The Venice Conspiracy (36 page)

Tommaso pushes it into the water and clambers in. Brothers are running from the monastery down the hillside towards him. Up by the main entrance he can see the stern and unmoving figure of the abbot.

The tide is low and he soon pulls clear of the shore, leaving behind the only people he has shared his life with.

As the island shrinks behind him, a cool wind bounces off the lagoon and Tommaso’s anxiety begins to fade. It will be hours before anyone visits the now boatless monastery – all day, if he’s lucky – so he has a good start. Unless of course the expert from the Vatican arrives today. If that happens, a boat will be made available and the inquisitors alerted.

The thought sparks fresh panic and he abandons plans to moor openly near the Palazzo Ducale. Instead, he heads west down the Canal Grande. Strong feelings of doubt surface as the Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute looms into view, but he rows on breathlessly. He pushes north until eventually he all but collapses at a small mooring on the south side of the Rialto Bridge and ties off the boat.

Tired and dehydrated, he moves swiftly from bridge to bridge and street to street until he finds what he’s looking for.

A sign hanging from the shop of an art and antiques dealer.

Gatusso’s.

He presses his soot-smeared face to the newly cleaned shop glass. Tanina, looking up from wrapping a small landscape oil, seems shocked at first, but quickly recovers. As soon as she finishes the sale, she walks outside under the pretext of politely seeing the customer off the premises.

Tommaso watches her walking towards him. She’s his only connection to the men who may have taken his mother’s gifts to him, the first link in a vague chain that he hopes will lead him to find the other tablets and the whereabouts of his sister.

Tanina shuts the door behind her. ‘Brother?’

Tommaso tries to calm his nerves. ‘My child, you are in terrible danger. The abbot knows of the theft carried out by your friends, and shortly, so too will the inquisitors.’

Tanina is confused. ‘Brother, I am sorry, but I don’t understand what you are saying.’

‘Your boyfriend and
that man Efran, they broke into the abbey and stole the artefact I discussed with you.’

‘Nonsense!’ protests Tanina. ‘Efran and Ermanno are not thieves! There is no reason for the Inquisition to be interested in us.’

Tommaso grabs her arm. ‘There is no time for lies or idiocy!’ He glances around. ‘Your friends broke into the abbot’s chamber last night and took the silver tablet that belongs to me.’

Tanina pulls free. ‘No! That’s not true.’

‘I’m afraid it is. I told the abbot the names of your boyfriend and his helper, but not you. If we leave now there is a chance you may all be saved.’

Tanina looks back through the shop window. Her absence has prompted Gatusso to come looking for her. She can see him milling around near the wrapping desk, peering out through the window. ‘Brother, I think you have made a terrible mistake. Last night Ermanno was with me.
All
night. And Efran is many things, but a thief isn’t one of them.’

Tommaso sees only truth in her eyes, yet still he is sceptical. ‘My child, it may be that you are correct – or you may be completely wrong. Either way, you must leave now.’

Tanina knows he’s right. The Inquisition’s dreaded tribunal wouldn’t hesitate in torturing them all, regardless of their innocence. ‘Wait a moment.’

She steps back into the shop. Lauro Gatusso’s face betrays his anxiety. ‘What is it, Tanina? What’s wrong?’

She grabs her cloak and struggles for an explanation. ‘A neighbour of mine is very ill. The good brother outside has been attending her and she has asked for me.’ She drapes the cloak around her shoulders. ‘I hope you don’t mind me going? I’ll be back as soon as possible.’

‘No, no. You go. We are not that busy.’ He glances at a pocket watch. ‘I have business at the bank in two hours. Please be back by then.’

She flashes him a smile and a moment later a bell over the door chimes as she rushes back into the street.

Gatusso’s known her since she was a child. She never could lie to him. Not then. Not now. He walks close to the window and watches her disappear with the agitated young monk. A brother from an island monastery would not be asked to the bedside of a mainland parishioner.

Gathering his coat, he flips the sign on the door to
Chiuso
.

Present Day

Hotel Rotoletti, Venice

Priests are a lot like cops.

They instinctively pick up on
things. Slight changes in anything. Hesitations in speech. Cagey ways of answering questions. Anything that helps them detect the truth.

Despite being thousands of miles away, Tom’s picked up on plenty – not least the fact that Lars Bale sounds entirely different than when they met a decade ago. His voice is tight. Guttural. As though some wild animal is pacing and growling in the pit of his gut.

But there’s something else. Something that’s dangerously out of place in a man about to die.

He sounds calm.

Tom backtracks over an earlier remark. ‘Lars, what did you mean, you’ve been wondering who God would send?’

Bale laughs – the sniggering kind, suited to a private joke. ‘You are chosen, Tom – just as I am. You phoned me because you know that everything is connected to me. Everything that
will
happen, will be as a result of me.’

Tom’s taken aback. The phraseology is so egotistically ambiguous it could be interpreted in several ways. ‘What do you mean? I still don’t understand.’

‘Oh, but I think you do. You’re in Venice, chasing ghosts. Ghosts in the lagoon, spectres in the sacristy.’ He breaks into a heartier chuckle.

Tom can’t work out how Bale knows where he is. Maybe the governor told him. Maybe the dialling code has shown up on some caller display. He wants to believe there’s a rational reason – anything except what appears obvious.

‘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 motherfuckers 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!’

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 Terà 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.’

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 teardrop.