'Our paths were fated to cross, Tom. It was divined centuries before your fuck-less Christ child was even born.'
Tom has no time to counter the blasphemy. He cuts to the chase. 'I remember you had a lot of tattoos. Didn't you have one beneath your left eye, a sort of teardrop?'
Bale ignores the question. 'Tell me, Father, did you think of God when you first fucked her? When you slid your fatty tube of flesh inside sweet Tina, did you call out for Jesus?'
A shiver arcs over Tom's shoulders. Tina? How does he know her name? Then he remembers the magazine article and guesses it's been passed around the cells or, worse still, other papers have picked up on the story.
'Lars, I asked you a question: do you have a teardrop tattoo?'
'You know I do,' Bale sounds amused. 'Now, you tell me something. What kept you hard when your priestly cock sought out the wet mouth of her vagina? Thoughts of God, or thoughts of her flesh and your own pleasure?'
Tom stays focused. 'Was the tattoo a gang symbol, Lars? Did other members of your cult all have the same sign?'
Again the killer ignores him, his voice low and lecherous. 'What did you shout when you felt yourself come, Father Tom? When you frantically dumped all those years of denial into her, did you take the name of your Lord, your God in vain?'
Tom fights images in his head. Tina's mouth, her breasts, her perfumed skin.
'Are you reliving those memories now, Tom? I'm sure you are.' Bale fakes passion in his voice. 'Oh God! Oh fucking Jesus, I'm coming!' He rolls out a chilling laugh.
Tom snaps. 'Answer me! What does the tattoo mean to you?'
Lars swallows the last of his dark chuckles. His voice grows deep and growls down the phone as though covered in hot tar and grit. 'It's not a teardrop, you fool. Didn't you ever look at my paintings? Didn't you pay any attention to my art? How fucking ignorant are you?'
Tom's nerves tingle. His mind begins a desperate mental scramble through years of dusty archived images. Flash-frames of Bale's barred cell flood back – the grey sheets, the bolted-down bunk, the lack of any family photos, the smell of freshly squeezed oil paints, rows of canvases stacked alongside the steel toilet – but nothing else.
'You're a fool, Father Tom – just like all the other mother-fuckers in churches and police stations all over the world.'
Bale drops the phone off his shoulder and lets it swing on its metal flex. The guards, Tiffany and Hatcher, move towards him. He shouts at the swinging receiver, 'See you in hell, Father Tom! See your dumb, fucking ass in hell!'
CAPITOLO LII
1778
Ponte di Rialto, Venezia Tanina and Tommaso hurry through the crush of mid-morning crowds. He tries to tell her about his sister, but it's clear she's not listening. Tanina's mind is solely on the idea of being hunted down by the inquisitor's men as she leads the monk not to her own home, but to that of her friend in Rio Tera San Vio.
Lydia's doorman, Giuseppe, opens up and settles them in reception while he goes off to inform his mistress. Tommaso rests his elbows on his knees and sinks his head into his hands. His life is in such turmoil.
The lady of the house arrives moments later, greatly intrigued by the unexpected visit of her friend and the worried-looking monk. 'What a surprise, Tanina. I thought you were working.'
'I was.' She stands and takes Lydia's hands. 'A quiet word, if you please.' She glances back at Tommaso: 'Scusi.'
Tommaso nods and waits patiently. He still wonders whether Tanina is telling him the truth. She may well be lying – and all three of them were involved in the theft. Or, perhaps she's being truthful, and Ermanno was with her, which could mean that Efran took the artefact. Tommaso's mind is in a spin – maybe they are all innocent, and he's made a terrible error of judgment.
Double doors open.
Tanina reappears. 'Please come through.'
Tommaso walks into a large drawing room, tiled in cream veined marble that reflects two gloriously plump Murano chandeliers. 'Lydia, this is Brother Tommaso.'
'No longer. As of a few hours ago, I left the monastery.' He forces a smile. 'Now I am just plain Tommaso.'
'You are not so plain, brother,' says Lydia with a glint in her eye. 'Pray sit. Tanina has told me you need help.'
Tommaso tips a scalding stare across the room and Tanina feels defensive. 'Lydia is my closest friend. My confidante. I have told her everything. You said we were all in danger.'
'We are.'
'I have some clothes one of my old lovers left behind,' says Lydia, sizing up Tommaso. 'You look about the same size.' The glint returns. 'I think you will be able to move around less conspicuously in them than in that old black habit.'
Tommaso realises he has never worn anything other than the vestments and robes of the monastery. The thought makes him nervous. 'I am grateful for your kindness.'
Tanina stands. 'While you change I will go for Ermanno and Efran, then we can all decide what to do.' She can see Tommaso still doesn't trust the men. She turns to Lydia. 'We know we cannot stay here. We will go straight away, once we have a plan.'
Lydia reaches out a hand to her friend. 'Worry not. I have many friends in high places. The guards of the inquisitor will not come pounding on my door.' She turns her head and winks suggestively. 'Now, be on your way and leave me alone with this celibate young man and his urgent needs.'
CHAPTER 54
Present Day Hotel Rotoletti, Piazzale Roma, Venice Evening has slung a splatter of muddy light at the window of Tom's low-rent hotel room, and it seems to be seeping all over him as he sits on the other side of the glass deep in thought.
Everything seems a world away from his nights of passion with Tina in the luxury of the Baglioni. Not that he minds. Tonight he's preoccupied with something else.
It's not a teardrop.
Lars Bale's words are haunting him, as is the exact nature of the tattoo that both the Death Row inmate and Mera Teale seem to share.
A tadpole? A comma? A snail?
He's still lost in the puzzle, doodling the image on paper, when the phone next to him rings. 'Tom Shaman.'
'Tom, it's Valentina. I'm sorry it's late.'
'That's okay. How are you?' He pushes the sketches away.
A small question, but she knows it has big implications. 'I'm fine. And please don't worry, I'm hard at work in the office and not going to embarrass either of us by turning up drunk on your doorstep again.'
'Hey, don't be silly – that's what friends and their doorsteps are for.'
She laughs but feels awkward. 'Vito would like you to come in tomorrow morning and update us on your research. Is ten-thirty okay?'
'That's fine. I've got some information, some things I think may be useful. I've written them up and was going to call you anyway.'
Valentina's office door swings ajar and an assistant appears. 'One moment, please, Tom.' She cups the receiver and looks across to a secretary. 'Yes?'
'Major Carvalho would like to see you, as soon as possible.'
'Thanks, I'll be just a minute.' She resumes her talk with Tom. 'Sorry, I have to go, the boss is calling.'
'I understand. But before you vanish, I need to tell you about a man called Lars Bale who's on Death Row in San Quentin. He was a cult leader – he and his followers killed tourists and smeared their blood in churches across-'
Valentina cuts him off: 'Tom, tell me tomorrow, I need to go.'
'Okay,' he sounds irritated. 'But this may be important – Bale has a tattoo, the same as Mera Teale's. A teardrop, just below his left eye. If you get his prison mug shot you'll-'
'Tom, I really have to go, lieutenants don't keep majors waiting. Sorry.'
'Valentina!'
He's left pleading with the dial tone.
By the time he slams the phone down he realises it's his own fault. He should have kept her more in the loop, told her what his suspicions were. He stands up and paces. Glancing down at the sketches, something clicks. From upside down he finally sees what Bale meant. It's not a teard
rop.
It's a six.
Or is he clutching at straws? Making things up. Imagining the proverbial mark of the beast.
He grabs his jacket and decides to go straight to Carabinieri HQ. Even if he's got it wrong, it's best to tell Vito and Valentina. Sooner rather than later.
As he walks, he wonders if it's possible that Bale and Teale could know each other. They're both American, but she's much younger than him. Of course, Venice is full of Americans, so it could just be coincidence. And what of the tattoo? Is a teardrop as common as a peace sign or a smiley face? Or is it a modern-day Satanic gang marking? Maybe there are two other teardrops on her body somewhere, making three sixes in all. He's been around so many gangs in LA and seen so many cult tats that he appreciates the power invested in symbolically marking your body to show your beliefs, your true colours.
Tom heads east down the Ponte Tre Pont, south-east down the Fondamenta del Gafaro before finding some narrower and quicker backstreets to take him towards the Carabinieri buildings on the northern side of the Ponte di Rialto. He's somewhere close to the Campo dei Frari when a man in a red tee and jet-black jeans looks directly at him and smiles. Tom is still wondering whether he knows him when the stranger lifts his right arm like he's about to look at his watch.
It feels like water's been sprayed in his face.
Then comes the burning.
Pepper spray!
Tom puts his hands to his face just in time to stop another burst of spray.
He wheels around in the burning blindness.
Feels a sharp jab in his neck.
A hypodermic.
He rocks on his feet, feels a tingling queasiness spread through his veins and then crashes painfully like a toppled tree.
CHAPTER 55
Through a stinging, painful fog Tom hears them jabbering in Italian.
His eyes are burning from the OC – Oleorisin capsicum. Now he feels a different kind of spray in his face. Lagoon water. He's on a boat, moving somewhere.
'Attenzione!' someone shouts.
He's awake – and they're aware he's awake. Before Tom can shut his eyes and feign unconsciousness, someone covers him again in pepper spray. The burn barely has time to hit home before another needle finds a river of blood in his neck. His limbs turn to jelly and he floats off again on a queasy sea of blackness.
He doesn't stir until they lift him from the boat.
The first thing he notices is that the air has changed. It's less fresh. Much cooler. Almost damp.
He thinks he's inside.
Clear male voices talk around him in hushed tones. Tom can feel the heat and closeness of their bodies. He can't see them, but he imagines them peering down and talking about him.
Sensation is slowly returning to his limbs. Pain prickles his eyes again. He knows how much trouble he is in.
Both his arms and legs are tied. Tied tight. Whoever has abducted him has gone to great trouble to make sure he doesn't get away.
CHAPTER 56
Vito Carvalho is at his desk before the sun of a new morning has fully risen.
He stands by the open window of his top-floor office blowing smoke out over the buildings and canals beneath him. He barely slept last night. Now he's anxious about how Valentina is going to take the news that he's decided to drop her from the team. He should have done it long ago – straight after her cousin's death. She's had no chance to recover. No time to grieve.
He finishes the cigarette and turns away from the window. Even now he's having second thoughts. Work is what she's hanging on to. The one constant that's stopping her falling apart. He shakes his head. The screw-up over the fingerprints in the boathouse has changed everything. He simply can't let another mistake like that happen. He has to put the investigation before her personal needs.
Vito settles back behind his desk and goes through the overnight reports from his team leaders. Gradually the offices around him begin to fill and he knows it will be only minutes before Valentina arrives.
He's still thinking about how she'll react when the call comes in.
A call that instantly has him sending all his officers to a fresh scene: the sacred building that locals call the Chiesa d'Oro – the Church of Gold. Most people would jump at the chance to visit St Mark's Basilica free of tourists.
But not today.
No one is staring at the shimmering gold mosaics that adorn the ceilings. No one notices the brilliant Byzantine architecture or cavernous domes. The only people moving across the Chiesa's geometrically patterned marble floors are police officers. The only thing getting their attention is far from holy.
Ashen-faced, the Prime Procurator Giovanni Bassetti sits on the back pew in a state of shock and dismay. As the person responsible not only for the basilica's restoration but also for its caretakers and security guards, he's failed in his duties. History will not remember the care he lavished on the iconic campanile or the wonderful four horses of the Triumphal Quadriga: it will only recall the atrocity that happened on his watch.
Vito Carvalho walks straight past him, down the main aisle towards the familiar figure of Rocco Baldoni. Somewhere off to the side, a camera shutter clacks and echoes through the cathedral's waxy emptiness. He reaches the elevated presbytery and can't help but feel it's inherently wrong to be entering an area that used to be reserved for the clergy, and now excludes everyone except police officers. This is the resting place for the remains of St Mark, stolen by Venetian merchants from Alexandria back in the ninth century. It's now the scene of a chilling act of blasphemy. At the back of the high altar is the basilica's beautifully intricate Pala d'Oro – the Golden Pall. Across it, daubed in blood, six inches high and seven inches wide is the same rectangular symbol that they found at the Salute, and beneath it, the number 6.
Vito is shaking his head at the monstrous sacrilege when Valentina arrives, having just deployed search and interview teams. She crosses herself, genuflects and joins him on one of the isolation planks that forensics have put down to keep the area uncontaminated. 'This is it?' she asks. 'There's nothing more?'
Vito can't help but remember that right now they should both be in his office and she should be learning she's off the case. 'This is all we've found for now,' he answers. 'There's no liver, if that's what you were thinking.' He cranes his head forward to get a better look at the blood, then glances towards a forensics officer hard at work. 'Has it been brushed on?'
A dark-haired young woman, gloved and suited, looks up from her kneeling position. 'Si. We've found a couple of bristles on one of the strokes.' She nods towards a spray of Luminol. 'And, yes, it is blood, not paint.'
Vito leans back. 'So our killer has taken blood – bottled it – then he's brought it here to paint a blasphemous message across the religious heart of Venice. And the victim? Dead or alive?' He looks up, almost as though he expects an answer from God. 'One we already know of, or one we are still to discover?'
Rocco joins them on the raised safe zone. 'I've had a call from the Control Room. The press have found out that something's going on. What do you want to do?'
Vito's face turns angry. 'I don't want people to read about this. I don't want the press to know anything about this. No words, no photographs, no gossip. Nothing must get out. Do you understand?'
Rocco breaks the bad news. 'Too late.' He throws a look towards the back pews. 'The Procurator says there's already been a snapper in here. He had to get him to leave.'
The major just about stops himself swearing. 'Any signs of entry?'
'Nothing obvious,' says Valentina. 'I've got men checking right now.'
Vito looks around and sees steel scaffolding, several buckets of plaster and industrial trowels and boards in the far corner. 'Our man didn't break in. He probably disguised himself as a maintenance or restoration worker, and then found a way to stay behind and hide somewhere when everyone else left.' He climbs down from the forensic plank and walks off the altar. The absence of a liver at the scene is worrying him. He's starti
ng to understand what it could mean.
'The offender still had to get out,' says Rocco, following him down. 'That would have been a gamble. There's more of a chance someone noticed him leaving than entering.'
'Then find them,' snaps Vito. 'I don't have time for debating what's obvious.'
Valentina takes a final look at the symbol before descending. 'We're already interviewing the workers. Asking if they saw anyone leaving early. We'll canvass tourists as well – maybe someone got a snap. Of course, you know how difficult it is tracking tourists.'
Vito puts his hands to his head and closes his eyes. 'Oh God, sweet merciful God, I hope I'm wrong.'
Valentina and Rocco exchange quizzical glances.
Vito shares the thoughts that are troubling him. 'There's no liver because this victim isn't dead yet.' He points back towards the daubed blood. 'But I'm sure that very shortly they will be.'
They all stare silently at the desecration and try to put themselves in the mind of the offender, try to guess his motivation, his end game. Vito motions towards the number beneath the symbol. 'What's going on here? This number, what do you think that means?'
'Numbers are for counting,' speculates Valentina, 'so it's some kind of countdown?'
'Quite. But what? Is it in hours, days or weeks?'
Vito turns squarely to Valentina. 'Find that damned ex-priest of yours. Find him quick, and pray he can tell us what the hell this all means, before someone else dies.'
CAPITOLO LIII
1778
Rio Tera San Vio, Venezia Tommaso can see why Tanina trusts Lydia. She's one of those rare people who has the capacity to listen without interrupting. She's patient and attentive as the young priest explains that he's only recently learned he's been separated from his sister since early childhood and is hoping to find her – and find her quickly.
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