The Venice conspiracy

CHAPTER 2

Compton, Los Angeles The morning after the night you've accidentally killed someone is the worst 'morning after' you can imagine.

No hangover, no bad night at the casino, no regrettable sexual indiscretion comes close to how bad you feel.

On the greyest of days Tom Shaman sits in his grey vest and shorts on the edge of his small single bed feeling smaller than he's ever felt.

Can't sleep. Can't eat. Can't pray.

Can't anything.

Downstairs he hears voices. His housekeeper. The two other priests he shares with. A diocesan press officer. A police liaison officer. They're drinking tea and coffee, sharing shock and sympathy, planning his life without him. Seems the only good news is that the girl is alive. Scared to death, but alive. Traumatised and scarred by the rape, but nevertheless alive.

Tom's already been interviewed downtown. Released without charge but warned that, if the news gets out, all hell will break loose.

And it has.

The devil dogs of the nation's press have been unleashed and they're already messing up his lawn. Packs are prowling around the church and vestry. Their trucks line the roads, satellite dishes spinning in search of a signal. Just the noise of them is purgatory. He puts his hands to his ears and tries to blot out the incessant sound of cell phones ringing, walkie-talkies crackling and presenters rehearsing lines.

Foolishly, when he'd left the station house just before dawn, he'd imagined he could come home and try to get a grip on things. Weigh up whether God had scripted the whole night of horror as a personal test. One rape and three deaths – a frail widow and two street kids who came off the rails. Quite a script. Maybe God knows that in LA tragedies have to be Hollywood epics.

Maybe there is no damned God!

Doubt rocks him.

Oh, come on, Tom, you've long had your suspicions. Famine. Earthquakes. Floods. Innocent people starved to death, drowned or buried alive. Don't pretend these 'Acts of God' never shook your faith.

A knock on his bedroom door. It creaks open. Father John O'Hara sticks his bushy red hair and freckly, sixty-year-old face through the gap. 'I wondered if you were asleep. You want company?'

Tom smiles. 'No sleep. Not yet.'

'You want some food sending up? Maybe eggs and fresh coffee?' Father John motions towards a mug that's gone cold near his bed.

'Not yet, thanks. I'm gonna shower, shave and try to get my act together in a minute.'

'Good man.' Father John smiles approvingly and shuts the door after him.

Tom glances at his watch. It's not even 11 a.m. and already he's wishing the day was over. Since 6 a.m. news anchors coast to coast have been telling his story. The eyes of America are on him and he doesn't like it. Not one bit. He's a shy man, a guy that's friendly and strong but dreads walking into a room full of strangers and being forced to introduce himself. He's not the kind who wants to be interviewed on network TV. The hacks have already been pushing cheques beneath the vestry door, bidding for exclusives, trying to buy a slice of him.

Tom just makes it to the bathroom before he heaves again.

He runs the cold tap, pools water in his hands and splashes his face until eventually he feels the coldness.

He looks up into the mirror over the sink.

The face of a killer, Tom. Look at yourself. See how you've changed. Don't pretend you can't see it. You're a murderer. Double murderer, to be precise.

How did it feel, Father Tom? Come on, be honest now.

It was exciting, wasn't it?

Admit it.

Tom looks away. Grabs a towel and walks back to the bedroom.

On the floor near the foot of the bed is an old postcard. One that Rosanna kept pinned to her wall. One that she'd asked for when he'd prayed with her last night. She'd kissed it and given it to him as a token of thanks. 'Per lei.' For you.

He picks it up. Notices that it's brittle with age, the edges torn and dirty. A rusty ring of white shows where a cheap drawing pin had been. Tom looks closely at it for the first time. It's lost whatever colour it once had but it's probably a reproduction of some famous Italian painting. Maybe a Canaletto. Through the sepia fog he can make out the shadowy outline of a church dome and long dark smudges that look like seahorses but are probably gondolas. A scene thousands of miles away, from a painting made hundreds of years ago.

Tom smiles for the first time that day.

Rosanna Romano's home city of Venice is offering him a glimmer of hope.