She turned into Damson Close and drove slowly along to his house. Nothing looked amiss. The lights that were on were the ones he had left on. She stopped and he got out.‘Wait here,’ he called, starting up the drive. He saw her nod to him through the windscreen, her face sallow in the lamplight.
As he reached the front door, he noticed it was ajar. The lock had been damaged in some way. The snib no longer engaged. He stepped inside and, glancing through to the kitchen, saw the contents of his bag strewn across the floor. He instinctively patted his pocket, reminding himself that he had his passport on him. His chequebook had been left lying amongst his scattered clothing—a strange oversight for a burglar. But his visitor had not been a burglar, of course.
Nick looked into the dining room. The drawers of the desk and cabinet had been pulled open. And his computer disks were missing.
He hurried back out and down the drive. Emily was talking on her mobile, he was surprised to see. She rang off as he approached and lowered her window.‘What gives?’
‘Somebody’s broken in and had a look around.’
‘Funny, isn’t it? All this time you’ve been away, nothing happens. Now, straight after your return, you get turned over.’
‘What do you make of that?’
‘I imagine they were only interested in what you might have brought with you.’
‘Then they’ll have been disappointed.’
‘You shouldn’t stay here after this.’
‘It’s only until morning. I’ve nowhere else to go, anyway.’
‘I could take you somewhere.’
‘I thought you were getting out while the going was good.’
‘I still am.’
‘Who were you just speaking to?’
‘Don’t you trust me, Nick?’
‘More than I did.’
‘But not completely. I get the message. Since you ask, I was on the phone to a hotel at Heathrow I’m booked into. There’s safety in anonymity. I was checking they had plenty of vacancies.’
‘And they do?’
‘One more would be no problem.’
Nick considered his options. The break-in was something he could not ignore. They were onto him, whoever they were. And he was easy to find in his suburban isolation.
‘Take it or leave it, Nick. I’d like to get moving.’
He hesitated for no more than a few seconds.‘I’ll take it.’
Emily Braybourne was right about the hotel. It was one of a clutch of bland low-rise establishments lining the A4 on the northern side of Heathrow Airport. As a temporary refuge, it could hardly be bettered.
Emily went straight to her room, leaving Nick to down several slow Scotches in the bar. They comprehensively failed to relax him. While the pianist played and the cocktail waiter did his stuff, questions swirled frenziedly in his mind, but answers came there none. He knew he was too tired to think straight, but he could not stop.‘The secret is that there is no secret,’ Drysdale had said. At times, Nick had almost believed that. But not any more. There was a secret. There was a pattern to events. And it was a pattern of the truth. But as to what that truth was, or might be, or could be—maybe what Drysdale should have said was, The secret is that the secret can never be known.’
Just as Nick was nearing the last sip of what he had promised himself would be his last Scotch, a shadow deeper than the several other shadows in his subfuscous corner of the bar fell across him. He looked up, to be met by Emily Braybourne’s nervous self-mocking smile.
‘I wondered if I’d find you here.’
‘Must be those people-reading skills of yours.’
‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘I haven’t tried.’
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Feel free.’
She sat down. The waiter glided promptly alongside. Emily ordered the same malt as Nick was drinking. And Nick ordered the same again.
‘What time’s your flight in the morning?’
‘Eleven fifteen.’
‘How long will it take?’
‘About twelve hours including the stopover in Chicago.’
‘So, this time tomorrow—’
‘I’ll be out of harm’s way. In theory.’
‘And in practice?’
‘Probably that too. But ’
‘But what?’
‘But everything.’
The waiter have to with their drinks. Neither spoke while the fellow arranged the glasses on coasters to his satisfaction and replenished the assorted nuts. The silence seemed tangible to Nick. Emily held his gaze, her face a mask. The waiter withdrew.
‘How does it stack up? The damage your family has inflicted on mine—and vice versa?’
‘It stacks up as too much. Far too much.’
‘Time it ended, then.’
‘I agree.’
‘But how does it end? Tell me that.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Tom said—’ She looked away and took a deep breath. Then she looked back again. The fragile smile fleetingly returned.‘Sorry.’
‘What for?’
‘You’re not too good with emotions, are you, Nick? They disturb you. You must be one of the most self-controlled people I’ve ever met, yet at one point in your past you lost it totally. Is this repression your way of ensuring that never happens again?’
‘What did Tom say?’
‘He said—’ She took another deep breath.‘He said the best way to learn the truth was to start telling it.’
‘I’ve told you the truth, Emily.’
‘Not the whole truth. I should know. I haven’t told it either.’
‘Haven’t you?’
‘We’re both frightened and lonely. But we don’t have to be quite as frightened and lonely as we are. And I don’t want to be. Not tonight, anyway.’ Her gaze was direct, as challenging as it was somehow yielding.‘How about you?’
CHAPTER TWENTY
There was no farewell. That was the deal they had struck. Nick walked past her room when he left. The chambermaid was at work inside, grateful no doubt for the occupant’s early departure. Nick knew Emily had gone before he got there, of course, because she had said she would be. He glanced at his watch and calculated that, while he was standing there, she was probably in the process of checking-in at Terminal 4. The parting of their ways was about to become irrevocable. He started walking towards the lift.
Aboard the courtesy bus to Victoria, the realization struck him that he was already beginning to doubt his memories of the night. What they had done seemed even less credible after the event than before. It should not have been possible. It should not have felt so right. He was half in love with her before he ought to have finished hating her.‘Tomorrow we’ll wonder if this ever really happened,’ she had said. Only now did he believe her.‘There’s no afterwards for us. You understand that, don’t you?’ Only now was he beginning to.‘I’ll call you when it’s over,’ he had said. But she had shaken her head.‘You won’t.’ And only now did the contradiction he had uttered ring as hollow to him as it must have done to her.
It did not have to be like that, of course. Prophecy was not certainty, he told himself as the Gatwick Express sped south through Surrey. He could make his future better than his past. Maybe hers too. Some things were less likely than others. But all things were possible. Even happiness. For both of them.
Besides, as he reminded himself when the train reached Gatwick, looking further ahead than the next couple of days was futile. He had no idea what was waiting for him in Venice. And less than none of what might be waiting for him when and if—he came back.
As if to prove the point, bad news of a totally unexpected kind greeted him at the North Terminal check-in. Marco Polo Airport was fogbound. All flights to Venice had been cancelled.
Nick was suddenly one of many travellers trying to reroute and rearrange. The obvious alternative—fly to Verona and take the train on to Venice—was already oversubscribed. The only choice open
to him was an evening flight to Milan, with no clue on anyone’s part about when he might reach Venice. He took it.
Several times during the long afternoon, he debated whether he should phone Irene. Or Kate and Terry. Or all of them. Once he even got as far as dialling the Old Ferry’s number. But then he cancelled it. He paced up and down the departure lounge. He watched landings and take-offs. He steeled his nerves. He waited.
The 18.45 flight to Milan left on schedule. Twelve hours later, after a short and restless night in the closest hotel to Milano Centrale station, Nick boarded the first train of the day to Venice. By now he was beginning to doubt he would ever get where he was going.
But every journey has an end. For Nick it came when the train crossed the Venetian lagoon just before nine o’clock that morning. He was asleep at the time.
Nick had told Farnsworth he had never been to Venice. That was not actually true. He had spent two days there on his way back from a visit to Greece in the summer of 1978. There was a certain irony attached to the memory, since the trip to Greece had been prompted by concern for Basil, already then embarked on his monastic career. But the memory was also unhelpful. Nick retained nothing but the vaguest impression of the city—canals, gondolas and crowds in the Piazza San Marco. He could not even recall where he had stayed. To all intents and purposes, he was a complete newcomer.
Santa Lucia station was therefore the start for him of effectively unknown territory. He bought a map, then went into the accommodation bureau and asked for the address of the Hotel Zampogna. It was, he learned, not officially classified, even in the most basic category, the implication being that he should give it a wide berth. But, if he insisted—as he did—it was in the Cannaregio district, within walking distance.
There was no queue at that hour of the morning, so the assistant was happy to provide Nick with another location. A directory was consulted and an X marked on his map. The Palazzo Falcetto was on the last curve of the Grand Canal before it reached the lagoon. Unless Basil was waiting for him at the Zampogna—a cheering but remote possibility—the palazzo of his mysterious cousin would be Nick’s second port of call.
The route to the Zampogna looked simple enough on the map. The reality was rather different. The morning was cold and grey and the further north and east of the station Nick went the quieter and emptier Venice became. The absence of cars struck him as eerie rather than peaceful. He progressed by a series of uncertain zigzags along narrow alleys or beside turbid back canals, varied occasionally by courtyards strung with limp washing in which a scurrying cat was likely to be the only movement. Eventually, after several wrong turnings, he found the alley he was looking for: Calle delle Incudine. At the corner stood a dingy-looking bar and the next building down the calle was the Zampogna.
Many years previously the name had been painted on the mustard-hued wall, but most of the letters had peeled off along with the plaster beneath them and those that remained had faded into ghostly images of what might once have been intended as a genuine invitation to passing travellers. The entrance now was dark and discouraging, though the door was half-open. Nick ventured in.
The lobby was a narrow, dimly lit passage. A threadbare rug concealed some of the chipped and uneven tiles forming the floor. Stairs led off to one side, next to what looked like a ticket-window at a run-down railway station. The window was raised and, through it, Nick glimpsed a woman he knew instinctively to be the person he had spoken to on the telephone. She was clad in a shapeless brown dress and shawl. Her face was lined and pinched and nearly as brown as the dress, which made her manifestly unnatural mop of curly red hair all the more startling. She peered at him with no smile.
‘Si?’
‘I’m looking for Basil Paleologus. He’s my brother. Basil Paleologus. He’s been staying here.’
‘Che?’
‘Parla inglese?’
‘Inglese?’
‘Yes. Si. Inglese. Me and him. Basil Paleologus. Is he here?’
‘Paleologus?’
‘That’s right. I—’
But the name, once she had grasped it, was enough. She was suddenly ranting at him, gabbling incomprehensibly as she waved her hands, her voice echoing in the passage and bouncing back at him from the walls. Nick had no idea what she was saying, but it was not an encomium of praise for Basil, that was certain. She was very angry about something. He tried to placate her with smiles and apologies and appeasing gestures, but it did no good. In the end, all he could do was retreat.
Her imprecations followed him out into the calle, then subsided away. With little expectation of assistance but nowhere else to go, Nick entered the bar next door. Despite the weather, its doors were wide open, revealing a counter angled across half the space, behind which stood a beer bellied barista somewhere between middle and old age. Bald-headed though luxuriantly moustached, he exchanged a knowing look with his only other customer, a younger man dressed in dusty working clothes, who was propped against the counter, then grinned at Nick.
‘Buongiorno.’
‘Buongiorno.’ Nick made an attempt at nonchalance.‘Doppio espresso, per favore.’
‘Prego.’
The barista turned away and set the espresso machine hissing into action. The young man drained his cup, crushed an empty cigarette pack and dropped it on the counter.‘Ciao, Luigi,’ he said, moving past Nick and out into the calle.
‘Ciao, Gianni,’ Luigi called over his shoulder. He kept his back to Nick as the machine slowly and noisily did its job. Then he delivered the result to the counter.‘Eccolo.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome. A doppio’s what you need after a meeting with la dragonessa.’ Luigi grinned.‘What was the problem? She sounded really pissed off with you.’
‘I’m not sure. I’m looking for my brother. He’s been staying at the Zampogna.’
‘Signor Paleologus?’
‘That’s right. Did he come in here?’
‘A couple of times, si. But I got the name from Carlotta—la dragonessa. He’s your brother?’
‘Yes. Basil Paleologus. I’m Nick Paleologus.’
‘English Paleologi. I didn’t know they got so far.’
‘What can you tell me about my brother?’
‘He did the bunk. Left the Zampogna without paying his bill. Carlotta went like Etna when she found out.’
‘When was this?’
‘Some time Monday. He was in here early that morning for his te verde. Then poof! No sign. Things still in his room, Carlotta says. But no signore. And no money. Gone.’
‘What did Carlotta do about it?’
‘Shout at me. What else?’
‘Didn’t she contact the police?’
‘La polizia? You’re joking. They’d probably close her down.’
‘But Basil might be in trouble.’
‘He will be if Carlotta catches up with him. So will you, if she finds out you are family.’
‘Look, I’ll pay her if that’s the problem. I’m worried about my brother. I’m trying to find him. He’s not the type to dodge settling a bill. Surely the fact that he left his stuff behind proves he meant to return. Something stopped him.’
Luigi shrugged.‘Maybe.’
‘Is there any chance you could explain that to her? You’d be doing me a big favour.’
‘And that’s what I’m in business for, yes? To do my customers favours.’ Luigi sighed theatrically.‘OK. We give it the whirl.’ He picked up the telephone and dialled, then winked at Nick.‘This way, she can’t throw anything at me. Carlotta? Buongiorno. Sono Luigi. Si, si. Si calma, Carlotta, si calma.’
The conversation proceeded for several minutes. Nick had no idea what was being said, but the tone of its saying slowly turned towards the reasonable, until, by the end, the barista and the padrona were almost billing and cooing to each other. Luigi eventually replaced the telephone in its cradle with a delicate flourish and treated Nick to a triumphant grin.
‘I have a deal for
you, Signor Paleologus. See what you think. You can take your brother’s room until he returns, or until—whatever. One hundred thousand lire a night from last Saturday. Plus tonight up front. Me, I’d stay at the Cipriani. But, hey, if you like a hard bed and a rough tongue you’ll like the Zampogna. What do you say?’
Nick said yes, of course, and made a cautious return to the Zampogna. Carlotta was on her best behaviour this time, accepting the negotiated fistful of lire with something approximating to gracious thanks, then showing Nick up to what had been Basil’s room and was now his.
The room was small, low-ceilinged and minimally furnished, with a bed, a wardrobe, a cabinet and a hard chair. There was a wash-hand basin in one corner, a framed bird’s-eye view of Venice in 1500 by way of decoration and a tiny window commanding a congested vista of chimneypots and washing lines.
It was immediately apparent to Nick that Basil had left with every intention of being back in the near future. His alarm clock was still on the bedside cabinet, his toiletries still jumbled around the basin. And his rucksack, half-filled with clothes, was still where he had stowed it in the wardrobe. In quest of some clue as to where he had been since Monday, Nick ferreted through the rucksack, discovering precisely nothing, before turning his attention to the rest of the room. But there was nothing to be discovered there either. The shallow drawer of the bedside cabinet contained a crumpled copy of Carri re d lia Sera. That was all.
Nick sat on the edge of the bed and stared blankly into the grey morning beyond the window. Where had Basil gone? Where and why? There was only one trail to follow. The sooner he set off for the Palazzo Falcetto the better. He stood up.
Then he sat down again, as a thought suddenly crystallized in his mind. Basil’s Italian was certainly better than his, but did it stretch to combing the columns of Carri re d lia Serai Nick slid the drawer open and picked up the paper. It was a week-old edition, folded open at an inner page. Nick laid it out flat on the bed. Almost at once, he noticed a circle of red ballpoint round one medium-sized article. He could make little of it, of course, but there was a word in the headline—omicidio—which he felt sure meant murder.
Days Without Number Page 28
