by Jon Trace
‘Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt ate here.’ A woman’s voice. One he recognises.
He turns to see Tina, the travel writer he’d met in Florin’s. ‘It’s famous for its seafood,’ she adds as she lifts a pair of fashionably oversized shades. ‘And its prices.’ Her blue eyes twinkle.
‘You’re right there.’ Tom taps the menu glass. ‘I can just afford the coffee.’
‘You haven’t eaten yet?’
‘No. Not since last night. Can you recommend somewhere that suits a more modest - actually, a much more modest budget?’
She takes a long look at him, then smiles. ‘I tell you what - let’s get a table here. You buy the coffee - you said you could stretch to that - and I’ll buy lunch.’
Tom is horrified. ‘I can’t let you do that—’
But Tina already has the eye of a waltzing waiter and doesn’t feel like taking no for an answer. ‘Lei ha una tavola per due, per favore?’
A white-jacketed ballet star in his late fifties grins at her. ‘Sì, signorina, certo.’
Tom feels embarrassed as he follows them to a table in the far corner. Even before the seat’s been pulled out for him and the starched white napkin laid on his lap, he can tell that the view is magnificent and the meal is certain to be memorable. ‘This is enormously generous of you. Really, I’m horribly ashamed. If I’d known how expensive Venice is, I probably wouldn’t have come.’
‘That really would have been shameful.’ She studies his face and sees he’s tense and awkward. ‘Listen, I was going to eat here anyway. Every travel writer is compelled to eat somewhere cheap and somewhere as ridiculously expensive as the Grand Canal, so I’m simply putting you down as research.’
‘“Research”? I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before.’
His charm earns him a long sparkle of her flawless teeth. ‘In return, you have to tell me your story. Who you are, why you’re here, what you like and don’t like about Venice - that’s the kind of stuff I have to find out when I research fellow travellers.’
‘Okay,’ says Tom, ‘you have a deal.’ The waiter appears juggling two menus, a wine list, olives and a silver basket of bread. ‘But,’ adds Tom, ‘it won’t be the kind of story you’re going to want to write.’
CHAPTER 12
A blue-and-white police boat speeds Vito and Valentina to the mortuary at the Ospedale San Lazzaro. The sun is baking hot and the canal smells of burned cabbage. Behind them, a white wake froths on chocolate-brown water as twin outboards growl down the canals. It reminds Valentina of the iced cappuccino she promised herself an hour ago.
They disembark at the city hospital, alongside a fleet of water ambulances knocking gently against ancient wooden posts. Paramedics in sunglasses sit on stone steps near the quay, Day-glo orange uniforms rolled down to their waists, smoking and chatting lazily. The calm before the storm.
‘Hey!’ The shout comes from Valentina’s cousin, Antonio Pavarotti, arriving on foot from the opposite direction. ‘Wait!’
He’s breathless as he catches up. Only after they’ve slipped into the shady labyrinth of the Ospedale does he find his normal voice. ‘The divers have found nothing. Short of dredging the canal, there’s no more we can do.’
‘Nothing?’ queries Vito, who has spent much of his career lecturing officers on the subject ‘there is no such thing as nothing - if there ever was nothing, then it really would mean something’.
Antonio - who’s heard the lecture several times - corrects himself: ‘Only a pair of fake Gucci shades, probably from one of the stalls near the Rialto, a sodden mound of litter dropped by damned tourists, and a broken Swatch watch that looks like it belonged to a child.’
Vito shakes his head. The boy will never learn. ‘They’re all something, not nothing. Check them. Show them to the market traders, jewellers, see if we strike lucky.’
The major leads them towards the block at the back of the hospital marked Anatomia Patalogica, Laboratorio Alalisi, Mortuarie. ‘Forensics get anything?’
‘There are paint marks against the wall where Monica was tied. They look new. Could be from the craft that he carried her on. They’re black, though, the colour of every damned gondola in Venice.’
‘Samples already gone to the labs?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well done, Antonio. We’ll be sorry to lose you. When do you start your new job?’
‘Tomorrow, Major.’ He looks worried for a second. ‘Do you wish me to ask the unit commander to find someone else?’
Touched by his loyalty, Vito says, ‘No, no. I know how much you enjoy undercover. We’ll cope without you, won’t we, Valentina?’
She smiles. ‘Somehow. I don’t know how, but we’ll struggle through.’
‘They’re posting you out to that hippy commune, aren’t they?’ asks Carvalho rhetorically. ‘Months of sex. Drugs. Rock’n’roll and a mad millionaire who thinks he’s creating a revolution.’
Antonio grins. ‘It’s tough work, but someone has to do it.’
Valentina delivers him a playful punch in the arm, but as they turn into the morgue the air goes cold and so does their mood.
Vito walks them towards an old man with a bald, white head that’s wise enough to stay out of Venice’s blistering sun. ‘Officers, this is Professore Sylvio Montesano. Professore, these are lieutenants Valentina Morassi and Antonio Pavarotti, this is their first time in the mortuary.’
‘Then I’m honoured, and very pleased to meet you both.’ Montesano bows, wire bifocals sliding to the tip of his nose. ‘Come with me to the Cooler.’
The fifteen-year-old victim is laid out on a steel gurney, her body bleached white by the overhead lighting, her wounds the colour of putrid veal. Antonio is unfazed but Valentina is already holding a perfumed handkerchief to her mouth.
‘The body is actually in remarkably good condition,’ says Montesano. ‘Oddly enough, submersion in water slows decomposition. We got her in here very quickly, so decay isn’t as advanced as it might have been.’
At a nod from Vito, the medical examiner launches into his report, pitching it so the two lieutenants can easily follow.
‘After the corpse was recovered from the scene we had her CT-scanned in the hospital’s radiological-imaging department. We made examinations every 0.5 millimetres, scouting for two- and three-dimensional reconstructions, so we have very precise data on all the wounds.’ Montesano moves closer to the body. ‘There are two startlingly unusual features to this case. The first is the fatal wound across the throat. Deep into the brachiocephalic artery - that’s our largest artery.’ He points to a spot on the right side of Monica’s neck. ‘It branches off into the carotid and subclavian arteries, pumping blood into this side of the upper chest, arm, neck and head.’
Antonio waves a hand over the mass of other wounds. ‘So, all those other stabbings and injuries - there was no need for them?’
‘In the sense of taking the girl’s life? No need at all. The neck wound was sufficient to have killed her.’ The ME is about to move on, but can’t resist sharing some of his medical knowledge: ‘This is a highly unusual injury. The brachiocephalic artery is a very difficult one to strike. Usually it’s protected by the sternal bone and the clavicles. Generally, when someone’s attacked with a knife to the throat, you expect to see a cut to the left or right common carotid artery.’
Vito is intrigued. ‘But the result is still the same? The victim just bleeds to death?’
‘No, probably not.’ Montesano pushes his glasses back up his nose. ‘Victims of such wounds generally die from air embolus.’ He checks Valentina, anxious to educate rather than traumatise. ‘If the victim’s head and neck are above the level of the heart, then air is drawn into the body - into the veins, mind you, not the arteries. It goes into the right chambers of the heart and forms a frothy mass, stopping the heart from functioning.’
‘But it’s quick and merciful?’ adds Vito, trying to mitigate the effects of this graphic detail on his young fema
le lieutenant.
‘Afraid not,’ says Montesano flatly. ‘It’s far from instantaneous. It can take several minutes.’
Valentina is now sheet-white, but still she manages a question of her own. ‘Did the killer do this with a normal knife?’
Montesano returns his fingers to the girl’s throat. ‘Depends what you mean by normal. The murder weapon had a strong, short blade like a carpet fitter’s tool or artist’s knife. The skin shows that the fatal incision ran from right to left in such a way that the attacker was stood in front and above the victim.’
Vito mimes the knife action above Monica’s head. ‘So, he probably had her restrained on the ground below him, and if the cut ran from the right side of her, we can safely presume the offender is left-handed?’
Montesano looks amused. ‘Major, you are old enough to know that you shouldn’t presume anything.’
‘Okay, I stand corrected.’ Vito smiles and turns to his lieutenants. ‘Without presuming anything, let’s proactively consider it and also keep in mind that 87 per cent of the population of the world is right-handed. Anyone left-handed comes on to our radar, we should give them a very close look.’
Montesano picks up the point: ‘Please also remember that left-handedness is more common in males - particularly identical and fraternal twins - and in those with neurological disorders.’
‘Like what?’ asks Antonio.
‘Epilepsy, Down’s Syndrome, autism, mental retardation and even dyslexia.’
‘Duly noted,’ says Vito. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re most welcome.’
Keen to shift focus to an area he more readily understands, Vito asks, ‘Professore, do you have anything that tells us where she was and when she died?’
‘I do. The stomach contents show that her last meal was a seafood pizza, heavy on tomato paste and low on seafood. It will be a cheap tourist trattoria. I would say the meal was consumed about two hours before she died.’
‘Check it.’ Vito says to Valentina.
She raises an eyebrow. Her list of things to check will soon be longer than the Canal Grande.
Antonio cups his hand and whispers into her right ear, ‘I can do it for you. I don’t report until tomorrow lunchtime.’ He glances towards the ME. ‘Can you tell us the time of death?’
Montesano looks irritated. ‘Young man, you’ve been watching too many movies and reading too many second-rate thrillers. Pathologists cannot discern a time of death by simply looking at a body like a gypsy looks at tea-leaves. In cases like this it is enormously difficult to establish time of death with accuracy.’
Vito saves Antonio further pain by turning again to Valentina. ‘What time did that old fishmonger find her?’
‘Somewhere around five-thirty a.m.’
‘That’s the base to start building your timeline back from, Antonio. Find the place where she ate the pizza, check the father’s testimony again on when they split up, and you’ll have pinpointed the window of death.’ He looks to the Professore again. ‘You said there were two startlingly unusual features about the case. What’s the other?’
Montesano scratches an itch under his glasses. ‘The girl’s liver is missing.’
‘What?’
The ME enunciates the words. ‘Her - liver - is - missing.’
‘You’re sure?’
Montesano glares at him. ‘Major, of course I am sure.’ He couldn’t look more offended. ‘I know what a liver looks like, and I promise you, there is no mistake, it is missing. It has been cut from her body.’
CHAPTER 13
Luna Hotel Baglioni, Venice
Too much wine has left Tom dizzy and deliciously mellow. The tension from the last twelve hours is fading as quickly as any doubts he might have had about where he is now - lying on his back on a bed that’s bigger, softer and more expensive than any he’s ever known.
The air smells of flowers. Lilies in small vases either side of the king-size bed. There’s the sound of running water in the background. Not a tap, not a bath, but a shower. It’s full on, beating hard in a marble cubicle. When it stops, he sits up and sees Tina approaching in a white towelling robe that looks too big for her. She shakes her long blonde hair out of the scrunchie she’d bunched it in, and looks wonderful. Her eyes are filled with a gentleness that melts his inhibitions. ‘Come on. Let’s get you scrubbed up.’ She pulls him by the hand and the room tilts as she leads him to the en-suite. The light is too bright. She deftly flicks a switch that kills the overheads and leaves them standing in a softer glow from candles near the sink. Tom starts to unbutton his shirt. She kisses his neck and moves his hands. Her fingertips trip down the fastenings and it falls from his shoulders. Her mouth finds his. He feels his belt being tugged open and his trousers slide down gym-hardened thighs. Her hands glide across the front of his legs and she can feel his muscles twitch and flex like snakes beneath silk. Tom’s heart thumps hard, drumming his urgency into her body. Her thumbs latch on to the side of his shorts. His hands pull her robe apart. The smell, the warmth, the touch of her skin electrifies him. Tina pulls back and kisses him. Short, hard kisses that set his lips ablaze. Now she holds him off, so her nipples tantalisingly brush the mountains of his chest. Tom takes her breasts in his hands, cradles them like he’s been given something sacred. He doesn’t understand how he feels - doesn’t want to. Even her skin confuses him - soft, yet firm. It’s all a contradictory swirl. An unrehearsed dance.
Tina lets her robe fall and she holds him while he climbs out of a tangled knot of trousers, underwear, socks and shoes. They step into the steaming cubicle. Hot water beats hard on his scalp and skin.
Tom’s about to say something. She puts a finger to his lips and shushes him. Kisses him again. More urgently this time.
The dance quickens. A tempo unknown to him. A beat that cannot - will not - be halted.
She reaches between his legs and strokes him.
He holds her waist, uncertain for a moment, stuck between two worlds - the one he’s left behind and the one he’s falling into - and then she puts him inside her.
She folds her body around him and takes his mind into a space and time he’s tried for so long not to think about, not even dream about. His body quakes as she moves against him, holds him, grips him.
He feels her heart against his chest, feels himself deep and hard inside her. Her hands span the broad arch of his back, fingers digging into his skin as she trembles and almost buckles.
Tom grips her legs and lifts her. Her knees tighten like a vice around the top of his thighs. She clings to his neck as a wave of orgasms breaks loose.
Tom pushes her against the cubicle wall. Their bodies rock rhythmically. Their lips stay desperately locked together for fear that something special might escape should they dare to breathe.
And then it happens.
For the first time in his life, at the end of an experience full of contradictions and pleasure, Tom Shaman gives himself - in all his uncontrolled entirety - to a woman.
CAPITOLO VII
666 BC
The Sacred Curte, Atmanta
Two days after meeting Pesna, Teucer finally sets about the task the magistrate gave him.
He doubts the gods will be pleased. He is, after all, nothing more than a common murderer. The father-to-be of an evil rapist’s child. Nevertheless, he will once more seek their forgiveness and try to divine signs that goodwill may visit Atmanta in the coming months.
Tetia walks with him to the curte. The grass is sodden with dew and the only sounds are the shuffle of their feet and birds stirring in the now leafless trees.
Teucer is going to make no ordinary sacrifice. It wouldn’t be enough. The atonement of a netsvis and his wife merits more than an offering of livestock.
The ceremony he has in his mind is one of personal cleansing and purity. He uses the sharpened staff of his lituus to mark out his sacred circle. This time it encompasses not only him but also Tetia. They stand together as he angles his ceremonial knif
e to open a small cut on the fingertips of his left hand. Next, he does the same to Tetia and looks to the skies. ‘Man and wife, joined as one by actions in what we do, joined by the blood we have shed of others and now the blood we shed of ourselves.’ He holds his cut hand up to his wife’s and their bloody fingers touch. Slowly Teucer moves one way around the circumference of the sacred circle and Tetia goes the other, until they meet again.
Together they kneel and dig a hole in which Teucer starts a fire - a roaring blaze that will be a tribute to the gods and a beacon for their repentant journey into the darkness. They position themselves either side of the flames and Teucer unrolls a cloth that contains sacred herbs and foods for the deities. He sprinkles henbane into the growing flames while Tetia positions the jugs of water, wine and oils that he has blessed, along with black bucchero bowls she’s made for the ritual.
The rising sun is hidden by cloud - a disturbing omen sent from Apulu the god of sun and light and a chilling reminder of the fire Tetia allowed to die in their hearth.
They both swallow a draught of wine, then he fixes north-south and east-west lines, both in the sky and on the ground. ‘This is my front, and this is my back . . .’ He stretches out his hands. ‘This is my left and this is my right . . .’ The division of the sky is necessary for him to locate the sixteen celestial homes of the gods.
Finally the young netsvis turns east and kneels. ‘I am Teucer, son of Venthi and Larcia; I am your voice and your ears to the world. Great deities of the east, most benevolent of all gods, I call upon you to forgive me, to forgive my wife, to wipe our actions from your divine memories and to protect the good souls of Atmanta.’ He looks across the flames to Tetia. ‘And I humbly thank you that we should still be together and be free and happy.’
Tetia feels a thud in her stomach.
She bows her head and puts her hands there. The child is kicking. Pounding harder and more frequently than it’s ever done. She closes her eyes and hopes the pain will quickly pass.
