her eyes fell to the screen. She tapped out a silent request.
    Brunetti came around the desk and sat.
    In less than a minute, she looked up at him, then back at the screen, and read, ‘“… at the local level to ensure that all efforts on the part of the competent Ministry to investigate and impede the counterfeiting of patented products be initiated and supported by supplementary funding in accordance with Regulation blah blah blah, subsection blah blah, with supplementary reference to Ministerial Decree blah blah blah, of 23 February 2001.”’
    ‘And when that is not pretending to make sense, what might it mean?’ Brunetti inquired.
    ‘It creates another pig’s trough where the clever can dine, sir,’ she said simply, her eyes still on the screen as though they delighted in dining off some rich interpretation of those words. When Brunetti did not respond, she went on, ‘And in essence it means that we are free to use the money as we please, so long as our intention is to investigate and impede the production of these products.’
    ‘That would certainly give the agency doing the investigating and the impeding a great deal of latitude in how to spend the money.’
    ‘They are not fools, these men in Brussels,’ she observed.
    ‘Meaning?’
    ‘Meaning that it is another gift to bureaucrats who are as inventive as they.’ Then, after a pause meant perhaps to give weight to what was to follow, she added, ‘Or who have the perseverance to read through the four hundred and twelve pages of the decree to find that particular paragraph.’
    ‘Or to those who might receive a quiet, private suggestion about where it would be most profitable to direct their attention?’ Brunetti asked.
    ‘Do I detect the voice of a Euro-sceptic, sir?’
    ‘You do.’
    ‘Ah,’ she whispered; then, as if unable to prevent herself from asking, she added, ‘But that won’t stop you from keeping the computer?’
    ‘In the presence of a trough, it is difficult not to oink,’ Brunetti replied.
    She looked at him, eyes wide with delight. ‘I doubt that I have ever heard a more apposite explanation of the failure of our political system, sir.’
    Brunetti allowed a few moments to pass so that they might again enjoy the experience of having filled with rich meaning the spaces between their words. Signorina Elettra touched a few keys, then started to get to her feet.
    Brunetti raised a hand to stop her. ‘Do you remember that trouble on the autostrada last year?’ Realizing how unclear his question was, he added, ‘With the farmers?’
    ‘About milk quotas?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘What about it, sir?’
    ‘A man was killed this morning. I’ve just come from talking to Rizzardi.’ She nodded to show that the news of the murder had already reached the Questura. ‘When I saw him – the man, not Rizzardi – I realized he looked familiar, and then I remembered that it was out there on the autostrada that I saw him.’
    ‘Was he one of the protestors?’
    ‘No. He was on the other side of the autostrada; his car was one of the ones blocked by the protest. I saw him there, standing with the other people who got stuck.’
    ‘And you remembered him?’
    ‘When you read Rizzardi’s report, you’ll understand,’ Brunetti said.
    ‘What would you like me to do, sir?’
    ‘Contact the Carabinieri. Lovello in Mestre was in charge of it. See if they’ve got photos or maybe a video.’ So many charges of excessive