by David Hewson
Michele stood there, arms crossed, watching her, saying nothing, that frozen side of his face turned towards her anger, as if it were some kind of shield to protect him from the fiery stream of words that tumbled from his sister’s mouth.
“You knew,” she said, finally. “You knew Bella was pregnant. She didn’t tell Uriel. She didn’t tell me. But she came to you. And you did nothing.”
The dead eye glinted back at her like flawed glass, run through with some streak of impurity.
“Say something,” she spat at him. “Speak, Michele! It’s not like you to be lost for words.”
The dead side of his face turned away from her. He gazed at the hazy waterline, the little island of San Michele and the city in the distance, then returned to confront her again, good side visible.
“Of course I knew!” he yelled. “I’m supposed to know these things, aren’t I? That’s what I do around here. Take on all your problems and fix them. Because God knows you can’t do that for yourselves. Not you. Not him . . .” Michele nodded towards Gabriele, who stood silent, watching the water. “Not poor dead Uriel most of all. What do you think he’d have done if I’d told him? Huh? If I’d said his wife had got herself knocked up? And who by? Her own stinking brother. What do you think Uriel would have made of that?”
Raffaella was staring at him, gasping for breath. Unable to speak.
“You’re sure of that?” Falcone asked him. “About the brother? She told you?”
“She didn’t need to tell me,” Michele replied mournfully. “We all knew what went on between them . . . .”
“That was years ago,” Costa said. “There’s no evidence it happened recently.”
“Ask her!” Michele barked, pointing at his sister. “She heard them. She knew. She never dared tell Uriel either.”
Raffaella shook her head. Tears were beginning to stream down her cheeks. “I only said it was a possibility. It could all have been a mistake. Perhaps it wasn’t Aldo.”
“Then whose brat was it?” Michele demanded. “Not Uriel’s, that’s for sure. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. She’d still have come to me to sort out the whole damn thing. And I’d still have done it. I’d fixed for her to get rid of it. Today, in case you’re interested. Paid in advance. I don’t suppose I’ll get that back from the clinic.”
“We had the right to know,” she insisted.
“She didn’t seem to think so,” Michele declared, exasperated. Costa stared into his face. There could have been the making of tears in that single living eye. “I didn’t want this, Raffaella. I didn’t want any of this but it’s what God gave me and I can’t walk away. I’m sorry. I’m deeply, deeply . . .”
The old grey face went into his hands. Costa watched Michele’s shoulders begin to heave, heard the choked sob come, just once, from his hidden mouth.
“Michele, Michele,” she murmured, then clutched her brother tightly, whispered some unheard words into his ear. The two of them stood there locked together on the waterfront, watched avidly by three cops and a couple of Murano carpenters who had an expression on their smug faces Nic Costa didn’t like at all. And Gabriele, who sat down on the kerb edge of the quay now, eyes on the water still, looking like a lost child.
“I said this was a matter to be conducted indoors,” Costa reminded Falcone with undisguised bitterness.
To his surprise, Falcone nodded, looking repentant. He couldn’t take his eyes off the distraught Raffaella, clutching her brother.
“I heard you, Nic. I’m sorry. I keep trying to apply the rules I use in Rome. It just doesn’t work here, does it? Jesus . . .”
The carpenters were slinking towards the bridge, back to town. Father and son, for sure. They had that closeness Nic had seen on so many Murano faces, a tight, conspiratorial intimacy that formed a barrier to the world outside.
“No matter,” Falcone grumbled. “It’s out of the bag now. I want to see this Bracci character. I need to know what he looks like.”
Peroni nodded at the departing pair. “We’re going to have to hurry if we want to be first,” the big cop observed.
Falcone sniffed. He looked tired. Unsettled. The heat was getting to all of them, Costa thought. This was all supposed to be so easy.
“We’ll wait,” the inspector ordered, watching Raffaella Arcangelo detach herself from her brother, tears staining her cheeks. “I owe someone an apology.”
Costa wondered about that. Falcone rarely said sorry. It wasn’t in the nature of the man. Then the phone began to vibrate in his jacket. He took it out and heard Emily’s excited voice on the line. He walked away, intent on keeping this conversation, at least, private.
“Nic?”
“Hi. How are things?”
“Fine. You sound down. Is everything OK?”
“Not so great, to be honest.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I have a favour to ask. Can you meet me at the party tonight? And bring my clothes? The evening dress and everything. I laid them out on the bed. No creases, please.”
He couldn’t get a grip on what she was saying. “I don’t understand.”
“You wanted me to get close to him,” she replied, a note of reproach in her voice. “I’ve been working in the palazzo most of the day. I won’t be finished in time to go back to the apartment. It’s amazing here. Where are you?”
Automatically, his eyes went up to the vast glass palace next door. The sun was so bright all he saw was its fiery reflection. He was just a minute’s walk away from her. Watching the Arcangeli try to pick up the pieces of a bitter row, wondering what would happen to the Braccis now that Bella’s secret was about to go public.
“Outside the fornace but I don’t think we’ll be here long. Is there anything else you need?”
“Just you,” she replied sweetly. “And some time. I’ve got news.”
Costa listened to her confident tones with unease. She was supposed to talk to Massiter, nothing more. But it wasn’t in her nature to hold back, not when some prize lay in her grasp.
“Good or bad?”
“Maybe neither. But it’s instructive either way. Got to go now . . .”
The line went dead. Nic Costa glanced again at the gleaming palazzo along the quay. Emily was in there somewhere, out of reach.
SHE PUT DOWN THE PHONE AND LOOKED AROUND THE small storage room at the back of Hugo Massiter’s apartment, built directly against the windowless brick wall that formed the entire rear of the palace, a supporting buttress of ugly clay that visitors were never meant to notice. Nor was anyone meant to be witness to what lay before her now: bundles of letters tied together with string, piles of photo albums, document boxes all bearing the label of the same private detective agency based in New York, a name she knew, a solid, expensive firm that worked only for the most discerning of clients. Hugo had excused himself as soon as she’d issued orders for the new work. Lunch, he said. Then a meeting, returning around four. Emily had borrowed overalls to work alongside the teams of carpenters, plasterers and painters turning the bare exhibition space into the location for a Venetian ball, made sure they understood what they were doing, and come to the conclusion that they were, under direction, good enough for the job. Then, when she was satisfied Hugo wasn’t about to return suddenly, she went upstairs to the apartment and tried to remember the lessons she’d received at the Academy in Quantico, in what now seemed another lifetime. Searching homes without leaving a trace was an art, one she’d almost mastered because she possessed what it took: care, a good memory and a feeling for the personality of the person into whose life she was intruding. Hugo Massiter was a careful, lonely, insular man, one capable of hard decisions without much regret, but scarred, too, by some event in his past.
The room was beyond the large, elegant kitchen, locked. She’d finally found the key in a small terra-cotta bowl next to the shiny new cooking range. In private homes there was always a key, her instructors had told her. Usually in an obvious place.
Behind the door lay a tre
asure trove of material on a single occurrence in Hugo Massiter’s life: the disproved allegations of murder she’d read about at Nic’s that morning. And two people: Daniel Forster and Laura Conti, in whom he had placed his trust.
Her hand fell automatically on the detective agency reports. These were filings of sightings of the fugitives after Forster and Conti fled Venice. Or so the authors claimed. Emily was sufficiently familiar with intelligence reports to read between the lines. There was a grey area between rumour and fact in most of them. Hugo’s money seemed to be buying much of the former and little of the latter. The reports talked of the couple’s presence in various parts of the world—Africa, Asia and South America—but gave not a shred of hard supporting evidence. Photos, handwriting, phone conversations . . . all the artefacts that helped shore up vague suspicions were noticeably absent. The final letter from the agency was curt to the point of rudeness. Hugo’s correspondence with them was absent but it was clear he had been questioning both the cost and the effectiveness of the operation. He’d tasked the agency with finding Daniel Forster and Laura Conti. They hadn’t even managed to prove the pair still existed. The contract had come to an end some six months before, with the promise of litigation over unpaid fees.
Emily closed the file, wondering what it told her. Hugo desperately needed to track down two people who had almost put him in jail. Why? He didn’t need them for his own security. The authorities now accepted he’d been wrongly accused. What motive could there be apart from revenge? Except . . . Hugo Massiter was vain, ambitious, unquestionably ruthless in business matters. But he had a firm sense of self-knowledge. He was acutely aware of what kind of man he was. Revenge would surely have seemed petty to him, an unnecessary reminder of a pain still waiting to heal.
This impression was only confirmed by what she saw in the photo albums. They consisted of formal pictures from the series of music schools Hugo had sponsored in La Pietà over the years. Rows and rows of teenagers, all in smart black evening dress, some clutching fiddles and violas, smiling behind Hugo, who stood proudly to the front. And, in the final year, another figure. Someone who could only be the young, seemingly ingenuous Daniel Forster, next to his patron, a priceless music score in hand, one he had claimed for his own.
Hugo had his arm around Forster. It was a paternal, affectionate gesture, though one which hinted, also, at ownership. I made you, he seemed to be saying. Surely that would render the final humiliation—being linked to the young man’s own misdeeds—doubly difficult to bear?
She skimmed through the posed photos, scores of young people on the cusp of adulthood, smiling, happy, brought together by Hugo’s generosity. The school seemed a joyous place. The city had lost something when its doors closed.
Then she felt an extra sheet inside one of the plastic leaves, held up the album and shook the pages to release it.
The face of a woman in her late twenties—dark-haired, astonishingly beautiful—slipped out. The shot was from the waist up, snatched from a distance, then greatly enlarged, judging by the grain. She was wearing what looked like a nylon housecoat, the kind of jacket a servant would choose. The picture was taken out of doors, in a garden somewhere, not in the city. What appeared to be the sea shimmered in the distance. There was a genuine inflection of fear in the woman’s eyes. She didn’t want to be seen. She didn’t want to be recognised.
“Laura Conti,” Emily murmured to herself, then cursed her own stupidity. Be silent, her instructors said. Always be silent.
Laura Conti was lovely. She had the kind of face men couldn’t stop staring at, with haunted, perfectly symmetrical features that would be difficult to disguise. And she knew it too. In this illicit image, she had the look of a wild creature fleeing something. The truth? Justice?
Emily recalled what Hugo had said to her earlier that day. In Venice it was the innocents who killed you. In this one photograph Laura Conti’s features seemed to shine with innocence. Emily tried to recall the details of the case. Forster was the killer, not Laura. Was it possible she was entrapped against her will? Nic’s report suggested that she’d hidden herself away on the Lido while Forster was in jail, never visiting him, never making herself known in public. Yet somehow he had, when released, found her again, re-establishing the relationship. Perhaps Laura wasn’t trying to hide from the police or Hugo Massiter’s wrath at all, but the man who regarded her as his own, Daniel Forster.
She slipped the photo back into the pocket where it belonged, not wanting to see any more. It was foolish to try to read so much into a single image.
Then she picked up the sheaf of letters and went through them, slowly, carefully. They were, in the beginning at least, brief, intelligent and articulate. Every one was from Daniel Forster, written in a sweeping, legible hand, the kind a student would use to get good marks in an essay. None of them was longer than two pages. Most were confined to a single sheet. They spanned almost two years, the dates matching, as far as she recalled, the period in which Hugo had launched his legal campaign to clear his name, one that resulted in Forster and his mistress fleeing Venice like thieves.
Dear Hugo, Forster wrote in the first. Laura said you would re-emerge and, as usual, she was right. It may surprise you to know that I’m glad you’re still alive. That said, it’s important you understand the position we find ourselves in. It’s impossible for you to return to Italy. If you do that, you surely know the consequences. I’ve made depositions to the authorities. I will testify in court if need be. This is, as far as the locals are concerned, a closed case. Don’t try to reopen it, please. Enjoy New York. Venice is behind you. Daniel.
A benign though firm warning, then. Forster portrayed himself as a reasonable man, but one who would not demur at involving the Italian judicial system if necessary. And—this seemed important—no mention of where Laura stood on matters.
“‘I’ve made depositions,’” Emily murmured. But surely, to be convincing, Forster would need Laura to back up his case.
Some eight months later, however, his tone was changing.
American lawyers? Do you place your faith in them, Hugo? Surely not. I’d have thought that beneath you. Besides, we have lawyers too these days. Money to employ the best too, thanks to the book. You have seen the book, haven’t you? If not, I’ll send you a copy. Inscribed. My version’s down there now. Black and white and, as the old saw goes, read all over. Take a look and ask yourself: do I really want this to go on?
Emily sifted through five more messages, noting the tone growing more bitter. Or more frightened, perhaps? Then she flicked through to the last, began to read, and felt ashamed to be engrossed by what she found.
Forster was now desperate. His handwriting was erratic. Words were scrawled in block capitals, the way a child did when he was anxious to make a point.
Is this a VICTORY? Burning my book? Freezing our bank accounts? What did we do to deserve this, Hugo? Prick your vanity? Any more than that? Let me say it again. Let me SCREAM it till you understand. SHE’S NOT YOURS. She never was. She never will be. I’d die before I allowed that to happen. If you think about that—if you can remember who I am, what I’m like—you’ll know that’s true.
You can’t win. Not even if you bribe every last judge in Italy. If you insist on returning, I will, I swear, do what I should have done all those years ago. Make an end to your miserable existence, once and for all. STAY OUT OF OUR LIVES. D.
Emily Deacon drew a deep breath, placed the paper on her lap, and hated herself, loathed this prying into matters that were none of her business.
She’s not yours. She never was. She never will be.
Was this really the true source of Hugo Massiter’s grief? That Laura Conti, hiding away from the light of day like a frightened deer, was the woman he loved? That Daniel Forster didn’t just steal Hugo’s reputation? That the young Englishman removed something much more precious, an item Hugo could never recover, not with all the money in the world?
Emily put away the album and the doc
uments, ensuring they went back in the right places. Then she sat on the small stool she’d brought in from the apartment, feeling miserable, wondering what she’d tell Falcone. Wondering, too, what gave her the right to meddle with Massiter’s affairs.
Two people had been murdered on Murano. Their relationship with Hugo Massiter was distant, financial only. Their deaths caused him significant inconvenience.
“Poor—” she started to say, when she felt a hand fall lightly on her shoulder.
Emily stifled a gasp, and knew at that moment what the miserable old bastard of an instructor in Langley would have said. Then she turned and looked up at Hugo Massiter.
He didn’t even seem angry.
“The palazzo looks wonderful, but I don’t recall asking you to do anything to this room,” he said softly. “Kind as it is of you to offer.”
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist looking around. I wanted to . . . try to understand something.”
“You could have just asked. It’s easier.”
“I wouldn’t have known the right questions.”
“True.”
He took his hand away and cast his eyes around the room. “Was this Falcone’s idea?”
“No,” she lied, wishing she had the courage to be truthful. “I was just being nosy. Really. There was something about you that didn’t add up. I’m the curious type, unfortunately.”
“And you found . . . ?”
“A photo of Laura Conti,” she answered without hesitation. “She’s very beautiful.”
“She was very beautiful,” he corrected her. “I’ve no idea what she’s like now. I haven’t seen her in a very long time. I don’t even know if she’s alive. With . . .”—his face grew old just saying the name—“ . . . Daniel around, who knows?”
