The Venice conspiracy

But there's something else. Something that's dangerously out of place in a man about to die.

He sounds calm.

Tom backtracks over an earlier remark. 'Lars, what did you mean, you've been wondering who God would send?'

Bale laughs – the sniggering kind, suited to a private joke. 'You are chosen, Tom – just as I am. You phoned me because you know that everything is connected to me. Everything that will happen, will be as a result of me.'

Tom's taken aback. The phraseology is so egotistically ambiguous it could be interpreted in several ways. 'What do you mean? I still don't understand.'

'Oh, but I think you do. You're in Venice, chasing ghosts. Ghosts in the lagoon, spectres in the sacristy.' He breaks into a heartier chuckle.

Tom can't work out how Bale knows where he is. Maybe the governor told him. Maybe the dialling code has shown up on some caller display. He wants to believe there's a rational reason – anything except what appears obvious.

'Our paths were fated to cross, Tom. It was divined centuries before your fuck-less Christ child was even born.'

Tom has no time to counter the blasphemy. He cuts to the chase. 'I remember you had a lot of tattoos. Didn't you have one beneath your left eye, a sort of teardrop?'

Bale ignores the question. 'Tell me, Father, did you think of God when you first fucked her? When you slid your fatty tube of flesh inside sweet Tina, did you call out for Jesus?'

A shiver arcs over Tom's shoulders. Tina? How does he know her name? Then he remembers the magazine article and guesses it's been passed around the cells or, worse still, other papers have picked up on the story.

'Lars, I asked you a question: do you have a teardrop tattoo?'

'You know I do,' Bale sounds amused. 'Now, you tell me something. What kept you hard when your priestly cock sought out the wet mouth of her vagina? Thoughts of God, or thoughts of her flesh and your own pleasure?'

Tom stays focused. 'Was the tattoo a gang symbol, Lars? Did other members of your cult all have the same sign?'

Again the killer ignores him, his voice low and lecherous. 'What did you shout when you felt yourself come, Father Tom? When you frantically dumped all those years of denial into her, did you take the name of your Lord, your God in vain?'

Tom fights images in his head. Tina's mouth, her breasts, her perfumed skin.

'Are you reliving those memories now, Tom? I'm sure you are.' Bale fakes passion in his voice. 'Oh God! Oh fucking Jesus, I'm coming!' He rolls out a chilling laugh.

Tom snaps. 'Answer me! What does the tattoo mean to you?'

Lars swallows the last of his dark chuckles. His voice grows deep and growls down the phone as though covered in hot tar and grit. 'It's not a teardrop, you fool. Didn't you ever look at my paintings? Didn't you pay any attention to my art? How fucking ignorant are you?'

Tom's nerves tingle. His mind begins a desperate mental scramble through years of dusty archived images. Flash-frames of Bale's barred cell flood back – the grey sheets, the bolted-down bunk, the lack of any family photos, the smell of freshly squeezed oil paints, rows of canvases stacked alongside the steel toilet – but nothing else.

'You're a fool, Father Tom – just like all the other mother-fuckers in churches and police stations all over the world.'

Bale drops the phone off his shoulder and lets it swing on its metal flex. The guards, Tiffany and Hatcher, move towards him. He shouts at the swinging receiver, 'See you in hell, Father Tom! See your dumb, fucking ass in hell!'

CAPITOLO LII 1778

Ponte di Rialto, Venezia Tanina and Tommaso hurry through the crush of mid-morning crowds. He tries to tell her about his sister, but it's clear she's not listening. Tanina's mind is solely on the idea of being hunted down by the inquisitor's men as she leads the monk not to her own home, but to that of her friend in Rio Tera San Vio.

Lydia's doorman, Giuseppe, opens up and settles them in reception while he goes off to inform his mistress. Tommaso rests his elbows on his knees and sinks his head into his hands. His life is in such turmoil.

The lady of the house arrives moments later, greatly intrigued by the unexpected visit of her friend and the worried-looking monk. 'What a surprise, Tanina. I thought you were working.'

'I was.' She stands and takes Lydia's hands. 'A quiet word, if you please.' She glances back at Tommaso: 'Scusi.'

Tommaso nods and waits patiently. He still wonders whether Tanina is telling him the truth. She may well be lying – and all three of them were involved in the theft. Or, perhaps she's being truthful, and Ermanno was with her, which could mean that Efran took the artefact. Tommaso's mind is in a spin – maybe they are all innocent, and he's made a terrible error of judgment.

Double doors open.

Tanina reappears. 'Please come through.'

Tommaso walks into a large drawing room, tiled in cream veined marble that reflects two gloriously plump Murano chandeliers. 'Lydia, this is Brother Tommaso.'

'No longer. As of a few hours ago, I left the monastery.' He forces a smile. 'Now I am just plain Tommaso.'

'You are not so plain, brother,' says Lydia with a glint in her eye. 'Pray sit. Tanina has told me you need help.'

Tommaso tips a scalding stare across the room and Tanina feels defensive. 'Lydia is my closest friend. My confidante. I have told her everything. You said we were all in danger.'

'We are.'

'I have some clothes one of my old lovers left behind,' says Lydia, sizing up Tommaso. 'You look about the same size.' The glint returns. 'I think you will be able to move around less conspicuously in them than in that old black habit.'

Tommaso realises he has never worn anything other than the vestments and robes of the monastery. The thought makes him nervous. 'I am grateful for your kindness.'

Tanina stands. 'While you change I will go for Ermanno and Efran, then we can all decide what to do.' She can see Tommaso still doesn't trust the men. She turns to Lydia. 'We know we cannot stay here. We will go straight away, once we have a plan.'

Lydia reaches out a hand to her friend. 'Worry not. I have many friends in high places. The guards of the inquisitor will not come pounding on my door.' She turns her head and winks suggestively. 'Now, be on your way and leave me alone with this celibate young man and his urgent needs.'

CHAPTER 54

Present Day Hotel Rotoletti, Piazzale Roma, Venice Evening has slung a splatter of muddy light at the window of Tom's low-rent hotel room, and it seems to be seeping all over him as he sits on the other side of the glass deep in thought.

Everything seems a world away from his nights of passion with Tina in the luxury of the Baglioni. Not that he minds. Tonight he's preoccupied with something else.

It's not a teardrop.

Lars Bale's words are haunting him, as is the exact nature of the tattoo that both the Death Row inmate and Mera Teale seem to share.

A tadpole? A comma? A snail?

He's still lost in the puzzle, doodling the image on paper, when the phone next to him rings. 'Tom Shaman.'

'Tom, it's Valentina. I'm sorry it's late.'

'That's okay. How are you?' He pushes the sketches away.

A small question, but she knows it has big implications. 'I'm fine. And please don't worry, I'm hard at work in the office and not going to embarrass either of us by turning up drunk on your doorstep again.'

'Hey, don't be silly – that's what friends and their doorsteps are for.'

She laughs but feels awkward. 'Vito would like you to come in tomorrow morning and update us on your research. Is ten-thirty okay?'

'That's fine. I've got some information, some things I think may be useful. I've written them up and was going to call you anyway.'

Valentina's office door swings ajar and an assistant appears. 'One moment, please, Tom.' She cups the receiver and looks across to a secretary. 'Yes?'

'Major Carvalho would like to see you, as soon as possible.'