Michael Morley - The Venice conspiracy

Antonio grins. 'It's tough work, but someone has to do it.'

Valentina delivers him a playful punch in the arm, but as they turn into the morgue the air goes cold and so does their mood.

Vito walks them towards an old man with a bald, white head that's wise enough to stay out of Venice's blistering sun. 'Officers, this is Professore Sylvio Montesano. Professore, these are lieutenants Valentina Morassi and Antonio Pavarotti, this is their first time in the mortuary.'

'Then I'm honoured, and very pleased to meet you both.' Montesano bows, wire bifocals sliding to the tip of his nose. 'Come with me to the Cooler.'

The fifteen-year-old victim is laid out on a steel gurney, her body bleached white by the overhead lighting, her wounds the colour of putrid veal. Antonio is unfazed but Valentina is already holding a perfumed handkerchief to her mouth.

'The body is actually in remarkably good condition,' says Montesano. 'Oddly enough, submersion in water slows decomposition. We got her in here very quickly, so decay isn't as advanced as it might have been.'

At a nod from Vito, the medical examiner launches into his report, pitching it so the two lieutenants can easily follow.

'After the corpse was recovered from the scene we had her CT-scanned in the hospital's radiological-imaging department. We made examinations every 0.5 millimetres, scouting for two- and three-dimensional reconstructions, so we have very precise data on all the wounds.' Montesano moves closer to the body. 'There are two startlingly unusual features to this case. The first is the fatal wound across the throat. Deep into the brachiocephalic artery – that's our largest artery.' He points to a spot on the right side of Monica's neck. 'It branches off into the carotid and subclavian arteries, pumping blood into this side of the upper chest, arm, neck and head.'

Antonio waves a hand over the mass of other wounds. 'So, all those other stabbings and injuries – there was no need for them?'

'In the sense of taking the girl's life? No need at all. The neck wound was sufficient to have killed her.' The ME is about to move on, but can't resist sharing some of his medical knowledge: 'This is a highly unusual injury. The brachiocephalic artery is a very difficult one to strike. Usually it's protected by the sternal bone and the clavicles. Generally, when someone's attacked with a knife to the throat, you expect to see a cut to the left or right common carotid artery.'

Vito is intrigued. 'But the result is still the same? The victim just bleeds to death?'

'No, probably not.' Montesano pushes his glasses back up his nose. 'Victims of such wounds generally die from air embolus.' He checks Valentina, anxious to educate rather than traumatise. 'If the victim's head and neck are above the level of the heart, then air is drawn into the body – into the veins, mind you, not the arteries. It goes into the right chambers of the heart and forms a frothy mass, stopping the heart from functioning.'

'But it's quick and merciful?' adds Vito, trying to mitigate the effects of this graphic detail on his young female lieutenant.

'Afraid not,' says Montesano flatly. 'It's far from instantaneous. It can take several minutes.'

Valentina is now sheet-white, but still she manages a question of her own. 'Did the killer do this with a normal knife?'

Montesano returns his fingers to the girl's throat. 'Depends what you mean by normal. The murder weapon had a strong, short blade like a carpet fitter's tool or artist's knife. The skin shows that the fatal incision ran from right to left in such a way that the attacker was stood in front and above the victim.'

Vito mimes the knife action above Monica's head. 'So, he probably had her restrained on the ground below him, and if the cut ran from the right side of her, we can safely presume the offender is left-handed?'

Montesano looks amused. 'Major, you are old enough to know that you shouldn't presume anything.'

'Okay, I stand corrected.' Vito smiles and turns to his lieutenants. 'Without presuming anything, let's proactively consider it and also keep in mind that 87 per cent of the population of the world is right-handed. Anyone left-handed comes on to our radar, we should give them a very close look.'

Montesano picks up the point: 'Please also remember that left-handedness is more common in males – particularly identical and fraternal twins – and in those with neurological disorders.'

'Like what?' asks Antonio.

'Epilepsy, Down's Syndrome, autism, mental retardation and even dyslexia.'

'Duly noted,' says Vito. 'Thank you.'

'You're most welcome.'

Keen to shift focus to an area he more readily understands, Vito asks, 'Professore, do you have anything that tells us where she was and when she died?'

'I do. The stomach contents show that her last meal was a seafood pizza, heavy on tomato paste and low on seafood. It will be a cheap tourist trattoria. I would say the meal was consumed about two hours before she died.'

'Check it.' Vito says to Valentina.

She raises an eyebrow. Her list of things to check will soon be longer than the Canal Grande.

Antonio cups his hand and whispers into her right ear, 'I can do it for you. I don't report until tomorrow lunchtime.' He glances towards the ME. 'Can you tell us the time of death?'

Montesano looks irritated. 'Young man, you've been watching too many movies and reading too many second-rate thrillers. Pathologists cannot discern a time of death by simply looking at a body like a gypsy looks at tea-leaves. In cases like this it is enormously difficult to establish time of death with accuracy.'

Vito saves Antonio further pain by turning again to Valentina. 'What time did that old fishmonger find her?'

'Somewhere around five-thirty a.m.'

'That's the base to start building your timeline back from, Antonio. Find the place where she ate the pizza, check the father's testimony again on when they split up, and you'll have pinpointed the window of death.' He looks to the Professore again. 'You said there were two startlingly unusual features about the case. What's the other?'

Montesano scratches an itch under his glasses. 'The girl's liver is missing.'

'What?'

The ME enunciates the words. 'Her – liver – is – missing.'

'You're sure?'

Montesano glares at him. 'Major, of course I am sure.' He couldn't look more offended. 'I know what a liver looks like, and I promise you, there is no mistake, it is missing. It has been cut from her body.'

Luna Hotel Baglioni, Venice Too much wine has left Tom dizzy and deliciously mellow. The tension from the last twelve hours is fading as quickly as any doubts he might have had about where he is now – lying on his back on a bed that's bigger, softer and more expensive than any he's ever known.

The air smells of flowers. Lilies in small vases either side of the king-size bed. There's the sound of running water in the background. Not a tap, not a bath, but a shower. It's full on, beating hard in a marble cubicle. When it stops, he sits up and sees Tina approaching in a white towelling robe that looks too big for her. She shakes her long blonde hair out of the scrunchie she'd bunched it in, and looks wonderful. Her eyes are filled with a gentleness that melts his inhibitions. 'Come on. Let's get you scrubbed up.' She pulls him by the hand and the room tilts as she leads him to the en-suite. The light is too bright. She deftly flicks a switch that kills the overheads and leaves them standing in a softer glow from candles near the sink. Tom starts to unbutton his shirt. She kisses his neck and moves his hands. Her fingertips trip down the fastenings and it falls from his shoulders. Her mouth finds his. He feels his belt being tugged open and his trousers slide down gym-hardened thighs. Her hands glide across the front of his legs and she can feel his muscles twitch and flex like snakes beneath silk. Tom's heart thumps hard, drumming his urgency into her body. Her thumbs latch on to the side of his shorts. His hands pull her robe apart. The smell, the warmth, the touch of her skin electrifies him. Tina pulls back and kisses him. Short, hard kisses that set his lips ablaze. Now she holds him off, so her nipples tantalisingly brush the mountains of his chest. Tom takes her breasts in his hands, cradles them like he's been given something sacred. He doesn't understand how he feels – doesn't want to. Even her skin confuses him – soft, yet firm. It's all a contradictory swirl. An unrehearsed dance.