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in the hope that it would give force to his request, ‘at the school.’ He waited to see if this would have any effect on the woman, but then went on, ‘It’s necessary that I speak to him.’
    She made a noise, but it was cut off by the electrical buzz of the door release, leaving Brunetti to guess at its nature. He pushed open the door, passed quickly through a hallway, and stopped at the bottom of a staircase. At the top, a door opened and a tall woman came out on to the landing. ‘Up here,’ she said.
    When he reached the top of the stairs, she turned and led him into the apartment, closed the door behind him, then turned back to face him. He was struck at first by the fact that, though surely not as old as he, she had white hair, cut short just above her shoulders. It contrasted sharply with her skin, dark as an Arab’s, and with her eyes, as close to black as he had ever seen eyes be.
    She put out her hand. ‘I’m Luisa, Fernando’s cousin.’
    Brunetti took her hand and gave his name and position. ‘I realize this is a terrible time,’ he began, planning how best to speak to her. Her posture was rigid, her back as straight as if she had been told to stand against a wall. She kept her eyes on his as they spoke.
    When Brunetti added nothing to this self-evident truth, she asked, ‘What do you want to know?’
    ‘I’d like to ask him about his son’s state of mind.’
    ‘Why?’ she demanded. Brunetti thought the answer to that should have been obvious, and was taken aback by the vehemence with which she asked the question.
    ‘In a case such as this,’ he began evasively, ‘it’s necessary to know as much as possible about how the person was feeling and behaving, whether there were perhaps any signs …’
    ‘Of what?’ She cut him off, making no attempt to disguise her anger or her contempt. ‘That he was going to kill himself?’ Before Brunetti could answer, she went on, ‘If that’s what you mean, for God’s sake, then say so.’ Again she didn’t wait for an answer. ‘The idea’s ridiculous. It’s disgusting. Ernesto would no sooner kill himself than I would. He was a healthy boy. It’s insulting to suggest that he would.’ She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together, fighting to regain control of herself.
    Before Brunetti could say that he had made no insinuation of any kind, Dottor Moro appeared in a doorway. ‘That’s enough, Luisa,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘You shouldn’t say any more.’
    Though the man had spoken, it was the face of the woman Brunetti studied. The stiffness of her posture lessened, and her body inclined in her cousin’s direction. She raised one hand towards him but made no move to touch him. Instead, she nodded once, ignored Brunetti completely, and turned away. Brunetti watched as she walked down the corridor and through a door at the end.
    When she was gone, Brunetti turned his attention to the doctor. Though he knew this was impossible, Moro had aged a decade during the brief time that had elapsed since Brunetti had last seen him. His skin was pasty, his eyes dull and reddened with tears, but it was in his posture that Brunetti perceived most change, for it had taken on the forward-leaning curvature of an old man.
    ‘I’m sorry to intrude on your grief, Dottore,’ Brunetti began, ‘but I hope that by speaking to you now, I won’t have to trouble you again.’ Even to Brunetti, schooled as he was in the ways of professional mendacity, this sounded so forced and artificial as to distance him from the other man and his sorrow.
    Moro waved his right hand in the air, a gesture that might just as easily have been dismissal as acknowledgement. He wrapped his arms around his stomach and bowed his head.
    ‘Dottore,’ he went on, ‘in the last few days or weeks, had your son done anything that would lead you to suspect that he might have been considering anything like this?’ Moro’s head was still bowed so Brunetti could not see his eyes, nor