The Venice conspiracy

'He found her,' interjects Valentina. 'But maybe you put her there. Killers like to be around for the find.'

Tom shakes his head. 'You don't believe that. Not for a minute. I know you've got to do your job and go through all this. But you don't really believe that.'

'Okay, let's talk about belief for a moment.' The major leans forward and rests on his arms. 'What kind of man do you believe could have killed a young woman like that?'

'A very disturbed one,' says Tom. 'He was either mentally ill – or worse. Perhaps overcome or possessed by the powers of evil.'

'The powers of evil?' says Carvalho mockingly.

Something in the major's tone gets to Tom. 'I've seen a lot of murdered people. Probably more than you'll ever see. I've heard the confessions of many serial killers, child abusers and rapists. And I tell you, you're dealing with the devil's work. It was his hand that guided that blade, as surely as if he'd stood there in all his cloven-hoofed glory and killed her himself.'

Tom looks across the table and sees their scepticism deepen. 'Okay, the bit about cloven hooves is probably over the top. But the rest of it I mean. I really mean.'

CHAPTER 11

It's early afternoon when they finally let Tom go. By now, he's way beyond hungry and thinks he'll fall over if he doesn't get something quick.

Venice is very different to eating cheap at his church vestry in LA and he's discovering his lunchtime allocation of fifteen euros won't buy much. The search is on for cheap pizza and, by the looks of it, he won't get it at the Grand Canal restaurant on Calle Vallaresso.

He stands on its elegant terrace by the waterside, watching waiters glide between tables in an exquisite culinary ballet. A menu behind glass makes his mouth water. If he had the money he'd start with salmon and swordfish tartare with lemon and basil. Maybe a glass of a local Barolo with a main course of rack of lamb and fresh garden vegetables.

'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. 'Si, 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.