Quick on the Draw

by Susan Moody

  ‘Perhaps they know more than we do.’

  ‘The uncle is in despair because he can’t get in touch with the kidnappers. He just has to wait till they contact him.’ I thought of Sandro’s bright and beautiful face and felt sick.

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘Going back to the house where I think Sandro was stashed, and also having a more painstaking search for the guy doing the stashing …’

  ‘The bald guy?’

  He’d obviously been well-briefed. ‘That’s right … Thing is, he didn’t look Italian. Not to me, anyway.’

  ‘Do I?’

  I considered him. ‘Not particularly, I suppose. It’s just that the bald one had the colouring of a different culture. Not Mediterranean. Could have been a Scandi, a German, an Englishman. Even a Yank. Whereas you …’

  ‘And you think this all goes back to the business with the pawnshop in London?’

  ‘It certainly seems connected. I think the possibility can’t be dismissed.’

  ‘And where do you think your young friend has been transferred to?’

  I shrugged. ‘If they have a car at their disposal, he could have been taken anywhere.’

  ‘Well, we have to assume that, for the moment at least, he’s still somewhere nearby.’

  ‘You may have to do the search of the house on your own,’ I said. ‘I already spoke to one of the residents and don’t want to be recognized if she’s there.’

  ‘There are ways of getting round that.’

  I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees. ‘Look, Joey, I was originally drafted in to help out in finding where Sandro was, since he hadn’t rung his mother in days. I was coming to Venice for work purposes anyway, so that was fine, though since I’m not a local, why they thought I’d be any good at finding him and what I’d say if I did, I really don’t know. However, before I could get out here, he’d been snatched and was being held for ransom, and now you’re on the case. So what I’m saying is, after tomorrow, when I finish gathering the information I came out here to get, there’s really not much reason for me to hang on here.’

  He reached out and put a finger on the back of my hand. ‘That would be a shame …’ he said.

  Please God, he wasn’t coming on to me. I glanced at him.

  ‘Because two heads are better than one,’ he continued.

  ‘That’s not always true.’

  ‘Besides, if we’re going to apprehend the perps, we might be able to provide useful cover for each other.’

  I shook my head. ‘You’ll be able to operate much more effectively if you’re independent of me.’

  ‘Probably. Part of the mission is nailing the buggers. The cash, after all, is easy enough for the family to come up with. It’s the aftermath that’s important. Or so I was briefed.’

  I suppose I always knew I wasn’t seriously going to leave before Sandro was safely back in the bosom of his family. I nodded agreement. ‘You’re right. Though I don’t think these are sophisticated crims doing what they’ve done several times before. I just have a suspicion that this is more personal than that.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I’m not exactly sure. I’m not a believer in gut feelings or hunches, let alone inspired guesses. I guess it’s something to do with the murder of Katy Pasqualin. It all seems too close to home, that’s all. Wheels within wheels.’

  ‘I can see your point.’

  ‘Anyway, I’m going out to have something to eat. You can wait a bit and then go to the same place, even sit near me, but we can’t afford to appear in any way to be together.’

  Walking to my chosen restaurant, which sat beside the Grand Canal, I wondered just how good a detective Joey Preston was if it hadn’t occurred to him to take any precautions against the two of us being seen together. Five minutes later, I was sitting at a table, surrounded by people enjoying themselves. It was a balmy night, light rippling the water, black gondolas prowling like panthers up and down the canal. As always with Venice, there was music coming from somewhere.

  A waiter appeared. I ordered a pasta dish in my adequate if simple Italian.

  It was then, straight across from my table but on the other side of the canal, that I saw a shining dome. Venice is full of them, but not usually ones with two ears attached, one of which was sporting a gold ring. Baldy, by God. Yet again. I immediately raised my miniature camera to my face and then, for the benefit of any watchers, rubbed at an eye. Got him! Trouble was, I was too far away to get across the canal in time to trail him. I watched the direction he went in, but within half a minute, he had disappeared from sight in the crowds which always swarm around the Rialto Bridge.

  At least I could presume that Sandro was still being detained in Venice. Which if I thought about it, he’d more or less have to be, if he was going to be delivered safe and sound after the ransom drop. I hoped that wasn’t too big an if.

  I lifted my shoulders and sighed as I watched Joey Preston emerge from a narrow street and head for the bridge, then make his way to my restaurant.

  ‘We have two more days,’ I said to Joey later, as we sat out on my midget balcony, our knees companionably touching. ‘And we’re still waiting for instructions as to how and where to drop off the ransom money.’

  ‘You just know it’s going to involve the canal in some way,’ Joey said.

  ‘Exactly what I’m thinking. It seems to me that as soon as we know how it’s going down, we should hire a motorboat, ready to take off after them as unobtrusively as possible.’

  ‘The uncle’s savvy enough to demand proof of life before he pays up, isn’t he?’

  ‘That’s what I told him he must do before parting with any money.’ I hadn’t felt good saying it, but reality had to be faced. As the once austere, now sadly diminished Cesare fully recognized.

  ‘Can we really chase them across the lagoon? If they take off at full throttle, and we do the same, we’re bound to alert them.’

  ‘We don’t have to chase. Just follow. Actually,’ I said, ‘I was wondering whether Murano or Burano or one of the other islands could be where they’ve taken him.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Then why is Baldy over here?’

  ‘If he’s the head honcho, he’ll presumably have henchmen to do the babysitting.’

  ‘We’ve got about twenty-four hours to get our act together, I reckon,’ I said. ‘Then we’ll be sent instructions – or rather, the uncle will – and we may then be able to make a more solid plan.’

  ‘Is it worth scouting round over there across the canal, seeing if by any chance we catch sight of the guy again?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Even for Venice it’s late. He was probably heading somewhere for the night. Right. I’ll meet you tomorrow for coffee and a Danish. But over there.’ I gestured to the other side of the canal. ‘Then we’ll do some checking around. I’ll call Sandro’s father and uncle first thing.’

  THIRTEEN

  Before I went downstairs the following morning, I stepped out on to my balcony and looked up and down the narrow pavement which ran along the little canal. A few people were about, mostly locals, scrubbing doorsteps, polishing brass knockers, cleaning ground-floor windows. The woman across the way was hanging out her laundry. An old man in one of those flat white cotton caps was leaning on the bridge, contemplatively smoking a yellow cigarette and gazing into the water. He didn’t look like the sort who would have trailed Nell Roscoe and the soi-disant Florence Forbes – a woman who was finding it hard to remember what name she was going under – even if her story about it being her who had bought the Tiepolos was true. No reason why it shouldn’t have been, of course. But I knew it couldn’t be. Not after Nell Roscoe’s report to the Major. It would be interesting to know how ‘Flo’ had learned of the drawings.

  Though I couldn’t see it from here, I could hear the hum of people’s voices coming from the riva along the Grand Canal. I picked up my bag and left, not bothering to sample the rather inadequate breakfast on offer in the
hotel’s little dining room. Outside, the air was warm. I strolled towards the water through streets already heaving with tourists and locals on their way to work, crossed it and found the café where I’d been the night before. I ordered a caffè latte and some rolls, which came with butter and a nondescript sort of red jam which could have been made from almost anything, including fruit. I’d bought a newspaper and pretended to be engrossed in it, while I kept an eye out for Baldy. Idly, I wondered whether shaving his head had been a fashion statement or even a misplaced attempt to disguise himself, since any idiot could have told him it hadn’t worked. The bald head drew more attention to him rather than less. Especially when coupled with the gold stud.

  I saw Joey Preston on the other side of the canal, heading towards the bridge. And behind him, to my surprise, one of the guys who’d been sitting at the table in this same restaurant pretending they weren’t looking at me. Were they aware that I was connected to Sandro? This was a worrying development.

  Joey crossed over and came towards me, followed by his tail, who then suddenly veered away to the right. Was it because he’d seen me looking at him? Or because he recognized me from our last semi-encounter? And much more importantly, was he on to Joey? It seemed unlikely, considering Joey had only arrived late the night before. Whichever, I wasn’t happy about it.

  Joey chose a table well within earshot of mine, gestured at the waiter, then sat facing the canal. ‘I think they’re on to us,’ I said softly. I didn’t think anyone would notice my lips moving. At least I hoped not.

  ‘Possibly. But don’t let them know that we suspect,’ he said. He ordered the same as I had, plus a plate of sliced sausage. From his backpack he hoicked out a guide book to the city and began riffling the pages, acting like an ordinary tourist. He looked away down the canal towards Giudecca and San Marco.

  ‘About the drop-off,’ I said quietly from my table. ‘I’m getting nervous.’

  He turned to another page in the guidebook. ‘Don’t be jumpy. We just have to assume that things will go the way we want them to, and we’ll get your friend back safe and sound. Nailing the perps has to be much less important than locating the victim.’

  ‘I’m not usually panicky. But it’s the thought of what might happen to Sandro if anything goes wrong.’ All too clearly, I could visualize the effect on the Graingers were they to lose their son. Pretty much the same as any parent would feel, I imagined, except that such a loss might actually kill Maddalena.

  I spent most of the rest of the morning pottering round churches and museums, drinking in beauty like champagne. Neither Baldy nor the henchman – if that is indeed what he was – showed up again. For a change, I took the Strada Nuovo in the opposite direction from San Marco. At the rather grand early Renaissance palazzo which housed the Casino di Venezia, I stopped. I’d seen it many times from the canal, but only once from the land side.

  I was about to move on when I noticed the woman I’d begun to think of as The Mistress, or possibly her twin sister. She stood just inside the glass entrance, talking animatedly with one of the casino officials. Fancy little pink coat swinging above second-skin trousers with Principal Boy suede boots up to her thighs. So what did that imply? That she was an habitué of the place and therefore familiar to the personnel? Or that the particular man she was conversing with was a friend or relative? Or that she was just a chatty person? The curly-haired white dog moved restlessly in her arms, sunlight glinting on its jewelled collar. Food for thought. Or possibly not.

  Later, I walked back to the Piazza San Marco and ate lunch. Veal marsala. I hadn’t seen Joey in my wanderings. Nor any of the suspected abductors. Five bites in, my phone rang. My heart began to hammer.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘They’ve been in touch.’ It was Cesare, his voice hoarse and rasping.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Tomorrow evening at ten o’clock,’ he said. ‘Not in Venice itself, but on Burano.’

  ‘Makes sense. There’s much less water traffic there.’

  ‘They want me to be standing on a particular bridge and, as they go underneath in a motorboat, to drop the money into it. They’ve given me instructions on how to package it. I’m to carry two bags with half the money in each. One bag the first time. Then I’m to move to another part of the island, stand on another bridge and follow the same procedure.’

  ‘Much too complicated,’ I said. ‘Which is good. It means there’s more chance that they’ll slip up somewhere during the drop and we can nab them.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘Definitely,’ I said, more strongly than I actually felt. ‘Tell you what … I’ll pack a small bag and go over there early this afternoon. I’ll book a hotel or a bed-and-breakfast nearby, if there is one, and see what I can see. And you can probably arrange for the detective whom Dominic Grainger hired to be idling around in his own boat, so that, with any luck, he can follow them. Meanwhile, what’s the arrangement for Sandro’s release?’

  ‘They said they would give further instructions tomorrow.’

  I repeated a question I’d already put to him. ‘You’ve asked for …’ It was difficult to enunciate the next words. ‘For proof of life?’

  ‘Yes. And I’ve told them that they had better make absolutely sure that Sandro is safe and well, and that I know about it. To which they said they would have to count the money before Sandro would be set free, in case I’d double-crossed them.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that at all.’

  ‘Nor do I, Signorina Quick. Once they’ve got it they’d have no reason to bother keeping him alive, let alone releasing him. The longer he’s with them, the more chance there is of him identifying them later. I made it absolutely clear if one hair on my nephew’s head is harmed, I will personally hound them to the ends of the earth.’

  Dramatic stuff, but not inappropriate, given the circumstances. ‘Good thinking,’ I said. ‘By the way, I’m wondering … if these are the final stages of negotiations, is it time to disobey their instructions and call in the police?’

  ‘It would make sense.’

  ‘But … what about Sandro, if they find out?’

  ‘Precisely. The big obstacle.’

  ‘I don’t think you can take the risk,’ I said. ‘But – with your permission, of course – I’ll let the detective know what you’ve told me. See if he can come up with some kind of plan.’

  ‘Yes, yes, tell him. That is what he’s here for.’

  ‘Meanwhile, I’ll keep the room in my hotel in Venice and go over to Burano for a couple of nights, if I can find a room somewhere.’

  I walked through the city and took a vaporetto out to the island of Burano or, rather, the group of four close islands linked by bridges. We passed the melancholy cypresses of the Isola di San Michele, the cemetery of Venice, and other small outcrops of rock and grass, most of them clearly uninhabited. Flocks of black cormorants rose from the water as we approached, or occasionally sank beneath the surface until we had gone. Burano lay on the horizon like a string of coloured beads which, as I grew closer, sorted themselves out into individual houses all painted in the brightest of hues, from rose-pink to crimson to brilliant greens and startling blues to every possible shade under the sun. Burano bills itself as the most colourful place in the world. Not so much a rainbow as an accumulation of every shade of every possible colour. Equally colourful craft of different kinds were moored all along the waterfronts. Their reflections in the water were magical, especially towards the end of the afternoon, when the sun slanted against the house fronts and they were reflected in the ripples of the canals.

  I was lucky enough to find a small establishment, somewhere between a bed-and-breakfast and a hotel, which had just received a cancellation and was more than happy to give me the now-unoccupied double room at the front. I figured what the hell if it was twice as expensive as a single room. Cesare – or maybe Dominic – was picking up the tab and the room couldn’t have been better placed for covert obser
vation, since the window looked right up the calle to the bridge where the first drop was to take place. Although it would be dark by ten o’clock, I might even be able to see and recognize who was piloting the boat, unless Sandro’s abductors acquired a touch of the smarts and paid someone else to do it.

  And until then, there was plenty for me to do on the island, in keeping with my genuine role. For a start, I wanted to visit the leaning tower of St Martin’s Church, and then go inside to look at the famous Tiepolo painting of the Crucifixion. Plus, of course, the lace museum, though lace wasn’t really my thing, unless adorning the collar of some dude in a painting. Simple restaurants to eat in, pleasant walks among the colourful streets. I kind of speculated whether Baldy would show up, but he’d have to be incredibly stupid if he did so. I wondered how Joey was getting on – whether he’d found any further information.

  And as though I’d conjured him up, my cell phone rang and it was Joey himself. ‘Went along to the questura,’ he said. ‘The main cop shop. Explained who I was but obviously not why I was there. Said I’d been sent over privately from England to look into some local thefts. Luckily they didn’t ask too many questions. And I just happened to mention one of the suspects, a guy with a shaven head and an earring. Cue sage nods and significant looks.’

  ‘Meaning what exactly?’

  ‘That they knew precisely whom I was talking about. Someone they’ve come across several times in the course of investigating various burglaries but have never been able to pin anything on to. He and his associates are people they’ve been keeping an eye on. He’s not Italian – they rather thought he was Danish. And not a professional crim, more a petty one. Jens Hansen by name. Or is it Hans Jensen? Works as a baker somewhere in the Giudecca, has a wife and two kids. They even gave me an address.’

  ‘So it’s not the house with the red door, near the Rialto?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it.’

  ‘And I should point out that kidnapping’s a major crime, not a petty one.’

  ‘I wanted to say something to them, but because of the embargo that’s been laid down, I didn’t dare.’