Michael Morley - The Venice conspiracy

Carvalho is watching every gesture, every crease on his face, every movement of his lips. 'Why didn't you tell us straight away that you were a priest? That you left the Church such a short time ago?'

Tom shifts in his seat. 'Why should I? What difference does it make to you whether I used to be a priest or a rocket scientist?'

Carvalho drums his fingers. 'It probably doesn't make any difference. But a priest who left after the experience you went through – well, maybe that's something worth us talking about, right?'

'I didn't think it was worth mentioning. Not then – and not now.'

Carvalho tries coming at him from another angle. 'When I became a policeman I stopped believing in coincidences. Phrases like, "I just happened to be there when I came across this body," stopped ringing true. And I have real trouble believing that you left two corpses behind in LA, flew all this way and just happened to be on hand to find another one here in Venice. Do you see what I mean?'

Tom smiles. 'I do. I absolutely do see what you mean. But, at the risk of annoying you, I did just happen to be there. Ask the old man, he was the one who found the young girl – Monica.'

'He found her,' interjects Valentina. 'But maybe you put her there. Killers like to be around for the find.'

Tom shakes his head. 'You don't believe that. Not for a minute. I know you've got to do your job and go through all this. But you don't really believe that.'

'Okay, let's talk about belief for a moment.' The major leans forward and rests on his arms. 'What kind of man do you believe could have killed a young woman like that?'

'A very disturbed one,' says Tom. 'He was either mentally ill – or worse. Perhaps overcome or possessed by the powers of evil.'

'The powers of evil?' says Carvalho mockingly.

Something in the major's tone gets to Tom. 'I've seen a lot of murdered people. Probably more than you'll ever see. I've heard the confessions of many serial killers, child abusers and rapists. And I tell you, you're dealing with the devil's work. It was his hand that guided that blade, as surely as if he'd stood there in all his cloven-hoofed glory and killed her himself.'

Tom looks across the table and sees their scepticism deepen. 'Okay, the bit about cloven hooves is probably over the top. But the rest of it I mean. I really mean.'

It's early afternoon when they finally let Tom go. By now, he's way beyond hungry and thinks he'll fall over if he doesn't get something quick.

Venice is very different to eating cheap at his church vestry in LA and he's discovering his lunchtime allocation of fifteen euros won't buy much. The search is on for cheap pizza and, by the looks of it, he won't get it at the Grand Canal restaurant on Calle Vallaresso.

He stands on its elegant terrace by the waterside, watching waiters glide between tables in an exquisite culinary ballet. A menu behind glass makes his mouth water. If he had the money he'd start with salmon and swordfish tartare with lemon and basil. Maybe a glass of a local Barolo with a main course of rack of lamb and fresh garden vegetables.

'Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt ate here.' A woman's voice. One he recognises.

He turns to see Tina, the travel writer he'd met in Florin's. 'It's famous for its seafood,' she adds as she lifts a pair of fashionably oversized shades. 'And its prices.' Her blue eyes twinkle.

'You're right there.' Tom taps the menu glass. 'I can just afford the coffee.'

'You haven't eaten yet?'

'No. Not since last night. Can you recommend somewhere that suits a more modest – actually, a much more modest budget?'

She takes a long look at him, then smiles. 'I tell you what – let's get a table here. You buy the coffee – you said you could stretch to that – and I'll buy lunch.'

Tom is horrified. 'I can't let you do that-'

But Tina already has the eye of a waltzing waiter and doesn't feel like taking no for an answer. 'Lei ha una tavola per due, per favore?'

A white-jacketed ballet star in his late fifties grins at her. 'Si, signorina, certo.'

Tom feels embarrassed as he follows them to a table in the far corner. Even before the seat's been pulled out for him and the starched white napkin laid on his lap, he can tell that the view is magnificent and the meal is certain to be memorable. 'This is enormously generous of you. Really, I'm horribly ashamed. If I'd known how expensive Venice is, I probably wouldn't have come.'

'That really would have been shameful.' She studies his face and sees he's tense and awkward. 'Listen, I was going to eat here anyway. Every travel writer is compelled to eat somewhere cheap and somewhere as ridiculously expensive as the Grand Canal, so I'm simply putting you down as research.'

'"Research"? I don't think I've ever been called that before.'

His charm earns him a long sparkle of her flawless teeth. 'In return, you have to tell me your story. Who you are, why you're here, what you like and don't like about Venice – that's the kind of stuff I have to find out when I research fellow travellers.'

'Okay,' says Tom, 'you have a deal.' The waiter appears juggling two menus, a wine list, olives and a silver basket of bread. 'But,' adds Tom, 'it won't be the kind of story you're going to want to write.'

A blue-and-white police boat speeds Vito and Valentina to the mortuary at the Ospedale San Lazzaro. The sun is baking hot and the canal smells of burned cabbage. Behind them, a white wake froths on chocolate-brown water as twin outboards growl down the canals. It reminds Valentina of the iced cappuccino she promised herself an hour ago.

They disembark at the city hospital, alongside a fleet of water ambulances knocking gently against ancient wooden posts. Paramedics in sunglasses sit on stone steps near the quay, Day-glo orange uniforms rolled down to their waists, smoking and chatting lazily. The calm before the storm.

'Hey!' The shout comes from Valentina's cousin, Antonio Pavarotti, arriving on foot from the opposite direction. 'Wait!'

He's breathless as he catches up. Only after they've slipped into the shady labyrinth of the Ospedale does he find his normal voice. 'The divers have found nothing. Short of dredging the canal, there's no more we can do.'

'Nothing?' queries Vito, who has spent much of his career lecturing officers on the subject 'there is no such thing as nothing – if there ever was nothing, then it really would mean something'.

Antonio – who's heard the lecture several times – corrects himself: 'Only a pair of fake Gucci shades, probably from one of the stalls near the Rialto, a sodden mound of litter dropped by damned tourists, and a broken Swatch watch that looks like it belonged to a child.'

Vito shakes his head. The boy will never learn. 'They're all something, not nothing. Check them. Show them to the market traders, jewellers, see if we strike lucky.'

The major leads them towards the block at the back of the hospital marked Anatomia Patalogica, Laboratorio Alalisi, Mortuarie. 'Forensics get anything?'

'There are paint marks against the wall where Monica was tied. They look new. Could be from the craft that he carried her on. They're black, though, the colour of every damned gondola in Venice.'

'Samples already gone to the labs?'

'Of course.'

'Well done, Antonio. We'll be sorry to lose you. When do you start your new job?'

'Tomorrow, Major.' He looks worried for a second. 'Do you wish me to ask the unit commander to find someone else?'

Touched by his loyalty, Vito says, 'No, no. I know how much you enjoy undercover. We'll cope without you, won't we, Valentina?'

She smiles. 'Somehow. I don't know how, but we'll struggle through.'

'They're posting you out to that hippy commune, aren't they?' asks Carvalho rhetorically. 'Months of sex. Drugs. Rock'n'roll and a mad millionaire who thinks he's creating a revolution.'