‘Oh Gwen, to hell with the bloody tea and biscuits. What are you going to do about Fitzgerald?’
‘I think, cariad , that I’m going to do as he says.’
‘Call the police. He’s caused thousands of pounds’ worth of damage here. More than that, he’s actually threatening you.’
‘Oh, he’s very, very good at that. Remember what I told you last time. He knows some nasty people.’
I took out my phone. ‘Well, if you won’t call them, I will.’
She touched my arm. ‘No you won’t, Nathan.’
‘I think I will.’
‘No, you won’t. If you do, he’ll hurt Paul. Seriously.’
I stared at her for a few seconds, then nodded and put my phone away. ‘Okay. Then we need to find another way. Where is Paul, anyway?
‘He stayed with me for a couple of days. Then went back to Lewis last night. He said his head was in the right place now. He was going to break with him. Take control of his own affairs again.’
‘He stayed with you?’ I smiled at her. ‘Did you enjoy lunch the other day, Gwen?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘A shame Ai Mercanti was closed. Paul wanted to take an old friend out to lunch, and was very keen that Lewis didn’t find out about it. I hope you found somewhere nice?’
She laughed her tinkly little laugh, and, for a moment, the lines seemed to drop away from her face. ‘We found some terrible old tourist trap on the way to Piazza San Marco. Frozen pizzas, and cost us a fortune.’ She smiled. ‘But it was still lovely.’
‘You and Paul. You were more than just friends, weren’t you?’
‘Clever, Mr Consul. Yes, we were more than just friends. For a while at least. A long time ago now.’ She smiled. ‘You’ve been taking Adam’s advice then? Asking all the right questions?’
‘And the wrong ones, it seems. But this next one’s important. Take a look at this.’ I took out the article from the Guardian . ‘Do you recognise anyone here?’
‘That’s Adam, of course. And Paul there. Handsome boy, wasn’t he? And me. Looking all lovely and glammed-up. I can’t really be sure where that was taken. Some opening at Lewis’s gallery, I expect. Before he started representing Paul. Before we started wondering where all our money was going.’
‘And who’s this?’ I pointed at the figure of Riccardo Pelosi.
‘I remember him. Lewis’s assistant. Not a nice man. I think he went to prison.’
‘He did. He set fire to an artist’s studio, “as a friendly warning”. A warning to people like you and Adam, I imagine. Not to push Lewis Fitzgerald too far. The thing about artist’s studios though, is that they’re liable to be full of inflammable materials. And the whole building went up like a torch. Bloody lucky that no one was killed.’ Gwenant didn’t speak. I put the photograph from the clipping directly next to the one from the front of the Gazzettino . ‘They’re the same person, aren’t they? Riccardo Pelosi is Francesco Nicolodi. Lewis Fitzgerald’s fixer. A man who went to prison for seven years. A man, we might say, who knows where the bodies are buried. He was murdered on Lazzaretto Vecchio two days ago.’
She looked over at me and nodded. I continued. ‘A man who arrived in town for the Venice Biennale, staying in a flophouse in Dorsoduro. And who later moved into one of the most exclusive hotels on the Grand Canal.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’m not sure I do, not completely. Come on, let’s game it through. Francesco Nicolodi – let’s call him that for now – spent the last week and a half dripping poison into the ears of anyone who’d listen. About Paul Considine. A man with drink and drugs problems. An artist who might be a plagiarist. A man with a violent past who depends on medication to control his bipolar disorder and who could potentially become aggressive if he forgets to take it.’ I paused. ‘Now, I’ve known him for just over ten days, Gwen. That doesn’t sound like the man I’ve met. But you properly know him. Was he ever that sort of person?’
She shook her head. ‘The problem with Paul is that he became too famous, too quickly. Too many people queuing up to tell him how brilliant he was. That sort of thing’s never good for you. So yes, he drank too much. Smoked too much. Spent way, way too much. Self-destructive, oh yes. Broke my heart. But never violent.’
‘Nicolodi told me he’d glassed someone in a fight. Did you ever hear about that?’
‘There was a fight. A fight in a pub. Somebody pulled a knife and a glass was broken. And he got hurt. But that was it. That was years ago when he was young and stupid. And it scared him, scared him to death. That’s when he got the idea of working with glass. Trying to work everything out in his head, trying to exorcise things.’
I nodded. ‘There we go, you see. Nicolodi trying to plant the idea of the psycho artist with a thing about broken glass. Now then, when did you find out he was bipolar?’
‘I think I heard about it shortly after we broke up. It explained a few things. The mood swings. That self-destructive streak.’
‘And what if he forgot to take his medication?’
‘I don’t know, Nathan. I’m no expert on this sort of thing.’ She sounded tired now.
‘Neither am I. But what’s likely to happen? That he becomes depressed and anti-social? Self-destructive? Maybe so. But I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t turn him into a psychopathic master criminal trying to kill everyone who’d ever wronged him in ever more convoluted ways.’
‘And he was always taking his medication.’ She sipped at her tea. ‘At least, I know he has been the last couple of days. But how does this tie in with Lewis?’
‘Think back to 2008. Nicolodi takes the fall for Lewis. He serves however many years in prison and keeps his mouth tight shut the whole time. And then he gets out. He knows Lewis has been embezzling money from Paul for years. Lewis is getting edgy as Paul is showing signs of wanting to take back control of his affairs. He also owes Nicolodi more than a few favours. He needs to keep him on his side. So he cuts him in to a deal.
‘They plan to set Paul up as this crazy, violent near-psychopath. A man who should in no way, shape or form be left to look after himself. Make him out to be crazy, maybe even a killer. People would just shake their heads at poor, mad old Paul Considine and think that at least his manager had tried to look after him.
‘Nicolodi lifts Paul’s wallet, and plants some incriminating evidence in it. And he drops it right at the feet of the honorary consul in Venice, a man, he’s sure, who will make certain it ends up in the hands of the police. Only he’s been lazy, hasn’t done his research properly. He doesn’t know that the Priadol tablets he’s managed to score are the wrong dose for Paul Considine.’ I smiled. ‘And that’s when Mr Honorary Consul starts to take an interest.
‘Then Francesco Nicolodi becomes very greedy, very quickly. He wants a bigger share. He’s got an article in The Times in which he takes a shot at Considine’s management. Now Lewis has the problem of getting rid of him as well. So he lures him out to Lazzaretto Vecchio and puts a glass blade in his neck.’
‘Lures him out there. How would he do that?’
‘I’m not sure yet. But I think he tells him that this Sutherland guy is nosing around. That he’s found out a bit too much. More than that, he’s screwed up their plans by sending Paul off with some spending money when he was supposed to be attacking people with glass arrows in the Arsenale. So they’ve got to get rid of him and make it look like Considine was responsible. And then Nicolodi turns up to find that I’m not there, and the only other person there is Lewis. Waiting for him with a scythe.’
She nodded. ‘It’s complicated. But it could be.’
‘The two of them were working together. Nicolodi got greedy. Lewis killed him. That’s it. That’s got to be it.’ I paused. ‘And now I need you to tell me where Lewis and Paul are staying. Because I don’t think they’ve left Venice at all. I think Lewis has unfinished business.’
‘Unfinished business? With who?’
‘This “insurance polic
y”. Something Nicolodi was holding over him. Whatever it is, it wasn’t enough and Lewis called his bluff. But whatever it is, I don’t think Lewis will feel safe leaving Venice until he’s got it.’ I smiled. ‘So come on, Gwen. Do you know where they’re staying?’ She said nothing. ‘Gwen, I know you think you’re protecting him but—’
‘He said he’d hurt him!’ she snapped back.
‘He has already. He’s probably stealing all his money. He’s tried to frame him for murder. He might even be switching his medication. How long before we read about tragic Paul Considine accidentally overdosing?’
She dabbed at her eyes again. ‘They’re at the Palazzo Papadopoli. Or at least they were.’
‘Figures. I can see how it would have appealed to Nicolodi. Another little way to torment Lewis. To see him sitting there, drinking expensive drinks on his money.’ I got to my feet. ‘Okay, I need to go.’
She grabbed my hand. ‘Do you actually know what you’re doing, Mr Consul?’
‘In all honesty, not really.’ I made my way to the door. ‘But I’m going to sort it out. I promise. And for what it’s worth, Gwenant, I still think you’re a lovely Welsh woman.’
Chapter 38
Dario and I leaned on a table outside the Birraria La Corte in Campo San Polo.
‘This isn’t going to work, is it?’ I said.
He took a drink of beer and wiped away a foam moustache. ‘Erm, possibly not. Maybe not. In fact, probably not.’
‘That’s not making me feel any better.’
‘Sorry, buddy. Can’t think of anything better. Can you?’
‘Nope. All I can think of is that we somehow need to separate Considine from Fitzgerald. And if we can do that, maybe we can get him to talk.’ I caught Dario’s expression. ‘No, not like that . Well, there is an alternative. We just stake the place out until he leaves.’
Dario shook his head. ‘Won’t work. What if he leaves by water taxi? There’s no way we can watch the front entrance unless we’re on the other side of the Grand Canal. Anyway, that’ll take time and that’s something you’re running out of.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How long before the cops have the same idea you did and go knocking on the door of every fornace on Murano? “Yes, officer, we did have a man making enquiries about fashioning deadly glass weapons. A foreign gentleman he was.” ’
‘Yes, but they’ll soon twig that it wasn’t me.’
‘Oh sure. Depends on their definition of “soon”, though, and how long you’re prepared to spend in gattabuia waiting to find out.’
‘You’re right.’ I’d made a few prison visits. I had no desire to learn any more about them from the inside. ‘Okay, let’s do it.’ I drained my glass and left a few euros on the table.
Dario laughed. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Just leaving the money for the drinks.’
‘We’re not in Mestre now, vecio and this is not Toni’s. This is,’ he checked the menu again, ‘eight euros a bottle.’
‘Eight euros!’
‘Yep.’ He picked up the bottle. ‘But it’s no ordinary beer. This has a delicate aroma of lemon, pink grapefruit and orange, offset with delicate hoppy notes.’
‘Eight euros, though!’
‘Sure, I know it’s a lot. But I thought it might be nice to come somewhere really good for your last beer as a free man.’
I fished a tenner out of my wallet. ‘Brilliant. All of a sudden an enforced vacation as a guest of the president doesn’t seem so bad. Come on, let’s go.’
We made our way across the campo, down through San Polo and towards the Palazzo Papadopoli, where we tailgated a couple of guests through the front gate.
‘Who’s going to do this?’ I whispered.
‘Gotta be you, buddy. I can’t do an English accent.’ It seemed unfair, but he was absolutely right. We walked separately into reception. Dario nodded and smiled at the receptionist, sat down in an armchair and opened a newspaper, as if waiting for someone.
I walked up to the desk. There wasn’t much chance this was going to work, but – given that Considine didn’t seem to be the most extrovert of people – there was always the slight chance that he’d never made much of an impression, ideally visual, on the hotel staff.
‘Hi there,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, this is really awkward, but I’ve lost my room card.’ I kept my head down and stared at my shoes.
‘No problems sir, I’ll get you one immediately. Your name . . . ?’
‘Considine. Paul Considine.’
‘Mr Considine. In room 313?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Okay, I’m just doing that for you now, sir.’ She reached into a drawer, took out a stack of blank cards, and placed one into a card writer. ‘Oh, there’s some mail for you as well.’ She reached behind her, took an envelope from a pigeon hole, and passed it to me. Then her expression changed, became panicky, as if she’d realised she’d done something wrong. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I do need you to sign this first.’ She slid a form across the desk to me.
‘Of course.’
She looked a little embarrassed. ‘And I do need to see your passport. Or driving licence. Anything like that.’
‘Ah. Oh yes, of course you do.’ I tucked the envelope away in my jacket before she could say anything, and made great play of checking my pockets. ‘I’m so sorry, I must have left them in my room.’
‘Okay. It’s probably best to make sure you’ve always got it with you, though. You are supposed to have some form of identification with you. Just in case.’
‘Of course. Silly of me to forget. It’s just that we don’t have ID cards in Britain. Imagine that, eh?’ I laughed, a little too loud and a little too long. ‘Well, I’ll just fetch it from upstairs and bring it down.’ I reached out my hand for the card.
She put her hands to her face, flushed with embarrassment. She’d got the protocol just a little bit wrong, and that had now put her in a difficult position. I smiled, but didn’t move my hand. ‘I’ll just be two minutes,’ I said.
‘Is anything wrong, Sasha?’ I recognised the voice at once. The manager. I was unable to prevent myself from stiffening up, and snatching my hand back. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Dario discreetly folding his newspaper away.
‘Nothing wrong, ma’am.’ The relief in the young woman’s voice was tangible. Someone more senior was going to have to deal with it. ‘It’s just Mr Considine’s lost his room card.’
‘Oh dear. Well, not to worry, Mr Considine, Sasha will soon . . .’ She stopped, and her face clouded as she stared at me. ‘You’re not Mr Considine.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘I know you. We’ve met before. You were here just a few days . . .’ Her voice trailed off.
I gave her the best smile I could manage. ‘I can explain.’ Dario, I noticed from the corner of my eye, had got to his feet.
‘Can you?’
I shook my head. ‘No. Not really.’
‘Sutherland. What the hell do you want?’ There was no mistaking the voice. I turned to see the familiar figure of Lewis Fitzgerald, side by side with Paul Considine.
‘Sasha, call the police please,’ said the manager.
‘Yes, Sasha, please do that.’ I pulled the envelope from my jacket. I had no idea what was in it, but that didn’t necessarily matter. It only mattered that Lewis believed that I did. I held it out towards him, like Peter Cushing brandishing a crucifix. ‘It’s over, Lewis. Everything’s in here. Pelosi’s insurance policy. It’s all over.’
Paul took a step towards me, and smiled. For a moment he looked ten years younger. Then Lewis grabbed his arm and yanked him back. He spun him round to face him, grabbed his face with both hands and hissed at him. ‘Remember what I said, Paul?’
Paul looked back at me and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Nathan.’ Then the two of them turned and broke for the entrance, haring back the way they had come, with Dario and I in pursuit.
‘You know, that went better than I expected.’
‘You worry too much, vecio !’
Neither Lewis nor Paul looked in great shape, but they had a surprising turn of speed. I had no idea if they knew where the hell they were going. After a few twists and turns down narrow calli , I was convinced that I didn’t. Surely, I thought, just one more turn and they’ll find themselves in a dead end, or the only exit directly on to the canal, and then we’ll have them. They hurdled a pair of small dogs, as a couple of abusivi selling bags flattened themselves against the wall, and turned right towards the Grand Canal.
San Silvestro. Somehow they’d ended up at San Silvestro. Ahead of us I could see the vaporetto stop, and the next boat pulling in. They still had a good fifty metres on us and leapt aboard. Dario and I ran like hell, and hollered for the marinaio to wait for us. He looked at us, sizing up the distance and shrugged apologetically before casting off.
We stood, panting, at the side of the canal. ‘The number,’ said Dario, ‘did you see the number?’
‘San Silvestro. It’s a 1,’ I said, trying to catch my breath. Got to be a 1.’
‘So next stop is—’
‘Sant’Angelo.’
‘Okay, we can cut him off there. Come on.’
‘Dario, there’s no way.’ I looked up the Grand Canal. ‘We’d have to double back on ourselves and cross the Rialto Bridge. ‘There’s no way we can get there in time.’
‘Yes there is.’ He grabbed my elbow and half-dragged me along the fondamenta and over the wall of the adjacent hotel. He sprinted through the garden, scattering waiters and tourists to the left and to the right, as I followed shouting apologies as best I could. Then we were up and over the wall on the other side, and at the San Silvestro gondola station. Before I could stop him, Dario had pushed his way to the front, and gently but firmly dragged two elderly tourists back from the pontoon where they were about to embark. ‘It’s okay,’ he said, pointing at me, ‘he’s a cop.’
‘You are?’ the husband looked unconvinced.
Vengeance in Venice Page 23
