by Susan Moody
I laid a finger lightly against his face but his flesh was cold. Of course, I had seen him before. He’d been one of the party of four men at the restaurant the other evening who were pretending not to be looking in my direction. And lying on the floor, under the bed, almost invisible, was one of those charity wristbands which Sandro had been wearing last time I saw him, though I could only read part of the slogan: elp for He … It was too much of a coincidence to suppose that someone else had accidentally dropped it there. It was quite obvious that Sandro must have been held in this room at some point and had somehow managed to cut the thing off his wrist in order to leave it as a clue. Smart move. It was fairly likely that his captors wouldn’t notice it, whereas someone like me happening to blunder into the apartment would be actively looking for evidence that he’d been there.
Back in the living room, I saw the remains of primitive meals: hunks of stale bread, salami sausage skins, apple cores. Cartons which once held prepared pastas. And empty Chianti bottles lying in a heap by the window. Meanwhile, what to do about the dead bloke on the bed? Checking that there was nothing to indicate that I’d ever been there, I hurried down a flight of stairs and banged on the doors of the two flats there. No answer. The same on the floors below. I was just about to descend to the piano terra when a woman pushed her way through the front door and started up towards me. She nodded politely and made to pass me.
‘Signora,’ I said urgently. ‘The police, there is a man upstairs at the top, a dead man—’
She gave a little scream. ‘A dead man?’ she said, in English.
‘Si, si. Call the police at once.’
‘But who are you? Why don’t you call them yourself?’
‘Because I don’t know the number or where the questura is. I was just paying a visit when I saw the … the – oh, it’s too horrible!’ I buried my head in my hands, hoping she’d take things on from there.
‘You poor thing.’ She touched my shoulder. ‘I always knew those men were trouble.’
‘Do you mean Signor Gregori and his friends?’
‘No, no. He is American, only comes two or three times a year. The rest of the time the apartment is rented out. This time to those … men.’
‘Which men? What trouble?’
‘The ones in the top appartamento. Four of them. Arguing. Drinking. Swearing. All night long. Look, signorina, I’ll go and call the police.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And you can wait here and tell them what you saw.’
Not bloody likely. I could be tangled up in bureaucracy and suspicion for the next six months. I nodded at her then watched her hurry up the stairs to the third floor. So she was either Ms Cafarella or Ms di Giovanni.
As soon as I heard her key in the lock of her flat, I went out of the front door and hurried away as far and as fast as I could.
ELEVEN
Venice was very bad for my figure. Despite my worry about Sandro, I never seemed to stop eating. I’d worked in my hotel room for most of the morning, all the time expecting to hear from Cesare, but no call came. That was OK. It gave me a chance to outline a couple of articles for Nirvana, Darren Carver’s arty mag. Later, I pushed aside my work and walked through the streets to the pretty square, not far from my hotel, which Renzo had chosen as a rendezvous. And there he was. I could see him through the window, perusing a menu, still as ugly as sin.
He saw me. ‘Alessandra!’ He jumped up and came running out to me, a white napkin tucked into the neck of his shirt, then embraced me in a hug that would have made a bear humble. ‘Come. Come.’ He took my hand and walked me inside. ‘Sit. I have ordered food for you which will make you glad to be alive.’
That was only going to happen when Sandro was safely home. ‘Thank you,’ I said. Prettily, but not too prettily. We sat down. There were two glasses and a bottle on the table. And a plate of seafood pasta already in front of him. Renzo half-filled our glasses, tipped his towards me in a silent toast and then settled down to the serious business of eating the food which a string of waiters began bringing to the table.
‘And after we have eaten,’ he said, ‘we shall go for a gondola ride.’
Uh-oh. ‘Shall we?’
‘Sure. I shall call my private gondolier to come and he will take us on a magical mystery tour of Venice.’
‘Sounds great.’
The food was wonderful. And way more than I could eat. I wanted to ask for a doggie bag, but felt it would not be in keeping with the upmarket nature of the place. It was as we were drinking our coffees, along with a glass of semi-dry marsala for me and a mirto for Renzo, that he put his elbows on the table and inclined his barrel chest towards me. ‘So,’ he said. And paused significantly.
‘So?’ I countered. Was he going to ask me to become his mistress?
‘Last time we met, you spoke to me of some drawings,’ he said. ‘Special drawings. By Tiepolo, no less.’
‘What about them?’
‘I would so much love to have the opportunity to see them.’
If I told him that I didn’t have them, that they weren’t mine, would he lose interest in me, either as a person or as a woman? I didn’t want that to happen. Call me cold and calculating, but I sensed that he could be very useful to me in some form or another while I was here.
‘Ciao, Renzo,’ someone called. A woman. Passing our table. Another of those ultra-smart, tooth-achingly expensive women. He flashed her his terrific smile and jumped up to exchange kisses and hugs. Which gave me time to think. As he sat down again, I made up my mind. ‘And so you shall,’ I said.
‘When?’ he demanded eagerly. He put a hand over mine. ‘How soon?’ And here, all along it was the Tiepolos he was interested in. Not me at all.
I don’t generally do coy, but I did try. ‘I shall have to retrieve them first.’ A meaningless sentence which gave nothing away.
‘I understand.’
I laid a finger over my lips and nodded. From the way he took to this cloak-and-dagger stuff, I couldn’t help wondering how many of his deals were in some way or another rather shady.
‘Are you interested in buying them, then?’
He sipped his mirto. Put his head on one side. Nodded. ‘Extremely. Especially since I’ve heard that they have gone missing from … from the collection of the person who currently owns them.’
How the hell had he heard that? ‘Great art is universal,’ I said trenchantly. God, I could be a ponce sometimes.
‘True enough. But someone has to be its guardian.’
Yeah, after large sums of money have changed hands, I thought. I nodded again.
‘So, if you can’t show them to me at the moment, could you tell me more about these Tiepolos?’
‘You do understand that this is top secret, don’t you?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And that they aren’t really mine to handle?’
Renzo put one hairy hand over his heart. ‘I swear to you, signorina, that I have said nothing to anyone about them.’
‘Right.’ I set about the business of describing the two I had seen at the Major’s house. The old man in red chalk, face half-turned away. The Pulcinella with his clown ruff, the hideous maschera di carnevale baùta mask with its grotesque nose and chin, the loose white pyjama suit. With each added detail, Renzo grew more excited.
‘Oh, how I wish to see them.’ He sighed.
‘Well …’ I smiled at him. ‘One of these days …’
Finally he called for the bill and signed a piece of paper which I presumed was part of a running tab. At the same time, he made a quick phone call.
‘Come,’ he said as we stood. He took my hand and led me to some steps at the canal’s edge. In about forty seconds a black-painted gondola appeared, guided by a smiling guy in the traditional gondolier costume of red-striped shirt, crimson sash round the waist and straw hat banded with a red scarf. Gold trimmings covered the backs of the seats where scarlet cushions waited to be sat on and a small basket held a bottle of
prosecco and two glasses.
‘Golly, Renzo,’ I said, as the gondolier handed me down with much flourishing and gallantry and showed me on to a fat-pillowed sofa. ‘You really know how to show a girl a good time. This is certainly the way to live.’
‘I am happy you like it.’
As the gondolier moved out into the canal, Renzo plumped down beside me, filled two glasses and handed me one. ‘To us,’ he said.
‘To Tiepolo,’ I added. Meanly. He nearly choked on that one.
The ride around the canals was lovely, though I could have done without the hairy hand on my knee and the hairy arm round my shoulders, let alone the garlic-infused breath against my neck. I figured that if things got too hot, I would ask how his children were. That should put a bit of a dampener on things.
‘Earlier you said there were rumours that the Tiepolos might have gone missing from a private collection,’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know whose?’
‘I know what the rumours say, but whether it’s true or not, I don’t know. Venice is a city of rumours, after all.’
‘Any chance of telling me?’
‘If I am to tell you, I would have to invite you dine with me again,’ he said lustfully.
Oh, gawd … ‘I think I could handle that,’ I told him, at the same time flashing him a coquettish glance.
‘In two days’ time? I regret I am in Rome tomorrow.’
‘Sounds great.’ The Rialto Bridge hove into view and I scrambled forward on my seat. ‘Oh, look, there’s my nearest imbarcadero. Will you drop me off here? It’s been wonderful to catch up with you and thank you so much for an amazing lunch. I really look forward to seeing you again very soon.’
I even planted a kiss on his cheek before hopping nimbly on to dry land before he could reach for me, though I felt a brush of hairy fingers on my thigh. What I do for art’s sake.
TWELVE
I sat in my hotel room, typing into my laptop some more of the notes I’d taken earlier. It was hard to concentrate on work when my brain was whirring with worries about Sandro and his current whereabouts, the Major’s Tiepolos and Katy Pasqualin drowned in her bath. Right from the start I’d felt there was little I could do to solve Sandro’s need for information concerning which of his friends might have stolen his uncle’s possessions. Factoring in the kidnap, particularly given the restrictions imposed by the abductors, I was being about as useful as a fly swat against a charging elephant. And time was running out. From my days on the force, I felt quite certain that the people responsible for the snatch wouldn’t hesitate to carry out their threat if the ransom money wasn’t forthcoming. At the same time, I was feeling a little out of my comfort zone. My command of Italian wasn’t that good and, in addition, I knew that I had been clocked by the bad guys so, in spite of my years on the force, I might as well abandon any kind of covert surveillance. I needed help.
I used my phone to call Sandro’s parents in London. Dominic Grainger answered almost before the first ringtone had ended. ‘Yes?’ he barked.
‘It’s Alexandra Quick,’ I said.
‘What’s happening?’
‘Basically nothing.’
‘Why not?’ he yelled.
‘Because it’s damn difficult to get a handle on anything, given that your brother-in-law has been given strict instructions not to involve the police. But I have a suggestion …’
‘Which is?’
‘That you immediately hire a professional private detective who speaks Italian – preferably one who knows Venice – and get him out here pronto. He could stay in this same hotel you booked me into, which would make it easier for the two of us to collaborate. He’d have much more idea of where to start looking, which is important. And there’s absolutely no reason why anyone should connect him to Sandro or the Marchese.’
‘Sounds like a good idea.’
‘Believe me, it is. And there has been a development which might be a step forward.’ I explained about Baldy and the house with the red door. Plus my discovery of the garrotted corpse and the half-hidden wristband.
‘A corpse? Someone’s been murdered? And my Sandro’s involved?’
‘I’m quite sure he had nothing whatsoever to do with it.’
‘This is a fucking nightmare,’ Dominic said roughly.
‘I know.’
‘My son …’ He made a choking sound, then recovered himself. ‘I agree with your suggestion about the detective,’ he said slowly. ‘I have some connections which could be useful. I’ll get on to it right away and call you back with further details as soon as I have them.’
‘Fine. The sooner the better. Time is of the essence here. And if I sound strange when you talk to me, it could be that I’m not in a position to be normal. Whatever that is.’
‘Understood.’
I felt easier about the prospect of a working professional on the case. It’s what should have happened right away, as soon as the news of Sandro’s abduction came through.
Joey Preston showed up late that evening, on the last flight from London. When he tapped at the door of my room, I opened it and stepped back in surprise. I have to say my heart sank when I saw him. I’d expected someone more mature, more solid, a man who seemed more of an experienced detective and less like someone who’d just completed a distance-learning diploma in How to be a Detective 101. Preston was young, dark, lanky and looked like a bit of a dweeb. Nobody would give the poor sap a second glance. Which probably made him an excellent PI.
All this passed through my head as I stood aside to let him in to the room.
He grinned at me. ‘Fancy a quick one?’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon.’ I pretended outrage to break the ice. ‘I’m not that kind of a girl.’
He laughed. ‘During the flight, I read all the intel Mr Grainger sent over but you can probably fill me in on any missing details.’ He grinned again. ‘My room or yours? I’ve got a fifteen-year-old bottle of Bowmore’s burning a hole right here in my pocket.’
‘Mine, then.’
He produced a bottle from behind his back. ‘Here you go. I hope your furnishings include a tooth mug or something. I asked the woman on the desk downstairs for a couple more glasses but she seemed reluctant to provide them. Or we could go out and sit by the water somewhere.’
‘I’m easy,’ I said. ‘We’re not far from the Grand Canal. But …’ I raised a hand in a policeman-stopping-traffic gesture.
‘What?’
‘Should we be seen together? I don’t think so.’
He looked crestfallen. ‘You’re right.’
‘Of course I’m right. You need to be doing surveillance and/or undercover investigation type stuff. And I may already be suspect …’ I described the four guys who’d been pretending not to watch me at the restaurant. One of whom had just been murdered.
‘Got it.’ He wrenched open his bottle of whisky and poured us both a tot. He sat down on the chair at the table I was using as a desk, while I scrambled on to the bed and leaned back against the headboard.
‘Just as a matter of interest,’ I said, ‘why were you chosen to come over here on such short notice?’
‘Mainly because my grandparents are from Milan,’ he explained. ‘So my mother is too. My name’s Giovanni really, but Joey’s easier.’
‘So you got the job because of your fluency with the language?’
‘That, and a few other skills,’ he said modestly. ‘So, give me the gen.’
I brought him up to date, including the death of Katy. I described the tall, bald man and the corpse I’d stumbled on, and the Help for Heroes wristband.
‘Sounds like your hunch was right and the missing lad was being held there.’
‘Right. Trouble is the whole thing seems to have escalated from simple theft via kidnap to multiple murder. But the family are still insisting that the police mustn’t be brought in, as per instructions, because of the threat to Sandro.’
‘As per usual in these c
ases.’
I frowned. ‘Doesn’t it seem a bit odd that these people would kill one of their own and leave him in that upstairs apartment, when they’ve been insistent that the police aren’t called in on the case?’
‘Thieves falling out?’
‘Could be … but leaving a corpse behind? It’s not exactly street smart.’
‘You’re an ex-copper, Alex. You must have noticed that most of the toerags aren’t very bright.’
‘True. Or is someone else involved? Someone we don’t yet know about?’
‘Seems likely.’ He swigged a fair old slug of whisky. ‘God, that’s good. And it’s your considered opinion that the thefts from this Marchese and the kidnapping of his nephew, plus the murder of Katerina Pasqualin in London, are all interconnected?’
‘It seems to me that they more or less have to be.’
‘At least we can safely leave Pasqualin to the Met. Know what I think? From what I’ve heard, I’m guessing she knew too much and was applying pressure.’
‘Sounds very likely.’
‘What’s the hold-up in paying the ransom? I was informed that the money was all ready to go.’
‘The kidnappers have given the Marchese – the victim’s uncle – and Mr Grainger, plenty of time to get the money together.’
‘And when’s pay day?’
‘The day after tomorrow.’
‘And when was he snatched?’
‘A few days ago. Another piece of stupidity on the part of the abductors. The longer they hang on to him, the more chance there is of him being found before money has changed hands.’
‘Talking of which, twenty million euros isn’t a huge amount, considering how loaded these two families are supposed to be.’
‘Supposed may be the operative word. I agree with you about the size of the sum being demanded … it’s much too small.’
