The Venice conspiracy

CHAPTER 43

Present Day Isola Mario, Venice Tom Shaman is the last person in the search party to enter Mario Fabianelli's hippy commune. He drifts in behind a couple of young uniformed officers and disappears into the westerly wing. Vito's instructions to him had been precise: 'Keep a low profile. So low, you're subterranean.'

The whole building makes him nervous. Right from the moment of stepping over the doorstep he's been picking up an atmosphere of unease. The vast cold spaces are completely alien to him, but as he walks from room to room he seems to know exactly what lies ahead. With each step the feeling grows stronger.

Tom passes ground-floor bedrooms, communal meeting rooms, a place where cleaners store equipment. He sees police officers pulling at boards and ceiling panels. He passes acres of fine oak panelling and trudges over quarryloads of ancient marble.

He pushes a door and enters a dark and windowless room. The air is warm and the smell familiar. Very familiar.

Candles.

Candles – but also something else.

Tom feels for a light switch.

Now he places it.

Even before the light comes on and he sees the dribbles of black wax on the high oak skirting, he knows what's happened in this room.

Mass.

But not Christian mass.

The air is toxic.

A smell of baseness.

Defilement. Stale sex. Maybe even blood.

Black Mass.

Every nerve in his body feels raw.

There are marks on the floor. Scratches made by something being dragged back and forth.

The table for a human altar. A platform for public defilement.

Tom's seen enough. He turns and reaches for the switch.

'Satanists,' says a woman behind him, so close he flinches.

Tom spins round.

The woman raises her eyebrows as if she's teasing him. 'We let them use this room. I guess a former priest like you knows a lot about them.'

Tom feels as though the top of his head is being gathered together by someone pulling an invisible drawstring. It's like being back in the Salute again, down on his hands and knees next to the bloody image near the altar.

Her camera flashes in his face.

His heart is thumping. Palms sweating.

His eyes are dazzled by the flash, and in the blinding whiteness he sees flickers of the mutilated body of Monica Vidic, stabbed six hundred and sixty-six times.

Tom tries to stay calm. Takes slow breaths. 'I'm with the Carabinieri.' He gestures past the white haze towards the main part of the house.

'Sure you are,' says the photographer. 'I'm Mera Teale. Mario's fuck. I have a card saying PA, but really all we do is fuck.'

The glare fades and Tom sees an outstretched tattooed hand. He shakes it and watches a pageant of inked characters dance up her bony arm.

She's grinning lustfully – enjoying the fact that he's shocked – shocked at being discovered and at being photographed – shocked too by her exotic appearance.

'Excuse me, I need to find the others.' Tom tries to get past her.

She blocks him.

Her face is full of sexual mischief. Come-to-bed eyes and lips ruby red, glistening from some kind of gel. 'I know who you are, Father Tom,' she says playfully. 'I know what you're like. What you want.'

He stares at her, wonders if he's seen her somewhere. There's certainly something familiar. A tiny tear tattooed into the corner of her eye. Her left eye – the side of evil.

A mark he knows he's seen before.

Five thousand miles and a whole lifetime before.