The Venice conspiracy

CHAPTER 44

Present Day Isola Mario, Venice Vito Carvalho sits opposite his billionaire host on an antique chair he guesses is worth more than his annual salary. He's weighing the man up, and he doesn't understand what he sees. Far from appearing drug-addled and aggressive, Mario Fabianelli looks like a model on the front cover of Men's Health and is not even a notch short of being charming.

They're drinking espresso and iced water near a large window overlooking the rear grounds of the mansion. Dino Ancelotti, Mario's barky-dog lawyer, is curled up on a corner chair, panting to get in on the action.

Conversation swings back and forth. The purpose of the commune, the purpose of the police visit. It seems that Heaven – or H3V3N – as Mario explains, is a cultural retreat. And a palatial one at that. It's filled with expensive sculptures and paintings and the decor seems to be to hotel standard. Four-star, at least. It's certainly not your average hippy hang-out.

'Everyone lives here free of charge,' explains Mario. 'All I ask of them is that they paint, or write or play some music every day.'

'Why?' asks Vito.

'Venice was once famous for such things. It led the world in cultural pursuits and pleasures. I'd like to see it do so again.'

Vito can't fault Mario's idealism. After all, when he left Homicide in Milan, he'd effectively staged his own version of opting out. He puts down his drink and pulls a photograph from his jacket. 'Do you know this man?'

Mario takes it and looks. 'I don't think so.' He hands it back. 'I suppose he's dead? Usually when a cop shows you a photograph, that person is dead or missing.'

Vito puts it back in his jacket. 'Dead. Antonio Pavarotti. Pavarotti like the singer. He died in the lagoon. Not far from here.'

Mario looks sympathetic. 'I'm sorry. What happened and how can I help?'

'His boat was blown up. Plastic explosives rigged to the engine. Did you know he was working for you?'

Mario seems surprised. 'No. As what?'

'Security guard. He was on his way out here to start a shift when he was killed.'

Ancelotti calls from the back of the room. 'My employer has no knowledge of who works security. An outside company handles those services, and I, in turn, handle them. Mario has more important things to do than hire staff.'

Vito smiles. 'I'm sure.' He looks to the billionaire. 'Why exactly do you employ security? Concern for your own life? For those in the commune?'

'Both. I have a healthy fear of kidnapping.' He touches his ear. 'I don't fancy parts of me being posted, Getty-style, to Dino there, demanding he hand over several million in return for the remainder of me. And I believe I owe it to those who stay here to ensure they are safe.'

The major checks his watch and prepares to make his exit. 'I understand. Thanks for the background. And for the refreshments.' He looks towards the lawyer. 'I'd like to meet the head of security now, if that's all right?'

Ancelotti nods while the other two men shake hands.

In the corridor, heading towards the exit, they see Tom with Mera Teale. The tattooed woman stops them. 'Dino, this is Tom Shaman – the fucking Father who's been all over the newspapers.'

Mario and Dino look confused.

'Mister Shaman,' she adds, 'is with the Carabinieri but he's not with them, if you know what I mean.'

Vito jumps in. 'He's a civilian assisting us with our enquiries. An expert of sorts.'

'A sexual expert,' chimes Teale, eyeing Tom. 'At least, that's what the press says.' She winks.

Ancelotti puffs out his chest. 'Signor Shaman is not covered by your warrant. You have a choice, Major – either he goes, or you invalidate your warrant and you all go.'

Vito glares at the lawyer and then turns apologetically to Tom. 'I'm sorry. You'll need to leave. If you go down to the boat they'll make you comfortable, or take you back to the mainland, whichever your prefer.'

Teale treats them all to a wide grin. 'I'll gladly make sure he gets there.' Tom's not in the least disappointed to be led outside. On the way to the jetty he asks Mario's mouthy PA a question that's been eating him. 'You have a tattoo of a teardrop near your eye.' He dabs a finger on his own face. 'Where did you get it?'

'Vegas.'

'Why did you have it done?'

She taps her nose. 'You know the old saying: What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.'

'Confession is good for the soul.'

She laughs. 'It was Friday the thirteenth, the day tat' parlours give you a free gift to celebrate.'

Tom looks thrown. 'To celebrate an unlucky day?'

'The tattoo world is about doing the opposite of what conventional society does.'

He looks over her shoulder. Something up the hillside catches his attention. A shape moving slowly. Moving in a way that he recognises.

A strange jolt hits his heart. A familiar fizz in his blood.

Tina!

He's sure it's Tina.

He starts to run towards her.

She's with a man.

They disappear through a small door that looks as though it leads to a kitchen or cellar.

It's locked by the time Tom reaches it.

He bangs with his fist.

'Tina! Tina, it's Tom.'

No reply.

He moves to a window. Cups his hand to block out sunlight as he peers inside.

Empty.

He turns and sees Mera Teale staring wildly at him while speaking into a walkie-talkie.

Did he imagine the whole thing? Is his mind playing tricks on him? Or was Tina really there?