Lucifer's Shadow

60 Waiting for the call

Giulia Morelli slipped quietly into the post-concert reception which took place on the ground floor of the Londra Palace, next to where she had sat and listened to Daniel Forster at the press conference that morning. He was absent, as was Massiter. She spoke briefly to the girl violinist, who seemed distraught, overwhelmed by the event, perhaps. There was nothing of moment to discuss with her, even if some rational conversation had been possible over the glasses of Prosecco in which she seemed determined to drown. Amy Hartston had no idea where Daniel or Massiter had gone. The policewoman listened to Amy’s half-drunk ramblings about the perfidy of men and her hatred of music, and wondered if this was the same person who had astonished them all this night. Musicians were such a strange breed, she decided, unlike any she had ever met.

When the party began to bore her, the policewoman wandered outside to stand on the waterfront by the vaporetto stop. There she smoked a cigarette, happy, content with the evening. It was now eleven. The tourist crowds were beginning to leave the cafés in the square. The raucous noise of the bands, jazz and cheap classical, had now ended. The night began to overtake Venice, and within its folds lay success.

By a quarter to twelve she was growing restless. She pulled the mobile phone from her bag, thinking, for no reason at all, of Rizzo. Rizzo, who was so full of bluster and, in the end, so easy to scare. She was affronted by his death, which had occurred before his usefulness had ended.

She looked at the phone. It was possible Biagio was unable to call. In another city, in another kind of force, she would need none of these tricks. She could confide in her colleagues, put together a team that would do her bidding. But this was Venice, where the lines were always blurred. Until she had what she wanted, hard and fast in her hand, she dared not risk discovery.

Giulia Morelli tossed the cigarette into the shifting waters of the lagoon and listened to its brief dying hiss. Her inner voice began the mantra: Call me, Biagio. Call me.

After the campanile bell had tolled midnight, the phone rang. She snatched at the buttons, cursing her own impatience.

“Yes?”

“You wouldn’t believe it,” said Biagio’s distant, scratched voice. “He’s almost on our doorstep.”

“And Forster?”

“With him. They’re both inside now. It’s near San Niccolò Mendicoli. Just off the campo. I can wait for you outside. It’s deserted around here.”

She tried to picture the location in her head. She knew the church. It was small, medieval, by a narrow rio south of Piazzale Roma. She could take a water taxi and be there in ten minutes.

“What do you want me to do?” Biagio asked.

Such a dainty way of saying it, she thought. They both understood the real question. Two men, both of some repute, had entered a building in a deserted, remote part of the city. She could not think of calling for assistance. There was nothing to report. Or, worse, there was, and the wrong people would hear.

“Wait for me,” she ordered. “In fifteen minutes you call them, say there’s something suspicious and they should check. That should give us a little time before they come.”

“OK,” Biagio said uncertainly. He was out of uniform, calling in sick, taking a big risk. She had to protect him if the walls began to fall around their heads. She knew that.

“Biagio,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell them I ordered everything. OK?”

“You’re the boss,” he replied.

“Right. And you make that call, whether I’ve arrived or not. I won’t be long.”

“And then?”

She heard the hesitation in his distant voice.

“Then we open a couple of coffins,” she answered. “And see what flies out with the dust.”