Yet Another Death in Venice (The Simon Bognor Mysteries)

by Tim Heald

  “Quite,” agreed Contractor. He was being ironic.

  This was not, however, the time nor place for an argument about social mores and the priesthood. There was a murder to solve. “Did you find anything definite about Father Carlo? Or was it all speculative?”

  “We know that he was in Venice on the day of Silverburger’s death, during Carnival. We know that he and Silverburger were friends and often ate together. And we know that he enjoyed … enjoys … dressing up.”

  “Dressing up,” repeated Bognor. “Dressing up, eh?”

  “Had his cassocks tailored in Savile Row. Copes from Prada. But no …”

  “What do you mean, no?” asked Bognor.

  “No evidence that he indulged himself at Carnival. No evidence that he ever disguised himself as Harlequin.”

  “In itself, that proves nothing at all,” said Bognor. He was musing, almost thinking out loud, talking to himself.

  “Had money,” said Contractor. “Well, a bit. For a man of the cloth, he was well off. He was an only child. His father was big in nougat.”

  “Nougat,” Bognor said thoughtfully. “I thought nougat was French. Montélimar.” Not many people knew this, but Contractor knew everything that there was to be known.

  “This was Italian nougat,” he said. “Father Carlo’s father was as big as it’s possible to get in Italian nougat. The padre was an only child and when his mom and dad were killed in a car crash, he got everything. Not as much as if his old man had been a French nougat baron but not bad. Actually, the Italians think they got there several hundred years before the French. Real nougat originally came from Cremona. The French stole the idea of mixing egg whites and honey from the Italians and passed it off as their own. Typical. In Italy, it’s called mandolato, which isn’t as catchy. But the taste is the same. Anyway, Father Carlo came into a considerable amount of dosh. For a priest, it was a very tidy sum indeed. Enough to buy dinner, flash it around some pretty spectacular high-rolling joints, and enough to back Silverburger, if not exactly bankroll him.”

  “And did he?”

  “What? Back him? Yes, in a quiet, unflashy sort of way. He put up the money for an initial purchase or two. Paid for a treatment. That sort of thing.”

  “I see,” said Bognor. He didn’t, of course, but took refuge in the phrase that made him feign omniscience. He didn’t fool many people and certainly not Contractor. Contractor may have got a phony-sounding qualification from a newfangled university, but this didn’t prevent him from being quite bright.

  “Silverburger had been taking church money for a variety of projects for at least a decade.”

  “That still doesn’t make Father Carlo a murderer,” said Bognor.

  “No,” agreed his minion. “But it means he was involved with Silverburger. In fact, he was up to his neck. Not just a passing acquaintance or even a dining companion. He was a business associate, and we all know what that can mean.”

  “Business sounds shady before we begin,” said Bognor, “and I admit that I have an aversion to business in every shape and form. On the other hand, I’m man enough to admit my prejudice. I know enough about banking to understand that not all bankers are villains. Jolly nearly all bankers. And I do think there is something inherently wrong about moneylending, making vast amounts of the stuff and indeed in talking about it. But on the other hand, spondulicks makes the world go round. Sort of. Up to a point. On the other hand, possession of too much of the stuff is nine-tenths of the way to …”

  “Careful,” said Contractor, smiling. “You’re in danger of showing your prejudices.”

  “Oh, all right,” agreed his boss. “But I do prefer my friars to be … well, Franciscan.”

  13

  “I think you’re indulging yourself,” said Monica, smothering beef in béarnaise. “Brunetti and Zen likewise. Venice is a tourist destination. Historic, beautiful but safe as houses. Nice place to visit, but nothing happens there.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” said Bognor. She did this habitually. She thought it helped. Bognor found it endearing; Monica’s enemies, of whom there were many, found the habit exasperating.

  “Those bandits from Africa selling handbags that fell off the backs of trucks; they’re the nearest to serious crime that Venice gets. Tourists are natural victims, and Venice-recidivists tend to have more money than sense. I suppose a certain sort of tart and her pimp move in for the Biennale, but that’s about it. The only reason people such as Donna Leon write about the place is that they enjoy being there. Don’t blame them. You enjoy it; Michael is one your oldest friends; you enjoy carpaccio and the Danieli, but nothing ever happens there. It’s part of its charm—all past and no future. Not even much of a present. On the other hand, the smell, the decay, the accumulation of doges and expats, make it irresistible. Byron has a lot to answer for.”

  “That’s not fair.” He was eating steak, too. The tablecloth was check, and there was a wax candle on the table. The place reminded both Bognors of the Paris of their youth. The prices had increased exponentially, but everything else was much the same. Age had made them gastronomically conservative, though not politically so. In this, they were odd.

  “Crime crops up in the least expected places. It is a complete fallacy to think that murder is peculiar to the drab and deprived.”

  She snorted. “I know that. It’s just that Venice is a safe house. And you like it. So do I. And one of the reasons I enjoy going there is that I don’t feel threatened. I don’t deny that Silverburger was murdered, but his death doesn’t represent the beginning of a crime wave. He deserved it. He was a nasty piece of work, and his demise doesn’t deserve your interest. He wasn’t worth it. You know that, and the only reason that you’re making such a meal of it, is that it suits you. His murder gives you an excuse to do what you enjoy most—having nice meals in beautiful places with friends. I’m not denying the attraction, just asking you not to pretend. This isn’t work. It’s pleasure.”

  Bognor wiped the last of the béarnaise and the gravy (which was still gravy but was now called jus) with a slice of bread and gave the impression of thought.

  “You aren’t being fair. Silverburger may not have been nice; he may even have been a nasty piece of work, but he was still a human being and, were it not for me, his death would go relatively unmourned and uninvestigated.”

  “That,” she said, slurping Beaujolais, “is unfair to Michael.”

  “Ah,” said Bognor, “one minute you accuse me of being fond of Michael, the next you attack me for being unfair to him. He was the one who asked me for assistance.”

  “I can have it both ways,” she said. “That’s a woman’s prerogative. Besides which, you told me that Michael asked for help, but I only have your word for it. I’m not convinced that it’s in his nature to seek assistance. He’s too proud. Typical Italian.”

  “Michael is many things but typical isn’t one of them. He’s a perfectly good copper and he’ll ask for help when it’s relevant and necessary. As it is in the murder of Irving Silverburger.”

  “You’re being silly,” she said, but despite this, she loved him. Really. “Coffee?” she asked, almost solicitously. They both had a double espresso as well as one for the road. There were too many roads in their lives.

  Over calvados and coffee, they discussed Venice, murder, the meaning of life, and whether or not the exercise had been worthwhile. Theirs was a typical conversation of those at their time of life.

  “I still think Venice is safe,” said Monica, “and Doyle was wrong. There is nothing sinister about the countryside. Most crimes take place in slums and deprived areas. Most of those who write about killing are middle class, and they know nothing about such things. Hence their obsession with the countryside, with the upper classes and places like Venice. Hence Midsomer Murders. Hence Aurelio Zen.”

  “Venice isn’t like anywhere else. And there is nothing ‘typical’ about the typical English village. English villages don’t do typical any more than Mich
ael.”

  “Touché,” said Monica. “But you must agree that most crime is dull. The average thief belongs to a small company with a van and a couple of crowbars. Killing people in unpleasant surroundings is commonplace. I think P. D. James was right. Murder is working class. It’s the rarity in middle- and upper-class England, which helps make it interesting. And Venice. In real life, they don’t occur where they do in fiction. Fact of death.”

  She drank coffee and looked smug. They had been married a long time and always to each other. That, too, was unusual.

  “So you think killing people is not just wrong but squalid. Necessarily so.”

  She thought for a moment. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

  “So you feel I’ve spent most of my working life grappling with the squalid.”

  She did some more thinking and sipping and said, “If you put it like that, then yes, I suppose I do. But that’s not at all the same as saying you’ve wasted your time. On the contrary, someone has to resolve life’s unpleasantness and it’s a noble cause. So just because I think you’ve spent most of your life fighting squalor isn’t at all the same as saying that no one should do so. Fighting crime is good. We need more graduates doing it. One of the problems of the police is that they have no graduate-entry scheme; no proper officer class; and they set store by pounding beat rather than exercising little gray cells. In real life, the odds are against intelligence.”

  “Hmmm,” said Bognor. “So crime in Venice is a form of tautology.”

  “Which isn’t the same as saying it doesn’t happen; nor that it isn’t entertaining and surprising when it does.”

  “So my investigations in Venice are superfluous?”

  “Let’s just say,” she said, “that there is more crime north of the Trent than to the south; that working-class Glasgow has more violence than Belgravia. Irving Silverburger is an intriguing death and a better class of corpse than you get in the Gorbals. That’s not at all the same as saying that he is not a cause for lamentation or that we shouldn’t solve his murder. If murder it is. Not a lot of pavement cafés north of the Watford Gap. Don’t pretend you would rather be in Venice than, say, Bradford.”

  “I’ve never been to Bradford.”

  “Don’t be silly. You know what I mean.” He did, too.

  “It’s not self-indulgent to try to solve Silverburger’s murder. You could say the reverse. Not many people have the opportunity.”

  “Now you really are being silly. Don’t tell me you’d rather be thinking about cross-bowed film directors over a Negroni than considering a drug death over a pint of mild and bitter.”

  “They don’t drink mild and bitter up north anymore.

  Besides I never touch alcohol on duty.”

  “Liar,” she said affectionately. “You practically invented the three-martini lunch.”

  “That was in the sixties,” he protested. “Times have changed.”

  “Not for you they haven’t,” said his wife. “You think they’re still happening. You believe pop music is the Beatles. It’s like having dinner here. Most people find change difficult. You enjoy the comforts of the familiar. You want everything to stay the same even if you disapprove of it. Like crime. You want fingerprints and deference, helmets, boys in blue, and other ranks calling you ‘sir.’”

  “Probably,” he agreed. “When we were young, I was passionately opposed to the ancient because they seemed to expect a respect that they hadn’t earned. They expected us to scrape and bow simply because we were young and they were old. Nowadays, being old is a bad joke; you’re on the shelf at forty, and people don’t even stand up for you in crowded tube trains.”

  “Someone stood for me on the Northern Line from Kings Cross the other day,” said Monica. “I was livid. And he was in school uniform. Could have killed him. Almost did.”

  “Why does no train manager ever ask me for my senior citizen’s railcard?” complained Bognor. “After all, I don’t look like a senior citizen, do I?”

  “No, darling,” agreed Lady Bognor. “Even quite young people are blotchy, thin on top and gray at the temples.”

  “Bitch,” Bognor said affectionately. “At least women are allowed to dye their hair.”

  “And wear wigs,” said Monica.

  Her husband stared at her. “You, never,” he said. “A wig.

  That’s shocking. I’m shocked.”

  “Cherie Blair wears a wig,” said Monica, “and she’s younger than me. Much.”

  “That’s the sort of thing you pick up on Twitter,” said the head of SIDBOT, who did not believe in social networking but liked to do his face to face, man to man, over a stiff something or other. “You’re the sort of person who believes what people say on Twitter.”

  “I do not.” This was really insulting, much the worst thing Simon had said that evening. All week indeed. “I heard it at the hairdresser’s.”

  Even Monica had to have her hair cut. In the salon, she listened to gossip, some of which she believed. Bognor mocked this; he would; he was a man.

  “Same thing as Twitter. In any case, just because I like Venice and enjoy Michael’s company doesn’t mean it’s not work.”

  “Of course not.”

  “You said I was only working on the case because I enjoyed the place and Michael. Both happen to be true but that’s not why I’m involved on the case. Silverburger was murdered. It’s up to me to establish who did it.”

  “Yes, darling.” She smiled a superior smile. It spoke volumes. Not very good ones. In fact, more than a trace of bodice ripper or at least Mills and Boon, but lots of books.

  “Why don’t you say, ‘Well, someone has to do it?’” she continued. “You usually do. And no one else is going to.”

  He called for the bill, which he would pay, even though they shared an account so that this was a facade and really just window dressing. There were some things, however, a man had to do. Even if deference was a thing of the past and train managers were younger than bishops, didn’t mean one had to give up.

  “If I didn’t solve upper- and middle-class crime, then the upper and middle classes would get away with murder.”

  “That’s effectively the same thing. Just expressed differently.”

  “What?” He had forgotten. The Beaujolais and calvados had gone to his head. “The point is there’s a murderer at large.”

  “Yes, darling.”

  “And he could strike again at any moment.”

  “That I doubt,” she said. “That’s part of what I mean. Silverburger’s killing was an aberration, a one-off. It won’t happen again. Some maniac is not going to take out his crossbow and go on a rampage up and down La Serenissima. Silverburger’s killer won’t strike again. He only wanted to kill one person. He’s not a serial killer. Not someone from Sheffield or the Gorbals. Not a real pro.”

  “Doesn’t mean I don’t have to bring him to justice,” he said. “Ah.” She looked dangerously thoughtful. “It depends what you mean by justice. Our murderer might have justice on his side. Only he took it into his own hands. So perhaps he was right. Maybe he had to kill Silverburger and bringing him to justice not only serves no purpose but is wrong in its own right, if you follow my drift.”

  The bill came. It was huge, but Bognor paid little attention. After all, it was only money and half was hers, half the eating and drinking as well. Theirs was a shared experience, jointly paid for. There was no room for recrimination.

  Even so, Simon felt his wife’s strictures were unfair. He had, after all, always mixed business with pleasure; always fought unpopular corners and enjoyed doing so. He had done a good job, had fun while doing so, made some friends and even more enemies. This was a sound definition of a life well led, and he was tolerably well satisfied. Not self-satisfied, which implied smug, which he deplored.

  If he wished to investigate the criminal death of a widely disliked quasi-American would-be film mogul, so be it. He felt entitled. And he was not having anyone, even Monica,
gainsaying him.

  “I wouldn’t normally say this,” he said as they stood, “but let’s take a cab for once.” She smiled. He always said this and had done for more than thirty years.

  Bognor seemed to conduct an unacceptable proportion of his investigative interviews over meals. And he drank on duty, though never at breakfast. Partly because he wanted to educate Contractor, partly because he felt challenged, he offered his subordinate breakfast at The Connaught just as his organization had offered the priest the same meal in the same place. This time, Bognor paid. Personally.

  Alcohol loosened the tongue. It also induced confidence and a lowering of the guard. Kidneys or kedgeree were palatable substitutes but not, in his experience, as good as a glass of Grange. He paused from self-examination to reflect that his interviewing technique was only “unacceptable” in the early years of the twenty-first century. It had been thought perfectly normal when he was growing up, and it was only now that it had become freakish and not quite the done thing. It was the same with people such as young Contractor accusing him of having an alcohol problem. He had no such problem, and it was only latterly that regular consumption of the stuff had become problematic. Time was when everyone drank. They died younger but were therefore less of a burden on the state and their families. Good show. Like smoking.

  Bognor sighed and speared a sausage. In some ways, he hankered for the “good old days.” He knew perfectly well that they were old and not necessarily good, but that was too bad. In many ways, he preferred them. Everyone cared less for the peripheral, and they were not as selfish as they had become. Privately, he and his wife thought the modern generation a dull lot.

  Not that this was an accusation that could be leveled at Father Carlo. He was a priest of the old school, which is to say that he was not a priest in any serious sense. Religion was not something that sat heavily on his shoulders, if indeed it could be said to sit at all. Harvey Contractor speared a sausage in much the same way as Bognor. The reverend gentleman ate sausages in a similar fashion.