The Venice conspiracy

CHAPTER 19

Present Day Luna Hotel Baglioni, Venice 'How creepy!' Tina walks from the bathroom in her hotel robe and sits at the dressing table. 'I've never been to a morgue. Actually, I've never even seen a dead body – except on Six Feet Under. You think you can ring your new cop friends and ask if I can tag along?'

Tom stares at her reflection in the large oak-framed vanity mirror. 'You're joking, right?'

'No. Not at all. I'm curious. I don't mean to be disrespectful, but it really would be something to write a piece on a murder investigation in Venice.' She picks up a brush and starts to work it through her wet hair.

'I thought you were a travel writer.'

'I am. But I'm a writer. A journalist. I'll cover cookery, sport, fashion – even murder, if the cheque is big enough.'

Without thinking, Tom finds himself standing directly behind her, lifting her hair, enjoying the feel of it. 'Oh, so this is now a money-making opportunity?'

'Yeah. Of course it is.' She smiles at him in the mirror, and puts a hand up to touch his on her shoulder. 'That's how we strange folk out here – the poor souls on the other side of the church walls – have to live. We do things, and then people give us money for doing them.'

Tom drops his hands from her hair, looks curiously at her. 'You think priests don't work? You don't know when you've got it made. An average parish priest works close to a hundred hours a week. I was pretty much on call twenty-four seven.'

Tina puts her brush down. 'Doing what?'

He gives her an exasperated look.

'No, go on, tell me, I'm interested. What is there to do, besides patter out a pound of prayers and croak along to some very bad karaoke songs – sorry, hymns – in return for a plate of tips at the end of each performance?'

'You're being deliberately provocative, right?'

She smiles at him. 'Right. You're getting the hang of it now. That's what we women – especially us wicked women journalists – do. We like to be pro-voc-ative.'

Tom can't help but smile back. 'But, am I also right in detecting that you're not religious? You're not a believer – are you?'

'Sorry. No, I'm not. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, I have lived thirty-two years and I confess I don't believe one fucking word of it. I think all churches are a con. All religions are businesses. And all those damned TV preachers asking for my money should be locked in one big cell so they can bore each other to a slow and painful death.'

'The last bit I might go along with. The rest, well, we're going to have to agree to differ.'

Tina goes silent for a second. She thinks it's best to bite her tongue. But then the journalist in her blows up. 'How can you defend religion after you turned your own back on it? Threw in the towel and said, "I'm outta here, I don't believe any more."' She looks at him in the mirror and sees she's hit a nerve. 'Listen, I think it's a good thing you did. Otherwise you wouldn't be here in my room, but-'

He cuts her off. 'Tina, I didn't quit believing in God. I quit believing in myself. There's a difference.'

'Then believe more in yourself.' She swivels sideward so she can see him properly. 'I for one believe much more in you than I ever will in any god.' She puts out her hands and takes hold of his. 'Let's not fight about this stuff. Life's too short.'

He kisses the top of her head. 'I'm sorry. I'm a bit on edge. You know – I came here to get away from things. Death, to be precise. I came to Venice to get away from death. And here I am, up to my post-dog-collared neck in a murder enquiry.'

Tina stands up next to him. 'Tom, you're doing good. You're helping. Doing the right things. That makes you feel better, doesn't it?'

He forces a smile. 'Sure, but I can't forget that "doing good" is what got me into a very bad place.'

Tina wonders why men – all men – even ex-priests, apparently – are such pessimists when it comes to personal issues. 'Listen, you have a choice here. Say no to the damned Carabinieri and their Rocky Horror Morgue Show.' She points to the bedside phone. 'Ring them up and say, "Sorry, I just can't do it."'

'I can't do that.'

She puts her hands on his waist. 'I know you can't.'

He looks amused. 'So why suggest it?'

'Because' – Tina can't help but laugh – 'because it's the way women get men to realise that they're doing the right thing.'

He frowns lightly. 'Are women really that tricky?'

Her face lights up. 'Oh, honey, you have so much to learn.'

He lifts her wet hair again, kisses her lightly on the mouth, then slides his hands inside the front of her robe. 'Then teach me.'