‘So you’re thinking “strange thing to find in a wallet”?’
‘Yes. And why is it written underneath a picture of Gordon Blake-Hoyt?’
‘You’re not suggesting there’s a link with his death?’
‘Well, he was beheaded.’
‘An accident. But even if someone had pushed him there’d have been no way of guaranteeing he’d have fallen in just the precise way to be decapitated. He could just have been mashed on the glass.’ I winced. ‘More likely that Mr Considine saw what happened and scribbled it down. Maybe he felt it was poetic justice.’
‘I don’t remember him being there at the time. Ah, you could be right though. It kind of makes sense.’
‘No one’s going to kill someone because of a bad review. And even if they did, there are easier ways of doing it. More to the point, why do it anyway? He’d know that would be the end of his installation.’
‘You’re right. Creepy thing to do though. Anyway,’ I grabbed her and gave her a big hug and a kiss, ‘we can have the whole afternoon together. Pavilions to be opened, art to be seen and drinks to be drunk.’
She broke into a smile which, as it always did, lit up the room. ‘So who do we have first?’
‘First one’s the Welsh pavilion. The name is,’ I checked my diary, ‘Gwenant Pryce. At Santa Maria Ausiliatrice. Then on to Scotland. Guy called Adam Grant. They’re just off Strada Nova. Not at all in the same direction, which is a bit of a pain, but it can’t be helped.’
‘Do you know anything about them?’
‘Nothing at all. The Welsh were very good last time. Can’t remember much about the Scots. That might have been the gin though.’ I had vague memories of blagging my way into the Irish pavilion that same day, and what might have been New Zealand, but I couldn’t swear to it.
‘What about Northern Ireland?’
I shook my head. ‘They don’t seem to be here this time. Or if they are then no one’s told me. Shame. I don’t think I disgraced myself last time. What time do you finish work?’
‘I should be able to get away at two.’
‘Okay, I’ll see you at . . . hang on.’ The phone was ringing. The consulate phone, not the business line.
‘British Consulate, Venice.’
‘Who am I speaking to?’ No please, no pleasantries.
‘My name is Nathan Sutherland.’
‘Are you the consul?’
‘The honorary consul, yes.’
‘Mr Sutherland, my name is William Blake-Hoyt.’
Chapter 7
It was barely seven-thirty back in the UK. William Blake-Hoyt, it seemed, had got up early for the express purpose of maximising the time available to shout at me. I held the phone a few centimetres from my ear so as to minimise the pain, whilst Gramsci stared at me as if in silent agreement with Mr Blake-Hoyt’s every word.
And I had to admit he had a point. It should have been my responsibility to inform him. Instead of which, I’d dodged it and passed it on to someone who was more or less a complete stranger. It was a cowardly thing to have done.
His mood didn’t improve when I told him that I wasn’t in a position to tell him when his brother’s remains would be repatriated. This was the truth. As his brother had died in unusual circumstances, to say the least, there could be a significant delay before we’d get permission.
I let him shout at me for a few minutes more, before I managed to placate him by saying I would immediately check with the police and call him back within the hour. It didn’t stop him from telling me that I should already have done this. And again, I was forced to concede that he had a point.
I put the phone down, and rubbed my ears. Federica cocked her head to one side. ‘That didn’t sound good.’
‘Not good at all. Tough morning in prospect.’
‘Okay, I’ll let you get on with it. I’m sure you can sort it all out. And then we’ll have a nice afternoon together and you can forget all about headless art critics.’ She kissed me. ‘See you later.’
I rubbed my ears again, and then dialled the Questura .
‘Vanni? It’s Nathan here.’
‘ Ciao , Nathan, come stai ?’
‘ Abbastanza bene . Actually no, that’s not true. I’m not very well at all. You can guess why I’m ringing?’
‘Mr Blake-Hoyt and his mortal remains?’
‘The very same. I’ve just been on the phone to his brother. I feel like I’ve been in a fight.’
‘My word. Well, I’m very sorry, Nathan, but I’m not going to be able to help you.’
My heart sank. ‘No?’
‘No. Investigations still continuing, and there’s not much chance of the examining magistrate completing her report until tomorrow at the earliest. There are still a few “un accountables”, shall we say.’
‘Oh hell.’
‘Anyway, I’m glad you’ve called. There are a couple of things I’d like to speak to you about. Off the record of course, but as you were present at the – incident, I’d be interested to know your thoughts. Can we meet for a coffee? Maybe at F30, about eleven o’clock?’
‘Eleven is good.’
‘Excellent. Let’s call it an extra breakfast. See you there.’
‘Okay, Vanni, a dopo .’
I hung up, and placed the phone down on the desk. I stood up, put my hands on my hips, and stared at it. Gramsci stared up at me. Phones on tables were a red rag to him. He prodded it with his paw. Then again, and again, moving it closer to the edge of the table each time. I let it drop into the palm of my hand. Then I sighed, and prepared myself for round number two with Mr William Blake-Hoyt.
I hadn’t seen Vanni for a few months. He looked tanned and relaxed, his moustache possibly even more luxuriant than usual. He smiled, and we shook hands.
‘Let’s get a table outside. It’s always nice to look over the canal to the Questura . It reminds me how good it is not to be at work. What do you think, maybe just some bruschette?’
I nodded.
‘ Spritz al bitter ?’
‘You know, Vanni, I think maybe I’ll just have a prosecco.’
He grabbed my arm, and peered very closely into my eyes. ‘Are you okay, Nathan?’
‘Well it’s just that other people may be lining up to shout at me this afternoon. I thought it would be good to keep a reasonably clear head. And my doctor tells me that prosecco isn’t like proper drinking.’
We moved outside and grabbed a table. The sun glittered on the canal as we gazed across to the unlovely space of Piazzale Roma, dominated by a multi-storey car park. To the right, the Ponte della Libertà led away in the direction of the mainland.
Our drinks arrived and we clinked glasses. ‘So, what’s this all about then?’ I took a sip of my prosecco and Vanni swirled his spritz and speared his olive. I was already beginning to wish I’d ordered one as well.
‘Nothing very much. We’ve just been going through statements again. Basically, everyone was outside, milling around. There was a crash from inside, people rushed in – the ambassador, Mr Fitzgerald, all those young people – and then you and signor Nicolodi arrived shortly after. Does that sound about right?’
I nodded. ‘Exactly that. By the time we arrived, there was just the ambassador and Fitzgerald left inside.’
‘And you shouted at them to get out?’
‘It was the only thing they could do. They were trying to make their way through a maze of broken glass. And it was obvious the guy was dead.’
‘Very sensible. Thank you for that. You probably saved the ambulance service a bit more work. Now have another think – do you remember if you saw anyone else in there?’
‘ Boh , I couldn’t swear to it. I really couldn’t. With all that was going on, you know, and the space is full of glass, broken mirrors and the like. Reflections everywhere. It was just too confusing.’
‘I understand. Ah, here’s our food.’ We ate in silence for a few moments.
‘So what do you think happened?’ I ask
ed.
‘Oh, I can’t tell you that.’ We both laughed, and clinked glasses again. ‘It’s almost certainly the fault of the company in charge of the installation. One section of the barrier hadn’t been fixed properly. The securing bolts are fastened with hex keys. A couple of them had been missed. So as soon as someone leaned on it with any weight—’ He spread his hands. ‘Boom. Crash. Thud.’
I shivered. ‘Bloody hell. Just imagine how he must have felt. When he realised he was falling.’
‘Not a pleasant thought, is it? At least he wouldn’t have thought it for long.’
‘So what happens now? The state prosecutor opens a case against the company involved and then we can ship Mr Blake-Hoyt off home?’
‘Well probably. There is just one little thing, however.’ He reached into his jacket and pulled out his mobile phone. ‘Take a look at this. We found this in the outside pocket of his jacket.’ He turned the phone to me to show me a photograph. A postcard, showing an image by Artemisia Gentileschi. Juditha triumphans devicta Holofernis barbarie .
‘Oh hell,’ I said.
I had some explaining to do. When I’d finished, Vanni took out a packet of MS and lit up.
‘I don’t suppose I could . . . ?’
‘Yes, you can.’ He passed the packet over to me. ‘You know, Nathan, have you ever thought about just buying cigarettes? Like normal people do.’
I shook my head. ‘Borrowed ones don’t count. So, what do we do now? More precisely, what do you do now?’
‘I think we have to call in Mr Considine for a chat.’
‘Just a chat?’
He nodded. ‘Just a chat. He hasn’t given us a statement yet, so that’s why we’ll suggest he comes in.’ He paused. ‘Tell me, Nathan, what did you think of him?’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Do you want me to say I think he’s capable of murder?’
Vanni looked pained and waved his hands. ‘No no. But be honest, what’s he like? It’s easier for you to get to know English people. When we have to do it, the language always gets in the way.’
I nodded. ‘I think he’s a nice guy, but we only spoke for a few minutes. He seems quite vulnerable; no doubt about that. He was on the verge of tears during his introduction. On the other hand, he’d just seen a filthy review rubbishing the greatest day of his career. So, no wonder he was in a bit of a state. I don’t think he’s the sort of artist who’d just laugh off a bad review by getting cheerfully drunk.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Someone – a journalist – told me he’s had his demons. Drink, I guess. But as to whether he’s capable of violence, I’d say no. Anyway, it makes no sense, it’s a stupid way of plotting to kill someone.’
Vanni nodded. ‘Indeed.’ He checked his watch. ‘Okay, Nathan, I’ve got to go. The drinks are on me this time.’ He sighed. ‘You know, they say the canteen in our Questura is the finest in the Veneto. All the other cops are jealous. It’s still nice to get away.’ I smiled. ‘Oh, just one more thing. I need that wallet.’
‘Sure.’ I slid it across the table to him. ‘Is it evidence?’
‘It might be. But it could belong to anyone. And, of course, your prints will be all over it by now.’
‘Oh dear. Have I contaminated evidence? I really was just going to take it along to lost property.’
He smiled, and got to his feet. ‘Don’t worry, Nathan. I’ll make sure you get a light sentence.’
Chapter 8
There was already a small crowd of journalists outside Santa Maria Ausiliatrice when I arrived with Federica. I recognised a few from the previous day. There was also another little group of black-clad acolytes. I felt sorry for them. Art World Black looked fine in May, and would come into its own in November but would feel unbearable in the heat of August. I made a brief speech and then we lined up for a few quick photographs.
A young man came over to me. ‘Mr Sutherland. I’m Owen Pritchard, from the Arts Council of Wales. Can I introduce you to the artist?’ He took us over to a woman in, perhaps, her early sixties. She was pretty, red hair with a single white stripe forming a striking contrast to her black shirt and jeans. She smiled. ‘Mr Sutherland? I’m Gwenant Pryce. Thanks for the speech. I hope this isn’t all too boring for you? Not too much work?’
‘No, not at all. This is one of the nicest perks of the job to be honest. And don’t worry about the speech.’ I looked from left to right, and gave a stage whisper. ‘I used the same one as last time, to be honest.’
‘I noticed,’ said Owen.
I must have looked shocked because he burst out laughing. ‘Joking,’ he said.
‘Tell you what, come along to Scotland this afternoon and you’ll get to hear it again.’
Gwenant smiled again, ‘Am I getting a trace of an accent?’
I laughed. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. But I spent five years at the university in Aberystwyth. Maybe a bit of it rubbed off.’
‘ Siarad yr iaith? ’
‘Nac ydw.’
‘Don’t worry. Me neither. Why Aber?’
‘Oh, I felt I needed to get away. And there was the weather, of course.’
‘The weather?’
‘I was misinformed.’
We all laughed. ‘Take a look around,’ she said. ‘Any questions, just ask me afterwards. It’d be nice to talk. Abstracts and press releases are all very fine, but it’s not a substitute for an actual conversation.’
‘Thanks.’
Federica squeezed my arm. ‘What was all that?’
‘She asked me if I spoke Welsh. I had to admit I didn’t.’
‘Welsh? That’s a different language?’
‘Older than yours. Older than mine. I should have made more effort with it, really.’
‘And if you had, where would you be now?’
‘Somewhere wet, I imagine.’
A mournful atmosphere hung around Santa Maria Ausiliatrice. It had had an unhappy history. It had originally been the residence of Franciscan nuns, all of whom – save one – had died in the great plague of 1630. It later served as a hospital and hostel for the poor until – inevitably – Napoleon suppressed it in 1807. There wasn’t much of the interior that remained, save an eighteenth-century altar with an engraving of the Last Supper. It only added to the feeling of melancholy.
The space had been repainted since my last visit, when the brickwork had quickly been covered in a thin layer of whitewash. Now, a thick layer of an intense, deep blue had been applied. Klein blue, I wondered?
There was no internal source of light in the room as far as I could see. Instead, sunlight streamed in through narrow window slits just below the ceiling, and reflected off a large mirror positioned at one end of the room directly on to Pryce’s canvas, which hung opposite the altar.
We took a closer look. A beach. A seated figure, in rich red velvet robes, hands grasping the arms of a throne. The robes were painted in oil, and were ornately detailed.
Federica whistled.
‘Good?’ I said.
‘Damn good. Just look at that brushwork. The face though . . . ?’
I nodded. There was no face to speak of. Just a pale, pink, featureless blob. ‘I don’t get it,’ I said. ‘Why go to all that trouble to paint something like this,’ I sketched out the form of the seated figure with my hand, ‘and then leave it like this. Like it’s unfinished.’
She shrugged. ‘Let’s ask her afterwards.’
We moved on. The second room was painted in a deep, rich purple. Again, the only source of illumination was reflected sunlight, bouncing off a mirror and directly on to the only canvas in the room. The image appeared to be identical.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Federica. ‘Why reflect the sunlight directly on to the painting? That can’t be good for it.’
‘I suppose it’ll only be for a short period every day. As the sun moves, so will the reflection.’
She shook her head. ‘No.’ I opened my mouth to speak, but she put her finger to my lips. ‘Just lis
ten.’ All I could hear was chatter and footsteps from the streets outside, but then I became aware of something else. A low, electrical humming. Federica smiled, walked back to the mirror and stuck her head behind it. ‘I thought so.’
‘Thought what?’
‘The mirror. It’s being moved automatically to follow the position of the sun. So the light is always shining directly on to the canvas.’
‘I thought you said that’d be bad for it.’
‘It is. Makes it interesting though, doesn’t it? Come on!’
We walked through to the next room, painted in a sickly, bilious green. Again, there was one solitary canvas, but I gave it only a cursory glance. I grinned at Federica. ‘I think I’ve got it,’ I said.
‘Oh good. Got what?’
‘What it’s all about. Come on. Next room.’
The next one was a burning, bright orange. The following one, the purest of whites. The one after that, a funereal violet. ‘I’ll just bet you the next one is black,’ I said.
‘Oh, I believe you. But just how do you know this?’
I brandished the abstract. ‘Just look at the title. Behind the Masque . There’s two things going on here. The first is all those obscured faces – as if by a mask, right?’
‘Sure. And the second?’
I took her by the elbow, and we walked through into what I knew would be the final room. Black, pitch-black, except for a single canvas illuminated by a reflected ray of sunlight. I let go of Fede’s arm, and moved to the middle of the room. I spread my arms wide, and turned in a circle. ‘And darkness and decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all,’ I intoned, in the most sepulchral tones I could summon.
She put her hands on her hips and her head to one side. ‘Oh, tesoro , I do worry that one day I’ll go to bed with you and wake up with Vincent Price.’
I worried that we were making too much noise. ‘I’m right though, aren’t I?’ I whispered.
‘ The Masque of the Red Death . Edgar Allan Poe. Well spotted. I still don’t understand the lighting though.’
‘Still, it’s great stuff, isn’t it?’
Vengeance in Venice Page 5
