It was my companion from the photo shoot, the one who’d been forcibly removed from the front row by Vincenzo Scarpa. Middle-aged, floppy-haired and slightly ruddy of complexion. He looked as if he’d enjoy a drink.
‘Sorry, that was a bit thoughtless of me. Did I startle you?’ He spoke in English, with only the lightest trace of an Italian accent.
I exhaled, slowly. ‘Yes. I think you can say that.’
He chuckled. ‘Sorry again. What do you think?’
‘I think it’s brilliant. It’s scary as hell, but it’s brilliant. How about you?’
He cocked his head to one side and gave a little grimace. ‘It’s, well, it’s okay. I mean, I like it. It’s good. And people’s reactions are fantastic.’ He grinned at me. ‘But I don’t think it’s all that original.’
‘No?’
He shook his head, and lowered his voice. ‘No. I saw work like this last year at an exhibition in Stavanger. I think what he’s done here – well, it’s on a bigger scale. But like I said, I don’t think it’s original.’
‘You mean plagiarised?’
He waved his hands to shush me. He was speaking in a whisper by now. ‘I don’t know. I hope not. I’m not going to say anything. Certainly not in front of his agent. But there are others here who might.’ He gestured with his head towards the opposite gallery, where Gordon Blake-Hoyt was scribbling in a notebook, and making a great show of shaking his head. ‘That’s just for effect, you know. Scarpa gave him a personal tour yesterday. He’s filed his copy already. There’s a filthy review in today’s Times .’
‘So what’s he doing here again?’
‘Just to be nasty. Just to spoil the big day. Gordon Blake-Hoyt is like that.’
‘Bastard. The poor guy looks in a right state.’
‘Yes, I know. He’s kind of fragile anyway.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘There are stories. Booze and drugs hell. In the past. I think his agent does his best to keep him on the straight and narrow. I think he certainly earns his keep that way. You’re not in the art world yourself then?’
‘Me? No, I’m the honorary consul here. My name’s Nathan. Nathan Sutherland.’
‘Pleased to meet you Nathan. I’m Francesco Nicolodi. I’m with Planet Art magazine.’ We shook hands.
‘Are you in town for long?’
‘Only for a few days. I’m going to be busy. See as much as I can, try and identify the big hitters. Copy to file for next week.’
‘Are you going to Scotland and Wales?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I should make an effort, I know. But if you’ve only got a few days it’s difficult to drag yourself away from the Giardini and the Arsenale. Are you going yourself?’
‘Oh yes. One of the perks of the job as hon con. You get to go to lots of parties. And the Welsh pavilion was really good last time. But do come to Scotland, they always put on a good spread.’
He threw his head back and laughed. ‘ “Put on a good spread”? You’re a terrible old philistine, Mr Sutherland.’ He paused. ‘What sort of spread?’
‘Hendrick’s gin. In the afternoon.’
‘I’ll be there.’ He checked his watch. ‘Right, I’ve got to head over to France now, and then over to Germany. Come along, they always look after you well on vernissage day.’
‘Don’t mind if I do.’
We went down the stairs. As we left, I could see the figure of Gordon Blake-Hoyt staring down at us, both hands gripping the railing. I got the feeling he was going to make sure he was the last one to leave. Just to make a statement.
Considine was sitting by himself, as his manager Lewis talked to the ambassador and various members of the press. He was trying, and failing, to light a cigarette.
‘Just a moment, Francesco.’ I walked over to Paul, and fished a lighter out of my pocket. ‘Light?’
He nodded. ‘Thanks.’ His hands shook a little as he took it. His face was more lined than I had thought at first. His eyes were red. He’d been crying. He dragged on his cigarette. Then he looked apologetic, and proffered the packet.
I shook my head. ‘I’m trying to give up.’
‘But you carry a lighter?’
‘In case I decide to stop trying.’
It got a smile out of him. I was pleased. ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘for what it’s worth, I think your work in there is fantastic. Absolutely bloody fantastic.’
He said nothing for a moment. Then ‘Thanks. Thanks, man.’
‘So who gives a damn what that rude old bastard thinks anyway. That’s just his job. Being professionally nasty.’
He reached behind me, grabbed a crumpled sheet of paper and pushed it into my hands. ‘Today’s Times . Hot off the press.’
It was Blake-Hoyt’s piece, or most of it, crudely torn from the newspaper. I cast my eyes over it, but didn’t want to read the whole thing. I didn’t need to. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
He grinned, but his shoulders were slumped and his eyes were sad. He looked beaten. ‘You know, my friend, after all these years I’ve learned one thing about people like this. That there’s no point trying to be nice to them. They just see that as weakness. And they serve no socially useful purpose at all. They’re parasites. Cancer.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated, uselessly.
‘‘S’okay. Thanks.’
He continued to smile. Then he offered me the packet of cigarettes. ‘There’s only a couple left. Take them for Ron.’
‘For Ron?’
‘For later Ron.’
We both laughed. He closed his clear blue eyes for a second, and when he reopened them he was smiling. Properly, this time.
I clapped him on the shoulder, then turned and made my way towards the French pavilion, in pursuit of Francesco.
Chapter 4
I’d just clinked glasses with Nicolodi and the French ambassador when the screaming started. Except it wasn’t quite like that. Just a crash and a thud. A few raised voices. And then the screaming. Proper screaming. From the British pavilion.
People seemed frozen for a moment, and then Francesco and I broke into a run. Outside the main doors a young woman was sobbing hysterically as her friend hugged her and tried to calm her down. A black-clad acolyte was being violently and copiously sick.
We made our way inside. Lewis and Maxwell were darting from right to left, heads jerking this way and that as they tried to find a way into the maze of glass. I couldn’t understand what they were trying to do. Then Francesco grabbed my hand, and drew it upwards. ‘Look!’ Difficult to spot at first, but as I concentrated I could see that a section of the safety barrier in the upstairs gallery was missing. Then he drew my hand down . . .
A vertical sheet of glass. Broken. Jagged. Dripping with blood. Not, perhaps, as much as you might imagine. When I had time to think about it, it made perfect sense. The impact must have been so fast that very little blood had been spilled at the point of impact. The considerable amount that there was, was now pooling at the base of the plate. On one side of which lay the body of Gordon Blake-Hoyt. And on the other, his head.
I gagged and considered running outside to throw up. And then it hit me. I’d probably seen more dead bodies than anyone else here. ‘Okay, Francesco.’ I grabbed his arm. ‘I want you to go outside and make sure everyone’s all right. Get them some water, sit them down. Don’t let them leave. The police will want to speak with them.’ He looked at me with a mixture of horror and confusion, but then nodded and ran off.
Lewis and Maxwell were still trying to find a way through the jagged maze. I hadn’t even spoken to Lewis, and so I walked as calmly as I could up to the ambassador, and placed my arm across his path.
‘Leave it. Come on. Leave it. Both of you. Let’s just go outside.’
‘We can’t just leave him there.’ Lewis’ voice was a mixture of rage and hysteria.
‘Yes we can. That’s exactly what we’re going to do. He’s dead. There’s nothing we can do. And we’re not going to
risk hurting ourselves.’
‘And who the bloody hell are you?’
‘I’m the honorary bloody consul in Venice, and right now I’m trying to stop anyone else from getting hurt. So step the hell back.’
The three of us stared at each other for a moment, but then Maxwell nodded, and we retreated outside.
* * *
‘Christ, Sutherland, this is a bloody disaster.’
‘With respect, Ambassador, it’s a bit more serious for him than it is for us. So what do we do now?’
‘ “We?” What do you mean “We?” ’
I breathed deeply. ‘Okay. It’s like this. I might not get paid, but I do know what I’m doing. The police will be on their way. There’ll be an ambulance within minutes.’
‘An ambulance?’
‘Yes.’ For God’s sake, how long had he been doing this job? ‘An ambulance. They’ll remove the body and then the police will, well, do what they have to do.’
‘And then?’
‘I’ve got contacts with the police and the emergency services. I’ll deal with them. Do you want to deal with the relatives?’
He remained stony-faced. Oh shit, it was going to have to be me. The very worst part of the job.
‘Okay, I’ll deal with the relatives. The police will put out a statement. That’s fine as far as it goes, but it will be as bland as bland can be. So you need to put out a press statement too. For the UK press. Something that will keep them happy, that will make them think we’re on top of the job. You understand? I can’t do that. This is going to be a big story; you need to deal with that side.’
He took a deep breath. ‘Fine. Thank you, Sutherland.’
‘Call me Nathan, please. You did earlier. “Sutherland” sounds like you’re my boss.’
There was no sign of either Considine or Lewis. I really, really felt the need for a cigarette. I looked around the crowd but nobody had lit up. Then I remembered Considine’s packet and reached into my jacket. Roll-ups. Roll-ups rolled by an artist. I should feel honoured. Then I realised that my hands were shaking, and that the shock was hitting me, and I sat down and closed my eyes as I smoked quietly.
The ambulance men arrived first. And then the police. There were a few of them I knew, and they gave me a nod. The entrance was taped up as the forensic team arrived, and I was given to believe that my work was done.
Maxwell, Francesco, Lewis and I looked at each other. Of Paul Considine there was no sign.
I pulled out my mobile phone, and dialled.
‘Dario. It’s an emergency . . .’
Chapter 5
I went to speak to Lewis once the police had finished with him.
‘I was a bit sharp back there, I’m sorry.’ I said
He shook his head. ‘No problem.’ He offered me his hand. ‘We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Lewis Fitzgerald. Paul’s agent.’ We shook hands.
‘Speaking of whom . . . ?’ I looked around. Still no sign of him.
‘He sent me a text. He went back to his hotel before it all happened.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘Not really.’
I ran my hands through my hair. ‘Look. You probably know this yourself. But I may as well tell you anyway – there is absolutely zero chance of this place opening up again. It’s just not going to happen.’
He gave a brief nod. ‘I assumed as much. What happens next? Or what could happen next?’
‘Don’t know. I really don’t know. I mean, I saw him leaning on the barrier – we probably all did – and it looks like it gave way.’
‘That’s not our fault.’
‘Well, the responsibility would probably lie with the fabricators. But this will take years to sort out. You understand? It’ll take years.’
‘My God. Oh bloody hell. I think this will kill him.’
We stood in silence for a few moments. Then I reached into my jacket, and gave him my card. ‘Call me if there’s anything I can do.’ He nodded, and pulled out his mobile phone as he wandered off.
There didn’t seem to be much else that I could do. I exchanged a few words with one of the cops, and explained that anyone at the Questura would be welcome to get in touch if I could help in any way. He nodded politely, and shrugged as if he thought it unlikely.
I made my way back through the Giardini. I paused at the exit. People were still coming in. The little matter of a violent death was not going to stop the great money-making machine. It would be nice to stop for a beer at Paradiso. God knows, I could do with one. But then I saw a vaporetto approaching and broke into a run.
I made it on to the boat with only a few seconds to spare, and went down into the rear cabin. There was nowhere to sit, of course. And then I saw someone wave from the seats outside. Francesco Nicolodi was sitting there and scribbling away in a notebook. He gave another wave and patted the seat next to him, shaking his head as a couple of other passengers asked if it was free. I squeezed my way through the crush to the back of the boat.
‘I didn’t see you leave,’ I said.
‘I spoke to the police for a bit and that was it. I thought I’d go back to my hotel.’
‘I thought you’d have been doing the rounds of the other pavilions.’
He looked genuinely shocked. ‘After what just happened? I’m not such a heartless bastard, you know.’ Again, I was struck by how perfect his English was. He grinned. ‘Anyway, there’s only going to be one story that people are talking about. I thought I’d try and file my copy before anyone else can.’
‘I didn’t realise journalists still used notebooks and pens,’ I said. ‘There’s something rather reassuring about that.’
‘Most of us don’t. But I’m a terrible typist – strictly one finger.’ He paused. ‘Listen, maybe there’s something I can do for you?’
‘Oh yes?’
‘I heard you speaking to the ambassador. About informing the relatives. Now I do know a lot of people that Gordon works— ’ He giggled. ‘Sorry, worked with. I could let them know, if that would help.’
‘Was he married?’
‘Never married. Don’t think he had a partner. But as I said, I do know some of his colleagues. I could let them know, and then they can pass on the info to his family, if there is one.’
I paused. It was my responsibility. But it was the very worst part of the job. I didn’t have to do it very often, but it never got any easier. ‘Okay. Thanks. It would be better than coming from a stranger. But only if you’re sure.’
‘I’m sure. It’s not a problem.’
I gave him my card. ‘Just in case you need to get in touch. And maybe I’ll see you at Scotland or Wales tomorrow?’
‘Free gin? I’ll be there! Could do with a drink right now to be honest.’
‘I’d offer you one myself but I’m in a bit of a rush.’
‘No worries. Tomorrow maybe.’ The vaporetto was pulling into the Spirito Santo stop. ‘I’m getting off here.’
‘I’m getting off at Zattere.’ A quick walk over the Accademia bridge and I’d be just five minutes from home. ‘I’ll come with you. Save fighting my way through on my own.’
We made our way through the cabin, our plaintive cries of Permesso and Scendiamo growing ever more desperate the closer we approached our destination. Eventually, bruised of elbow and trodden of toe, we made it on deck to be rewarded with the lightest of breezes as the boat pulled in to the pontoon.
Everyone braced themselves for the habitual jolt as the vaporetto bounced off the jetty, and then the marinaio was there, tying up the boat with one hand and sliding back the bars of the gate with the other. ‘Spirito Santo, next stop Zattere, finish Piazzale Roma.’ Mirror shades, single black glove, cropped hair and designer stubble. In any other country, in any other city, he’d be a bus conductor. Here, he seemed like a rock star. ‘Go inside the cabin please. Take off your rucksack.’
Francesco patted me on the shoulder. ‘Okay, see you tomorrow I hope. Scotland and Wales, yes?’ I nodded
. He smiled, and made to step off the boat.
I felt something bounce off my shoe. I looked down and nearly clashed heads with a young guy with a backpack. I gave him a wave. ‘I’ll get it, okay?’ Bending down with a rucksack on a crowded boat was likely to cause mayhem.
It was a plain black leather wallet. ‘Is this yours?’ He shook his head. Francesco was almost away down the bridge to the fondamenta . ‘Francesco,’ I shouted, ‘is this yours?’ He turned at the sound of my voice and I held the wallet high in the air above the heads of the crowd. He looked confused for a moment, and then his hand went to his jacket, to check.
‘Not mine!’ he shouted back.
The marinaio slammed the gate shut and cast off. I tried to attract his attention. ‘I’m sorry, but someone’s dropped their wallet.’ But as I spoke, the same tourist backed into us, his rucksack managing to hit us both in the face simultaneously.
‘Take off the rucksack please. Go inside please. Go inside please.’ He probably knew how to say this in a dozen languages. The tourist shuffled off his backpack causing us both to step back and press ourselves against the gate as he did so. I tried again. ‘This wallet isn’t mine . . .’
Again, I was interrupted. A Frenchman, this time. ‘I’m sorry, but we have no tickets. Can we buy tickets from you?’
If the marinaio was at all stressed, he concealed it perfectly. ‘Yes, you can, sir,’ he answered, in French.
‘Thank you. Are we going the right way to San Marco?’
This time, the frustration couldn’t be suppressed. ‘Sir, San Marco is in that direction.’ He jabbed a finger in the direction from which we’d come, where the Basilica, Ducal Palace and campanile dominated the horizon.
‘Oh.’ The visitor furrowed his brow. ‘How do we get to San Marco?’
‘Sir, get off at Zattere, go back in that direction, line number 2.’ He was gesturing more forcefully now.
‘Zattere? Where is Zattere? How do we get to San Marco? Saint Mark’s Place?’
‘One moment please.’ He was sweating now, as we pulled into Zattere and he tied up the boat. He does this every day, I thought. Every day, for eight hours, at almost every stop. He must have the patience of a saint. And he still looks better than I do.
Vengeance in Venice Page 3