The Venice conspiracy

'This is my friend, Tina Ricci.' Tom glares at Valentina. 'But I guess somehow you already know that?'

'Signor, we are detectives.' Valentina enjoys her riposte. 'Maybe not as well staffed as the LAPD or FBI, but it really does not take us long to call your hotel, then describe you to a few restaurant owners and concierges before we find you. Venice is only a small village if you live here.'

Tom does nothing to hide his irritation. 'So, what do you want? I really can't think that there's anything I can add to what I've already told you.'

Valentina glances towards Tina then back to him. 'I'd rather explain away from here. Somewhere more discreet.' Her eyes roll back to Tina. 'We won't keep him from you very long, signorina. You should have him back in time for him to plump up your pillows.'

Tom reddens. 'Do I have a choice in this?'

'Si.' Valentina tries her best to look sympathetic. 'For the moment we are asking for your help. It would be kind and courteous if you were to give it freely and save us the trouble of seeking the authority to enforce it.'

Tom gives in. 'Okay. Let's go.'

The officers head for the door. He kisses Tina. 'I'll call when I'm done.'

She looks more worried than annoyed. 'Do you want me to fix a lawyer for you?'

He smiles dismissively. 'No. It's not that heavy. I'll be back real soon.'

Minutes later, he boards a Carabinieri boat moored right outside the hotel.

No one says much as they cut through the iron-grey water and head the short distance to the force's HQ. It's a carefully restored and extended two-storey, salmon-coloured building with brown shutters, security cameras and doors that can only be electronically buzzed open. Valentina's office, like that of her major, overlooks the canal and the lawned grounds of a museum where two young boys are playing soccer on a rare patch of grass.

'Coffee?' Valentina offers, as they settle on hard plastic chairs near a cheap table filled with expensive paperwork.

Tom sits with his arms crossed and his legs spread.

'How about an explanation, instead?'

'In good time. How long have you known your friend Tina?'

'Say that again.'

'The writer – Tina Ricci – how long have you known her?'

Tom stares. Angry at the growing intrusion into his private life. Valentina matches him eye for eye, prepared to wait indefinitely for his answer.

Eventually, he gives it. 'We met in Venice. I never knew her before I came here earlier this week. Is this really relevant? '

'And you are already so intimate with her that you spend the night together?'

'That's none of your business!' He stands and knocks the chair over as he does.

Baldoni steps nervously between him and the door. 'Please.' He gestures towards the fallen seat. 'We could go to a magistrate and make this a lot more official and very unpleasant.'

Tom picks up the chair. 'I wish to God I knew what you people wanted. I tried to help a man who had found a dead girl in your damned canal. Ever since then you've wanted to know my life story and now that of anyone I've met.'

Valentina swings the empty chair around for him. 'Please sit down and try to see things from our perspective for a moment.'

He lets out an exasperated sigh and sits.

The lieutenant finishes her pitch. 'For years you've been a parish priest, minding your own business, having what I guess is a quiet, calm and celibate life.' She raises one of her pencil-thin eyebrows. 'Then all of a sudden you kill two people, abandon your vows, cross a continent and end up in Venice, where – lo and behold – you come across a dead girl's body. Then' – she gives him her best look of total incredulity – 'on top of all that, we find you having a relationship with another American whom apparently you've never met before. Now, maybe all those things are coincidences. But it's our job to check they are. Even if that means asking you hours of embarrassing questions until we're fully satisfied.'

'Fine!' Tom bites back a building rage. 'Now look at things from my perspective: I try to do the right thing by crossing the road to stop a woman being attacked. But despite my efforts, she's raped, just yards from me.' The memory stops him. He wonders for a moment about the poor girl he couldn't save and how she's piecing her damaged life together. 'That night, I had to fight for my own life, and as a consequence ended up killing two people.' He pauses again, more memories painfully surfacing: the dead kid's face, white and drained… Blood all over his shirt, two dead men – men he maybe could have restrained rather than killed… 'So, you tell me,' continues Tom, 'how would you have felt in that situation? Like you'd done the right thing – or got it all wrong? Like God was pleased with you – or angered at the complete mess you'd made?' Their silence tells Tom he's getting through to them. 'Yeah, well, maybe you'd be like me – traumatised – lost – desperate to run away from it all.'

Neither Valentina nor Rocco speak as Tom pours himself water from a plastic bottle on the table. The glass is hazy and probably dirty from someone else using it, but he doesn't care. 'And as for Tina-' His anger boils over now. 'Well, that really is none of your business, but I'll tell you anyway. Yes, we're strangers. And we've become intimate. Now maybe I'll go to Hell for all this – somehow I don't think so – but right now getting involved with her is about the only good thing I've done.'

'I'm sorry,' says Valentina. She studies him for a moment; his passion seems genuine – more than genuine, quite impressive, quite moving. Carvalho had told her she had to be sure about him – absolutely sure – before following through with what they'd decided. She looks again into his eyes. She's a good judge of people, and this guy doesn't flinch. He's hiding nothing. She motions to her colleague. 'Show him the papers, Rocco.'

Baldoni passes Tom a file. 'It's the medical examiner's report.'

Tom screws up his face. 'If it's all the same, I'd rather not look at it – I'm sure there's nothing pleasant in there. I'd just like to leave now.'

Valentina takes the file off him and opens it. 'We don't normally let civilians see things like this, but we need you to look.' She turns it around and places it in front of Tom. 'You're right: it's not pleasant. I'm sorry for that. But right now, none of us in this room can afford pleasantries. Like it or not, we're all caught up in this young girl's death.'

Tom glances down. It's not what he expected. No gory post-mortem photographs. Instead, what he sees is a computerised sketch of Monica's body. Arrowed, listed, numbered and described are each and every wound inflicted by the killer. Tom turns it around and pushes it back. 'I'm sorry. I still don't understand. Is this supposed to mean something to me?'

Valentina stands and walks around the table. She perches on the edge of it alongside Tom. Close enough to feel some electricity from being in his personal space. 'When you first met me and Major Carvalho, you said something that stuck in our minds. You said, and I quote, "You're dealing with the devil's work." Do you remember?'

He glances down at the sketch on the table. 'Yes, I remember.'

'Well, maybe you were correct.' Valentina pulls the ME's report close to him. 'In the bottom corner you'll see the total number of wounds inflicted upon Monica. The ME has checked them; my boss has checked them; even Rocco here has checked them. There were six hundred and sixty-six, Signor Shaman. Six Six Six. We suspect that number means even more to you than it does to us.'

CHAPTER 18

A tray of coffee signals the end of hostilities. Tom toys with a double espresso then downs it like a shot of vodka. His eyes are still glued to the expansive sketch of the teenager's six hundred and sixty-six wounds. Lieutenant Valentina Morassi waits until he's wiped his mouth. 'Father, we asked you to help because you have spiritual knowledge and because in finding Monica's body you're already part of the enquiry. That gives you a unique insight. It also means we don't have to risk telling other people about what we're doing. Even church circles have mouths that can't keep secrets.'