Much enjoyable research remained before this single scrap of information could be turned into something resembling fact. Every weekday, he was released from the prison and took the bus to Piazzale Roma, then walked to the archive, trawling its miles of shelves for more evidence. The name Delapole was mentioned elsewhere, though never in connection with music. There were, as the night watch reported, debts. A few fragments of private papers also made comments on the man’s character, which was, by all accounts, cultured and charming. Over the weeks, Daniel assembled every last scrap of information he could find about Delapole. When he wanted to think, he would walk round the corner and sit in the upper hall of San Rocco, beneath Lucifer’s shadow, and let these facts roam around his imagination, trying to see where they might fit alongside one another.
After ten months he had assembled a story of a kind and come to realise that it could be complete only if he were to tell another tale: that of how the lost concerto came to be found. So, alongside the tragic account of Oliver Delapole, another emerged from his mind: of Hugo Massiter, an act of deception, and a wily friend named Scacchi who came to pay for his cunning with his life. There were lacunae in this account, as several interested publishers were anxious to point out. But Daniel was adamant: this was fact, not fiction. It could have no cosy, rounded closing act. Mysteries would always remain in the story, and he was unsure that even Hugo Massiter, were he ever to reappear, could explain them all.
A deal was concluded. A book made its way into print with a rapidity Daniel found surprising. The anonymous concerto, as it was now becoming known, continued to create a stir around the world. No publisher wanted to miss the bandwagon. By the time he qualified for early release, twenty months into his sentence, Daniel Forster’s book was an international success. He was mildly wealthy, with his own mansion in the heart of the city and the promise of a continuing career as a writer. A return to Oxford never entered his head. There remained a more important task.
One Monday in September, Toni called. He had an address and also a suggestion. He had been looking for many weeks and remained unsure. People changed. There were no recent photographs. It made sense to see her first, in public, before risking the embarrassment of visiting her at home.
The following day Daniel sat on the number one vaporetto as it crawled across the lagoon towards the Lido. He thought of his first voyage on these flat, uncertain waters, just over two years before in the good ship Sophia, captained, for a while at least, by a dog named Xerxes. No one noticed him. He now wore a thin moustache, and his hair was more closely cropped. This change in his appearance helped keep the curious away.
He watched the jetty bob towards him, unsure of his own feelings. Once ashore, he turned south for a mile, towards the residential area where the market was held. This was another side of Venice, more ordinary, more like the outside world. The Lido had cars and buses. The stink of diesel sat alongside the perfume of oleander bushes.
He crossed the canal that led to the Lido casino, then followed a broad, tree-lined avenue which ran to the shoreline. The city hung low in the distance across the lagoon, a tantalising horizon dominated by the campanile in the square. The street was now given over to a busy market. Daniel put on a pair of sunglasses, then strode forward and soon found himself lost in a pushing, grumbling mass of people arguing vigorously among stalls of clothes and vegetables, fish and cheese.
It took only minutes to find her. Laura stood at the counter of a van near the exit, haggling over a vast chunk of Parmesan. She wore the white nylon housecoat. Her hair was tied back as before. She seemed not a day older. He could remember the smell of her, the touch of her skin. Then she was gone, out towards the main road. He followed, but she had already caught one of the orange buses that meandered along the long main drag of the Lido, from the little airport in the north to Alberoni at the opposite tip of the island. Shaking, he pulled out the address Toni had given him, went outside, and caught the next bus south.
It took ten minutes to reach Alberoni. He had never travelled this far in the lagoon. There were low fields of vegetables and marram grass, some small restaurants and hotels, a handful of shops. The houses were rural villas set behind their own fences. They had orange shutters and front gardens with roses in them.
He asked directions of a young woman with a child in a pushchair. The house was down a cul-de-sac leading to the sea side of the narrow spit of land. He walked down the dusty, potholed road and saw the white housecoat again. She was behind a double iron gate freshly painted green. A young man with blond hair was with her. He wore a white cotton T-shirt and jeans and seemed handsome, with a finely chiselled, tanned face. Daniel guessed that he had been gardening, cutting the elegant rosebushes which formed an ornamental shape behind the gate. She had arrived with her shopping. They had been talking. Then the young man bent down, kissed her on both cheeks, and took her groceries.
Daniel’s mind was spinning. He stopped in the middle of the road and stared at them. The man turned, bags in hand, and looked at him, puzzled. Then Laura turned too. He was too distant to see her expression. He walked forward until he was no more than six feet away, separated from them by the gate. Her hand went to her mouth. The man said something inaudible, in an accent which sounded American. Another figure appeared, shorter, dressed identically to the one who had kissed Laura, but much older, and with pebble-thick glasses. He stared at Daniel and opened the gate, beckoning. Daniel walked into the grounds, unable to take his eyes off her.
“Guess it’s time to be out of here, John,” the younger man said carefully, placing an arm around the other. “Laura’s got a guest.”
“A man?” the older man asked.
“Seems so. You got a name, friend?”
“Daniel,” Laura interrupted. “We haven’t seen each other in a while. This is John. And Michael.”
“First fellow I’ve seen here,” John said, somewhat baffled. “Oh, well. Had to happen. Are we going to that première or what?”
“Sure. Any minute. The film festival,” Michael added by way of explanation. “We’re kind of in the business.”
John waved a set of car keys. “Then let’s leave these young people to themselves. You drive. I’m going to drink.” With that he wandered off towards the garage. A white Alfa stood outside, pristine, gleaming.
“Hey, Laura,” Michael said wryly. “You can take him inside. It’s OK by me. I won’t count the candlesticks when we get back.”
She cast him a cross glance, which Daniel recognised instantly, then said, “Come!”
He carried the shopping bags. They heard the gruff roar of the Alfa as they entered the door. She led him into a large open room with a sparkling Bechstein grand by the window, then sat down in an armchair, put her feet on the coffee table, and stared at him. He perched on the piano stool opposite.
“You look older,” she said.
“You look just the same.”
“Flattery. I’m going to seed.” She reached behind her head and unfastened her hair, then shook it free. “Aren’t I?”
Now that she had let down her hair, he could see it was much longer. “Not that I’ve noticed.”
Beyond the full-length windows was an ornate garden in the English style, with rich herbaceous borders of pink, white, and blue, a sundial, and a colonnaded pergola covered with red roses. Daniel admired it, then asked, “Where do you find them, Laura? It’s like Scacchi and Paul all over again.”