Claudio bagged the linen cap. ‘This is curious,’ he said. ‘Someone was wearing a linen cap. It looks quite new.’
She was drifting off into sleep, despite the hard decking. They had tucked another blanket round her and folded padded coats for her head. She was so comfortable it could have been the most expensive bed in the Hotel Gritti Palace.
She was hardly aware of a second motorboat approaching or the exchange of voices. The police launch rocked as a tall figure clambered aboard and hurried over to her. She knew it was Marco when his arms went round her and his lips were in her damp hair.
‘Oh, caro, my darling. You’re safe, Emma. We have found you. I’m so sorry that this happened. It is all my fault for leaving you.’
‘Nothing matters now … you are here,’ Emma murmured, her breath on his face. ‘Stay with me.’
‘I need a statement from the signorina,’ said Claudio, not wanting to interrupt the reunion. He felt the same old stirring of envy as he watched his friend holding Emma. ‘It’s important.’
‘You will get your statement,’ said Marco, grimly. ‘When I say so. In the morning. Now she must sleep.’
twenty-three
Claudio told Barto to go home and take a hot bath, get some food and sleep. ‘You have done well,’ he said. ‘It’ll not be forgotten. Come back when you feel rested. I will explain your absence.’
‘Grazie, Commissario.’
The items from the island were bagged and labelled. Even Emma’s handbag, though he felt sure it could be returned to her soon without a problem. It was not likely to have prints left on it after all this rain.
The linen cap was a good find. The man must have torn it off when he removed the corno. It would certainly contain some hair which held DNA.
Emma remembered little of the journey back to the palazzo. Marco’s arms were closed round her and that was all that mattered. She wondered if she was dreaming and would soon wake up and find herself back in the ruin, wrapped in sacking.
But his voice was with her all the time. ‘You are safe now, Emma. Try and sleep.’
Claudio returned to his small flat and found the water tank cold. He switched on the immersion heater, peeled off his wet clothes, drank coffee till the water was warm enough to get into. He boiled several kettles and tipped them first into the bath. He could not wait forever.
He was bone weary. He was always tired these days. Perhaps he should go to the doctor soon. But there was never a free hour and he did not like to waste their time. Too many people wasted doctors’ valuable time with trivial ailments.
He sighed as he sank under the water, letting the warmth wash over his head. He was elated that they had found Emma. If she had become another victim, he would have failed with his investigations and been devastated. But she was alive. He doubted if she would have survived another night in the cold. It was all tied up together. The hacking of the Prosecco fortune and the three ruthless attacks, two of which had resulted in death.
He would go to the palazzo later that morning. It was already beginning to get light, sunrise creeping through the clouds with unsteady pink-streaked fingers. The different bells were tolling their unearthly wake-up calls. No one ever thought to complain. No one dared to complain. It was as if the doges still wielded their immense power over the citizens of Venice.
Wrapped in an old navy towelling robe, he began making a list of everything that had happened. It was not his usual procedure. He normally carried lists in his head. Somewhere there was a link, something that he had missed. It was hidden in this maze of information.
If he stared at the words long enough, one or two of them might begin to make sense.
Marco had not gone to his own bed. He slept on the floor in Emma’s room, not wanting to wake her but not daring to leave her. Maria had fussed around in the bathroom with warm towels and more hot milky drinks. But Emma only wanted to sleep now and the comfortable duvet enveloped her like some heavenly cloud of warmth.
‘Sleep well,’ said Marco, kissing her lightly. But she had already fallen asleep.
‘What shall I do with these clothes?’ Maria asked, her arms full of sodden and torn clothing. They smelt of the sea, of rotting material.
‘Bin them, but perhaps not yet. The police may find some fibres. Forensics are so clever these days.’
‘Si, signor. I will put them in a bag but not the intimates. Those I will wash and dry for the signorina.’
Marco smiled at Maria’s discreet wording. And her thriftiness. He always wanted to buy everything brand new for Emma. He wanted to buy her closets and closets full of beautiful new clothes. He wanted to buy her everything she had ever wanted. How he would spoil her when she was his.
‘Grazie.’
It was about ten o’clock when Marco awoke to the loud noise of his front doorbell. He knew instantly that it was the Commissario. Emma did not stir. Marco pulled on a black towelling robe and went downstairs. Maria was talking to the poliziotto.
‘No,’ she was saying. ‘Signor Marco cannot be disturbed. He is still sleeping. The signorina is still sleeping. Please go away.’
‘I will wait until they are both awake,’ said Claudio Morelli patiently. ‘I have urgent business with them.’
‘This is not the time. Come back later.’
‘It’s all right, Maria,’ said Marco, pausing at the top of the marble staircase. ‘Show the Commissario to the sitting room and make us some coffee while I get dressed.’
‘Si, signor.’
‘Signorina Emma Chandler?’ asked Claudio. ‘She is all right?’
‘She is well but still asleep. These British women are strong. I didn’t say my full gratitude to you when you found her. But I say it now. I am forever in your debt.’ Marco thought this was ironic when he had no ready money, not until he sold the next harvest of grapes. He hoped it would be a good harvest.
‘It is my job,’ said Claudio.
‘And the young recruit?’
‘He will not be forgotten. He will be commended.’
Marco went upstairs to shower and dress. Emma was still sleeping. The colour had returned to her face. He did not wake her even though he was tempted.
Maria bustled into the sitting room with a tray set with coffee and a dish of hot croissants. She knew the detective was always without food. It was no wonder he was so thin.
‘Grazie,’ he said. ‘You make the best coffee in Venice.’
‘Always the soft soap,’ she said, but pleased.
Marco came back in black jeans, black polo-necked jersey. He had not stopped to shave. The bristles on his chin made him look like a member of the Sicilian Mafia.
‘We have traced a stolen water taxi,’ said Claudio. ‘The licensed taxi drivers reported him. He has been stealing business from them. It may be the water taxi which took Emma to the island.’
‘That’s good.’
‘I have more leads. But the only person who can help me is the signorina. Her evidence is vital. I need her statement.’
‘So glad to hear I am needed,’ Emma said, from the doorway. She was dressed in a blue tracksuit, her hair tied back with a ribbon, her feet in flip-flops.
Both men stood and made room for her. She went straight for a hot croissant and a plate. She was not wearing any make-up. She looked like a schoolgirl. She was as hungry as any schoolgirl.
‘I dreamed of this kind of food on the island,’ she said. ‘I dreamed a lot about food. I didn’t want to eat insects. Once I thought I might have to.’
Marco poured out coffee for her into the cup that Maria had laid for him. ‘Start from the beginning,’ he said. ‘We need to know everything that you can remember.’
Emma curled up on the settee, tucking her feet under herself. She sank her teeth into the hot croissant, flakes round her lips, savouring the taste. It tasted so good. She would always savour food now, knowing what it was like to be without any.
‘I thought Enrico had ordered the water taxi. I should have checked but the
re was no way of doing so. He had rung off. I remember the motorboat had lots of tinkling sounds, bells or something hanging.’
‘Some of the taxis have hanging charms or tokens. What did the driver look like? Can you describe him?’
‘The driver had a dish-shaped face, narrow eyes and a peaked cap. He had the usual yellow plastic jacket. He was not particularly pleasant and big, much bigger than most Italians. The other man was wearing very strange clothes because they were sort of medieval, like in the paintings of the medieval doges. I thought perhaps he had been to a party. He had a funny hat. He threw me on the deck and wrapped sacking round me, then rope. I lost my briefcase but I held onto my bag as it was tied against me.’
‘Then what happened?’ Claudio asked gently.
‘I don’t know,’ Emma faltered. ‘We drove over the sea for a long time. It was very choppy. I felt sick. Then the motorboat seemed to go up on a mudbank and stop. They heaved me over the side and onto the island. I only heard them go away, leaving me on the wet sand.’
‘Can you remember anything they said?’
‘They spoke in Italian, a different dialect I think. And loud and very fast. I could hardly understand a word.’
‘Can you remember any names being mentioned?’
Emma scratched at her memory. Had she heard any names? None. Only il marmo and she did not know what that meant. ‘Only il marmo and that means nothing to me. I remember it because it sounded like Marmite.’
‘Il marmo means marble.’
‘I don’t know why they were talking about marble.’
‘Describe the second man’s clothes, the one you thought had been to a party.’
‘He was wearing a big swirling black cloak with a high collar. And on his head was the horn-shaped hat that you see in the paintings of the doges. It was strange and weird.’
‘The fancy-dress shops have these outfits. For the carnivals and festivals when everyone dresses up. The doge outfit is popular, especially with an elaborate cream brocade cape. But a black cloak is different. And the other man, the thug driver, the big man?’
‘I don’t remember. Jeans maybe, a jersey, the yellow jacket. I don’t know. I’m sorry.’
‘Do not be sorrowful, signorina. We have many clues now and you are safe.’
‘That is the most important thing,’ said Marco, interrupting. ‘You are safe.’
Claudio fetched a loose-leaf folder from his briefcase. ‘Do you feel strong enough to look at photographs? Perhaps you will remember the dish-shaped face?’
‘Emma has had enough,’ said Marco firmly. ‘No more.’
‘I’m all right, Marco,’ Emma said gently. ‘I can look at photo-graphs while it’s all fresh in my mind. Tomorrow I may have forgotten.’
Marco nodded. Emma was as strong-minded as ever and he loved her for it.
‘Five minutes only,’ he growled.
She leafed over the pages of photographs. The driver’s mean face was imprinted on her mind. She hoped his face would not come into her dreams. She wanted to wipe him from her mind, so it was best she looked at the photographs now.
Suddenly she went cold. The dish-shaped face and narrow eyes stared at her from the page. She said nothing but handed the open page to Claudio. ‘This is the driver,’ she said.
‘Grazie, signorina. And the second man?’
‘No more,’ Marco said firmly. ‘Enough. You will find both thugs if you know this man.’
‘And this is the second man in the doge costume.’
‘He is known to us. He is a nasty piece of work.’ Claudio did not say that he was recently out of prison for assault, that Emma would have to come to the Questura to make a formal statement and attend an identification parade. He could see that Marco was getting impatient. So would he be, if Emma belonged to him. He would protect her night and day. Claudio knew this was foolishness on his part. Emma had eyes only for Marco.
If she would give him a small part of her day, a small part of her time, a few grains of affection from her heart, he would be satisfied. Claudio wondered if he was expecting too much.
‘Grazie, Commissario,’ Emma said, rising. ‘Now I want to spend some time with Marco.’
‘Naturalmente. I will see myself out.’
Marco watched Emma eating the last of the croissants. He wondered if he should suggest a lunch out, somewhere civilized, so that she could forget her terrible ordeal.
Emma was ahead of him. ‘Lunch out would be great,’ she said. ‘I want to get back to being normal. I don’t want to be treated as an invalid.’
‘Tomorrow we will eat out, but today you will rest,’ said Marco. ‘I have no experience with invalids.’
Emma climbed off the sofa and sat on his lap, twining her arms round his neck. ‘Firstly, you have to be very gentle with them.’
‘I can do gentle.’
‘And loving.’
‘I can do a lot of loving.’
‘And be patient if they ask for impossible things.’
Marco thought about this. ‘What impossible things?’
Emma leaned forward and whispered in his ear. He smiled and nodded his agreement. He carried her upstairs to his bed where they lay together, entwined, and slept for a few more hours, their breath mingling.
The identification of Gatta Foscari was a big step forward in their investigations. His parents had named him after Gattamelata, a mercenary soldier, whose equestrian statue was famous. But the name was too long for anyone with time to pronounce.
Claudio alerted the system for sightings of Gatta Foscari and any known associates. The fancy-dress shops were being canvassed. One reported a recent break-in. A doge’s horned hat was stolen and a black cloak. Also some white make-up.
They did not report it at the time as they were too busy.
‘Insolito,’ said Claudio, throwing up his hands. ‘Unbelievable.’
He phoned the forensics laboratory. ‘The linen cap from the island. You have found some DNA?’
‘There are hairs. And sweat. It’s very good.’
‘But have you identified anything yet?’
‘Commissario, per favore. You are so impatient. This is meticulous work. It is not done in minutes. We are professionals.’
‘Mi dispiace.’
Claudio sat back, his head aching. As if he was not a professional. The lack of sleep, the lack of food, it was getting to him. The forensic team hadn’t spent half the night in a police launch, wading through the shallows, searching one rain-lashed scrap of land after another for a terrified woman.
He took a painkiller. He wondered sometimes if he took too many.
twenty-four
Professor Windsor tipped back the chair and rubbed his face. He was bone weary.
He hadn’t slept much either, waiting for news of Emma and now another long day sorting out the maze of complications in this computer system. But now it was done. It was finished. He could go back to his London town house, forget this world. He did not want to forget his new friends, especially Emma, but so much talking was tiring.
He wondered how he could explain it all in layman’s terms. He did not relish what he was going to have to tell Marco. He wouldn’t like it. But he had to tell him the truth. Marco was sitting opposite him, waiting for the verdict.
‘Malicious attackers think like thieves, often exploiting a physical security weakness. In your case, it was not checking the credibility of the people you bought the new computer system from, and secondly, having an easy-to-access password.’
‘I thought a password was just a means of getting into a computer,’ said Marco, glumly.
‘It’s a protection,’ said the professor. ‘It should be a pass phrase really. They are far harder to crack. There are machines which will crack a password, even if it is a word mixed up with numbers, upper and lower case. Your easily remembered phrase could be: I often go 2 museums. Sixteen letters.’
‘Or: Maria’s fish soup is perfect.’
‘Better to change perfec
t to something more unusual.’
‘Grazie. I will think up something unusual about Maria’s soup.’
‘There are several well-known malicious hackers but in your case, these hackers were after the money. When you get your new computer system from a reputable firm, I will install security countermeasures. And you will need to educate your users.’
‘Si. My staff will go on courses.’
‘The hackers used your laptop and your phone to initially gain entry to your system. You discussed getting a new computer system, arranged payment with an electronic transfer. That’s why the theft has been concentrated on the last two years’ income.’
The professor’s coffee was cold but he drank it anyway. ‘There is a new type of invisible root kit that can steal bank account data.’
‘A root kit? I don’t understand.’
‘It’s the most malicious of its kind and has been detected all over Europe. It downloads malware that logs all keystrokes that the unsuspecting user types into the computer. It also has a watchdog thread that was detected when I started to remove it. The root kit reinstalled itself.’
‘So how do you get rid of it?’ Marco wished he understood what the professor was saying.
‘It’s a very detailed procedure to overwrite the root kit’s entry. I’ve completed this. Your current computer system is now free of malware but I suggest you throw it out anyway and start afresh with a read-only system.’
‘I will take it out to sea to the deepest depth and drown it,’ Marco said with feeling.
‘We will also remove the hard drive and destroy it.’
Marco looked relieved. ‘Your work is fantastico. I am forever in your debt. So where is the money now?’
This was the part that Professor Windsor was dreading and Marco would hate hearing the truth. He was going to give him the worst of bad news.
‘The euros have been deposited in an account in the Cayman Islands. It’s a favourite place for illegal financial transactions. It’s also famous for its turtles.’
‘Damn the turtles. Can I get any of the money back? In whose name is the account?’
The professor cleared his throat. ‘The account is in three names: Harry Stone and Emma Chandler are two of them. It is true. I have seen her signature. She is a joint holder of the account in the Cayman Islands.’
The Prosecco Fortune Page 21