Eve feels a flush of shame. It couldn’t really be jealousy she’s feeling, could it? She’s embarrassed to even ask herself the question. She loves Niko and misses him. He loves her.
To be gazed at while you slept, though.
The bracelet.
The sheer, dazzling effrontery of it.
The questura, or central police station, of Venice is in Santa Croce, on the Ponte della Libertà. It has a river entrance, with blue-painted police launches moored at its jetty, and a rather less picturesque street entrance, fortified by steel security barriers and guarded by agents of the Polizia di Stato.
It’s 5.30 p.m., and Eve and Lance are sitting in the waiting area, waiting to speak to the questore, the local chief of police. To arrange this has taken numerous phone calls, and now that they have an appointment, it turns out that Questore Armando Trevisan is ‘in conference’. Hunching forward on the slatted wooden bench, Eve stares through the armoured glass of the entrance doors at the traffic. The rain stopped at midday, but she can still feel the dampness in the air.
A lean figure in a dark suit appears from a corridor, his purposeful air disrupting the somnolent atmosphere of the place. Introducing himself in English as Questore Trevisan, he leads them to his office, a monochrome space dominated by filing cabinets.
‘Please, Mrs Polastri and Mr . . .’
‘Edmonds,’ says Lance. ‘Noel Edmonds.’
They seat themselves opposite his desk. Trevisan opens a folder, removes a photocopied head-shot, and hands it to Eve.
‘You want to know about our vanished Ukrainian? Well, so do we. His name is Rinat Yevtukh, and last month he was staying at the Danieli Hotel with a young woman named Katerina Goraya and several bodyguards. We were alerted to his presence, and details of his background, by colleagues in AISE, our external security agency.’
‘He was known to them, then?’ Eve asks.
‘Very much so. Based in Odessa, where he was the head of a gang involved in drugs, prostitution, people-smuggling and the usual related activities. Very wealthy, very powerfully connected.’
From the folder Trevisan takes a second document. His movements are economical, and there’s an alertness about him that tells Eve that this is a fellow spirit, an ally. A man who will only be satisfied by the truth. ‘Here’s the timeline of Yevtukh’s stay here in Venice. The usual tourist activities, as you can see, and always accompanied by Miss Goraya. A gondola tour, a visit to Murano, shopping in San Marco, etcetera. And then, on this morning here, and without the knowledge of Miss Goraya, he leaves in a motoscafo, a motor launch, with a woman whom he had met in the hotel bar the evening before.’
Eve and Lance exchange glances.
‘According to the waiter the woman ordered the drinks in Italian but spoke English to Yevtukh. Both fluently. She looked, according to the waiter, like a film star.’
‘Any particular film star?’
‘I think he meant more in a general way, but he did help us create an e-fit.’
Trevisan slides another photocopy across his desk. Eve forces herself not to grab it, but the image is wholly unrevealing. The heart-shaped face, shoulder-length hair and wide-set eyes have a blank, generic look. The subject could be any age between twenty and forty.
‘We made this portrait three days after the waiter served her in the bar. It’s the best he could manage. Yevtukh’s bodyguards saw her briefly on the morning of his disappearance, but they were even less help. She was wearing large sunglasses, apparently, and they couldn’t even agree on the colour of her hair.’
‘Witnesses,’ says Lance.
‘Indeed, Mr Edmonds, witnesses. To continue, this woman meets Yevtukh at the river entrance to the hotel the next morning, and they leave together in the motoscafo. When Yevtukh doesn’t reappear that night the bodyguards think their boss is enjoying a romantic assignment, and say nothing to Miss Goraya, but the following morning she goes to see the hotel manager and makes a big furore and the manager calls us. At that point the bodyguards agree to tell the truth.’
Initially, Trevisan tells them, Yevtukh was considered a low-risk disappearance, and the investigation a formality. And then someone at the questura matched the description of a motoscafo stolen from a marina in Isola Sant’Elena with the bodyguards’ description of the vessel they had seen outside the hotel, and a full-scale search was set in motion. A helicopter overflight of the lagoon revealed the motoscafo sunk in the Poveglia Canal, but of Yevtukh, not a trace. And there the enquiry stalled.
‘So what do you think happened?’ asks Eve.
‘Initially, I thought that this was a story of a rich man and his lovers. But the stolen motoscafo, and its deliberate sinking, changed my mind. And now, Mrs Polastri, here you are from MI6 in London, confirming that this is indeed no simple disappearance.’
‘Signor Trevisan, may I make a suggestion?’
‘Please do.’
‘I may be able to help you move this investigation forward. In return I would ask that you keep our conversation confidential. That you mention it to no one, from your service or mine.’
‘Go on.’
‘Yevtukh is dead, I have no doubt of that whatsoever. The woman he met in the bar, and who took him out in the motor launch the next day, is almost certainly a professional assassin. Multilingual, but probably Russian. Name unknown. She was in Venice with another woman, again probably Russian, and possibly her lover. The two of them had been shopping in San Marco two days earlier, and had visited the Van Diest boutique, the Pasticceria Zucchetti and other shops in the area. Both are highly CCTV-aware, and the assassin is extremely skilful at altering her appearance. We think that she’s slim, of medium height, with high-cheekboned features and dark blonde hair. Eyes probably grey or grey-green, but we think that she often wears coloured contact lenses. Also hair-pieces and wigs. The other woman has been described as sporty-looking, with short blonde hair.’
‘You’re sure of this?’
‘I’m sure. And the pair of them must have stayed somewhere locally, either together or separately, given that there’re two days between the San Marco shopping trip and Yevtukh’s disappearance.’
‘We can certainly see if we can find any record of them.’ Trevisan looks at her intently, and Eve is suddenly conscious of her appearance, and, in particular, of the ugly nylon sockettes showing round the edges of her shoes. For years now she has sought others’ approval of her professional competence, giving little or no thought to how they actually see her. But being here in Venice, seeing how Italian women carry themselves, and how they take pleasure in themselves as elegant, sensual beings, makes her want to be appreciated for more than the sharpness of her mind. She would like to walk through San Marco and feel the swirl of a beautifully cut skirt, and the breeze from the lagoon in her hair. Those shop assistants in Van Diest, this morning. They were dressed, it seemed, entirely for their own pleasure and enjoyment. Their clothes whispered secrets that endowed them with confidence and power. In her damp rain-jacket and jeans, Eve doesn’t feel confident or powerful at all. She feels lank-haired and clammy beneath the arms.
The conversation winds down. ‘Tell me,’ Eve asks, as Trevisan ushers them to the entrance. ‘Where did you learn your excellent English?’
‘In Tunbridge Wells. My mother was English, and we spent every summer there when I was a child. I used to watch Multi-Coloured Swap Shop on BBC1 every Saturday, which is why I’m so honoured to meet Noel Edmonds in person.’
Lance winces. ‘Ah.’
‘Please, I understand professional discretion. Mrs Polastri, I’m glad we were able to help each other. Officially, as you requested, this meeting never took place. But it has been a great pleasure.’
They shake hands, and he’s gone.
‘For fuck’s sakes,’ says Eve, as they step out into the moist dusk. ‘Noel Edmonds?’
‘I know,’ says Lance. ‘I know.’
On the way back they catch a vaporetto, a water-bus. It’s crowded, but Eve’s fe
et are sore and it’s a relief not to be walking. The vaporetto takes them the length of the Grand Canal. Some of the waterside buildings are illuminated, their reflections painting the broken surface of the water with gold, but others are shuttered and unlit, as if guarding ancient secrets. In the half-dark, there is a sinister edge to the city’s beauty.
Lance rides the vaporetto all the way to San Marco, but Eve gets off at the stop before, and walks up towards the Fenice opera house, and a tiny boutique that she spotted earlier in the day. In the window is a beautiful scarlet and white Laura Fracci crêpe wrap dress, and she can’t resist a closer look. The boutique looks terrifyingly expensive, and part of her hopes that the dress doesn’t fit, but when she tries it on it’s perfect. Barely glancing at the price, she hands over her credit card before she can change her mind.
It occurs to her to look in at the Van Diest store, to find out if they’ve found any CCTV footage of the two women. They haven’t, she learns, as the video was deleted two days ago. Seeing her disappointment, the manageress looks thoughtful.
‘There was another thing about the woman who bought the bracelet that I remember,’ she says. ‘Her scent. I always notice scent, it’s my passion. My mother used to work at a perfume shop, and she taught me to recognise the . . . ingredienti. The sandalwood, cedar, amber, violet, rose, bergamotto . . .’
‘So do you remember what scent this woman was wearing?’
‘I didn’t recognise it. It certainly wasn’t one of the usual designer brands. Freesia top note, I think. Base notes of amber and white cedar. Very unusual. I asked her about it.’
‘And?’
‘She told me what it’s called, but I can’t remember the name. I’m sorry, I’m not being very helpful.’
‘You are. Truly. You’ve been a great help. Perhaps if you remember the name of the scent, or anything else about these two women, you could speak to Questore Armando Trevisan at the police station in Santa Croce, and he will pass it on to me.’
‘Certainly. Can I have your name? And perhaps your mobile phone number?’
Eve tells her, gazing wonderingly at the jewellery in the cases. A collar of incandescent sapphires and diamonds. A necklace of emeralds like a cascade of green fire.
The manageress pauses, pen in hand. ‘I can see you admire fine jewellery, Signora Polastri.’
‘I’ve never seen pieces like this. Close enough to touch. I see why people want them so much. Why they fall in love with them.’
‘May I make a suggestion? I’m going to a reception tonight at the Palazzo Forlani. It’s the launch of Umberto Zeni’s new jewellery collection. I was going to take my sister, but her daughter’s ill. You’re welcome to join me if you’re free.’
‘That’s very kind,’ Eve says, taken aback. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely I’m sure. It would be my pleasure.’
‘Well, then . . . Yes. Gosh. How exciting. I’ve never been to a party in a palace before.’
‘Perhaps you could wear your bracelet?’
‘I could, couldn’t I.’
‘In that case, è deciso. Palazzo Forlani’s on the Dorsoduro. Cross the Accademia Bridge and it’s a hundred metres or so on the left. Say you’re with Giovanna Bianchi from Van Diest. I’ll be there from nine o’clock.’
‘Um . . . sure. Why not. Thank you, Giovanna. That would be lovely’
She extends her hand. ‘Allora a dopo, Signora Polastri.’
‘It’s Eve.’
‘A dopo, Eve.’
Back at the hotel she sits on her bed with her laptop, encrypting her report on Yevtukh Rinat and the probable involvement in his disappearance of V and her Russian friend, lover, whatever. When she’s dispatched it to Billy at Goodge Street, she calls Lance’s room. There’s no answer, but a couple of minutes later he knocks at her door, and when she opens it he’s carrying beer bottles and an enormous pizza.
‘The restaurants round here are all tourist rip-off joints,’ he tells her. ‘So I went for the takeaway option.’
‘Perfect. I’m starving.’
For the next half-hour they sit in front of the small balcony drinking cold Nastro Azzurro and eating pizza topped with sliced potatoes, rosemary and Taleggio cheese.
‘That was seriously good,’ says Eve, when she can manage no more.
‘You have to put up with a lot as a spy,’ Lance says. ‘But I draw the line at crap food.’
‘I never knew you cared.’
‘Funny old world, isn’t it? Mind if I have a smoke on the balcony?’
‘Go ahead. I should call my husband.’
When she eventually finds her phone in her bag, she realises it’s been turned off all day. To her horror, she sees that Niko has tried to ring six times, and left three messages.
‘Fuck. Fuck . . .’
It turns out he’s had an accident. He’s spent most of the day in Accident and Emergency at the Royal Free Hospital, and is now back at home, on crutches.
‘Niko, I’m really, really sorry,’ Eve says, when she finally gets through to him. ‘I’ve just discovered my phone’s been off all day. What happened?’
‘School parent dropping her son off. Son steps out in front of a moving car, I run forward and pull him out of the way. Bang.’
‘Oh, my love. I’m so sorry. Is it bad?’
‘Broken ankle, basically. Fractured tibia and torn ligaments.’
‘Painful?’
‘Put it this way, you’re going to be doing more of the cooking.’
‘Oh God, you poor thing. For the accident, I mean, not for my cooking. Although that’s not good news, either . . . Sorry, it’s been a long day.’
‘Indeed it has. How’s Venice?’
‘Lovely, actually, despite the fact that’s it’s been raining all day.’
‘And Lance? In good health?’
‘Niko, please. Lance is fine, work is fine, and I’ll be back tomorrow night. Are you going to be OK till then?’
‘My ancestors fought the Ottomans at Varna. I’ll survive.’
‘Is there enough hay for Thelma and Louise?’
‘You might pick some up at Duty Free.’
‘Niko, stop it. I’m sorry, OK? For leaving my phone off, for being here in Venice, for your accident. I’m sorry for all of it. Did the hospital give you painkillers?’
‘Yes. Codeine.’
‘Take them. With water, not whisky. And go to bed. I hope that boy’s parents are grateful.’
‘Parent. Singular. And she was.’
‘Well, I’m proud of you, my love. Truly.’
‘So what are you doing tonight?’
‘I’ve got to go out later and speak to someone about some CCTV footage.’ The lie slips out easily, effortlessly. ‘Then to bed with a book.’
‘What are you reading?’
‘A novel by Elena Ferrante.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘The complicated relationship between two women.’
‘Is there an uncomplicated kind?’
‘Not in my experience.’
She’s still staring at the phone when Lance comes back into the room, trailed by a whirl of cigarette smoke.
‘So what’s the plan?’ she asks him.
‘Phoned someone earlier. Bloke I used to work with in Rome who’s moved up here. Thought I might have a word with him about our disappeared Ukrainian.’
‘When are you meeting him?’
‘Half an hour. Bar near that police station we were at earlier. What about you?’
‘Going to some sort of reception thing with Giovanna from the jewellery shop. The security footage has been wiped, but I’m sure there’s more she can tell us.’
‘I’m sure there is.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re smirking, Lance.’
‘That’s not a smirk, it’s a facial tic. I’m very sensitive about it.’
‘Look, you were good this morning. Really good. A
nd that pizza was seriously delicious. But if you’re going to smirk whenever I mention another woman’s name this isn’t going to work.’
‘No, I see that.’
‘Fuck off, Lance.’
‘Absolutely. Right away.’
Ten minutes later, Eve has changed into the Laura Fracci dress, pinned her hair into a passable French twist, and is stepping out into the dusk with the rose gold bracelet on her wrist. The day’s rain has sharpened the air, which smells of dampness and drains. Crossing the piazza she threads her way westwards, past lingering groups of tourists, to the Accademia Bridge. Halfway across the bridge she stops, entranced by the view. The darkening canal, the illuminated waterside buildings, and, at the distant mouth of the lagoon, the dome of Santa Maria della Salute. Almost too much beauty to bear, and all of it dying. As are we all, a voice in her head whispers. There’s no tomorrow, there’s only today.
Looking out over the glimmering canal, poised between the upstream and the downstream of her life, Eve considers her adversary. All she’s seen of her is her eyes, but the eyes are enough. I am death, that gaze seemed to say, and if you’re not intimate with death, can you ever feel truly alive?
From such a challenge, Eve now knows, there’s no retreating, no walking away. Wherever it leads, she has to follow, and if she has to lie to Niko, then so be it. A seaward breeze flickers up the canal, flattening the soft folds of the dress to her thighs, and her phone vibrates in her bag.
It’s Giovanna. She’ll be there in ten minutes.
In her narrow room on the first floor of the Gasthof Lili in Innsbruck, Villanelle is sitting cross-legged on her bed in front of a laptop, scrolling through architectural blueprints of the Felsnadel. The hotel, a futuristic slice of glass and steel wrapped around a frozen Tyrolean crag, is Austria’s highest. It stands on a ledge, some two and a half thousand metres above sea level, on the eastern flank of the Teufelskamp mountain.
Villanelle has been prowling the building in her imagination for hours now, testing possible entry and exit points, memorising the layout of the guest quarters and the kitchens, noting the whereabouts of storerooms and service areas. For the last thirty minutes she’s been examining the fittings and locking mechanisms on the triple-glazed windows. Details like these, Konstantin impressed on her, can mean the difference between success and failure, between life and death. It saddens Villanelle to think that, somewhere along the line, Konstantin himself neglected a detail.
No Tomorrow: The basis for Killing Eve, now a major BBC TV series (Killing Eve series Book 2) Page 9
