How much longer could Lewis be? I took another look around the bar. A woman reading the Corriere was sitting at a nearby table, gently pushing a baby buggy back and forth with one hand. A young man, dressed in jeans and T-shirt entered. For a moment, her face clouded. Then he smiled at her, and they hugged. She started getting her things together.
Leave the paper, I thought. You’ve got lots to talk about. You don’t need the paper. Go on, please leave the paper.
She left the paper. Just as I was about to rise from my seat, the young man suddenly turned and picked it up, rolling it up and sticking it in his back pocket.
Oh well.
I went back to the pile of flyers and leafed through them. Perhaps there’d be something worth going to. It was often the case that – even if the art didn’t sound all that exciting – there’d be the chance to have a look round a normally closed palazzo or church. Nothing much of interest, however, until . . .
A postcard. When had I picked up a postcard? I took a closer look.
A pale white figure against a dark background. Nude, save for a loincloth tied roughly around his middle, one end trailing down to his feet. His hands, bound, behind his back. His face, beautiful yet anguished, surrounded by flowing shoulder-length hair and ringed by a halo.
I recognised the image at once. Andrea Mantegna’s masterpiece, from the gothic palace of Ca’ d’Oro. The martyrdom of Saint Sebastian.
Saint Sebastian. His body pierced by multiple arrows.
Chapter 17
I had no time to think on what I’d just seen, as my eye fell on the figure of Lewis Fitzgerald, making his way uncertainly along the corridor outside. His face was pale and I could see that his hand was bandaged up, but he looked well enough; if lost. I stuck the postcard into my pocket, and ran outside to catch him up.
‘Lewis! Wait up!’
He turned, slowly. ‘What do you want, Sutherland?’
‘I thought I’d hang around and see if you could use some help.’
His face twisted into something that approximated a sick little smile. ‘Stalking me now, are you?’
‘Don’t you have to actively follow someone to stalk them? I don’t know, I’m no expert. As I said, I just thought you might want some help.’
‘All I want to do is get on a bloody boat, get back to my bloody hotel and go back to bloody bed. And I don’t want any help from you.’ He turned to walk away.
‘Okay. But if you want the vaporetto stop I wouldn’t go in that—’
He cut me off. ‘I said I don’t want any help from you.’
I went back inside the bar again and sat down. If he continued in that direction he’d walk through a cloistered garden populated by stray cats, a dark, statue-lined entrance hall and then into Campo Santi Giovanni e Paolo. At which point I assumed he’d give up. I gave him five minutes before I headed outside once more. He arrived just two minutes later, looking angry and flustered. He stared at me with an air of desperation.
‘Do you want a hand?’ I said.
‘Are you trying to be funny?’ He held up his heavily bandaged left hand.
‘Oh God. I’m sorry. No I wasn’t, really. Look, do you want me to show you the way to the vaporetto stop?’
He looked angry for a moment, but then his shoulders dropped and he nodded. ‘Yes. If you would. Thank you.’ The moment of calm didn’t last. ‘I mean, what is this bloody place? You’re walking along a corridor, and it looks like a proper hospital with doctors and nurses and everything and the next thing,’ he threw his arms wide, ‘you’re in a cloister full of bloody cats.’
I smiled. ‘Yes, it is confusing at first. Come on.’ I led him back through the hospital and out on to the fondamenta and the dedicated vaporetto stop. We sat in awkward silence for a while on the pontoon.
I was the first to break. ‘So, how’s the hand then?’
He shook his head. ‘They don’t know. It’s a clean wound, at least. There might be some nerve damage, but they won’t know that for a while.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Silence again. ‘I’m all right, by the way.’
‘You what?’
‘I’m all right. I was hurt too, remember?’ I turned my shoulder to him. ‘Couple of stitches. Ruined my best jacket.’
‘Oh my goodness. I’m so sorry. Here’s me having lost the use of a limb and I never thought to ask about your jacket.’ He lowered his head and stared at his shoes.
I shrugged. ‘Just trying to make conversation.’ I paused. ‘But there is something I need to speak to you about. Something more serious.’
He raised his head and looked at me, but said nothing. I reached into my jacket pocket. ‘I found this. Just now, when I was waiting for you.’ I held the postcard up for him to look at.
‘Saint Sebastian,’ he said.
I nodded. ‘Martyred in a hail of arrows.’ He said nothing. ‘This isn’t mine, you realise,’ I continued. ‘I’d never seen it before ten minutes ago.’ I paused. ‘Have you checked your pockets?’
‘What?’
‘I was just wondering – maybe you have one of these as well?’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I’m not being silly. But it’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? We both get hit by arrows. I find an image of Saint Sebastian in my pocket.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you what happened. We’re attacked by someone, I don’t know who. You go rummaging in your pocket. You find that postcard – something you probably picked up months ago and forgot about – and then your mind starts working overtime and making all sorts of connection which aren’t there. It’s understandable.’
I sighed. ‘You’re probably right,’ I lied. ‘So the question remains – who?’
We could see the next boat arriving now, and got to our feet. The 5.1 service, smaller than the vaporetti that served the Grand Canal, and lower in the water. I waited until he was about to step on board. ‘You think it was Paul, don’t you?’
He stiffened but said nothing. ‘You do, don’t you?’ I repeated.
He went down to the cabin in silence, and stood there waiting for me. I sat down. He chose a seat on the opposite side. The engines whined – there was always an unpleasant, piercing quality to the engines on the smaller boats – and we pulled away from the pontoon. For the moment, we had the cabin to ourselves, but more people would almost certainly be boarding at Fondamenta Nove. If there was going to be a scene, it would be better to have it now.
I stared across the aisle at Lewis. ‘I like Paul. He seems a bit vulnerable, a bit head-in-the-clouds at times but that’s all. But as soon as I told you he’d gone off with some money you went berserk. So what is it you’re not telling me?’ He stared right back at me. ‘Come on, I’m trying to help him here. You must admit, both of us seem to be attracting trouble at the moment.’
He nodded, and sighed, and for a brief moment I thought I’d managed to get through to him. ‘Now you listen here, Sutherland. As far as I’m concerned the only trouble we’ve attracted is you. Paul Considine is a good man, a decent man. And I know what you’re trying to imply, and if I hear you repeat anything like that again, ever, I will sue you hard enough to impoverish your grandchildren.’ I opened my mouth to remonstrate, but he jabbed one of his good fingers at me, his face flushed, ‘Shut up! I don’t want to speak to you, I don’t want to hear another word from you. Ever. Clear?’
I raised my hands, and nodded. We sat in silence for a few moments, and then, from across the lagoon, I heard the wail of a siren. A police boat or an ambulance. I half-got to my feet, the better to look out of the window. There it was, an ambulance heading out on call from the hospital. Heading at high speed in our direction.
I sat down again and looked over at Lewis. ‘I’d sit over here if I were you,’ I said.
He stared right through me.
‘Lewis, I’m being serious. I wouldn’t sit over there.’
He continued to glare at me.
‘At least close the window.’
<
br /> The wail of the siren rose in crescendo as the ambulance flashed past us at high speed. The wake hit us seconds later, rocking the boat violently and sending a wave crashing through the open window and soaking Lewis from head to toe.
The siren wail receded, and the momentary silence was broken by the marinaio crying ‘Next stop Fondamenta Nove.’ Lewis Fitzgerald sat and silently steamed in his little pool of water.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I did try.’
He made no move, but sat and glared at me with an expression of the purest hatred.
Chapter 18
Federica gave me lots of hugs. So did Eduardo. It was gratifying to find oneself the most huggable person in Venice, but I was nonetheless grateful that Dario wasn’t there. A Dario hug would probably have reopened the wound.
We clinked glasses. Then Federica spoke. ‘But seriously, tesoro , this isn’t funny. You really could have been hurt.’
‘Killed, even,’ said Eduardo.
‘I know. Seems kind of unreal though. Thinking back, I’m not sure I even remember any pain. It was all just so quick. Pissed off about this jacket though.’
‘I’m sorry, caro , but I never really liked it.’
‘No?’
‘To be honest, Nathan, I never really thought it suited you,’ added Eduardo.
‘You’re kidding? And how long have I been coming here?’
‘Maybe five years?’
‘You could have told me!’
‘Didn’t like to. You seemed attached to it.’
‘Great. Great. Well to hell with the jacket. It could be worse. It’s a hell of a lot worse for Lewis. He might have some permanent damage there.’
‘He’s a shit, though,’ said Federica.
‘Oh, he is. He’s a complete shit. But I don’t want him to be, you know, maimed or anything. It’s not his fault.’
‘Not his fault that his client is a psycho?’ said Eduardo
‘Considine? I don’t think it was him. Really. I don’t think he’s the type. He just seems too, I don’t know, gentle.’
Federica spat her olive stone into her spritz. ‘Maybe. From what you were saying, you were nice to him. So why would he want to hurt you? But you’ll admit, that thing with the postcard is strange. First Holofernes, now Sebastian. Something’s going on.’
‘You’re right. Something’s going on. I hope it isn’t what I think it is.’
She smiled. One of her big, lighting-up-the-room smiles. ‘Ooh, does this mean we’ve got a new mystery?’
I shrugged. ‘ Boh . I don’t know. It just all seems a bit funny, and . . .’ And then it hit me. I drained my glass and set it down on the bar. ‘Come on. I’ve got a brilliant idea.’
‘You have?’
‘Yes.’ I wagged a finger in the air. ‘I’m going to prove that Paul Considine could (a) not have killed Gordon Blake-Hoyt and (b) not have attacked Lewis and me this morning.’
She looked confused but, nevertheless, put her money down on the counter and we left the Brazilians, arm-in-arm. ‘ Caro , I’m not sure what you think you’re doing?’
‘Trust me,’ I said, as I steered her down into Campo Manin where visitors posed for photographs in front of the statue of the man who had briefly re-established the Most Serene Republic before the Austrians had crushed him. We took a quick right, and bypassed the tourists queuing – even at this hour – to go up the spiral staircase of the Palazzo Contarini.
‘Nearly there, cara ,’ We turned into the Calle dei Fuseri and the entrance to Ai Mercanti was before us.
The restaurant was closed.
‘Oh crap.’
Fede looked at me. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s closed. It’s bloody closed. I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘It’s Monday, Nathan. They’re always closed.’
I rested my forehead against the door and screwed my eyes shut. I opened them again. It was still closed. ‘Of course they are. Why didn’t I know that?’
She patted my cheek, and smiled. ‘Because, caro , I always make the bookings.’
I put my head in my hands. ‘I don’t believe this. If I’d just thought of another restaurant – any restaurant that opens on Mondays – I could have proved everything,’
‘It’s okay, tesoro , don’t worry,’
I shook my head. ‘You’re right. Okay. I’ve got another idea . . .’
‘Two in one day?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘As brilliant as the first?’
‘Even more so. We’ll pick up some pizza from Rosa Rossa. There’s some cheap red wine on top of the fridge. And then we’re going to watch a film.’
‘A film?’
‘Oh yes. Only Vincent Price can help us now.’
Federica’s pizza lay half-eaten as the credits rolled.
‘You watch this sort of thing for fun?’ she said.
‘ Theatre of Blood . It’s a classic!’
‘It’s absolutely horrible.’
‘Your people gave the world Lucio Fulci and Zombie Flesh-Eaters . You do not get to judge what is and what is not horrible.’
‘Nathan, there was a man’s head on a milk bottle.’
‘Arthur Lowe’s head. The pompous bank manager in an old British sitcom. You wouldn’t know him. That’s what makes it funny.’
‘It wasn’t funny. It was just horrible.’
‘Well maybe just a bit. But you get the idea. Vincent Price plays a scorned Shakespearean actor who goes around killing his enemies according to the methods of despatch detailed in the plays.’
‘Yes, I get that. And you think Considine is doing this?’
‘No. Not Considine. Doesn’t make sense. I can see he might have had a grudge against Blake-Hoyt but Lewis is his manager. And I was positively nice to him.’
‘Mistaken identity?’
‘Could be. Whoever it was, was firing arrows into a dark room. They can’t have been able to see very much.’
‘What about the postcards?’
‘Easy to slip one into a pocket during the confusion. Maybe they just got the wrong person.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Scarpa.’
She nodded. ‘I thought so.’
‘Absolute unholy shit of a man. Enemies that can be counted in four figures. People probably queuing up to kill him.’
She nodded again. ‘I think you’re probably right, caro .’
‘Probably?’
‘It’s just . . .’ she paused.
‘Go on.’
‘It just seems a very complicated way of going about it.’
Chapter 19
Federica headed off to the Frari at about seven the next morning. I had no surgery and figured I could treat myself to a lie-in, at least until such time as Gramsci decided he needed entertaining.
It was not to be. I was woken up by the sound of the entryphone buzzing incessantly. I struggled out of bed and scurried to the phone as quickly as I could.
‘Chi è?’ I could only think it was an unfortunate tourist, perhaps with something important stolen, who needed help at short notice. In which case I could just ask them to come back the following morning or, more likely, do what I could immediately and grumble away to myself later.
‘Nathan. It’s me. It’s Lewis.’
‘Lewis?’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘We need to talk. Please.’ He didn’t sound angry this time. Desperate perhaps, but not angry.
‘Uh, okay. Sure. Look, there’s a café next door. Just go and grab a bite to eat and a coffee and come back in twenty minutes, okay?’
‘Nathan, I think this is urgent.’
‘Lewis, right now I am trouserless and my cat is about to start demanding food. Trust me, twenty minutes would be best. Make it fifteen if you think it’s that important.’ I hung up.
The entryphone rang again precisely fifteen minutes later, and I buzzed him up without even bothering to check who it was. He looked tired and dishevelled as we stood in
my front room, both of us wondering how to break the ice. After a few seconds of awkward silence, he broke and held his hands out in a gesture of peace.
I paused, then nodded. ‘Okay. Come on through.’ I led him into the office. I had a fair idea what this was about but wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily. ‘So, what is it? Stolen passport? Vaporetto ticket gone missing?’ I glanced at his left hand. ‘Emergency travel insurance?’
If I’d riled him, he didn’t show it. ‘It’s about Paul,’ he said.
‘Oh yes?’
‘He didn’t come home last night. Back to the hotel that is. Which means that no one’s seen him since . . . since . . .’
‘Since I gave him one hundred and fifty euros to go and drink himself to death with?’ I suggested.
He gave a hollow little laugh. ‘Well, you said it. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from him?’
I shook my head.
‘There’s more. That card you showed me yesterday.’
‘Saint Sebastian?’
‘Yes. When I got back to the hotel yesterday, I was changing out of my jacket and found – this.’ The postcard he slid across the table was identical to mine. I picked it up, and turned it over. No message, no writing of any kind, no means of identification at all.
‘So what are you thinking, Lewis?’
‘I don’t know what I’m thinking. I’m just worried that’s all.’
I leaned forward and folded my fingers together. ‘Do you think Paul had anything to do with what happened to us yesterday? And with what happened to Mr Blake-Hoyt?’
He sighed, and seemed to be weighing his words carefully. ‘No. No, I don’t. But I worry that people will think that. What’s going to happen about yesterday?’
‘Well unless you or I make a denuncia , nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘No. It’s up to us to make a complaint. Now, I’ve only got a minor scratch. Shame about the jacket, but I can live with that. But you got properly hurt.’
He stared down at his hand, as if he’d forgotten it for a moment. ‘It’s not too bad. The painkillers help. So if I don’t make a – denuncia – then the police won’t investigate further?’
I shrugged. ‘It depends. There were other people there and, technically, one of them could make one. Did you see how many visitors there were?’
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