by David Hewson
The naked man leaned forward, stared at his pale, unremarkable face in the tall mirror on the wardrobe, bared his long white teeth, remembering. Then he snarled, ‘That child was mine.’
Those four words were all he wanted to utter before fnishing her. All he needed her to know.
The curtains were closed at every upstairs window. On the ground floor two sealed displays showed some mannequin stock. Behind them the solid metal security barriers were down. A notice on the front door said: ‘Closed due to mourning’. It had been there a week. He’d used that trick before. The Venetians were a sanctimonious bunch.
Still naked, he walked down the narrow, steep staircase. The place below was both store area and workshop when he needed it, full of objects for sale and for his own use too. He had a drone to handle the public, seamstresses and pattern makers to deal with the costumes at whim. When the woman disappeared he’d sent them away with some money, told them to take some holiday. With carnival coming this looked a little odd, so he said he felt sick. Needed some privacy.
They knew not to argue.
He liked the place when it was empty. Behind the shuttered bay windows costumes stood on mannequins everywhere, men’s in gold brocade and black velvet, women’s in ornate white gowns, flowing, tight, sensual, cut in all the traditional styles. There was nothing fancy, nothing modern or jokey here. He hated that. The old ways were the only ways.
No sky-blue gown with a scarlet cape either. The last of those was gone. Needs must.
Naked, cold, the man padded barefoot around the room looking at the forest of still and silent dummies. He thought about the night ahead. Outside carnival was starting to return to life. He could hear the odd distant, drunken voice, the sound of the same stupid band he’d seen in Castello the evening before.
The outré was common at that moment. He went back upstairs and looked in the wardrobe in the studio. Sifting through the clothes – expensive suits and shirts from Savile Row in London, designer jackets and trousers from Milan – he chose a simple well-worn dark blue cotton workman’s overall, a thick plaid shirt and heavy boots. Then he selected a chestnut wig, a full head of hair, badly made. So obvious it would generate smirks and behind-the-hand remarks. The fringe would tug down far enough to hide the plaster on the wound. No one would look twice at a face like this.
When he went back to the mirror he saw an anonymous labourer born to pull and shove and load, one of the strong-armed porters who ran the streets of Venice, dragging their wares around them on big-wheeled trolleys, bellowing for humanity to get out of their way.
No one ever took any notice of them. They were like canal rats, permanent fixtures, invisible. The disguise seemed perfect. Appropriate too.
Getting dressed he thought again about the woman from the building on Zattere.
Why had he tried to kill her?
Because she was an intruder. She had no place there.
What was she doing?
Defying him.
When he told her to kneel she just looked. Stared. Then fought back.
The woman was a kind of cop. A good one, Sofia said. The best in Rome. Not like the stupid Venetian kind. She was smart enough to find that place of his near the Arsenale. How? The hospital. Had to be. Sixteen years before when he went there trying to see Sofia they’d pressed him at the desk. They’d no idea where she lived either. He had to tell them something, even if it was a lie. So, like an idiot, he gave them the first place that came to mind because the truth would have been much too close to home. And still it didn’t work. Still she lay out of reach, refusing to see him, her fragile beauty beyond his touch.
He stopped as he dragged on the pair of heavy black boots.
Sometimes he was, he knew, slow-witted. Rigid in his ways. Blind to possibilities. Sitting there on the unmade bed, half-dressed, he wanted to punch his head with his fist, stamp some sense into it.
What did the bitch say to him?
Do I have to pray too? If I don’t, does that break the spell? The magic?
What didn’t she say?
Where is she? Where’s Sofia Bianchi?
The niece was smart and relentless. Sofia couldn’t stop telling him that all those years ago whenever her name came up. The Lupo woman wasn’t looking for Sofia last night. She was searching for him. Determined to bring him in, a prize for the Romans, a slap in the face for the locals.
She wasn’t looking for Sofia for one very good reason.
The bitch knew where she was already.
Think sideways.
Someone smarter than him had said that. One more tedious unwanted aphorism among so many. Though a few made sense.
His head felt clear for the first time in days. He now knew what to do.
He went downstairs, opened the front door and walked up the narrow dark alley out into the arcade along the approach to the bridge. There were only a few porters tugging at their trolleys, carrying vegetables and meat and fish, cartons of tourist tat, anything the dismal parasites of the streets desired. Just a handful of figures in costumes lurking in the shadows, waiting for the night to begin.
There were a couple at the little bar by Il Gobbo when he went there and ordered a cappuccino and a panino of prosciutto.
The piazza in front was being swept by the city cleaners, made ready for the coming wave of night-time revellers.
He went and stood by the statue, leaning on the black iron railings, then phoned the cripple, making out he was the proprietor of a costume shop on the other side of the bridge, in San Marco. He spoke like a local then, using the hard Venetian accent.
‘You want what?’ the cripple asked.
‘You heard.’
He rattled off an order that was bound to make the man’s ears prick up. Twenty masks in all. The most expensive.
‘You got them?’
‘Yes, yes . . .’ Strozzi answered anxiously. ‘Of course.’
He offered a ridiculous price. One the man would never refuse.
‘And I want that girl to bring them. The pretty kid. The Croatian. I like her. What’s her name?’
There was a long pause. Then the voice on the line asked, ‘We’ve done business before?’
‘Sure. I got a lot of shops. Here and there. Stalls too. I’ll pay cash. Don’t you worry. These masks are good? They’re yours? Not some junk from Taiwan?’
‘Of course they’re ours.’
The cripple sounded offended by the question.
‘I’m going for a coffee,’ he said. ‘Tell her to bring them to me. What’s she called?’
‘Camilla,’ Strozzi said.
There was a place just round the corner. It was more secluded and closed for renovations. Not, he guessed, that she’d know. They were Dorsoduro people. No time, no money to explore much elsewhere.
He passed on the location and said, ‘I’ll meet her there at five thirty.’
‘What name should I put on the bill?’
This was important. So much so he’d worked it out earlier, would have told the man anyway, even if he’d never asked. It was important to sow the seed, to throw the corn.
‘Make it out to L’Arciere. That’s the company. My name too. Cash, remember.’
He returned to the deserted shop, went upstairs, undressed and lay naked on the bed, thinking, imagining.
Forty minutes later, back in the blue workman’s clothes, he went out again. At the end of the narrow dead-end alley that led from the shop back towards the bridge stood a small white dog. It sat on the paving stones beneath the arcade staring at him, blocking his way.
He hated dogs. Every last one of them. He would have fetched the thing a kick if there weren’t a few people around. An act like that would draw attention. The Venetians adored these stinking little things.
Instead he simply walked up to the animal, bent down close to it, smiling, turning his head to one side.
Anyone who saw him would think this was an affectionate gesture.
The thing knew differently someho
w. The dog sat there in a stiff little triangle, head erect, watching him with its gleaming black eyes. It was trembling as he got closer.
He reached forward for its neck. There was no collar. Just hard, white fur, a little matted and dry, as if the animal was very old.
He squeezed the skin beneath between his finger and thumb. The animal began to whimper and squeal in his grip.
‘Be gone,’ he said then let it loose, watching happily as it scampered, scared and anxious, across the patterned paving stones of the Rialto arcades, back into the darkness beyond the soot-stained statue of the pained and crouching man.
When Filippo Strozzi took the unexpected order that sent Camilla out into the foul afternoon, Teresa Lupo was still in the Questura, for no good reason she could see. Paola Boscolo had been true to her word. Too true. That morning, at seven thirty, Teresa was woken by the sound of the doorbell. Boscolo and three detectives were waiting outside to take her and all the material she had assembled about Sofia over to Castello.
She was allowed only a little time to wash and get herself ready. While she did that the cops poked and prodded around the apartment without asking. Teresa knew suspicion when she saw it. They were looking for evidence. Not just about Sofia’s disappearance. But also her involvement with the man called Jerome Aitchison.
Teresa came out of the bathroom towelling her hair and said, ‘If you told me what you were looking for perhaps I could help.’
‘In this mess,’ one of the men grumbled.
She didn’t like the look of him. A little politeness would not have gone amiss.
‘My aunt left in a hurry. She’s never been the most tidy of people.’
‘Did you find anything that suggested she knew this Englishman?’ Paola Boscolo asked. ‘Emails? Letters? Anything.’
Teresa smiled and said, ‘I’ve already told you . . .’
The policewoman scowled.
‘I meant something factual. Something I can touch.’
‘As far as I can see Sofia didn’t use email. She never did with me anyway. Just phone calls and texts.’
‘Give me her number,’ the policewoman ordered. ‘I can talk to the phone company.’
Teresa waited for a moment then said, ‘I gave you the number on Sunday. You mean you did nothing with it?’
Boscolo scowled at one of the men.
‘I’ll check,’ he muttered and went to the window to make a call.
In the end there was nothing to take but the remaining stories and the blank sheets of mustard-yellow paper that once contained the first, presumably incriminating episode. The one that linked Sofia directly to Aitchison. Teresa pointed out that some simple forensic tests would show that the yellow paper had a particular purpose, even if the words once printed on it were now surely lost. The single sheet she’d sent Silvio would prove that once it was analysed, saving the Venetians time and money.
‘We will look for ourselves,’ Boscolo said, and then they went to the launch.
The rest of the day proved equally infuriating. Obtuse questions. Books of photographs. Long periods of inactivity spent on her own, sitting in a windowless room, listening to voices outside. She’d seen all this before, but from the other side. She knew what was going on. They were dancing in the dark.
Around three o’clock when Paola Boscolo came back with one more set of obscure questions Teresa asked, ‘Am I a suspect here?’
The Venetian policewoman wriggled and muttered, ‘Of course not.’
‘So I can walk out right now?’
‘If you like. We are discovering things. I was going to tell you.’
But only what you want, Teresa thought.
‘Go ahead.’
The policewoman took a deep breath and said, ‘First, let me be honest. See this from our point of view. This man Aitchison has murdered someone. Almost killed you too last night.’
‘He was a man in a medieval costume,’ Teresa told her. ‘He didn’t give a name.’
‘Please. He made this arrangement with the Gabriellis. He organized a false passport with his own name and Gabrielli’s photo. Gave him a gun. Told him to secrete himself in the campanile, shoot at the Cammarota girl then kill himself. Or his wife would die. The motive is obvious.’
‘Tell me.’
Boscolo did not appreciate being dragged through this.
‘He was aware that he was about to be exposed. By putting Gabrielli through this game Aitchison would lead us to believe that he was dead. We need look no further.’
‘Sofa’s still missing,’ Teresa pointed out.
‘At the time we had nothing to connect her with Aitchison except this vanished story of yours. Still we have nothing, frankly. The address of the place from last night connects Sofia to the crime.’
‘That address was from sixteen years ago! And she never lived there at all.’
Paola shrugged.
‘A link nevertheless. We have to consider that perhaps Sofia is a part of this man Aitchison’s scheme. Unwilling possibly. Or not . . .’
Teresa Lupo sat there stony-faced and said, ‘I know my aunt. You don’t.’
‘I rather had the impression you were beginning to doubt that yourself,’ the policewoman said a little smugly. ‘Besides. You’ve been in this situation. How often have you heard a relative say such a thing? They would never do this. How many times?’
‘I’m telling you.’
‘I know you’re not a police officer any more . . .’
Teresa tried to stifle her disbelief then asked, ‘You’ve talked to Rome?’
‘Of course! How could we not?’ Paola paused. ‘They speak highly of you. For the most part.’
‘I want to see what so-called evidence you’ve assembled.’
‘You’re a civilian. You know that cannot happen.’
‘If it wasn’t for me . . .’
Paola Boscolo nodded graciously.
‘Thank you. I have no more questions. Do you?’
A million, Teresa thought. None of which wanted to appear at that moment.
‘Sofa’s phone. Have you tracked down the calls?’
The policewoman wondered whether to answer that. Then she said, ‘The number you gave us has not been used for ten days. It’s been switched off all that time. The last location the phone company had for it was in the Rialto.’
That could mean so many things.
‘Of course she may have another phone,’ Paola went on. ‘She and Aitchison—’
‘Sofia’s terrible with anything technical,’ Teresa broke in. ‘Why do you think she didn’t use email? She couldn’t get the hang of it.’
‘Possibly.’
‘What about the police in Cambridge?’
‘The man there told us you called pretending to be an officer,’ Boscolo said. ‘This is a criminal offence. For now I’m willing to overlook it. But no more such games, please. We will not brook any interference from a . . .’
She stopped.
‘A what?’
‘An outsider. A civilian witness. Someone close to a person of interest. Please . . .’ She indicated the door. ‘Feel free to go. If you wish to return to Rome . . .’
‘Why would I do that?’
Boscolo seemed puzzled by the question.
‘It’s your home. This matter is in our hands now. We’ll let you know if there’s progress.’
The policewoman leaned forward to make her point.
‘That would be for the best I think, Teresa. Interfering with a murder investigation is a serious matter. I have no wish to make a difficult situation worse for you. But if you leave me no choice . . .’
There was no friendly police launch this time. Teresa had to find her own way back from the Questura. The wind was getting up. Violent bursts of icy, squally rain were starting to chase across the water. The fast vaporetto across the basin lurched so much that a young American kid by the railings threw up into the seething waves.
Someone laughed.
Teresa called home and
had a brief conversation with her mother. The murder was everywhere. Somehow Paola Boscolo had kept Teresa’s name out of all the stories, nor did the papers link the death in Castello with a missing woman called Sofia Bianchi. Was this kindness on the part of the policewoman? Or a simple precaution out of suspicion?
Probably the latter, she thought. They thought Teresa hadn’t been entirely honest with them about Sofia. In a way, she guessed, they were right. She had two good reasons. They hadn’t taken her seriously until she – not the police – found a young woman savagely slaughtered in a derelict palace that had some hazy connection with Sofia in the past. And, more importantly, she wasn’t yet sure what to make of events herself.
She felt grubby when she came through the door of the apartment. The Questura had done that, had placed some insidious uncertainties in her head. For the second time that day she climbed into the old bath and stood underneath the leaky, unreliable shower, listening to the gas boiler cough and wheeze.
Finally able to think for herself, away from prying cops, the previous night kept coming back, and with the memories came bafflement and a little fear.
The Count of Saint-Germain, the figure supposed to lead her in the search for Sofia, was dead. In the story anyway. What did that signify? That she was alone now. Some kind of climax was approaching, and it was one that no one else, it seemed, could tackle. Not that she felt capable of the task.
She went to the kitchen. One last exotic teabag remained. She boiled some water, made the final mug and sat at the computer. Messages from Rome. Yet one more plea from Silvio Di Capua asking her to get in touch. Not a word from Peroni. He would still be in Sicily with Falcone and Nic. Police work was never nine to five. Not their kind anyway.
Back to the search. Back to typing random keywords and hoping for the best. Beyond the grubby windows the weather was changing rapidly. The wind was howling outside. Rain, thick and greasy, was starting to lash down constantly from a rolling mass of angry, churning clouds. There were few craft in the channel separating her from the distant low shape of Redentore. Only one or two pedestrians fighting against the gale, struggling with umbrellas, staggering in the wind along the cobbled pavement that glistened under the street lights and the illumination from an unnaturally tall passing cruiser.
