She smiled. ‘Lots of people think that. I’m afraid not. It’s just a copy from the late nineteenth century. However we have a suite on the piano nobile which has the real thing.’
‘Is that where George stayed?’
‘Of course.’ Her expression changed ever so slightly, became quizzical. ‘Can I help you in any way?’ The subtext, of course, being ‘I don’t know you. You’re not a guest here.’
‘Perhaps. My name’s Nathan Sutherland. I’m the British honorary consul in Venice.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Sutherland. Can I help you in any way?’ she repeated.
‘Well possibly. I met one of your guests the other day. A man called Francesco Nicolodi. He’s a journalist. We were at the opening of the British pavilion.’
‘Oh my goodness. Really? I read all about it of course. Dreadful.’
I nodded. ‘Anyway, if it’s possible, could you just call signor Nicolodi and tell him I’m down here. There’s just a few things I’d like to talk over with him.’
She frowned. ‘This isn’t police business is it?’
‘Oh no. Nothing like that. It’s just . . .’ I paused. What kind of business, precisely, was it? Just trying to help out someone I hardly knew who might be on the verge of landing in serious trouble? ‘Well, we were both witnesses to what happened. But it’s nothing to do with the police, don’t worry about that.’
She went to the reception desk, tapped away at a keyboard, and then picked up the phone and dialled. ‘A Mr Sutherland is here for you, signor Nicolodi.’ A brief pause, then ‘Okay, I’ll let him know.’ She turned to me. ‘He’ll see you upstairs in the lounge in a few minutes.’ Her phone bleeped, and she checked it. Then she looked across the reception hall to the water gate facing on to the Grand Canal. ‘I’m sorry, we have guests arriving now. Please excuse me.’ She made her way over to the water gate, where she was joined by five other members of the hotel staff. Two porters, a young woman bearing a tray with four glasses of prosecco, one man holding an empty silver platter and yet another holding a tray with a silver dome on it.
As I watched, a water taxi arrived. The two porters scurried outside and, seconds later, returned with the guests’ baggage. A family of four disembarked, with the help of the driver. A couple in, perhaps, their seventies, presumably with their children. The manager greeted them as if they were the oldest and best of friends. Hot towels were proffered from underneath the silver dome, whilst glasses of prosecco were offered from the other side.
The manager caught me staring, and smiled politely. I gave her a little nod and made my way up the staircase. My buddy George really did have impeccable taste. And Francesco Nicolodi, it seemed, was definitely on his way up in the world.
* * *
‘Mister Sutherland.’
‘ Signor Nicolodi.’
We stood in silence for a few seconds, then Francesco spoke. ‘Let’s get a table, eh? It’ll be a little more discreet. This is a such a nice place, I don’t think they’d appreciate a scene.’
‘Oh, I was rather hoping to avoid a scene.’ I said. We took a table by the window.
‘Quite a space, isn’t it? And quite a view.’ He grinned. It certainly was. Francesco Nicolodi, I thought, you lucky bastard. ‘What’s the building opposite?’ he continued, pointing at an elegant Renaissance-style palace that dwarfed the buildings on either side.
‘The Palazzo Grimani. It’s Venice’s Court of Appeal.’
‘Oh. I thought it was a museum.’
‘That’s the Palazzo Grimani di Santa Maria Formosa. The one over there is the Palazzo Grimani di San Luca. There were rather a lot of Grimanis.’
‘Must be a nightmare to keep track of them all.’
‘It’s a tightrope, Francesco. A regular tightrope.’
‘I’ll bet.’ He waved at the barman. ‘We should get some drinks. They mix an excellent Bellini here, you know.’
I shook my head. ‘I’ve always found them a bit too sweet to be honest. Even when they’re freshly made.’
‘What would you like, Mr Sutherland? Prosecco?’
‘A spritz, I think.’
‘With Aperol?’
I shook my head. ‘Still too sweet. Al campari.’
‘My goodness me. You really are a bitter man, aren’t you?’ I smiled. Our drinks arrived with a selection of luxury nibbles. Nothing so commonplace as mere crisps here. We clinked glasses. ‘So why are you here, Nathan ? I take it it’s not just to check if I’ve written a good review for the nice Welsh lady?’
‘No. But have you been there?’
‘No. Don’t need to. I’ll google for a few images and the background info and do the rest from here. I’ll make sure it’s nice. Will that be good enough?’
‘I guess so. Although I do wonder where I’ll be able to read it.’ He looked puzzled, and opened his mouth to speak, but I pressed on. ‘Given that Planet Art magazine doesn’t appear to exist.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘I mean it doesn’t exist. There’s no such magazine. All there is is a website with hardly any content on it. What there is is written in lamentable English. And your English is perfect. No, that site looks like you’ve paid someone to knock it up in twenty minutes.’ He was silent now, and sipped at his Bellini, as if giving himself time to think. I continued. ‘You’re not actually a journalist, are you, Francesco?’
‘I—’
I waved my hand. ‘No no no. You’re not. You’re not a journalist. You’ve had nothing published in Italy at all. Which makes me think you don’t actually have a journalist’s card. Which therefore makes me wonder how on earth you managed to get accredited for the Biennale?’
‘Planet Art only has an online presence at the moment, and the website is, well, having some work done on it.’
‘So somewhere in Italy, you have an office with dozens of journalists beavering away and a team of techies passing sleepless nights working on your website.’
‘Something like that.’
I shrugged. ‘As you wish. Nicolodi. Unusual surname you have, Francesco. I’m sure that’s your real name, of course.’
He rolled his eyes and gave a theatrical little yawn. ‘I could show you my documents.’
‘Yes, yes. Of course you could.’ I looked around at our opulent surroundings. ‘Anyway, you must be doing well for yourself, Francesco. This is a bit of a step up from the Hotel Zichy.’
He gave the thinnest of smiles and drained his Bellini. He looked over his shoulder at the bar and looked faintly irritated when the barman was not there. A moment later, and the reason became clear, as he appeared, ghostlike, behind Francesco’s shoulder. Francesco gave a little start, and then relaxed. ‘The same again please. Mr Sutherland?’
I shook my head. ‘Not for me thanks. I’ve got to cook dinner after this. Marvellous staff here, aren’t they? Just look at him, he moves like a dancer. Mind you, the barman at the Zichy is a nice bloke too. I get the impression he’s a bit easier to talk to, as well.’
‘Are you following me, Sutherland?’
‘Good heavens, no. You gave me your address yourself, remember? But I’m just a little bit interested in your sudden change in circumstances. You’ll admit it’s a bit of a leap from the Zichy to here.’
‘The Times paid well for that article. So thanks for that.’ The sun was shining directly through the windows now, and it was starting to become ever-so-slightly uncomfortable. Francesco’s face was flushed and he tugged at, and then unbuttoned, his collar.
I laughed. ‘Oh Francesco, I don’t think so. A first-time commission from an unknown writer? It wouldn’t even cover the cost of these drinks.’
His second Bellini arrived, which he grabbed from the barman before he could set it down. He placed his hands on the table, and closed his eyes. Counting to ten. Then he opened them again, and forced a smile on to his face. ‘Sutherland, is there any reason I shouldn’t just call our friend over there,’ he jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direc
tion of the bar, ‘and have you thrown out?’
‘None at all.’ Now it was my turn to play for time. I took a sip of my drink. ‘You know, they do a top spritz here, Francesco. You really should try one before you leave. Anyway – and this may seem a little strange – I’m not actually here for a fight.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘No?’
‘No. Just the opposite. I want your help.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously.’
‘What about?’
‘Paul Considine. And Lewis Fitzgerald.’ I explained as much as I felt necessary. ‘I’m hoping they’ve just gone back to the UK and that Lewis just isn’t answering my calls. Have you heard from either of them?’
Nicolodi shook his head. ‘No. But then there’s no reason why I should. I don’t know either of them. But they won’t have gone back to the UK.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
He shrugged. ‘Considine has another exhibition. He won’t have gone home before that opens.’
‘Another one? I don’t understand.’
Nicolodi sighed. ‘He had his personal exhibit at the British pavilion. You understand that, at least?’ I opened my mouth to remonstrate, but he shushed me and continued. ‘And he’s part of the group show on Lazzaretto Vecchio, which opens tomorrow. You know where that is?’ I nodded. The plague island. Abandoned for years now, but occasionally pressed into use on special occasions, such as the Biennale. It lay just off the coast of the Lido, not very far from Fede’s apartment. ‘You should come along. You seemed to like Mr Considine’s work so much. You might enjoy it.’
‘Perhaps I will.’
‘So. Is there anything else I can help with?
‘I was thinking about the day of the accident. You were with me at the time. Okay, you didn’t see it happen, but there might have been something else you saw.’
‘I gave my statement to the police at the time, remember?’
‘I know. But just have a think. Anything else that comes to mind. And there’s another thing, Francesco. GBH wrote a filthy review of Considine’s work, and now he’s dead. Vincenzo Scarpa did the same. There was an – an incident – at the Arsenale four days ago. I was in the same room as him. So was Lewis. We both got hurt, but I think Scarpa was the target. And that piece you wrote for The Times – where you practically accused Considine of plagiarism – that wasn’t exactly complimentary, was it?’
‘What are you saying, Sutherland? Is that a warning?’
‘If you like.’
‘I’ll be very careful, I promise. I’ll make sure to look out for Mr Considine running at me with a glass scythe.’
I shook my head. ‘It’s not Considine. I’m sure. He just doesn’t seem the type.’
Francesco snorted out a laugh. ‘What’s so funny?’ I asked.
‘ “Doesn’t seem the type”? You’re not in the art world, are you, Sutherland?’
‘No. You know that.’
‘ “Doesn’t seem the type.” For Christ’s sake. You might be a good consul, Sutherland, but you’re a shit private detective.’
‘What do you mean?’ I could feel myself getting angry now.
‘It’s hardly a secret. In the art world. Don’t let all that head-in-the-clouds nonsense fool you. He’s got a nasty streak. You know he nearly went to prison ten years ago?’
My spritz stopped on the way to my mouth. ‘You’re kidding?’
He grinned. He’d got me on the back foot now and was enjoying it. ‘Not a bit of it. I told you he’d had problems with drink. Know what he did? He got drunk one night and glassed someone with a broken bottle. Because he’d looked at him in a funny way.’ I said nothing. ‘Don’t take my word for it. Look it up. It’s all out there. Cuddly Paul Considine just happens to have a bit of a thing about broken glass, it seems.’
Ah, shit. I got to my feet. ‘I’m sorry.’ I dragged the words out. ‘It seems I’ve wasted our time.’
He spread his arms wide, and looked around him. ‘Not at all. Anyway, I can’t think of a better place to waste time than this.’
‘I’ll pay for the drinks.’
‘No you won’t. My treat. As you said, they’re a bit expensive here.’
‘Thanks.’ I turned and made for the stairs.
‘Don’t worry, Sutherland. I’m not angry. I’m just disappointed.’
The black cloud of gloom returned with a vengeance as I made my way back to the Street of the Assassins. Even the prospect of a pre-dinner Negroni didn’t cheer me as much as it once would have. I gave Eduardo a wave but walked past the Magical Brazilian and straight upstairs to the flat.
It was still a surprise to me to see how well stocked the fridge was these days. Fede really had sorted me out. Aubergines, peppers, tomatoes, zucchini. All sorts of nice things that I could do. But nothing was really coming to mind. I never really enjoyed cooking for one. Pizza? No. Something healthier, something that would allow me to tell Federica that I’d got some vegetables into me. Baked aubergines topped with tomato and mozzarella. So simple it scarcely seemed like cooking at all. But at least it was cooking. I made myself a spritz and got to work.
The oven had only just warmend up when the telephone rang. Federica.
‘ Ciao, cara . Changed your mind about coming over?’
‘Afraid not, caro . Way too much work on tonight and Mamma is back from Chioggia as well.’
I took another quick look inside the fridge. I could just about triple the quantities. ‘Look, I haven’t had dinner yet. You could all come over. You could just work away and I’ll entertain your mum.’
‘I’d love to but, really, there’s a lot I need to get done.’
‘I’ll sparkle. I promise I’ll sparkle.’
She laughed. ‘Oh I know you will. People always tell me how lucky I am to have such a sparkly boyfriend. But I really can’t.’ Her voice changed, became more serious. ‘Are you okay?’
I took a deep breath. ‘Mm. Not really.’
‘What’s the matter? Have you been to see Nicolodi again?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘I think this has all been a waste of time. Trying to help Paul. It turns out he’s done bad stuff in the past. Really bad stuff.’
‘What are you going to do? Talk to Vanni?’
‘I don’t know. There’s absolutely no proof at all. I think I might just give it a few days. Just try and clear my head a bit.’ I changed the subject. ‘Anyway, tomorrow will cheer me up. We’re entertaining Dario, remember?’
‘Ah, I’d forgotten. With Valentina and his little girl?’
‘Emily. No, they’re off visiting grandparents. A shame, she’s a sweetheart.’
‘If you say so. Okay then, a domani .’
‘ A domani . Love you.’
‘Love you too.’
I hung up, and smiled to myself. Maybe it hadn’t been such a bad day after all. To hell with mysteries and art-obsessed serial killers. I had aubergines to bake.
Chapter 27
There was no surgery and precious little to do the following morning, apart from my early morning shout from Mr Blake-Hoyt; a routine that, by now, I was settling into quite nicely. I held the phone a comfortable few inches from my ear, said ‘Yes’ a lot, assured him I was still doing my best and that, yes, of course he should contact the ambassador if he so wished. Occasionally, I found it relaxing to make rude gestures at the handset. Mr Blake-Hoyt, I hoped, would never insist on Skyping me. Then I hung up, gently massaged my ear and made a second cup of coffee.
I needed to go and buy some fish for dinner. When I first arrived in Venice, I had chanced upon a stall in Campo Santa Margherita, and I’d used the same one for years. Less hectic than the Rialto market, and there was no shortage of bars in which to sit and watch the world go by. And then, one day, the stallholders – a father and son – weren’t there any more. Dad, I learned, was getting on a bit and so his son had decided to sell up. In two years of shopping there I’d never even as
ked their names.
I never again went back to Campo Santa Margherita for fish. The two remaining stalls were run by perfectly nice people. But two stalls didn’t really seem to approximate a market, in the same way as three had. It seemed to be a sign to move on elsewhere. The Rialto market was closer, even allowing for the battle to get over the bridge. And despite the crowds, despite the occasional frustration of getting stuck behind tourists taking photographs of tomatoes, there was still something a little bit thrilling about the explosions of colours and smells, and the shouting in Veneziano .
It had taken a while to build up a relationship with Marco and Luciano. Marco was short and wiry with thinning grey hair and a few missing teeth. Luciano was younger and hipper; tattooed like a sailor, which clashed with his immaculately brilliantined hair. Crucially, they spoke a form of Veneziano that I could almost understand. I thought they might also knock a euro or two off the price of my shopping, but I could never be quite sure. What I did know is that whenever I asked for a piece of fish suitable for two people, they would sell me a piece suitable for three. Things would always, they assured me, shrink during cooking. They never did, but at least it meant I always had a well-stocked freezer compartment.
I had come to realise that I would never, ever be able to buy fish anywhere else again. Peter Parker’s Spider-Sense was as nothing compared to their ability to detect me when I was wandering around the market. If I so much as glanced at another stall whilst cruising a lap, they would catch my eye and wave me over.
I quickly cast my eyes over the nearest stalls as I entered the market. Spider crabs. Spider crab with pasta would be nice. There were a couple left on the nearest stall to my left. I quickly checked Marco and Luciano’s. No spider crabs. Okay, maybe this would be the first time I’d get away with it. Gently, ever so gently, I started to turn to my left . . .
‘ Ciao, Nathan, come stai? ’
‘Abbastanza bene, Marco.’ We would not, then, be having spider crab that evening. I made my way over. Luciano was flirting with two American girls with the aid of a raw scallop. He cut the flesh into three, popped one piece into his mouth and made an exaggerated yummy sound. He passed the shell with the remaining pieces to the girls. ‘Try one!’
Vengeance in Venice Page 16
