I shook my head. ‘No. But I’m an honorary consul, if that helps.’
He shook his head.
‘Get in!’ shouted Dario.
‘Dario this is insane. This is a gondola. It’s not built for a high speed chase.’
‘Get in the goddamn boat, Nathan. And don’t tell a Venetian about what a gondola can and can’t do.’
I jumped in. Dario yammered away in a Veneziano that was far too quick for me to attempt to understand, and made frantic gestures in the direction of Sant’Angelo. The gondolier looked confused, but nodded and kicked back at the jetty in order to push off. He waved his hand at us, ‘Can you sit down please?’ We looked at each other for a moment, and then the two of us plumped ourselves down into a red plush heart-shaped chair. ‘Thanks, that’s better. You want me to sing?’
‘No. No, we don’t want you to sing, thanks. Just get us to Sant’Angelo as fast as you can.’
‘Sure, I can do that. But it’s a busy time of day. If you like, I can go off into some of the side canals. Much quieter, more beautiful.’
‘Please. Just get us to Sant’Angelo. As fast as you can. Row. Row like the wind.’
He shrugged, and fell silent. I turned to Dario. ‘This is never going to work.’
‘It is going to work, vecio . Somebody once piloted a gondola to Croatia, you know?’
‘And how long did that take them?’
‘About a week. Now just watch.’
The vaporetto was well ahead of us and – despite the best efforts of our gondolier – extending its lead. And then, as we were watching, an Alilaguna boat for the airport slid into the Sant’Angelo pontoon, collecting a group of tourists with heavy luggage. Behind it, two taxis jostled for space; whilst ahead of it, the traghetto service started out across the canal. Dario grinned at me. ‘Busy time of the day, Nathan, on the busiest stretch of the canal. It was an easy bet that something would hold it up.’ And, indeed, we sat and watched as the vaporetto waited for the passage to clear and, slowly but surely, we made up ground.
We were almost level by the time the pontoon was clear. As soon as the marinaio had moored, and opened the gate, Lewis and Paul were away across the bridge and across the campo . As soon as the gondola was within distance, Dario leapt ashore, setting the boat rocking alarmingly. I let the gondolier pull up to the jetty and then set off in pursuit, before I felt an arm pulling me back.
‘Eighty euros please, sir.’
‘Eighty euros! We’ve only had a five-minute trip.’
‘It’s the standard charge sir. Please, if you want to check . . .’ He indicated a laminated page fixed to the side of the gondola.
‘I know it’s the standard charge. We didn’t want the whole experience. We just wanted to cross the canal.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. For crossing the canal, there are the traghetti . If I don’t charge you eighty, well, there are customers back there that I have lost.’
I sighed, and reached for my wallet. Seventy-five euros. I smiled at him. ‘Enough?’
He shook his head.
I reached into my pocket and took out a handful of change. ‘One . . . two . . . three,’ I counted. ‘Four euros. Four-fifty. Four-seventy. Four-ninety. Ninety-five. Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine.’
‘I’m sorry sir, but that’s not a centesimo.’
I looked again. ‘Ah, you’re right. It’s a one-penny piece. Wonder how that got there?’ I turned again to my handful of small change. ‘And two centesimi . There we go.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ He smiled at me, and held my gaze in expectation of a tip that was never going to come. Then he handed me a card. ‘Please leave a review on TripAdvisor.’ He smiled once more, and kicked off from the jetty, back in the direction from which we had come.
I tucked the card inside my pocket, and looked around the square. Dario, of course, was long since gone.
Chapter 39
I went back to the flat. There didn’t seem to be much else to do. It was getting dark outside now. Dario would call in a few minutes. He knew the Venetian maze of streets better than most, but it wouldn’t have surprised me if Lewis and Considine had managed to lose him, even if more by accident than design. He’d be back, sooner rather than later. Fede was supposed to be coming around tonight and we’d all have a big old laugh about what a great pal Dario was.
In the meantime, there was the package to examine. I tore it open. It contained a sealed envelope, a sheaf of newspaper clippings and what appeared to be bank statements. There was also a USB stick. I opened the envelope within. Cheap notepaper, printed with a ‘Hotel Zichy’ logo, a budget attempt at looking upmarket. The message ‘For attention of Paul Considine, Nathan Sutherland, Gwenant Pryce’. There were two signatures. Francesco Nicolodi and Riccardo Pelosi.
I checked the postmark on the package. Saturday 21 May. The day after he was murdered. There was no mail on Sunday. Why those three names?
I scanned through the financial statements as quickly as I could, but found it difficult to get my head around them. Too much for me. My commercialista might be able to explain it properly but I could understand little more than that large sums of money were being moved around – how many accounts? Four? Five? I shook my head, and moved on to the clippings.
They consisted of photocopies of old newspaper articles detailing various legal actions against Fitzgerald, all of which had finished with cases being settled out of court or dropped. Insubstantial stuff on the face of it that did nothing except demonstrate that Lewis Fitzgerald had never broken the law. The final photocopy was the same one that I had seen in the Guardian , where Lewis Fitzgerald had walked free and Riccardo Pelosi had been sent to prison for seven years.
I sighed. I’d been expecting a smoking gun, and this didn’t seem quite enough. I plugged in the USB stick. There was just a single document. Confiteor.pdf . Confiteor. I confess . I clicked it open.
It was a scanned document. There were pages and pages of it. Each page made reference to one of the enclosed news clippings, in which Riccardo Pelosi detailed how he had hired thugs to intimidate Gwenant Pryce and Adam Grant, how he had bribed and intimidated jurors, colluded in false accounting and committed arson ‘just to send out a very clear signal’. And how he had done all this with the full knowledge and collaboration of Lewis Fitzgerald. Each page was signed and dated. The final page held a scan of a passport in the name of Riccardo Pelosi, and an Italian ID card in the name of Francesco Nicolodi.
I closed the document, ejected the USB stick and dropped it in my pocket. Then I shuffled the news clippings and bank statements together, and replaced them in the envelope. Nicolodi’s insurance policy. Just to keep Fitzgerald in line in case he decided to have second thoughts about their deal. And then Nicolodi had become just a bit too greedy, and his bluff had been called.
It was probably enough. This time I wasn’t going to mess around playing private detective, this time I was going to do what I should have done in the first place. Go to the police. Tell Vanni everything.
The telephone rang. Dario’s. His landline, in Mestre.
‘Dario! What are you doing at home?’
There was a brief pause. ‘Nathan. It’s Valentina.’
Dario’s wife. We’d always had a bit of a spiky relationship. I couldn’t remember her ever having rung me before. And that could only mean she was worried.
‘Is Dario with you? We’ve just got back from Emily’s grandparents. We thought he’d be at home.’
Oh shit.
‘Valentina. Ciao, cara . He’ll probably be home soon. He was working in Venice today. I know he said he’d be in a meeting for hours so he’d have his mobile switched off.’
‘Oh good. Good. Thank you, Nathan. Silly, I know, but I worry if I can’t get hold of him.’
‘He’s probably on his way back, Valentina, and just forgotten to switch his phone back on.’ Why was I even saying this? I knew it almost certainly wasn’t true.
‘Thanks, Nathan.’ There was a br
ief pause. ‘You’ve always been a good friend to Dario. And I am grateful for that, you know?’
‘Thanks, cara . I’ll give you a call if he calls me first, okay.’
She hung up.
Oh God. Dario, please call. Please call now. I’ve just lied to your wife who doesn’t like me very much anyway, but has been trying to be nice because she’s just starting to get scared. Please call. I sat there and drummed my fingers on the desk. Gramsci hauled himself up on to the windowsill and mewled for food, but I ignored him. It was dark outside. The tourists would be making their way back to their cruise ships, or back to the mainland. Another hour and restaurants would start putting chairs on tables. I could, should, call the police straight away. But if I did that, there was every chance they’d telephone Valentina and that would frighten her. And there was still a chance that Dario would call, and everything would be okay.
The phone rang again. Fede’s number.
‘ Ciao, caro .’
‘Ciao, tesora!’
‘I’ve just got off the phone with Mamma . She’s safely arrived back home. I think you made a big impression on her. She says you must come around and cook for us next time. Anyway, I know it’s a bit late, but I’m free at last. So are you coming over here, or am I coming to you?’
Hell.
‘Er, I don’t really know, sweetheart. Things are kind of busy now. Just a few things to put to bed and then I’ll be free tomorrow. Maybe we can do lunch?’
A pause. ‘You’re lying.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You never call me “sweetheart”. Not in English. You know I’d kick your arse if you called me anything as insufferably twee as that. What’s going on?’
‘Nothing. Everything’s . . .’
‘Fine?’ The question hung in the air like a challenge, and I suddenly realised that there were two paths to follow. One would lead to us irrevocably breaking up. And so the other, painful as it might be, was the only one to follow.
‘No. It’s not fine.’ I tried to keep my voice level, and failed.
There was the briefest of pauses. ‘ Caro , what can I do? What’s going on?’
‘Dario. He’s not answering his phone. I know that doesn’t sound like anything, but we were trying to solve this bloody mystery. He was trying to sort my life out.’
She laughed. ‘I thought he would be. Bless him.’
‘Valentina called me only five minutes ago. She’s starting to get worried. I can tell. And I don’t know what to do. Fede, he’s my best friend and . . .’
‘Shhhh. Shhhh caro . I’m coming over, okay?’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘Yes I do. I can help. I can be with you.’
Again, I tried to control my breathing. ‘Thank you. I love you.’
‘I love you too. I’ll be there within forty-five minutes, okay?’
We hung up. The phone rang again within thirty seconds. I saw the number and my heart leapt.
‘Dario! You silly bastard, I was getting properly scared.’
There was a pause. ‘Dario can’t come to the phone at the moment, Sutherland.’
‘Lewis! Well, this is an unexpected pleasure. What can I do for you?’
‘Oh, I thought you might like to come over, Sutherland. Have a little chat, that sort of thing.’
‘At the Palazzo Papadopoli? I’d be delighted. I trust you’ll be buying the drinks, though?’
‘Not at the hotel. I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’ve checked out. I think you know where to go. But just in case you don’t, I’ve gone to the trouble of arranging a guide for you. Take a look out of your window.’
I shooed Gramsci off the windowsill and peered out. A figure was standing in the shadows, just outside the pool of light cast by the Brazilians’.
‘Lean out. Give him a wave.’
The figured turned to me and looked up. I couldn’t read the expression on his face, but I recognised him immediately. ‘Hello, Paul,’ I said. He nodded.
‘Well done, Sutherland. Now just keep speaking to me. I want you to go and buzz Paul up to your flat.’
‘What’s he going to do? Kill me? I’m not in great shape, Lewis, but I think I’d have a pretty good chance against a man who looks like he hasn’t slept in days.’
Lewis chuckled. ‘If I were a gambling man I think I’d go evens. No, he’s not going to kill you. I just want him to accompany you over here. I don’t want you getting any ideas about phoning the police. Are you still there, Sutherland?’
‘Yes, I am. Stai tranquillo! ’ I pressed the entrance buzzer and heard the door click downstairs. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘I did. Keep talking to me.’
I heard Considine’s footsteps coming up the stairs. I had, perhaps, twenty seconds at most. Leave a message. How? Where?
Gramsci yowled and nudged at his empty bowl.
Of course.
‘What would you like me to talk about, Lewis? The weather?’ I shook some biscuits into Gramsci’s bowl. Not too many.
‘What was that?’ said Lewis.
‘My cat. He’s getting in a state. I’m just putting some food down for him.’ I grabbed the front page of Il Gazzetino from my pocket, scrunched it into a ball and stuffed it into the box of biscuits.
‘Do you have to?’
‘Up to you. If I don’t, he’ll start howling until the guy from the bar downstairs comes up to see if I’m still alive.’
A pause. ‘Okay.’ Then he chuckled. ‘You might want to put a lot of food down, Sutherland.’
I stuck the box on top of the fridge, and then went to open the door. ‘Hi Paul, thanks for coming round,’ I said.
‘Okay, Sutherland, give your telephone to Mr Considine, please.’ I passed it over.
‘I’ve got it, Lewis,’ said Paul.
‘Mr Fitzgerald, if you please. I’m hanging up now. I’ll see you both soon. Or, just to remind you, Sutherland, signor Dario and I will both see you soon.’
Paul and I made our way downstairs and I locked the door. We looked at each other. ‘So,’ I said, ‘Lewis is going to kill me then?’
He couldn’t meet my gaze, but his eyes were red, and he looked drawn and gaunt. ‘I don’t know. Nathan, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s all right, buddy.’ I paused. ‘We could always just phone the police, you know?’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t let you do that. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay. I understand. Just tell me, what did he say to you?’
‘That he’d hurt Gwen. Really hurt her.’
I nodded. ‘He said the same to her, you know. Blimey, you’re a couple, eh? But how’s he going to do that from the inside of a cell?’
He shook his head again. ‘I can’t risk it, Nathan. And he’s got your friend as well.’
‘Okay. Don’t worry. We’ll find a way. So where are we off to, then?’
‘The Giardini.’
I nodded. ‘I thought so.’ I checked my watch. ‘Okay, there’s a boat in five minutes.’
‘Isn’t it quicker to walk?’
Of course it’s quicker to walk, I thought. But I need to eat some time up. ‘We could walk, but there’s acqua alta tonight. It’ll be a pain, and neither of us have got boots.’
We were well beyond the season for acqua alta but Considine, I reckoned, wouldn’t know that. Sure enough, he nodded. ‘Where’s the nearest stop?’
‘Rialto. Come on. It’s only a couple of minutes.’ A couple of minutes’ walk, but a couple of minutes in the wrong direction, that could add ten precious minutes to the boat journey. We made our way down through Campo Manin, to Campo San Luca and then through one of the narrow calli that linked with the Grand Canal. A vaporetto was pulling in just as we arrived. Busy, but not too busy. The weather warm, but not that warm. Good. We’d be able to get seats outside.
‘Shall we sit at the back, Paul? Have a bit more privacy?’ He nodded. We made our way through the cabin to the seats at the back. I sat down ne
xt to him, and looked around us. ‘Wonderful isn’t it? It’s the best time of day, to be honest. And the best time of year. One more month, and it’ll be starting to get too hot, but now . . . you can just sit here and watch the whole of the city unroll before your eyes.’
We both smiled. It was impossible not to. However low you felt, there was something about the city at night that worked magic on you. ‘I’ve never been to Venice before,’ he said.
‘No? Has it been all you expected?’
He gave a dry laugh. ‘Not exactly.’
‘I’m sorry, Paul. Really.’ I leaned back in my seat, closing my eyes. I felt the bump of the vaporetto against the pontoon. Where were we now? San Tomà, probably. Federica’s boat would be at least thirty minutes away. If I was lucky. I opened my eyes again. ‘Okay, Paul,’ I said, ‘I need you to trust me on this.’
‘What do you mean, Nathan?’
‘Just what I say. When we get there. Just trust me on this. I think I can get us all out of this.’
‘You think?’ I nodded. ‘But you can’t promise?’
I shook my head. ‘No. Wish I could. But there’s a chance we can get this bastard off your back for ever. So, are you going to trust me?’
He was about to speak when the doors opened and a family of four joined us. Mum and Dad struggled to manoeuvre two big rucksacks through the swing doors, whilst the kids ran to the rearmost seats and knelt on them, waving excitedly at a group of tourists in a water taxi heading in the opposite direction. I smiled at them.
Paul and I sat in silence, the only noise now being the chattering of our new companions as they watched the city slide by. Under the Accademia Bridge, and past the church of the Salute, glowing in the moonlight. The kids, pointing at every new wonder along the canal. Mum, with her hands on their shoulders, gently but firmly preventing them from leaning out just a little too far. Dad, trying to find out exactly what they were looking at from his guidebook. I looked at the cover. Venedig . German or Austrian, then. It seemed like it was their first visit. How lovely for them.
We’d passed the Salute now and were moving into the more open water of the bacino of San Marco. To our right lay the Basilica of San Marco and the Ducal Palace, clear, now, of the swarming hordes of visitors, and resplendent in the moonlight. I smiled over at Considine.
Vengeance in Venice Page 24
