Quick on the Draw

by Susan Moody

  ‘Please, Maddalena, don’t be. I’ve done nothing yet.’

  ‘But you will. I know you will.’

  I hoped that if he found out I had rejected his offer, my new best friend, Renzo Vitali, wouldn’t take offence and turn nasty, something I sensed he was more than capable of doing. While talking to Maddalena, I’d had an uncomfortably vivid mental image of him and me holed up in some huge, echoing apartment overlooking the Grand Canal where gondoliers warbled and bells rang, while I fled through room after room of faded grandeur, my Titian-coloured hair streaming behind me with the speed of my passage as he relentlessly pursued me. Oh, those Italians!

  Cesare, on the other hand, was not only married but possessed the manner and bearing of an icicle, so I would be safe. Or should be.

  ‘I’ll do my very best.’

  I was about to replace the receiver when I heard a phone ringing in the background. Behind Maddalena, as it were. A male voice speaking. An exclamation. ‘My God, no! Are you serious?’

  ‘What?’ Maddalena was shouting. ‘What? Dom, what is it?’ She turned back to the phone. ‘Wait, Alexandra, wait.’ I heard echoing thumps as she laid the hand-piece on the table.

  I listened while the two of them talked rapidly. There was a high-pitched, agonized shriek from Maddalena. A soothing reply from Dominic. More shrieks and sobbing. Finally the phone was picked up again.

  ‘Alex? It’s Dominic.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  I could hear the carefully controlled panic in his voice. ‘My wife’s brother, the Marchese, has just received a ransom note. The safe return of my son Sandro, in exchange for twenty million euros.’

  ‘Bastards!’ I drew in a sharp breath. ‘Scumbags!’

  ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ said Dominic. His tone was dry.

  ‘So the Marchese is back in Venice?’

  ‘That’s right. They arrived back this evening and found the note waiting. Got in touch with us immediately.’

  ‘Twenty million euros,’ I repeated. I knew Dominic could easily come up with it. Given his wealth and assets, twenty million seemed a fairly trivial sum. Much more importantly, how safe was Sandro? I’d known of too many kidnap cases where the victim had been killed long before the ransom was paid.

  ‘Not that I give a toss about the money. I just want my …’ his voice shook slightly, ‘… my son safely home. The thing is, the note tells Cesare that on no account must the police or the carabinieri be informed or they won’t hesitate to murder … to murder Sandro.’

  Behind him, his wife screamed and screamed again.

  ‘Why would they contact your brother-in-law instead of you?’

  ‘Basically, I imagine they knew he was there, and thought it would be easier to snatch him in Venice.’

  ‘Which would argue that they’re Venice-based. Wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Dom drew a gusty breath. ‘There’s also the whole of the Veneto. You’ve got Padua, Verona, Treviso, all within striking distance …’

  ‘Cesare’s pretty well heeled.’

  ‘Very.’ Dominic suddenly sounded doubtful. ‘As far as I’m aware, that is. A couple of financial reverses recently, but nothing serious.’

  ‘And it’s him they’re asking to pay the ransom, not you, even though he’s not Sandro’s father.’

  ‘I imagine that’s because he’s on the spot and I’m not – though obviously whatever payment is made, it will eventually be my responsibility, as is only fair.’

  ‘How are they getting in contact?’

  ‘Apart from the initial note, they’re not. They’ve set out their terms and conditions so now we can only wait until we hear from them again.’

  I thought about it. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Maddalena tells me you were going out to Venice anyway, to look for Sandro.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it. I also have some work to do.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know about that. But Alex, it would be of enormous help to us if you can find anything at all about Sandro’s disappearance. This … development makes it even more important, urgent, desperate, what you will.’

  ‘Given the wide field of possible operations, I’m not sure how helpful I can—’

  ‘You’ve solved a couple of murders, haven’t you? You could take a kidnapping in your stride. The point is, Alex,’ he continued over my attempted disclaimers, ‘that whichever bastards took our son, they’re not going to suspect some unknown Englishwoman who shows up at Cesare’s place, are they?’

  ‘I should think they’d be immediately suspicious. Boy is snatched, ransom note’s delivered, police aren’t informed but a female stranger suddenly arrives out of the blue. I’d certainly be on my guard, if I was watching out to see what happened. Which is presumably what whoever’s grabbed him is doing.’

  ‘I take your point.’

  ‘And I’d also need to know if there are any of the usual suspects in cases like this: disgruntled ex-employees, business deals where your brother-in-law – or you – have done someone down, a slightly dodgy arrangement where some person or other has lost out unfairly, someone who feels resentful, for whatever reason – you know the sort of thing.’

  ‘Off the top of my head, I can’t think of anything like that at all.’ His voice changed. ‘I’ll have a think about it. Meanwhile, you’re right about not staying with Cesare. Why don’t you put up at the Gritti or the Danieli if you think it would be less obvious than staying at Cesare’s place? We’ll pick up the tab, of course.’ His voice began to waver slightly.

  ‘No,’ I said briskly. Regretfully. Because I would love to have stayed at either of them. ‘They’re luxury hotels, very expensive. If I’m going to use my magazine commission for some articles about Venice as my cover, it’s highly unlikely that I’d be able to afford either of those.’

  Or I could take up Renzo Vitali’s invitation after all. I thought about his palazzo apartment on the Grand Canal. I thought of the stanza segreta and the shifting watery light of Venice. So tempting, but no …

  ‘I see what you mean,’ Dominic was saying. ‘OK, I’ll find something more suitable, further down the scale. I believe there are some good small hotels and B and Bs in the Rialto. And you’re leaving tomorrow?’

  ‘I’d already planned to go anyway. Obviously you’ll need to let me know the name of wherever I’m going to be staying. And cancel Cesare meeting me with his private launch. I’ll take the vaporetto to the nearest setting-down point.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you.’

  ‘How long are they giving you to come up with the cash?’

  ‘Until the end of the week. Then they’ll send directions as to where the drop will take place. They want Cesare to handle that.’

  ‘I’m appalled by all this,’ I said.

  ‘As are we.’

  ‘How can I contact you from Venice? I imagine they’ve got Cesare’s phones tapped.’

  ‘I’ll buy two or three mobiles tomorrow. Our messenger service will pick one of them up and bring it over to you before you leave. That way, we can hopefully keep in touch without these people being aware.’

  ‘Maybe Cesare can do the same.’

  ‘Maybe. But I don’t know how secure that would be. Alex, I’m … we’re …’ His voice seized up for a moment. ‘We’d do anything, pay anything, to get our boy back.’

  ‘Of course. Understood. Talk soon,’ I said, and terminated the call before he broke down completely. Or I did.

  Those poor people. What a nightmare, to have a child imperilled, themselves terrorized. It wasn’t the money: twenty million euros was probably chump change for Dominic. It was the horror of wondering what was happening, whether Sandro was alive or dead, where he was, what they might be doing to him, in what disgusting, degrading conditions he might be being held.

  If I were to come anywhere near the scum who’d taken him, I knew I wouldn’t hesitate to kill, if I had to. Sometimes justice needs to be served in the
most primitive possible way.

  First thing the next morning, I fished out Renzo’s business card. Luckily it had a couple of email addresses on it, so I sent a message to both, thanking him for the beautiful roses, and saying, in vague and muted fashion, that I too looked forward to seeing him again sometime. I didn’t mention the possibility of meeting up with him in Venice, nor of availing myself of his various offers, both spoken and implicit. After that, I left my phone in answering mode so I could monitor any calls. I didn’t fancy getting too hot and sweaty with my new admirer. Especially when it might not be me at all that he fancied, nor the colour of my hair, but the putative Tiepolos that I’d so foolishly mentioned and which he might hope to have a shot at through me.

  I spent the rest of the day packing, and making arrangements for wheels to keep turning while I was away. The whole time I worked, the thought of Sandro Grainger in the ruthless hands of kidnappers lurked like an evil toad at the bottom of a pond.

  I rang the Major. ‘I’m off to Venice shortly,’ I said.

  ‘Lovely. Enjoy yourself, my dear.’

  ‘I’m sure I will.’ Oh, Lord … my conscience was doing a lot of smiting. ‘Look, Major, there’s something I have to confess.’ I swallowed.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I hope I haven’t done any damage, but I stupidly told somebody about your possible Tiepolos.’

  There was a short pause while he digested this. ‘Broke the official secrets act sort of thing?’ he said finally.

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Oh, well, can’t be helped.’

  ‘Thing is, the man I spoke to is an Italian art dealer. And he seemed extremely interested.’ Although I didn’t say so, there was also the possibility of him being some kind of high-class crook … but surely not.

  ‘Oh dear. But no harm’s done, I don’t suppose. I presume he doesn’t know anything about me, or where I live.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘And for the moment the pictures are safely locked away in London. If anyone should come down here looking for them, they’ll be out of luck.’

  Unless they’re styling themselves as Ms Flo Forbes. ‘Yes, but …’ I felt increasingly uncomfortable. What had I done, blurting out the information about the Tiepolos to a complete and possibly dodgy stranger? I really didn’t want to imagine the Major naked, tied to a chair with someone applying a blowtorch to his genitals in the hope of extracting information concerning the whereabouts of the two pictures, and not believing him when he said they were in London. To be absolutely candid, I really didn’t want to think of the Major’s genitals at all. Those Italian crims would stop at nothing, I knew that. At least, they didn’t in thrillers and films. I sat at my computer, typed in Renzo’s name and waited for information to come up. And waited. And waited.

  Nothing. How could that be? My brother and his wife seemed to know quite a bit about him.

  I typed in Vitali, and this time got a host of sites coming up, but none with the combination of the two names. Herry might know, but there was no way I was going to contact him about it. I checked out the Vitali name again and this time came up with some pictures of a recent family wedding, some rather gorgeous youths dancing with pretty girls, a wedding dress like the dome of St Paul’s and wedding guests looking distinctly the worse for wear on smooth green lawns in front of a rather splendid castle. Was that the ancient family stronghold, I wondered, or merely a hired rendezvous?

  And in some of the pics lurked Renzo himself, burly in black tie, champagne glass in hand or dancing with the bride, ugly as a toad, or smiling like an archangel.

  Idly, since I was online, I went to Facebook, to Sam Willoughby’s page. There he was, posting short messages about how great New Zealand was and how he wished he’d visited much sooner. Days of wine and roses, said one post, and there he was, sitting under a rose arbour, blue hills on the skyline with his arm round a glamorous blonde, both of them holding slender glasses of white wine and looking pretty pleased with themselves. There were several other photos. One of Sam with a sheep. One of him standing with a guy who could only be his brother, Harry. One of him with the same blonde and three sheep. One of him sprawled across a mass of wool with a shivering, naked sheep and a lot of weathered guys laughing. Another of him seated at a table overlooking a shimmering bay with the sun going down, while opposite him sat the blonde wearing one of those jillaroo Akubra hats, holding another glass of wine, the two of them smiling at each other in loving fashion.

  Good on yer, Sam, I thought. I was delighted to see him having such a good time. Focusing for a change on someone who wasn’t me.

  Really, really delighted.

  NINE

  It was late by the time I stepped off the vaporetto from Marco Polo airport. Dominic had chosen a small and inconspicuous hotel for me somewhere in the warren of little streets in Rialto. There was a tiny railed garden in front with two broad-leaved banana trees and an indeterminate palm. The wonderful rippling light of Venice sent splinters of green radiance up and down the walls which lined the small canal on which it sat. I could see at once that it was perfect for my purposes. Shabby and old, even the jumpiest kidnapper wouldn’t have suspected the place of harbouring an investigative force hoping to foil their plans for extortion. Inside, it belied its scruffy, peeling exterior. It was clearly an historic sixteenth-century building, and had been extensively and very tastefully renovated. Some of the rooms faced the canal, and I was lucky enough (or Dom had enough clout) to have been given one of those. I unpacked my books and papers on to the small table in front of the window and hung up my clothes. Looking out, I could just see the lighted outline of a campanile against the brilliant but darkening sky.

  Dominic had given me a whole file of information which he thought might be useful. I’d had a chance to go through it on the plane. There was apparently a witness to Sandro’s abduction. Tomorrow I would call Dom, see if there was any further update on Sandro. And meanwhile, I would try to contact the witness, Signora Carlotta Moretti. According to the papers Dominic had passed on, she knew Sandro by sight and had recognized him as she sat on her balcony in the evening, sipping a nightcap grappa. Her address was included.

  I was hungry. I felt optimistic as I set off down the calle to find the restaurant recommended by the direttore d’albergo on the other side of the Grand Canal. Venice is a small town, a closed society in which tourists are something of an irrelevancy, apart from the money they bring with them. And the way they turn the tranquil city into a crowded nightmare. It was quite likely that Signora Moretti’s evidence could prove helpful in finding out what had happened. Or the opposite, of course. Witness statements are notoriously unreliable.

  I ate linguine pescatore with a couple of glasses of crisp pinot grigio. Someone was singing somewhere. Not tourist-trap singing but genuine music. It floated down from an upper window and wrapped itself round the tables set out on the pavement, a shifting shawl of glittering notes. The moon was already high in the sky. It would have been perfect had it not been for my desperate anxiety about Sandro.

  I was up early the next day. Lots to do. Places to go and people to see. I would leave Signora Moretti until later in the day. Meanwhile, before I left England I had booked interviews with the curators of two galleries and a professor at the Ca’ Foscari university whom I’d met at a symposium on contemporary art a couple of years earlier. He’d looked pretty unusual back then; on my way to meet him, I wondered if he had quietened down. Sartorially, that is. When I got there, I saw that he hadn’t. He sported skin-tight jeans in a leopard-skin print and a yellow singlet which showed his ribs to advantage. A Mohican coloured red and peacock-blue and a feather dangling from one ear completed the ensemble. And why not? He was not only a real enthusiast for his subject, but was still excited by the whole contemporary scene. Always a plus in a teacher.

  A phone call to Cesare’s new and unused mobile, the number contained in Dominic’s file, ascertained that there had been no further word ab
out Sandro. ‘Do we need to talk about anything?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s all in hand, I think.’

  ‘Seen anything suspicious?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m organizing the ransom money. I’m hoping the kidnappers will make themselves conspicuous one way or another before the day they’ve set for payment.’

  ‘You’re by no means the only rich man in the city,’ I said. ‘So why you? Or, rather, why your brother-in-law? Which one of you is being targeted?’

  ‘Signora, I just wish I knew.’ He sounded very worried.

  My meetings went very satisfactorily and I left each one with plenty of material for my commissioned articles. After the third, I headed for a restaurant where I could sit outside and enjoy the va-et-vient while I had some lunch. I was drinking coffee when I noticed someone staring at me from two tables away. Young, tanned, well-dressed in a linen jacket, starched shirt and red silk tie. The very picture of a successful businessman. He was reading the La Gazzetta dello Sport and pretending not to look at me. Doing a damn poor job of it, too. He couldn’t possibly be one of the kidnappers and already on to me. I’d only arrived the evening before, and apart from our brief phone conversation, had made no contact with Cesare.

  My spirits drooped a bit when I remembered Tiepolo and the Major’s (or – highly unlikely – Ms Forbes’) sketches. Was this guy something to do with Renzo Vitali? Renzo hadn’t known I would be arriving in Venice, or that I would bring the sketches with me. Why would I? He knew they weren’t mine. As the guy folded his newspaper, dropped some coins on the table and got up, reaching for a briefcase beside his chair, I realized I was being irrational. Or was I? As he left the place and set off along the pavement, he pulled from his pocket a white-coloured cotton cap and pulled it over his hair.

  What? A white cap? This was too much of a coincidence. Or was it? I glanced around and saw three other guys wearing the same kind of headgear. But they were old, protecting their bald heads from the sun. To see a youngish, smartly clad man wearing an item so unbecoming and old fashioned, almost like a badge, or uniform, was unnerving, especially in light of the Forbes woman’s story. If she was to be believed, that is, which I was pretty convinced she wasn’t. I wondered if the real coincidence wasn’t that I’d chosen this particular café for my lunch.