By Donna Leon
On a chilly evening almost immediately ahead of Christmas, an immigrant highway seller is killed in Venice's Campo Santo Stefano. the closest witnesses to the development are the travelers who were shopping the man's wares sooner than his demise -- pretend purses of each fashion designer label -- yet they've got obvious not anything that will be of a lot aid to the police.
When Commissario Brunetti arrives at the scene, he reveals it not easy to appreciate why somebody might homicide an unlawful immigrant. they've got few social connections and little funds; in-fighting between them is the most obvious resolution. yet as soon as Brunetti starts investigating this unexpected Venetian underworld, he discovers that issues of serious price are at stake within the immigrant community...
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Extra resources for Blood From a Stone (Commissario Brunetti, Book 14)
About four o’clock. On her way home from school, Audley Road Primary. I would have collected her myself except it’s hard to get there on time from work – and anyway she was with Rosie and there are no roads to cross and I thought it was safe. ’ She drew a long, unsteady breath. He made a note in his book. He rechecked Joanna’s age. Five and three months. Where she was last seen. Outside the sweetshop. Deborah couldn’t remember the name. She could take them there. The officer closed his notebook.
He didn’t want to be young again. All that awkwardness and pain, that sense of being in the wrong life. Now he was in the right life, with Carrie, in the small house they’d saved for, and would be paying for for another thirteen years. There were things he dreamed of having, but surely everyone had dreams and hopes for themselves, and they didn’t collapse in the park or wake up crying. And sometimes he had these nightmares – he didn’t even want to think about them. It wasn’t normal. Surely it wasn’t normal.
She had probably wandered off with a friend and was playing with whatever five-year-old girls play with – dolls and crayons and tea-sets and tiaras. He stared at the photograph Deborah Vine passed him, of a girl with dark hair like her sister’s and a thin face. One chipped tooth, a severe fringe, a smile that looked as if she had turned up her mouth when the photographer told her to say ‘cheese’. ’ Her face twisted. ’ She wanted him to say no, it didn’t really matter, but she knew it was serious.