I grabbed Gheorghe by the arm. ‘Okay, let’s be quick.’ I pointed upwards. ‘One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Seven daggers. You agree?’ He nodded. ‘Good. Now over here.’ I walked him over to the entrance, in front of the locked and bolted main doors. I pointed upwards. ‘How many arrows?’
‘Seven.’
‘Exactly. Now the last one.’ We made our way to the opposite wall, and looked up at the gantry. ‘How many scythes? Seven?’
‘Yes.’
‘There we are then. Seven by seven by seven. Nothing missing.’
‘I don’t understand. What does it mean?’
‘Francesco Nicolodi was killed with a glass scythe. Exactly like the ones up there. Lewis and I were attacked with glass arrows. Exactly like the ones up there. Now if none have been removed from here, it figures that the murderer has had duplicates made.’
‘But where?’
‘Where would you go to get something as specialist as a scythe made out of glass? Murano. It says so on the abstract.’
‘So all you have to do is find the right workshop on Murano . . .’
‘. . . and I’ve found the murderer.’
Gheorghe grinned. ‘Brilliant!’
‘You know, I can’t find it in my heart to disagree with you. But I couldn’t have done it without you. I’m sorry I put you in an awkward spot.’
‘It’s all right, Nathan. Really.’
‘Anyway, let’s get out of here before . . . Oh bloody hell.’
We heard footsteps from outside and, before we could move, a shadow fell across the fire exit.
Chapter 34
‘Oh bloody hell,’ I repeated under my breath. Gheorghe looked at me in despair. I could tell what he was thinking. He was going to lose his job over this. Unless . . .
‘Punch me in the face!’ I hissed.
‘What?’
‘Punch me in the face! Do it. Now— Owwww . . .’ I’d been expecting it, but Gheorghe’s blow still managed to catch me unawares. It was also rather harder than I’d been hoping for. I sank to my knees, and clutched at my nose, already feeling the blood starting to flow.
‘ Che cazzo è?’ I looked up. The figure was dressed in a heavy beige uniform with reflective strips. A fireman. Of course, there was always a team from the fire department in attendance at the Giardini. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Neither of us spoke. ‘English? Italian?’
I got to my feet, a little unsteadily. ‘I can explain.’
‘I’ll bet you can. And who’s he?’ He pointed at Gheorghe, resplendent in full evening dress.
‘I’m one of the Dancing Frenchmen.’
‘Oh, right. Yes, I suppose so.’ He turned back to me. ‘This place is closed off for a reason. It’s too dangerous to walk around. You want to try explaining?’
I nodded. ‘I’m sorry, there’s been a terrible misunderstanding. I was here on the opening day. When the accident happened. I realised this morning that I’d lost my carta d’identità and wondered if I’d dropped it here.’
‘Why didn’t you just go to lost property?’
‘Thought I’d see if it was open. The fire door wasn’t locked.’
‘It was when I checked earlier.’
‘Well, check harder next time. Next time might be important.’ He stiffened, but he couldn’t be completely sure that I wasn’t telling the truth. ‘Anyway, I must have made some noise. This gentleman,’ I gestured at Gheorghe, ‘must have heard me and thought I was breaking in.’
Gheorghe nodded. ‘Sorry.’
I shook my head. ‘S’okay. Shouldn’t just have walked in. Stupid of me.’
‘Did you find it?’ asked the fireman.
‘Find what, sorry?’
‘Your carta d’identità.’
‘Oh that. No. I’ll try lost property.’
‘Should have done that in the first place. Damn stupid just wandering around here with no proper lighting. One step out of place and you could kill yourself.’
‘You’re right. Sorry.’
‘I need to be getting back to work,’ said Gheorghe.
The fireman nodded. ‘No worries. At least you were here. And I’d better get this door fixed up.’
‘I guess so,’ said Gheorghe. ‘Oh, erm, could you not say anything about me? Hitting the visitors, that sort of thing – it doesn’t go down well.’ He turned to me. ‘No hard feelings, I hope?’
‘No hard feelings,’ I said. We shook hands.
‘Thanks,’ he whispered.
We made our way outside. Gheorghe headed off towards the French pavilion, where Louis Armstrong was striking up with ‘All of me’. I dabbed the blood from my nose, threw the handkerchief in the nearest bin, and headed off to lost property under the watchful eye of the fireman, where I proceeded to fill out an entirely fictitious claim. Then I made my way to the vaporetto stop, crammed myself on to a sweaty and overcrowded boat, and fretted all the way home. I hopped off at San Samuele and scurried along the calli until I reached the Brazilians.
I could, should, I told myself, just head straight upstairs and get to work on the computer. On the other hand, I’d done a good day’s work and, more to the point, been punched in the face for my pains. I deserved a drink.
‘Evening, Ed. Negroni and smartphone, please.’
‘Negroni coming up. What’s a smartphone?’
‘An advanced type of mobile phone offering features more typically associated with a personal computer. In other words, something way too advanced for me. But I’m sure you’ve got one, so can you look something up for me?’
‘Pre or post fixing the Negroni?’
‘Post. It’s only my personal reputation and liberty at stake.’
‘Sure. Do you want it flaming?’
‘Like never before.’
He quickly peeled a strip of peel from an orange, and folded it in two. Then he struck a match on the bar, waited a few seconds for the sulphur to burn off, and then set fire to the citrus oils. My drink flared, briefly, in the evening light, attracting the attention of a couple of tourists who looked in my direction with the expression ‘I want one of those’ in their eyes.
‘You’re an artist, Ed.’
‘And you’re a different sort of artist, Nat. Now. What do you want me to check out?’
‘I need the abstract for the British pavilion at the Biennale.’
‘Sure.’ He tapped away. ‘You could do this yourself, though, right? I mean, you do have a computer upstairs?’
‘Yes. But that would involve me having to mix and set light to my own drinks. That might put the entire city at risk and I’m not prepared to do that.’
He tapped away at his phone, and then slid it across the bar to me. I scanned through it. The glass weapons. Who had made them?
I reached the end of the text, where Considine thanked his gallery, his agent and the British Council for their support. And then, ‘ All glass objects were fabricated according to traditional methods on the island of Murano.’
Oh hell. I hadn’t expected that. I’d thought that, at the very least, the glassmakers would have wanted a credit. Ed saw the expression on my face. ‘Something wrong, Nat?’ he said.
I ran my fingers through my hair. ‘Nah, it’s okay. Something just became a little more complicated than I needed, that’s all.’ How many glass foundries were there on Murano? ‘But this, Ed,’ I said, ‘is a two-Negroni problem.’
He smiled sympathetically, and slid another across the bar. I looked around. There were a few familiar faces, faces I’d known for perhaps five years. And how often had I spoken to them. I mean, really spoken to them?
I looked to my left. A football trophy sat in a case in front of a fading certificate. A team of accountants who’d beaten a team of lawyers in an amateur tournament how many years ago? And yet, it was something that had been worth recording. It must be difficult to beat a team of lawyers at football, I thought. Doubly so in Italy.
This was getting me nowhere. Go home, call Dario, get
as early a night as possible. It would be a bit of a pain trogging around every foundry in Murano, but so be it. I pushed my money across the bar, said goodnight to Ed, and left.
I made my way upstairs. ‘Fed?’ I called. There was no answer. ‘Fede?’ I called again. ‘I’m sorry. You know that. I’m—’
She wasn’t there. Of course, she wasn’t there. I sighed, hung my jacket on the back of the door and made my way into the flat, which seemed very, very empty.
Chapter 35
Seven knives. Seven arrows. Seven scythes. Seven by seven by seven. Nicolodi had said something at our last meeting. Something about looking out for Considine running at him with a glass scythe. Why had he chosen to use that particular word?
I printed off the address of every fornace and glass showroom on Murano. It was going to be a hell of a lot of work. But it was something to go on.
I took my mobile from my pocket, placed it on the table and stared at it. Then I shook my head, closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on the problem in hand. Lewis and Paul. They must have been in Venice over the past few days. As Nicolodi had said, it wouldn’t have made sense for them to return to the UK only to fly back for Paul’s second opening a few days later. They had to be in the city. And had Paul really been off on his own personal lost weekend – with my money – as Lewis had suggested?
Fitzgerald. Nicolodi. Considine. What was the connection between them? If only there was some way of getting hold of Paul, of speaking to him again.
There was, of course, something else I needed to do first.
It had to be faced. And it had to be done now. I sighed, and ran my hands through my hair. I opened my eyes. The phone, as expected, was still there. Then, thankfully, the doorbell rang. I picked up the intercom.
‘ Chi è? ’
‘ Ciao, vecio .’
‘Dario! Come on up.’
He was carrying a small rucksack. ‘Any chance I can stay tonight, Nat?’
‘Sure. Any reason why?’ Then a thought hit me. ‘Oh no, don’t tell me you’ve had a row as well?’
‘No no. Nothing like that. But I’m working in Venice tomorrow. If I get in early I might be able to finish early afternoon, and then I can help you with the case.’
‘And Valentina and Emily?’
‘Still in Trieste with Val’s parents.’
‘Great. Just like the old times, then. Pizza, beer and Pink Floyd?’
He shook his head. ‘Maybe later. We’ve got some work to do first. So what’s happened today?’
‘Let’s go through to the office.’ I cleared some papers away to make space, and dragged the visitor’s chair round to my side of the table. ‘Sit down here, eh? Now, the first thing is, we need to find a way of getting hold of Considine. So we can talk to him. Really talk to him. The other thing is this.’ I reached for the list of glass furnaces on Murano, and tapped it with a pen. ‘Somewhere on Murano is the furnace that made a set of glass weapons for him. And if we can find that, just maybe we can get a name, a description or—’ I broke off. Dario was shaking his head.
‘Not that. I meant the important stuff.’
‘I don’t know what you mean?’
He reached across the desk to my mobile phone and set it spinning with a flick of his fingers. We sat there and, in silence, watched it rotating ever more slowly until it came to a stop. Then Dario turned to me.
‘I think you do, vecio .’
I nodded.
He got to his feet. ‘I’m going down to Ed’s, okay? Come down when you’re ready. Take all the time you want. But you know what you have to do, don’t you?’
‘Yeah. You know I do.’
He smiled, and then left without saying another word.
I picked up the phone, and turned it over in my hands. Then placed it back on the desk, and spun it around again as I drummed my fingers. Then I took a deep breath, grabbed it and dialled.
‘ Pronto?’
‘Fede. It’s me.’ There was silence on the other end of the line. Good. It made things just that bit easier. ‘Just listen, please. Hang up after if you want, I’ll understand. But please just listen. There are things I have to say.’
My legs were still shaky as I made my way downstairs, and through the door of the Magical Brazilian. The bar fell silent as I entered. Dario, a half-empty glass of beer in his hand, stared at me, trying to read my expression. Ed, frozen in the act of polishing glasses. The same half-dozen regulars who I hardly knew turned to face me.
I made my way to the bar, conscious of everyone’s eyes on me. ‘What would you like, Nat?’ said Ed, trying to keep his voice neutral.
‘First of all, I’d like everyone to start talking again and behaving normally.’ Then I looked over at Dario. And then I could no longer keep the smile off my face.
Dario leapt from his chair, picked me up and spun me round. ‘You bastard! You had me scared for a minute! So everything is—?’
‘Fine. Really fine. Really, properly fine.’ He threw his arms wide. ‘But please, don’t hug me again. I think you might have opened the wound up.’
He grinned, and turned to Eduardo. ‘Get this man a Negroni.’
Ed shook his head. ‘He had two earlier.’
‘Okay then, get him a beer. A large one. And give him a cigarette as well, he’s earned one. But only one.’ Ed reached under the counter, took a packet of MS out and passed one to me.
‘Thanks. Just give me five minutes, eh?’ I made my way outside, and sat down at the one empty table. My hands shook as I lit up. Then I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, taking in the smell of cigarette smoke, the chatter of excited passers-by and the warmth of an early summer’s evening. I could feel the stress draining from me, the muscles in my shoulders unclenching.
‘Excuse me?’’ I opened my eyes. The accent was American, the speaker a big, grey-bearded man on the adjacent table, which he was sharing with a woman of similar age, and two young girls. ‘We were just wondering if we should say Happy Birthday?’
‘I’m sorry?’
He pointed towards the inside of the bar. ‘There seemed to be some sort of celebration going on. We wondered if it was your birthday.’
I smiled, and shook my head. ‘You see the big guy at the bar?’ He nodded. ‘That’s my best friend. And he’s just saved my life.’
Dario joined me at the table, and set two beers down. ‘Okay then, let’s get to work. Tell me about today.’ Then he broke off, and leaned closer in, staring at me. ‘Have you been in a fight? What have you done to your nose?’
‘I asked a friend to punch me in the face.’ I ran through the events of the afternoon with him.
‘I don’t get it.’ He looked confused.
‘I thought I’d try and make it look as if I was an intruder and Gheorghe had come to investigate.’
‘Yeah, that I understand. But why didn’t you just pretend to be hurt?’
‘You know, I never thought of that.’
He shook his head. Then he grinned again. ‘Okay, let’s finish these and go.’
‘Go? Go where?’
‘Pizza and beer, vecio . And then we’ve got a crime to solve.’
Chapter 36
‘Bacon and eggs?’
‘Strictly speaking it’s pancetta and eggs. It’s not quite the same, but it’s a guilty pleasure. Fede never understood.’ I smiled, ‘Doesn’t understand – the need to fry things first thing in the morning.’
Dario laughed. ‘Make the most of it then. She’ll be back over tonight and you’ll have to get used to proper food again.’
‘Or, I could, you know, be in prison?’
‘You worry too much. As we were saying last night. You go to Murano. You find the right fornace . You get the name of whoever ordered the weapons. And then you go straight to the police. Game over.’
I sighed. ‘I don’t want to go to bloody Murano. Can’t you come with me, at least?’
‘Sorry, buddy. I’ve got to work this morning. I’ll take the afternoon off th
ough, okay? Give me a call when you get back.’ He got to his feet and wiped his lips. ‘Terrible breakfast, Nat. See you later, eh?’
Bacon and eggs was one of the few things that Gramsci would never attempt to scavenge. It at least made breakfast a little less stressful than it was wont to be. I finished Dario’s as well, then chucked the plates in the sink and then I looked through my pile of newspaper clippings. I needed a good clear shot of Considine, Fitzgerald and Nicolodi. I tore the front page from La Nuova and folded it away inside my jacket.
It was a pain to get to Murano from this part of town. There was no direct vaporetto service via the Grand Canal. I could get a boat up to Ferrovia or Piazzale Roma, but the boats from there would inevitably be choked with tourists setting out on a day trip to buy glass souvenirs. It would take forever, or at least feel like it.
I walked up to the Rialto, and struck out north, skirting the church of San Canziano, and then made my way up one of the long, straight calli that led towards Fondamente Nove. I always felt there was a mournful air hanging over this part of the city. The narrowness of the calli and the absence of light felt oppressive. Then, at a certain point, you started to become aware of the unusual number of flower shops. Then of the number of stonemasons that specialised in headstone work. Then of the number of businesses offering funerary services.
The reason became obvious when you emerged from the calle and looked out upon the cemetery island of San Michele. But there was something about the view that never failed to lift the spirits. On a cold, clear winter’s day, the snow-capped Dolomites would be visible on the horizon. The weather was already too warm for that, but the view across the northern lagoon cheered me up. Dario, I knew, was right. The job of finding the right fornace might be a little tedious, but the process would be a mechanical one and, who knows, there was always the chance of striking lucky first time. I grabbed the next boat for the island.
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