The Venice conspiracy

CHAPTER 6

The Following Day Venice The streets are cool, dark and deserted. It's just after 5 a.m., and Tom's already been up for an hour and is walking the city's majestic bridges. Locals say that the best way to get to know Venice is to get lost, and Tom is at least halfway there. The most he's aware of is that he's meandering vaguely towards the Rialto. Maybe it's years of rising early that shook him from his bed, or the fact that crossing time zones has messed up his body clock. Then again, it could be that he's still trying to understand why yesterday he didn't ask Tina – was her full name Tina, or something longer, like Christina? – if she wanted to catch up later for a drink, or maybe dinner. The words that deserted him like an awkward teenager come easily now.

He leans over the rails at the foot of a bridge and looks along the water. His head is spinning. Anyway, what did he really expect to come from a short conversation with a woman in a cafe?

It's a good time of the day to clear his mind and see the city. He seems to have it to himself – like a private viewing at an art gallery. And Venice certainly has fascinating exhibits. A hundred and fifty canals, spanned by four hundred bridges. A hundred and seventeen separate islands. Three hundred alleyways.

Tom lifts his head. He's heard something.

Maybe locals going to work. The first wheels of Venetian life grinding into daily motion. Perhaps even priests making their way to church for early prayers.

He takes his hands off the cool iron railings. Looks around. The noise comes again – this time it's more of a shout than anything. A man calling something in Italian? Tom steps up on to the crest of the bridge and listens more attentively. Tries to get a bearing. Pins it down to a spot straight ahead and off to the right somewhere.

He jogs down the other side.

The streets smell of wet stones and rotting vegetables. The road here is cobbled and his worn leather soles slide on the smooth surface.

He takes two more bridges. Shuffles to a halt. 'Hello! Hello, is anyone there?'

'Here! Here!' comes the out-of-sight reply.

Tom sets off again. Maybe two more bridges to the right?

He crosses the hump of the second and sees him.

An old man.

White shirt, white hair, dark crumpled trousers.

Kneeling by the edge of the water, like he's fallen, or he's trying to pull something out of the canal.

Probably a small boat.

Maybe a bag or something he's dropped.

'Hang on. I'll help you.'

Tom hurries alongside. The old man's face is strained. His knuckles white from gripping and pulling.

Now Tom sees it.

A sailing rope is tied around the railings and the old guy is heaving something heavy from below.

'Don't strain yourself – let me give you a hand.'

The pensioner falls back. There's a splash. He cracks his bony back on the cobbles. Puts his slack-skinned hands to his face and starts to sob.

Tom pats him on the shoulder, squeezes it reassuringly as he moves to the water's edge and looks over the stone slabs into the canal.

Now he understands the desperation.

Dangling from the rope is the naked and mutilated body of a young woman.