The Lizard's Bite nc-4

by David Hewson

  She looked up at the largest of the glass structures above them. Sure enough, there was a terrace there, and opaque windows too.

  “You’ve an apartment here?”

  “I will have. They only let me use it during the day. Until we’ve signed the paperwork . . . The Arcangeli never give away a thing.”

  “I’d love to,” Emily said, and meant it.

  SHE FOUND HERSELF both amazed and appalled by what followed. For thirty minutes Massiter led her through the ground and first floors of the palace, past rusting ironwork being hastily repainted, past gaudy wall hangings that had no place there at all and hastily painted temporary walls with cheap collapsible tables for that evening’s party. Emily dabbed a finger on the ironwork by the door and wished she’d had a few rudimentary instruments with her. There was decay, no doubt about it.

  “You don’t like what’s being done, do you?” Massiter stated.

  “What do I know?” She smiled.

  “Quite a lot, I suspect. Is it that bad? I’m spending heavily here. Money I can ill afford. People need to be impressed tonight. Venice is a cruel judge. In a short time I’ll either be acclaimed as her saviour or damned as a swindling crook. I deserve to be told the truth.”

  “It’s not what I’d recommend, Mr. Massiter.”

  “Hugo,” he corrected. “Why?”

  She glanced around the vast, airy hall where two large, fussy paintings were now being measured for a couple of dismal screens clothed in scarlet velour.

  “This place should be about simplicity. Glass is an odd medium. I can understand why your architect is at a loss what to do with it. This is a real challenge. But it seems to me you have to work with the glass, not against it. He’s trying to hide it, and that’s a sin. This wasn’t just meant to be a container for the exhibition, it was part of the show itself.”

  She pointed out some panels in the curved ceiling.

  “If I remember the story correctly, this wasn’t designed by an architect. It was a glassmaker. And he was making a point. Some of this glass is transparent, some opaque or reflective. He’s got the colours of the world up there: sun, night, sea, sky. You need to fit in with that, not fight it. This is too much. It’s like . . .” She felt too polite to finish the sentence.

  “A bad hotel created for a rich man with no taste?”

  “Your words. Not mine.”

  “Bugger!” Massiter declared, looking at his watch. It was now close to midday. The heat was intense. That was another problem, Emily thought. The ventilation was poor, and probably always had been. “In that case to hell with the tea, I need a drink. Will you join me? The apartment’s not too foul. I decided what went there. This . . .”—the Englishman waved a hand at the workmen—“ . . . was the price of getting some restoration money from the city. The idiot architect’s someone’s nephew. You understand Italy, Emily?”

  “Oh yes,” she answered, following him as he strode rapidly up a winding set of iron steps to the third floor. Massiter unlocked a heavy iron door and ushered her into an altogether different kind of room, one furnished with spartan good taste in a modern, minimalist fashion.

  “One day soon, God willing,” Massiter told her, “I’ll be able to abandon that damned yacht of mine and live here full-time. Until then, it’s just my day residence and an office.”

  He walked to the front of the long, rectangular room, and threw open two large, semi-opaque, smoke-coloured doors to reveal a small table on the narrow balcony. Then he returned and entered an airy modern kitchen, heading straight for the fridge. Emily walked to the large windows, stepped outside, caught her breath at the height, which was exaggerated by the open iron grating beneath her feet. Thirty metres or so below lay the cobbles of the quay. The dizzying view faced east, out to Sant’ Erasmo and the Lido, with the shining Adriatic beyond.

  “This is why I want to buy the place, really,” Massiter announced, arriving with two glasses of pale wine, a plate of olives and some cured cheese. “The view and pure bloody-minded arrogance. The chance to make a little money too, of course. You can see Torcello if you stretch out.”

  She looked over the edge of the precipice. It was a long way down, and straight onto stone.

  “Here,” he said, extending his arms. “I’ll hold you. It scared me too, first time round.”

  She let Massiter place his arms around her waist, then leaned over the edge of the metal balustrade, looking to her left, feeling how he gripped her: firmly, out of a pure practical need. All the same, it was a strange sensation, to be dangling out towards the lagoon in the arms of this odd Englishman. She wondered, for a moment, what Nic would have made of the sight, then reminded herself why she came here.

  The tall tower of the distant church at the northern end of the lagoon was just visible in the distance.

  “Thanks,” she said, and leaned back, noting the way he relaxed his grip immediately.

  Hugo Massiter sat down, a handsome man, not yet past his prime, Emily decided, though perhaps he had a different opinion.

  “I think you’d need a degree of arrogance to want to own a place like this,” she observed. “That and a lot of money.”

  “Cheers!” He raised his glass. “Plenty of one. Little of the other, I’m afraid. My idea was to put up a little competition for Dame Peggy, once I’d knocked the place into shape.” He nodded towards the city, and, she assumed, the Guggenheim.

  “You want to start a gallery?” she asked.

  “Why not? I’ve sold enough paintings over the years. Seemed to me it was time to keep a few for myself. I just hate the idea of them being stuck in a box in storage. Or in a room where no one gets to see them except me. It’s such a waste. Also, that makes me sound like Howard Hughes or someone. Which I’m not.”

  “I don’t imagine anyone would figure you for a recluse,” Emily suggested. The wine was perfect, so cold it made her throat ache.

  He placed his glass on the table, leaned back in his chair, frowning, looking exhausted.

  “You’ve no idea what people figure me for,” he complained ruefully, before shooting her a sharp, incisive glance. “Or have you?”

  He was staring at her with an open, unavoidable concern. Hugo Massiter was trying to determine just how much she knew.

  “You’ve had a lot of press in your time,” she answered carefully.

  “I’ve been a very visible man. That’s understandable. It’s just the damned lies. You’ve heard the story I’m talking about? Please be honest with me, Emily. Everyone around here knows and thinks that, by not mentioning it, they’re being polite. That’s kind of them, but to be honest, I hate beating about the bush. I don’t want you sitting there thinking you might be supping with the devil.”

  She nodded. “I remember the story. It was about a piece of music, wasn’t it?”

  “No,” he sighed. “Not really. It was about me. My ego. My need to feel I was doing something worthwhile.” He paused to watch the traffic on the water. “I trusted someone who betrayed me,” he continued. “Very nearly destroyed me, to be honest with you. If I hadn’t got the hell out of Italy damn quick and found myself some extremely good and very expensive lawyers, I could be sitting in a jail cell right now. All because I let my guard down. All because . . .”

  His eyes wandered down to the water again. Then he was looking intently at her again.

  “Let me tell you something about Venice. Something I should have learned years ago. It’s not the crooks you need worry about. They’re ten a penny and easy to spot a mile off. It’s the innocents. They’re the ones who kill you in the end. And here we are. Years later. Me wondering if I’m about to do the same again.”

  “I’m sorry?” she said, confused.

  “Remember Swift,” Massiter murmured.

  “‘A flea hath smaller fleas that on him prey,

  And these have smaller fleas to bite ’em.

  And so proceed ad infinitum.’

  “My fleas are gathering, young Emily. Unless I can pull off
some rather clever tricks over the next few days, everything, this place included, will go down with the ship. What the hell. Fleeing the police on some trumped-up murder charges is one thing. But going bankrupt—my God . . . Do I need another drink or what?”

  “No,” she said firmly. “I don’t think you do.”

  He touched his forehead with his index finger, a deft salute of obedience. Hugo Massiter certainly had a way about him.

  “I need this charade to look good tonight. There are influential people coming. Tell me the truth now. What will they think of me with all this junk my young architect friend downstairs has introduced?”

  She shrugged. “Depends who they are.”

  “People with taste. Some of them. People with money. Power. If they knew the state of my bank account, they’d never step through the door. You won’t tell them, will you?”

  “I won’t even tell my police friend.”

  Massiter smiled. “Oh, that’s fine. He knows. But I’m pleased you’re both discreet. I’m not, as you see, which is why I depend so much on discretion in others.”

  “I was thinking . . .” He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  “Thinking what?”

  “Wondering really. If I turned this building over to you. As a project, say. You might even get paid something in the end. What would you do?”

  Emily Deacon laughed, then sipped her wine. “Panic.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Massiter replied, serious all of a sudden. “Not for a moment. I mean it. What would you suggest?”

  She’d been thinking about that all along, as a highly perceptive man like Massiter doubtless knew. The building was, in a sense, unfinished. It was just waiting for the final touches of someone’s imagination.

  The answer was so obvious. She was amazed Massiter hadn’t seen it for himself. Emily glanced back at the plain apartment behind them, a place brimming with reserved taste.

  “Do what you did here. Live with what you have. Make it habitable. Make it real.”

  Massiter was chortling. “It’s not finished! There are interior walls half built. There are parts that simply make no sense.”

  “Any more than those velvet drapes and fake Titians they’re putting in downstairs? A half-finished masterpiece is better than a completed monstrosity any day. Please . . .”

  He put his hand over his mouth, thinking. “How’s your Italian?”

  “Better than yours. I’ve lived here for most of my life.”

  “So have I!” he objected. “Well, a good part, anyway.”

  “You’ve spent your time talking. I spent mine listening.”

  He was no fool, though, she thought. Perhaps it was the prospect of putting off creditors. Perhaps—she’d seen the glint in Hugo Massiter’s eye, she knew a man who liked women—it was something else altogether.

  “You’d need to talk this time, my dear,” he pointed out. “You’d need to tell a bunch of thieving Venetian builders what to do, and spot when they’re rooking me. Think you’re up to it?”

  She drained her glass and placed it firmly on the table. The air below was alive with the curse of workmen, doing what the hell they liked, she suspected.

  “I haven’t applied for the job.”

  Massiter didn’t even notice her objection. “And we’d need to dream up some ruse to allow me to fire that idiot down there. I can’t just get rid of him. He’s too well connected for that.”

  There she was one step ahead.

  “Did you order real marble for those dreadful tables by the door? Or fake?”

  Massiter bristled. “I didn’t order anything. They were the idiot’s idea. And I do not deal in fakes.”

  “They’re veneer. Marble layered on wood. It’s obvious if you look at the edges. I doubt it’s the only problem—”

  “It’s enough,” Massiter interrupted, suddenly furious, getting to his feet. “Follow me, please.”

  He stormed downstairs at high speed, yelling for the architect, “Andrea! Andrea!”

  They finally found the man lounging on a dire purple velvet sofa next to the dead palm tree. He was smoking a cigarette, watching a couple of sweating workers attempt to fix the phony marble tops with tubes of cement.

  “Massiter! Massiter! So much noise. I try to think. Please . . .”

  He was a skeletal creature in his twenties, dressed in a black suit and white shirt, open at the neck. A ridiculously ornate moustache was trying to establish itself on his upper lip.

  “Problems,” Massiter said, picking up a massive club hammer from the floor.

  The architect splayed his hands. “What problems? Are you mad?”

  Massiter swung the hammer in a rapid, powerful arc and brought it down hard on the shining black surface. The two men who’d been working on it took two steps back, yelling obscenities. The “marble” split instantly in two, revealing the shattered edges of cheap pale plywood between.

  “I’m mad now,” Massiter declared. “I’m bloody mad.”

  Andrea got up and started slapping one of the workmen round the head, swearing at him in a vivid burst of Veneto.

  “No games!” Massiter bellowed. “I’ve had enough of that. You can clear out of here now. And tell your uncle he can shove his bill up his arse.”

  “Screw you!” Andrea yelled. “You can’t come here and do whatever you like.”

  The Englishman passed the huge hammer from one hand to the other and gave it a good swing. Andrea thought better of things and began to slink off for the door, his workers following on behind.

  “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Massiter shouted at them.

  The men stopped in their tracks, worried, a little scared.

  “Emily? Tell them.”

  It was absurd. It was also highly amusing. They were staring at her, mute aggression in their faces, daring her to speak. Italian builders didn’t take orders from women. Especially not foreign ones.

  She gave her instructions briskly, in the kind of language they would understand.

  “You’ve got a choice. You can crawl off home now and whistle for your money. Or you can take every last piece of this crap out of here and find me some paint. White paint. Good white paint. Matte only. And lots of brushes. Plus some fabric for hangings. White again. This is the island of the archangels. Angels like white.”

  The workers looked at each other. They said nothing.

  Massiter laughed discreetly, then leaned toward Emily.

  “A silent Venetian is a defeated Venetian, my dear,” he murmured in her ear, his breath warm and familiar, sweet with the aroma of wine. “Well done.”

  COSTA WAS MULLING OVER HIS PARTNER’S RHETORICAL question: Why did they always get the bum deal? Because he’d defied Leo Falcone, that’s why. Pushing Scacchi for what he knew about the missing Daniel Forster and Laura Conti had been an act of direct rebellion. Falcone was too preoccupied with the case to make much of it. But both Costa and Peroni knew there’d be a price, and when they got to the Isola degli Arcangeli they discovered what it was. Falcone was keeping the sweet part—the house and Raffaella Arcangelo—all for himself.

  All the same, Costa didn’t feel a single pang of regret. It would have been remiss to have left Sant’ Erasmo without tackling Scacchi about the missing pair. And those postcards the farmer had shown were, it seemed to him, distinctly odd. No one printed their own name. Certainly not a student from Oxford. Scacchi said he worked as an illicit ferryman for people who didn’t want to pay the price of official water taxis. The cards could have been posted by anyone. Some Alitalia steward he took to the airport from time to time, and who he’d asked for a little souvenir of his travels, signed in a particular way. But why?

  Ordinarily, Costa would have mulled the idea over with Falcone and Peroni. Now, it seemed pointless. Both were fixated on the Arcangeli, keen to see this case closed, then engineer their escape from the lagoon. Nic felt the same way. In principle, anyway. Watching Falcone stride off for the mansion, with its glistening
eye looming out over the lagoon, leaving them to the smoke stink of the foundry and the two surly brothers, he almost wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

  Almost.

  The face was at the great glass window again: calm, attractive, sensitive.

  “I am going to get a look inside that place before we leave for good,” Costa swore.

  Peroni huffed and puffed. “In that case maybe you’d better do what Leo says. You know he hates being crossed.”

  But Falcone was wrong. Venice wasn’t some backwater unworthy of their metropolitan talents. Costa sometimes wondered whether they weren’t the ones being duped all along. Doing Randazzo’s bidding. Being forced to see matters the way the Venetians liked.

  Falcone was at the window with her now, listening, nodding. Interested, Costa thought, and that was new too. The two brothers were working away inside the foundry, close to the furnace, Gabriele welding, Michele cutting pipe, as if they hadn’t even noticed their presence.

  Costa watched Gabriele extinguishing the lance, waited for the sound of the gas to die down, walked over to the man, took the long metal implement out of his hand and placed it on the floor.

  “Enough,” he said with a deliberate gruffness. “And you.”

  He turned on Michele, who was grappling with some joint work, trying to wrestle a tangle of metal into submission. “Put that thing down and talk to us. If we don’t get some cooperation here, I will, I swear, arrest the pair of you and continue this at the Questura.”

  Michele kept on straining away at the job, giving him just a single, filthy glance with the ruined side of his face.

  “One call, garzone,” the old man spat back at Nic. “That’s all it takes and you’re out of here.”

  Costa walked up close. “I am not your boy. Understand something. If we move off this case and someone else has to pick up the pieces, you lose time. That means no deal with this Englishman who’s looking to save your skin. Screw around with us all you like, but don’t think it won’t come at a price.”