'Antonio Pavarotti.' Vito looks angry. 'My young colleague had a name. To some of us he was precious.'
'I'm sure he was. All life is precious.'
'Well, his precious life ended just a few kilometres away from your island, and at the time he was in your employ.'
'Not really.' Fabianelli insists. 'He was hired by a security company we employ. All legal responsibility lies with them.'
'Antonio's boat was rigged with explosives-'
'You've already told me this, Major,' snaps Fabianelli. 'I was fully aware of all that when I let you swab my hands. I'm very sorry – very, very sorry for your loss, but really I had nothing to do with it.'
'Nor with the disappearance of Tom Shaman or Tina Ricci?'
'Shaman is that priest, right?'
'Right.'
'Then I had nothing to do with him, or the woman you mentioned. She's the one the priest thought was at my house?'
Vito feels his patience snapping. 'You have two separate security systems. Why is that?'
Fabianelli answers without hesitation. 'Simple. I don't want people knowing when I leave or return. As I told you before, major, I'm very careful that I don't get kidnapped. Only my closest staff has access to the boathouse and its security monitors.'
Vito decides it's time to try a different approach. 'Your assistant, Mera Teale, told Shaman that Satanic services were carried out at the mansion. Is that true?'
Fabianelli looks amused. 'Probably. We have a mixture of all religions – Quakers, Pagans, Catholics, Mormons, Muslims – so, yes, I imagine there are Satanists. And if there are, then they no doubt dance naked around candles, have orgies and do whatever Satanists do.'
'And that's what you think they do, is it?'
The billionaire shrugs. 'I really have no idea. The whole point of the commune is that everyone is free to find their own private space and express themselves in any way they want. I find mine, and I keep myself very much to myself.'
'And while we're talking of yourself, would you mind telling me what your own religion is?'
'Aaah.' He looks thoughtful. 'My Holy Trinity is Money, Art and Sex, Major. I don't mind which god or gods give them to me, but I worship them all. Now then, are we done with these crazy questions?'
Vito shakes his head. 'No, we are not. We are a long way from finished. Signor Fabianelli, do you know a man called Lars Bale?'
He looks off into the distance, through the windows and across the rolling lawns of his mansion. 'No. No, I don't think so.' He turns back to Vito. 'Why? Who is he?'
'He's an American. Quite a famous one. Are you sure you don't know him?'
'My memory isn't perfect, but I'm sure I don't know him.'
'Here's a photograph. Faxed to us by the FBI.'
Mario quickly shakes his head.
'Please look closer, signor. Are you sure you don't recognise him, or anything about him?'
He takes the photograph and considers it. 'No. I'm afraid not.'
'There's a tattoo there. A tiny tattoo like a tear beneath his left eye.'
Mario notices it now. 'Is this significant?'
'Mera Teale has an identical tattoo in an identical position. How do you account for that?'
Mario laughs. 'I don't think I have to. You should ask her. Have you looked closely at Mera? She's covered in tattoos. She has hundreds of them.'
'And do you think she has others that are identical to those on the skin of a Satanic serial killer awaiting the death penalty?'
'Major, I really don't know.' Fabianelli is showing the first signs of annoyance. 'Feel free to interview Mera at any time you want. I'm sure she'll be frank with you and will have proper explanations for all your questions.'
'We will,' says Vito. 'You can bank on it.' He passes over a photocopy of an auctioneer's catalogue that Nuncio gave him. 'Does this mean anything to you?'
Mario doesn't touch it. 'Should it? What is it?'
'An Etruscan silver artefact. Very valuable.'
He barely glances at it. 'No. It means nothing to me.'
'Are you quite sure?'
The billionaire looks at him suspiciously. 'Major, I'm growing bored now. I am positive that it means nothing to me. I own a lot of art. A good deal of sculpture. But I am a modernist, and I know every piece in my collection.'
Vito jabs his finger at the photocopy. 'You own this piece.'
Mario shakes his head.
'We've traced its ownership to a company of yours in the Cayman Islands. You paid more than a million dollars for it.'
He looks shocked. 'I can assure you I didn't.'
'You own a company out there called MFA – Mario Fabianelli Artistes?'
He shakes his head again. 'No. I have no knowledge of such a company. Who are its directors?'
Vito slides another piece of paper across the table. 'You – and your lawyer, Signor Ancelotti. You'll see your names listed there.' A thought strikes Vito. 'By the way, where is your little Rottweiler?'
Mario examines the paper. 'I don't know, Major. I haven't seen Dino Ancelotti for several days now.' He hands the documentation back. 'I really have no knowledge of this company If this paper is real, I wasn't involved in its incorporation. '
Vito sits back and regards him suspiciously. 'You don't know where your own lawyer is?'
The billionaire laughs. 'Where is your chief prosecutor right now?'
'At work, probably in her office or someone else's office.'
'Va bene. Dino is also probably at work in someone's office – maybe a tax office, maybe a banking office, a revenue department office. I don't know which office or where, and I don't want to. My life is more interesting than knowing the whereabouts of my lawyer.'
'May I impose upon you to call him and ask about your ownership of this offshore company, MFA, and the artefact I mentioned?'
Mario smiles. 'You may. But not in here and not right now.' He gestures to the tape recorder. 'I want to be helpful, Major – but I don't want to be foolish. If mistakes have been made by people working for me, then they are private mistakes and I will deal with them privately.'
'Let me remind you, signor, that this is more than a private matter – it is a legal one. We are investigating several murders, including the death of Antonio Pavarotti, a person in your indirect employ.'
Fabianelli's patience snaps. 'And let me remind you – you haven't charged me with anything and you don't have anything to charge me with, or you would have done so. Major, I don't need a lawyer to tell me you're all at sea and desperately fishing for scraps. So, if you please, I would like to go home, from where – I promise – I will call my lawyer. And if it's appropriate I will then enlighten you about this company and the artefact you mentioned.'
Vito's done. He's out of tricks. Out of questions. Continuing the interview seems pointless. He turns off the recorder and painfully watches Mario Fabianelli swing his thousand-dollar cream linen jacket from the back of the interview chair and leave.
CHAPTER 69
The antique wall clock in Vito Carvalho's office noisily ticks towards midnight. It makes a strange, slow clunk, almost as though it's taking a quick break, before it officially starts another day.
Vito and Valentina sit at his conference table with a bottle of brandy from his bottom drawer and two glasses that look as though they haven't been washed since the last time he used them. He tips the Vecchio and listens to the satisfying glug of its honey-gold liquid. 'I really thought Nuncio had come up with something with that company search and directorships.'
'We do have something,' insists Valentina. 'We know Mera Teale and that lawyer Ancelotti are missing. And his name's on the company that bought the tablet. They're strong connections. '
'But not illegal. Nothing about those connections breaks the law.' Vito hurriedly downs his brandy and lets out a fiery sigh. 'We should have noticed Teale was missing when we brought Fabianelli back here to be interviewed.' He tops up his glass. 'Now both she and the lawyer have vanished. Tom's missing. T
hat whore of a reporter he slept with has disappeared. ' He bangs the glass down and spills liquid across his fingers. 'What's going on, Valentina? Has a black hole appeared? A Bermuda triangle? Have these people just vanished? '
She nods her head towards the operational map on his wall. 'In a way, they have. There are more than a hundred islands around us, that's our black hole. It will take for ever to search them.'
'We don't have for ever.'
'And they may not even be in the locality.'
'Tina Ricci hasn't left the country. I've checked the border records,' says Vito.
'Patrols also have alerts on Ancelotti and Teale,' adds Valentina. 'There's no record of them travelling under their own names.'
Vito remembers something. 'Did you check Teale's connection to Lars Bale?'
Valentina looks annoyed that she's been asked. 'I did. There's nothing obvious. They're not related, there are no links to victims or other members of his cult. The only common thing is that they both come from LA. That said, Los Angeles is home to thirteen million people.'
'Could they have met?'
'Unlikely. Teale is twenty-six, Bale is forty-nine. He's been in prison eighteen years, so when he was arrested he was thirty, maybe just thirty-one and she'd have been around eight years old. That's a big gap.'
'Did she ever visit him in prison?'
'I've asked. San Quentin are trawling visitor records. Nothing came up under the name Teale. I also asked the FBI the same question.'
Vito's phone rings. He moves from the small conference table to his desk and answers it. He looks back towards Valentina. 'The FBI. Right on cue.'
'Telepathy,' she says, and finally takes a jolt of her brandy.
Vito barely talks, just listens intently. 'Momento; let me put you on speakerphone, so my colleague can hear.' He flicks a switch and replaces the receiver in its cradle.
The voice of Supervisory Special Agent Steve Lerner spills out. 'Lars Bale was a prolific painter. We wondered what happened to his work. Seems he gave it all away to a charity that raises money to fight the death penalty. Interesting thing is, this charity sells them.'
'How, exactly?' asks Vito.
'You near a computer?'
'Yes.'
'Then type in the URL: www.deathrowtalents.com.'
Vito nods to Valentina. She slips behind the keyboard and taps it into the browser.
Her eyes light up.
'You got it?' asks Lerner.
Vito looks over Valentina's shoulder. 'Si.'
'Then go to the home page – type Bale's name in the search box – and you'll see he has his own virtual gallery.'
Vito and Valentina are astounded to see a head-and-shoulders shot of Bale pop up, surrounded by dozens of his paintings.
'You're shocked, eh? Welcome to America, where even serial killers have the rights to express themselves and become famous.'
Vito's truly amazed. 'He's done hundreds, literally hundreds of paintings.'
'Scroll down, pick one and double-click on it,' says Lerner. 'You'll be able to see it full frame and zoom in on any sections you want. You can get a better look online than if you were stood next to the real thing.'
Valentina works the mouse as she talks. 'So Bale would paint something that had hidden messages in it. Give it away to the charity. They'd innocently post it on the net, and then his followers would access the website and decode his instructions.'
'You got it,' says Lerner. 'Simple when you know how.'
'Isn't everything?' Vito can't take his eyes off the bottom of the screen. 'There's one posted six days ago.' He does a double-take. 'Have you seen it?'
'Sure we have,' says Lerner. 'It mean anything to you?'
CAPITOLO LX
1778
Lazzaretto Vecchio, Venezia The ritual is in ruins.
Gatusso no longer cares about crossing the magic lines of the rectangle. He bolts after Tanina.
Tommaso just manages to block his way.
They both crash to the ground in a heap. The torch tumbles from Tommaso's hands. He's lost what weapon he had.
Now the acolytes are on him like a pack of famished dogs. Vicious blows pound his face, knuckles rip flesh from his cheeks.
Throughout it all, Tommaso clings to Gatusso's ankle. He's not letting go. He might not have the skill to fight, but he can hang on – hang on for dear life.
Someone kicks his arm. Nerve endings jangle but he still keeps his grip. Every second he holds on is another step Tanina takes to safety.
Something wooden – a makeshift club – smashes against his wrist. He loses the feeling in his hand. Loses his hold.
Gatusso starts to get up.
Tommaso lurches forward. Falls across Gatusso's legs. The high priest lashes out at him.
The unseen club comes down again.
Connects perfectly.
Tommaso's skull cracks open.
Pain shoots through his eyes and temples. Blackness rolls in. Face down in the stinking earth, he prays Tanina is already far away.
He doesn't feel the next blow. Or the one after that.
He's dead.
Gatusso wriggles free of the monk's corpse. Acolytes steady him and he looks across at Lydia. The accidental fire has cremated her. She's nothing more than a pile of blackened bones.
He turns to the remaining Satanists. 'We need to find the girl. Spread out.' He points. 'Two of you that way. Two around by the shore. The rest of you, come with me.'
Ahead in the distance, Tanina doesn't know where she is. She has no idea where she's running to. But she's running. Faster than she's ever done.
Unseen brambles snag her feet. She stumbles. Knocks into a low-hanging branch. Drops one of the tablets.
It's gone. Vanished. Lost in the dense grass, weeds, brambles and rutted earth.
She stops.
Scrambles for it. Finding it seems almost more important than getting away. Her fingers feel something.
Twigs.
She throws them to one side.
Not twigs. Bones!
Human bones.
The tablet has slipped into a shallow grave. One of dozens on the island. Sad stacks of dead left by the plague.
Tanina hears rustling behind her.
They're coming.
The tablet bearing the demon's face lies somewhere in the grave.
She swallows hard and digs both hands deep into the trench of bones and dust. Not to find the artefacts, but to find a place to hide.
Footsteps crackle on twigs all around her. Torchlight flickers through the long black limbs of wintry trees and voices grow closer.
Tanina lies in the foot of the mass grave, her body covered with a rotting blanket of skulls, ribs and legs.
The voices are right above her. She dare not scream or move.
Her skin is covered in maggots and worms, woken from their indolence by the smell of fresh meat. She can feel them slithering across her neck, making their way patiently to the juicy jelly of her eyes and the warm orifices of her face.
Still she does not move.
Her hair is alive with creatures, her scalp unbearably itchy, and she all but panics when she has to blow some form of creature off her lips.
But she suffers it all. Suffers it in a silence that her mother would have been proud of. Suffers it all until daybreak.
Tanina moves slowly.
She strains to listen for any trace of movement or voices in the woods. There are none.
She is safe.
She sits upright, scattering bleached white bones and gasping for air.
In a near frenzy she rubs her hands through her hair, scratching hard at her infested scalp, vigorously shaking out the insects rooted there.
Her heart's beating so fast she fears it will burst.
Tanina can see the water of the lagoon and longs to run into it. Instead, she forces herself to plunge back into the grave and search for the missing tablet.
Right at the bottom of the trench, below skeleton after s
keleton of perished Venetians, she finally finds the slab of silver.
Sweat is dribbling off her. Her skin raw with bites and blotches. Nevertheless, she is now in possession of all three tablets. The fact reminds her of her mother's wish for them to be kept apart, not brought together.
So be it.
As soon as she has escaped, she'll hide them. Somewhere undiscoverable. Somewhere far, far from the grounds of this place.
She looks around. There is water but no boat, and she knows she cannot risk looking for one. Nor can she contemplate staying in Venice for long either. She gathers rotten planks from around the side of the grave and finds more wood along the shoreline.
Quickly, Tanina walks into the dark lagoon and ducks her head beneath the cool water. She emerges and shakes her hair, grateful for the brief respite from the dirt and the itching. Now she rips fabric from her sodden dress to bind the wood and form a precarious raft. Other strands she uses to secure the tablets to the largest plank.
Carefully, she re-enters the water. The contraption floats and seems to be holding.
She says a quick prayer – partly for her mother – mainly for the brother she never knew who gave his life so she might live.
Tanina takes a deep breath and pushes off from the shore.
If she makes it to the other side, she'll head south. Maybe Rome. Start a new life where no one will ever find her.
PART SIX
CHAPTER 70
Present Day 6th June Carabinieri HQ, Venice Lars Bale's final painting turns out to be the serial killer's most confusing and complex work.
At first light, Vito gives up guessing and orders his team to find him an expert.
It comes in the form of forty-two-year-old Gloria Cucchi, a former head of art at the Universita Ca' Foscari Venezia and now owner of the highly respected Cucchi Galleries.
'It is indeed very complex,' she says, circling a high-resolution colour print of the untitled painting laid out on a long, glass conference table. 'Personally, I think the work is horrible, a complete miasma. Yet there is true beauty in its ugliness and flashes of genius, reminiscent of Picasso and Picabia.' She taps the print. 'These heavy cubes illustrate strength. They show square men, machos lifting things, perhaps titans of industry, finance or commerce, building a city.' She holds the edge of the A4-sized print and smiles. 'This angular cameo here is striking, it looks like a waterfall in the Canal Grande but he has it pouring blood, not water. How provocative!' She backs off from the print, changes her perspective, clears her mind of presumptions and prejudices, then dives back in again: 'Now I look more closely, I can see that he has borrowed style and substance from many artists. Certainly Dali, in the sense that there are multiple mirror images and some strokes of savage surrealism. Certainly Picabia too – there are faces whirling like demons in a mist.' She leans over the table like a long-necked bird about to peck at seed. 'But beneath it all is the most powerful influence of – Giovanni Canal.' She allows herself a smug smile. 'Better known as Canaletto. His father, Bernardo was also a painter, hence his sobriquet Canaletto – "little canal". Now, come around the other side, you'll see things somewhat more clearly.'
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