Ermanno takes her hand again. 'I'm sorry, my love. I thought you should know. I didn't mean to upset you. I just thought you should be warned in case he said something – maybe suggested something to you.'
'Don't be ridiculous!' She pulls her hand free. 'Gatusso has been like a father to me.'
They walk awkwardly in near silence to her doorstep. Ermanno's comments have ruined her night, and when they kiss goodbye, there's no passion in it.
Tanina shakes her hair free from the back of her cloak as she steps inside and glances back. 'Ermanno, don't ever talk to me again about Signor Gatusso. He's a good man, and I don't want to hear any more nonsense about courtesans.'
He nods and turns away.
From what he's heard, Lauro Gatusso is far from a good man. In fact, good is probably the last word he would use to describe him.
CHAPTER 44
Present Day Isola Mario, Venice Vito Carvalho sits opposite his billionaire host on an antique chair he guesses is worth more than his annual salary. He's weighing the man up, and he doesn't understand what he sees. Far from appearing drug-addled and aggressive, Mario Fabianelli looks like a model on the front cover of Men's Health and is not even a notch short of being charming.
They're drinking espresso and iced water near a large window overlooking the rear grounds of the mansion. Dino Ancelotti, Mario's barky-dog lawyer, is curled up on a corner chair, panting to get in on the action.
Conversation swings back and forth. The purpose of the commune, the purpose of the police visit. It seems that Heaven – or H3V3N – as Mario explains, is a cultural retreat. And a palatial one at that. It's filled with expensive sculptures and paintings and the decor seems to be to hotel standard. Four-star, at least. It's certainly not your average hippy hang-out.
'Everyone lives here free of charge,' explains Mario. 'All I ask of them is that they paint, or write or play some music every day.'
'Why?' asks Vito.
'Venice was once famous for such things. It led the world in cultural pursuits and pleasures. I'd like to see it do so again.'
Vito can't fault Mario's idealism. After all, when he left Homicide in Milan, he'd effectively staged his own version of opting out. He puts down his drink and pulls a photograph from his jacket. 'Do you know this man?'
Mario takes it and looks. 'I don't think so.' He hands it back. 'I suppose he's dead? Usually when a cop shows you a photograph, that person is dead or missing.'
Vito puts it back in his jacket. 'Dead. Antonio Pavarotti. Pavarotti like the singer. He died in the lagoon. Not far from here.'
Mario looks sympathetic. 'I'm sorry. What happened and how can I help?'
'His boat was blown up. Plastic explosives rigged to the engine. Did you know he was working for you?'
Mario seems surprised. 'No. As what?'
'Security guard. He was on his way out here to start a shift when he was killed.'
Ancelotti calls from the back of the room. 'My employer has no knowledge of who works security. An outside company handles those services, and I, in turn, handle them. Mario has more important things to do than hire staff.'
Vito smiles. 'I'm sure.' He looks to the billionaire. 'Why exactly do you employ security? Concern for your own life? For those in the commune?'
'Both. I have a healthy fear of kidnapping.' He touches his ear. 'I don't fancy parts of me being posted, Getty-style, to Dino there, demanding he hand over several million in return for the remainder of me. And I believe I owe it to those who stay here to ensure they are safe.'
The major checks his watch and prepares to make his exit. 'I understand. Thanks for the background. And for the refreshments.' He looks towards the lawyer. 'I'd like to meet the head of security now, if that's all right?'
Ancelotti nods while the other two men shake hands.
In the corridor, heading towards the exit, they see Tom with Mera Teale. The tattooed woman stops them. 'Dino, this is Tom Shaman – the fucking Father who's been all over the newspapers.'
Mario and Dino look confused.
'Mister Shaman,' she adds, 'is with the Carabinieri but he's not with them, if you know what I mean.'
Vito jumps in. 'He's a civilian assisting us with our enquiries. An expert of sorts.'
'A sexual expert,' chimes Teale, eyeing Tom. 'At least, that's what the press says.' She winks.
Ancelotti puffs out his chest. 'Signor Shaman is not covered by your warrant. You have a choice, Major – either he goes, or you invalidate your warrant and you all go.'
Vito glares at the lawyer and then turns apologetically to Tom. 'I'm sorry. You'll need to leave. If you go down to the boat they'll make you comfortable, or take you back to the mainland, whichever your prefer.'
Teale treats them all to a wide grin. 'I'll gladly make sure he gets there.' Tom's not in the least disappointed to be led outside. On the way to the jetty he asks Mario's mouthy PA a question that's been eating him. 'You have a tattoo of a teardrop near your eye.' He dabs a finger on his own face. 'Where did you get it?'
'Vegas.'
'Why did you have it done?'
She taps her nose. 'You know the old saying: What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.'
'Confession is good for the soul.'
She laughs. 'It was Friday the thirteenth, the day tat' parlours give you a free gift to celebrate.'
Tom looks thrown. 'To celebrate an unlucky day?'
'The tattoo world is about doing the opposite of what conventional society does.'
He looks over her shoulder. Something up the hillside catches his attention. A shape moving slowly. Moving in a way that he recognises.
A strange jolt hits his heart. A familiar fizz in his blood.
Tina!
He's sure it's Tina.
He starts to run towards her.
She's with a man.
They disappear through a small door that looks as though it leads to a kitchen or cellar.
It's locked by the time Tom reaches it.
He bangs with his fist.
'Tina! Tina, it's Tom.'
No reply.
He moves to a window. Cups his hand to block out sunlight as he peers inside.
Empty.
He turns and sees Mera Teale staring wildly at him while speaking into a walkie-talkie.
Did he imagine the whole thing? Is his mind playing tricks on him? Or was Tina really there?
CAPITOLO XLIII
1777
Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore, Venezia Dawn breaks like a virginal blush on the pale face of Palladio's Church of San Giorgio. In a few hours, when the sun is high over the island, the magnificently columned frontage will gleam and flirt for the attention of anyone gazing out from the Piazzetta. Now, though, it is merely a subtle shape emerging through a shimmering sunrise. Tommaso watches it from the boat.
Normally he'd be skimming across the peaceful morning waters, rowing with all his might. But today he has no intention of taking to the canale.
Instead, he is inside the boathouse and is using the privacy of the craft to examine the cool silver tablet in his hand.
Why did his mother have it? Why did she place so much importance in it? Why was she so concerned about who should have ownership of it?
He ponders all this as he makes a rough pencil sketch of the artefact on paper he's brought from his cell. In length, it runs from his wrist to the tip of his longest finger. In breadth, it's slightly more than four fingers wide. The back is smooth and inscribed in a language he's never seen before. He knows Latin, Hebrew and also a little Egyptian, but none of the characters match those. Some look Greek. Normally he would go straight to the abbot and seek his opinion, but something is stopping him.
Tommaso flips the tablet over. It's heavy and obviously valuable. Perhaps that was the reason his mother treasured it. The proverbial family silver. To be looked after at all costs. Never to be let out of the family's hands. Only to be sold in the most desperate of circumstances.