My good mood evaporated in the fifteen minutes it took to arrive, as the amount of work that might be required started to sink in. I looked at the printout I’d brought with me, of the names and addresses of every glass furnace and factory on the island. There were more than twenty of them. Still, it had to be done, and the island wasn’t all that big. I got off at the Faro vaporetto stop, next to Murano’s lighthouse. It was the obvious place to start. I could make my way down as far as Murano’s very own Grand Canal, then cross over and walk back on the other side. And, if need be, I was going to stop at every damn shop, factory and furnace along the way.
I stopped for a cigarette about an hour later, less than halfway to the halfway point. I’d forgotten what I didn’t like about Murano. Or rather, I’d forgotten just what I disliked most about it: namely, shopping for glass.
Tourist guides tended to suggest steering clear of Murano, unless actually going there with the specific purpose of buying souvenirs or visiting a glassblowing demonstration. I’d always thought that was a mistake. The buildings were smaller than in the centro storico proper, which gave it a lighter, airier feel than Venice itself. The Grand Canal was pretty enough, there were a few churches worth visiting and some decent bars and restaurants. I could never imagine living there, as the place seemed to shut down after dark, but, as a place to visit, I’d always found it quite pleasant.
As long as, that is, I was not engaged in the business of buying glass.
I remembered trying to buy my first-ever Christmas present for Federica. I circumnavigated the entire island, twice; got lost in the thick, freezing fog that had settled over the city like a blanket; discovered that the warming winter drink enticingly described as a ‘hot spritz’ actually tasted of a distillation of evils; and I had found nothing, nothing at all that seemed quite right. I walked past shops displaying chandeliers of exquisite workmanship that would have looked absolutely stunning if one happened to have the entire piano nobile of a baroque palace in which to hang them. Shops with vases of extraordinary complexity and beauty that would have been ideal for people with pockets of infinite depth and nondestructive pets. Jewellery of every imaginable kind, none of which I could imagine on Federica, which made me swear I would never, ever again go shopping without her.
And that was just the good stuff. I walked past seemingly endless window displays of stuff that was simply godawful, including an entire nativity scene displaying a Holy Family so terrifyingly ugly that it made me momentarily wonder if Herod had not, perhaps, been on to something. ‘Everything for a euro’ shops where the works bore no official stamps of authenticity beyond the teasingly ambiguous ‘genuine Italian glass’.
I finally ended up buying a Father Christmas bottle stopper from the very first place I’d visited. Fede pretended to like it, said it was the thought that counted, and I had never loved her more.
In short, Murano was a great place to walk around. Except for the glass.
And so I walked the length of the Grand Canal and stopped at every shop, outlet and fornace along the way. Signore, you want to buy a knife? A glass knife? A scythe? From us? I got used to every shop assistant stepping back from me. Christmas presents from Murano, I figured, were not going to be a problem. Or even an option. Because nobody gave the impression they’d be desperate for my custom in future.
I dropped into a side street for another cigarette. Come on, Nathan, just stick with it. Doesn’t matter if it’s the last place you look. Face it, it probably is going to be the last bloody place you look. Stick with it.
I walked along the fondamenta , in the midst of hordes of excited tourists; kept a fixed smile on my face as I queued behind a French couple swithering between a set of glasses retailing at €13.50 and another at €18.50 and fought down the impulse to scream that both sets were made by small children in the Far East and worth a couple of euros at most; and cursed myself for getting grumpy whilst waiting in line behind people who were, after all, on holiday and trying to have a good time.
I reached the bridge that crossed over the Grand Canal, and saw a sign outside an unprepossessing shop window. Fornace Vianello. Despite my mood, I couldn’t help but smile. Vianello, the most Venetian of surnames. Back in Aberystwyth, this place would have been called Jones the Glass. I took a closer look in the window. At first glance, it looked like the usual crap – gondolas, harlequins, generic masked figures. It also looked too small to house an actual fornace , but perhaps there was space for a workshop at the back. But then something caught my eye. An arrow. A glass arrow! I couldn’t be absolutely sure that it was exactly the same type that had put a hole in my jacket and three stitches in my shoulder, but, by God, it was a glass arrow! I gave a little jump and an excited little meep sound that raised a sad shake of the head from a passing Venetian, evidently disappointed at how little it took to impress a tourist.
Inside, a middle-aged moustachioed man was working on a thin millefiòri cane with a micro torch. There was no one else inside, and he gave no sign of acknowledging me. I gave him a couple of minutes and then wondered if I should clear my throat, or possibly just try coming in again, when he switched off the torch, pushed back his protective glasses and smiled. ‘Good morning. Can I help you?’
‘I’m sorry. It seems like I’m disturbing you.’
‘No, no, please. I’m sorry too. You need to concentrate a lot with this type of work. Sometimes I concentrate a little too much. Someone comes into the shop, I don’t notice them and suddenly – bum – I look up, somebody is leaving the shop and I’ve lost a sale. But what can I do? Or more importantly, what can I do for you?’
‘There’s something in the window that caught my eye. Something a bit unusual. A glass arrow?’
He nodded. ‘Oh that. Well, it was a commission. That was my first attempt. To be honest, it’s not very good, I could let you have that one at a special price.’
‘A first attempt? I would never have guessed, it looks beautiful.’ We both smiled and nodded at each other, both aware that these were the first steps in the dance of negotiation. ‘A slightly unusual thing to commission, though.’
‘Oh yes. It was a strange order. The gentleman was an artist, I believe.’ I must have started, because he noticed my reaction. ‘Yes, yes. It’s not unusual at this time of year. We always get a few, shall we say, idiosyncratic commissions during the Biennale.’
‘Glass arrows. Perhaps he was just buying early for Valentine’s Day?’
He laughed. ‘Oh, I hope not. You ought to have seen the other things he wanted. A glass knife, for one. And a glass scythe. Can you imagine that? A glass scythe!’
‘Wow! Okay, hopefully not for Valentine’s Day then.’ We both laughed, and then he looked at me expectantly. ‘Can you tell me his name? The man who commissioned them?’
He stopped smiling. ‘Are you police?’ I shook my head. ‘Then why should I tell you?’
‘I’m trying to help someone. I’m the UK’s honorary consul in Venice. I believe a British national is in trouble, and I’m trying to help him.’ That person being me.
He shook his head. ‘I can’t do that. You have a problem like that, you need to go to the police.’ He brushed past me, made his way to the door and held it open. ‘I’m sorry. I think you’d better go.’
I didn’t move. ‘I don’t need his address. I don’t need a phone number. All I need is a name. And I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t vitally important. Please?’ He continued to hold the door open, staring at me.
Last throw of the dice. The shop was a little bit off the beaten path. There was a cheapo shop selling Chinese glass next door. I was the only customer on a sunny morning during one of the peaks of the tourist season. I reached for my wallet. I took out a fifty and placed it on the counter. He didn’t move. I took out another. He let the door slam shut. I put a third note down. ‘It is important,’ I repeated. He said nothing, but stared at the counter. I took out a fourth note, the last I had, and placed it on top of the pile. ‘Vitally important.’
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He turned the sign on the door so it read ‘Closed’ in three different languages, and went behind the counter. ‘Okay. If it’s important.’ He quickly swooshed the notes off the counter and into the till, in one fluid motion. ‘Let me see.’ He ran his hand down a ledger. ‘Now, I don’t normally keep a record of this sort of thing, but commissions are a bit different. Here we are.’ He paused.
‘The name?’ I asked.
‘Considine. Paul Considine.’
Chapter 37
There are times when only the words, ‘You what?’ will do.
‘You what?’ I said.
‘Considine. Paul Considine.’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I don’t understand.’
I ran my hands through my hair. ‘It can’t be. It just can’t be.’ I was thinking out loud now. ‘Do you remember what he looked like?’
‘Not so much. A little, maybe.’
‘Was he about my height? Longish hair, possibly unshaven. Probably wearing lots of black. Looked just a bit rock ’n’ roll?’
Vianello smiled. ‘Oh no, signore . Not at all. He was a bit more like you, you know?’
‘Meaning not very rock ’n’ roll. Okay, no time for hurt feelings.’ I pulled out the clipping from La Nuova and spread it on the counter. ‘Do you recognise anyone in this photograph?’ He looked at the photo for a few seconds, and then up at me. ‘Not me. Apart from me!’ He bent over the photo again, and then moved his finger to Francesco Nicolodi.
‘It was him.’
‘Are you sure?’
He shook his head. I tried to keep the frustration out of my voice. ‘But it could have been?’ He nodded. ‘You’re sure it wasn’t him.’ I pointed first to Considine and then to Fitzgerald. ‘Or him?’
‘No signore . Not them. I am sure. But I don’t understand . . . ?’
‘I think I’m beginning to.’
‘Have I done anything wrong?’
I shook my head. ‘No. You’ve done me a very big favour. Thank you.’ I made for the door.
He gave a gentle cough. ‘As I said, I can do you a good deal on the arrow.’
I stopped dead in my tracks. Something had just occurred to me. ‘A glass arrow. Could you actually shoot a glass arrow?’
He looked confused for a moment and then laughed. ‘Shoot one? From a bow? Oh no, signore , these are just for decoration. They’re not balanced like an arrow. They would probably break as soon as you tried.’
‘You could never shoot one. But you could stab someone.’ He took a step backwards. ‘Of course, you could stab someone! Someone close to you,’ I laughed.
Vianello took another step backwards. There were small beads of sweat on his forehead. ‘ Signore?’
I smiled at him. ‘You’ve been very helpful. Thank you so much.’ I took a quick look around the shop. ‘You know, you have some lovely pieces here. I must come back for Christmas presents.’
He nodded, his eyes wide, never moving his gaze from me.
I smiled at him one final time, then turned and left the shop. As soon as the door closed behind me, I heard him scurrying across the room to lock and bolt it.
* * *
Francesco Nicolodi. Nicolodi, who had told me that Paul Considine was a fragile, damaged man with a history of violence. Nicolodi, who had been right next to me when I picked up a wallet with an incriminating piece of evidence inside. Nicolodi, who had commissioned a glass arrow, a glass knife and a glass scythe using Considine’s name.
Nicolodi, who was now dead.
There was another problem. I’d not seen him at the Arsenale, and now – with the CCTV records having been deleted – there was no way of proving he’d ever been there. Yet, there had to be a connection. For some reason, Nicolodi had been trying to frame Considine for murder. It was an almost perfect solution. Were it not for the not inconsiderable problem of his death.
I rubbed my face and felt a twinge of pain from my nose. Dario’s words came back to me: Why didn’t you just pretend to have been punched?
Why didn’t you just pretend . . . ?
I’d intended to head directly for the Questura at Piazzale Roma and tell Vanni everything. The case against Nicolodi made sense, but it was imperfect, incomplete. Vanni, I knew, would scribble copious notes and then give me a very stern warning about not interfering. No, there was still more that I could do for myself.
I jumped off the boat at San Samuele and made my way home. Gramsci gave a happy little yowl as I stepped through the door, and started scrabbling away at the sofa. Time for a feed. Or time to play ball. Or both.
I picked him up, tucked him under my arm and then plonked him unceremoniously on the desk next to my laptop. Then I brought my face down level with his and stared directly into his sulphurous eyes. ‘Okay, it’s like this. We’re going to solve this case and then, and only then, do you get fed. Then, and only then, do I agree to start throwing balls for you. And if you start walking back and forth over the keyboard, or chewing on cables, or pulling plugs out of sockets, then you’re going to be a very hungry and bored cat. Do we have a deal?’
I logged on. How far back did online newspaper archives go? Maybe twenty years at most? That would have to do. That would probably be enough. I had a quick search on the name ‘Francesco Nicolodi’. It returned a few names but a quick check was enough to assure me that we weren’t talking about the same person. ‘Lewis Fitzgerald’ then. More hits, this time, mainly in the context of being Paul Considine’s agent. ‘Lewis Fitzgerald Francesco Nicolodi’ returned nothing. I typed ‘Lewis Fitzgerald Italian’ and crossed my fingers.
And there it was. An image of Lewis at a party in the mid-1990s. I didn’t recognise the others at first sight, until I looked at the caption. Gwenant Pryce, her red hair clipped short; and Adam Grant, then a mere beardless youth. Paul stood between them, with an arm around Gwenant’s waist. He could only have been in his early twenties, but already had something of the rock star about him. They all looked so happy. Lewis, almost glamorous and with a full head of hair, stood next to a young man who, the caption informed me, was named Riccardo Pelosi. Fitzgerald’s assistant.
There was another image, this time from a Guardian article of 2008. Two men arriving at court. Lewis, his hair thinning by now, looking tired and drawn as he tried to smile for the cameras. The other was a man, the caption said, who had been convicted of threatening behaviour and arson. I took a closer look. A man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Francesco Nicolodi: Pelosi.
The two of them, it seemed, had spent several days in court. Fitzgerald had pleaded not guilty to all charges. And Pelosi had accepted complete responsibility, and said he was acting alone. In the end, Fitzgerald had been acquitted and Pelosi ended up with a seven-year prison sentence. In 2008. With good behaviour he could have been out a year or two ago.
I printed off the article and photograph, went through to the kitchen, and poured out Gramsci’s kitty biscuits. He jabbed at a cheesy one, and then looked up at me in disbelief. I stared down at him. ‘You’ll have to weed out the ones you don’t like yourself.’ He glared back at me, but I felt sufficiently brave to turn my back on him. I practically skipped down the stairs. For the first time in a very long time, I actually felt in control of events.
Five minutes later, I was back upstairs. ‘Sorry Grams, I’ve just realised I forgot something.’ I took the top copy of Il Gazzettino from the pile of unread newspapers. I was on my way out when he gave a pathetic little n’yeep sound. He hadn’t moved from his bowl, and was staring down at the contents.
‘Oh for God’s sake.’ I put the newspaper down, picked up his bowl, removed the cheesy biscuits and set it back down again. Without so much as a single meow of thanks, he settled down to eating. I watched him for a few moments, then shook my head, picked up the newspaper and headed back downstairs. I was in complete control of events. More or less.
The door to Santa Maria Ausiliatrice was closed. I knocked, and it swung open at my touc
h. ‘Gwen,’ I called. ‘Gwen?’
‘Nathan. Come in.’ Her voice was ragged. I stepped inside. Gwen was righting an upturned chair. ‘Can you give me a hand with this, cariad , it’s a bit heavy for me?’ She indicated a wooden easel lying on the floor, and a large canvas. I grabbed one side of it and together we shuffled it into the corner. Then we moved the canvas into position. What had once been the macabre portrait of Lewis Fitzgerald had been slashed to pieces. Gwen stood back. ‘Not quite what I had in mind perhaps, but I think it’s still got something.’ She smiled at me but her eyes were red.
‘What the hell happened here, Gwen?’
She shrugged. ‘An overenthusiastic critic, perhaps? Take a look around.’
I walked into the blue room. The mirror had been smashed, and the painting cut to pieces. Blue, purple, green, orange, white, violet, black. In every one, a slashed painting and a broken mirror. Forty-nine years of bad luck.
‘Gwen. Oh Gwen, I’m so sorry.’
She dabbed at her eyes, and patted my arm. ‘It’s all right, my love. It’s only art. Not people. Only art.’
I put my arms around her and hugged her. ‘It was him, wasn’t it? Fitzgerald.’ She nodded. ‘Were you here? Did he hurt you? I’ll bloody kill him.’
She moved away from me, and patted my chest. ‘Sit down, cariad . I’ll make us a cup of tea.’ She filled the kettle, and switched it on. ‘At least this still works. No, I wasn’t here when it happened. But I know it was him.’
‘How?’
‘Because he telephoned me this morning. Said he’d enjoyed my exhibition, and hoped I didn’t mind the little interventions he’d made. Then he told me to leave Paul Considine the hell alone if I knew what was good for me. And if I received anything – anything at all – in the mail in the next few days, I was to give it to him straightaway without opening it.’
‘What?’
‘He said he was “collecting an insurance policy for a friend”. I don’t know what he meant by that, do you?’ I shook my head. The kettle finished boiling, and she filled two mugs. ‘Earl Grey all right?’ I nodded. ‘Biscuit?’
Vengeance in Venice Page 22
