He shook his head. ‘I’m not sure. When the lights went on, I could see, I don’t know, maybe another half-dozen. And Scarpa, of course.’
‘Okay. Well, it’s been nearly twenty-four hours. If anyone had been to the police, we’d normally have been contacted by now. And Scarpa has a vested interest in keeping this quiet. Closing down one pavilion in isolation is one thing. Closing off a section of the Arsenale would create all sorts of hassle for him. More than that, it might even seem as if he wasn’t quite on top of things. So unless we go . . . it can all be swept under the carpet. An unfortunate accident.’
He nodded. ‘That’s great. Thank you. Really. As for your jacket—’ He reached for his wallet.
I shook my head. ‘I’m not that broke, Lewis. So what are we going to do about Paul? He didn’t have much money, no – legal – means of getting any more, and so he must still be in Venice or nearby.’
‘There are a few people in the UK that would wire him some money. If he asked. I can check with them.’
‘Okay, you do that. Does he know anyone in Venice?’
‘Not really. Okay, there are the people working at the pavilion but he doesn’t really know them. The Welsh artist – the Pryce woman – he knows her.’
‘Right. Do you want me to speak to her?’
‘I’ll do that. I’m going to be in that part of town today anyway.’
‘Okay, not a problem. And Adam Grant? I got the impression they knew each other.’
‘They do. I’ll speak to him.’
I paused. ‘I thought you two didn’t get on?’
‘We don’t. But he likes Paul. He’ll want to help.’
‘Fine. Anything else we can do?’
‘I can only think – signor Scarpa. Think about yesterday. I think the real target in that room was him.’
I’d thought that too, but saw no reason to tell Lewis. ‘Why’s that?’
‘He’s written stuff about Paul in the past. Bad reviews. I mean, really bad reviews.’
‘Was the word “trash” involved?’
‘Oh yes. And more. He has a quite a wonderful line in invective.’
I nodded. I remembered the opening. Scarpa and Blake-Hoyt, laughing and joking together and completely ignoring Considine. Laughing and joking in the full knowledge that GBH had just done his very best to destroy the biggest day of Paul’s career.
‘So I suppose we need to speak to him,’ Lewis continued.
‘And say what, exactly?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe find out if he’s been passed one of these things as well.’
‘Okay. And then what?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know. Just hope we find Paul and then take it from there. Do you have a better idea?’
I shook my head. ‘Okay. But this is not going to be a lovely job.’ There was silence. ‘You want me to do it, don’t you?’
He nodded. ‘Would you?’
‘Why me? You seemed to be getting on fine yesterday.’
‘That was yesterday and that was business. Today I’m just a guy who’s caused more trouble for him. I don’t think he’ll welcome my company.’
I sighed. I scribbled away on my notepad. ‘Don’t speak to nice Welsh lady. Speak to rudest man in Italy instead. Okay, I think I’ve got that. Not quite sure how I’ll find him. I guess I’ll speak with the Press Office at the Biennale.’
‘Thanks. Really. So I’ll call you this evening, okay? Just to see how we’re getting on.’ He slumped back in his chair, and looked relieved. ‘Are we okay now?’
‘Sure we are, Lewis.’
We shook hands.
Chapter 20
I sat on the back of the vaporetto and gazed out upon the Grand Canal, the water shimmering in the midday sun. I was setting out for an appointment with the rudest man in Italy and, for some reason, felt ridiculously happy. Perhaps it was just the weather. Jackets rather than coats, and not yet the unbearable heat and oppressive cobalt-blue skies of the height of summer. I got off at Ferrovia, and made my way to the podule at the base of the Calatrava Bridge.
It wasn’t strictly true to say that I had an appointment with signor Scarpa. More that an old friend of Federica’s, working in the press office, had agreed to give me his schedule for the day. At one o’clock he was taking a tour of the Biennale’s smallest installation. I had no real idea why, but suspected that it might just be that he saw any day without his photograph in the paper, or his name in the news, as a day wasted. For Vincenzo Scarpa, all publicity – whether punching someone on live TV or presiding over a bloody, fatal accident on the opening day of the world’s greatest art fair – was good publicity.
I found him at the base of the bridge, surrounded by his security people, a couple of journalists and a small group of curious tourists. Security people – I hadn’t noticed them yesterday. Did he always walk around with them, or was he just taking extra care? He posed with one hand raised in a wave and the other resting on the open door of the podule. A sardonic smile played about his lips. I wondered if he had any other way of smiling. I hung around at the back of the group until he stepped inside and then, just as the doors were about to close, threw myself forward and into the seat opposite him. He had no time to react as I punched the button to close the doors, and then the one to set the podule in motion. Briefly taken aback, his security people started to hammer on the door, but it was too late as the podule slowly raised itself out of their reach.
He stared at me in absolute fury and opened his mouth to speak but I didn’t give him the chance. ‘Nice to see you again, signor Scarpa.’ I gestured at the video screens suspended above our heads. ‘I must say I’m looking forward to this.’
‘What the hell is the meaning of this, Mr . . . Mr . . . ?’
‘Sutherland. Nathan Sutherland.’
‘I’ll have your job for this.’
‘No you won’t.’ Well, probably not. ‘Come on now.’ I checked my watch. ‘The journey takes about forty minutes I believe. That leaves us plenty of time to chat.’
He reached over me to stab at the emergency stop button, but I was too quick for him and covered it with my hand. ‘No no. Let’s watch the video first, eh? This is why you’re here, after all.’
For a moment, I wondered if he was going to punch me. Then I wondered if I would punch him back. We sat there, glowering at each other, sizing each other up. It must have been like this, I thought, when Ali met Foreman for the first time. If, that is, Ali and Foreman had been a couple of out-of-shape white guys who smoked and drank too much.
I held up my hands in a placatory gesture. ‘Come on, Vincenzo. Let’s watch the damn film eh?’
A vein in his temple was throbbing alarmingly, yet he suddenly nodded and sat back in his seat. And for the next twenty minutes we sat and watched the video screens positioned above each other’s heads, as they did their best to mimic the experience of being transported across the Calatrava Bridge. A view that few people had ever experienced. I wondered how the artist had managed to do it. The podule was supposed to be restricted to those with mobility problems, and access to it was granted remotely, via a video link with an operator. It had been reported that – of the few people that had ever successfully managed to use it – the vast majority had been heavily laden shoppers. Perhaps he’d simply turned up with a big trolley.
We didn’t exchange a word until we virtually reached the other side of the bridge, and started our journey back. It was Scarpa who broke the silence. ‘Well now, Mr Sutherland . . .’
‘Well now, signor Scarpa.’
‘So what are we doing here?’
‘Oh, we’re here to see the installation. And to take a ride in the podule. Have you been in here before?’ He glowered. ‘No. Silly question really. Me neither. Anyway, what do you think of it?’
‘Trash.’
‘Trash. Yes, I thought you might say that. Funny, but I—’ I was interrupted by him slapping me across the face. There was no great power to it, and it stung more than hu
rt, yet there was such a precision to it, such a finicky expression of irritation that it shocked me out of my act for a moment.
He smiled. ‘Now you listen to me for a moment, you little shit.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I think there’s maybe twenty minutes until this trashy little ride finishes. Which means you have twenty minutes to persuade me not to call my three gorillas down there to be ready to haul your arse off and hurt you. Understand?’
‘I understand.’ I rubbed the side of my face.
He leaned back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other and spread his hands wide. ‘Go ahead. Convince me.’
‘Well, I was thinking of appealing to your better nature.’
‘I haven’t got one. You should know that. Try again.’
‘Also that you are a high-profile public figure and it wouldn’t look good to be seen beating up a humble little apparatchik like me.’
‘Mr Sutherland, I once broke someone’s nose on national television. The award for “Best TV Moment of 2010” still sits on my mantelpiece. You’ll have to do better than that.’
‘Okay, what if I were to say that I’m trying to save you from a violent death at the hands of an art-obsessed serial killer?’
He said nothing.
‘So can I continue?’ I asked.
He nodded.
I ran him through the theory. He rubbed his chin. ‘So, the idea is that someone killed Mr Blake-Hoyt because of a bad review. But then they tried to kill you and Mr Fitzgerald. I don’t understand?’
I ran my hands through my hair. It was starting to feel unpleasantly hot. ‘I think they were trying to kill you, signor Scarpa. I think someone is going around trying to kill some of the major critics in the art world.’
He shrugged. ‘Is that it?’
‘What do you mean, “Is that it?” ’
He chuckled, and laid his hand on my knee. ‘My dear fellow, I am so sorry.’
‘What?’
‘I am so sorry that your life is so dull that you have to invent a stupidaggine like this to entertain yourself.’
I screwed my eyes tight shut. ‘ Signor Scarpa, you’re trying to make me angry, aren’t you?’
‘Well of course I am. It’s working isn’t it?’
I took a deep breath, and reached into my jacket pocket. I took out the two cards. ‘Can I just ask you – and I really am trying to be serious here – have you ever seen these before?’
‘Gentileschi and Mantegna.’ He shook his head. ‘No. No. I have spent thirty years as a critic and writer. I have never heard of Gentileschi and Mantegna.’ He laughed and shook his head again.
I snapped. I leaned over and jabbed my finger at him, trying my best to ensure my fingertip remained at least an inch from his chest. ‘Now you listen to me. I don’t know why I’m doing this but I’m trying to save your miserable, graceless little life.’
The two of us, now, were on our feet, slapping and jabbing at each other in what was, perhaps, the most rubbish fight ever. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed people on the bridge had stopped to watch. Perhaps they thought it was part of the installation.
I held my hands up to try and ward off his slaps. ‘Can we stop this? Look, can we please just stop this?’ My words made no impression. Perhaps an appeal to his vanity would work? ‘People are looking at us. People are pointing and laughing at us.’
He slumped back into his seat, and took out a handkerchief with which to wipe the sweat from his brow. Then he tugged at his collar. The heat was starting to become properly uncomfortable now. Nobody had ever thought that the podule would require air conditioning. I searched for a handle on the window, and then realised that nobody had thought it necessary to provide it with windows that would open either.
I struggled out of my jacket with difficulty, as it clung to me in the heat. ‘Can I finish speaking? Or haven’t you finished slapping me yet?’ He said nothing so I ploughed ahead. ‘Gordon Blake-Hoyt was beheaded. In his pocket was an image of Judith beheading Holofernes.’
‘And so? How could someone plan for the unfortunate Mr Blake-Hoyt to lose his head? It’s impossible. He might have been impaled, lost a limb, missed the glass altogether. How could this mysterious assassin possibly know the precise manner of his demise? Dear Mr Consul, this is a nonsense.’ He chuckled again.
‘Now listen.’ I held up my hands, partly in a gesture of peace, partly so as to give them something to do instead of punching him. ‘Of course he couldn’t have known. I think it was just a kind of a calling card on his part, a statement of intent. Call it what you will. Whatever happened would have been close enough. And then Lewis and I had arrows fired at us. Glass arrows. We both found that an image of Saint Sebastian had been planted on us. You were in the room with us at the same time. I think those arrows were meant for you.’
He said nothing for a few seconds, and I thought he was just weighing his words for maximum insulting effect. Then he sighed, and tugged at his collar again. The sun was now shining directly into the cabin. I wished I’d brought my sunglasses with me. ‘If this is true,’ said Scarpa, ‘why did I not receive one of those images?’
‘I’ve got to be honest, I don’t really know. But the three of us were close together – we had been for a while. And whoever did this was firing arrows into a dark room. They couldn’t be sure who they’d hit. As long as someone had that card on them, maybe they thought that would be enough?’
He nodded. ‘Okay. Again, if this is true, why would anyone wish to kill Mr Blake-Hoyt or myself?’
‘Blake-Hoyt had a lot of enemies. He seemed to delight in being as nasty as he could to people.’
‘Not a reason to kill someone, though.’
‘Careers could be damaged. Ruined, even.’ And just maybe, I thought, if you were unstable that would be reason enough in itself.
‘And why me?’
I gave a little cough. ‘With respect, signor Scarpa, you do carry a reputation as the rudest man in Italy.’
He smiled, for the first time, I thought, with genuine pleasure. ‘Yes, I do, don’t I?’
‘Some might say,’ I continued, ‘the most hated man in Italy.’
He grimaced. ‘Berlusconi usually beats me on that one.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
He shook his head. ‘It’s okay. It just the way things are in this country. It’s who you know. Anyway, even if I accept what you are saying, what should I do about it?’
I actually hadn’t thought of that. ‘Erm, well I suppose you have your three gorillas, as you said. And if you receive anything strange – you know, a postcard of a historic painting showing a grisly death – give me a call.’
‘Oh good. Yes of course I will. If I feel my life is being threatened I will of course turn to the British consular service to defend me.’
I sighed. It had sounded more than a bit weak, even to my ears. Something else I hadn’t really thought through. ‘Just one more thing, signor Scarpa. Just why were you meeting with Lewis Fitzgerald yesterday?’
He laughed. ‘Am I obliged to answer that, Tenente Colombo? ’
I shook my head. ‘I just wondered. If you hated Considine’s stuff so much, why even consider the possibility of reopening?’
He seemed genuinely surprised. ‘As I said, this is nothing to do with some trashy art. It’s just business.’
‘Just business?’ He nodded. ‘Is it ever about the art any more?’
‘I’m not sure it ever was. Now my dear fellow, the cabin is about to descend. How fast do you think you can run?’
The podule started to move. I looked downwards, to where Scarpa’s gorillas were taking position. I looked across to Scarpa, who was grinning. ‘I don’t suppose you could have a word?’ He shook his head.
Another ten seconds and we’d be there. I lunged across the cabin and slammed the emergency button with the flat of my hand. The podule ground to a halt and the video screens flickered for a moment before powering down. Scarpa shook his head in mild irritation, and reach
ed across me to press the ‘operate’ button.
Nothing happened.
He pressed it again. And again. And then again. The podule refused to move. The video screens remained dimmed. The ‘mobility cabin’ that had worked for just a few short weeks in its lifespan had died yet again.
‘You idiot. You imbecile.’
‘I’m sorry. You didn’t leave me much choice. It was either that or get my head kicked in.’
‘I’ll make damn sure you do get your head, as you say, kicked in.’ He was on his feet now, gesticulating wildly and raging at me. People on the bridge were again stopping to point and stare.
‘I’d calm down if I were you. Let’s just sit down and wait, eh?’
‘I’m not going to calm down, you cretinous halfwit.’
I shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. It’s just the last time this happened I seem to remember it took about two hours to rescue the occupants.’ I unbuttoned my collar and cuffs. ‘And it’s not going to get any cooler.’
‘Fede?’
‘ Ciao, tesoro.’
‘Are you free for a drink? Right now I mean.’
‘It’s a bit early isn’t it? There’s stuff that I could really do with finishing today.’
‘Sorry. It’s just I’ve had a bit of a trying day.’
‘Where are you? Could you drop by the Frari?’
‘I don’t think they’d welcome me at the moment. I’m outside that bar next to the Scuola Grande.’
‘Okay. I’ll see you there in five minutes.’
I’d forgotten to ask her what she wanted to drink, and so ordered a prosecco – her usual not-really-drinking-when-at-work drink – to go with my spritz. I saw her making her way across the campo, and held my hands up as she bent to kiss me. ‘ Noli me tangere.’
She jerked her head back. ‘Not much chance of that. My God, you stink.’
‘Yes, I’m aware this doesn’t look good.’ My clothes were drenched in sweat, my hair plastered down over my forehead and my face still flushed bright red. ‘Just as well the weather’s nice. I don’t think they’d have been keen on giving me a table inside.’
Vengeance in Venice Page 12
