Alex Connor - Isle of the Dead

Automatically reaching into his pocket, Nino reminded himself that he no longer smoked. This time Nino Bergstrom wasn’t dealing with ego, but grief. He wasn’t having to be charming, but sympathetic. There was no director to mollify, no location to secure. It was all different. He was different.

Crossing a humped bridge, Nino dipped his head under an arch, then moved into a narrow alleyway, checking the address he had been given – 176, Via Mazzerotti, a house tucked between two others, its door knocker in the shape of a Medusa’s head. Beside the knocker were several pieces of faded paper, with names on them, the third being Morgan, Tom and Seraphina.

Pushing the buzzer, Nino waited, hearing footsteps approaching, a voice coming over the intercom.

‘Who’s there?’

‘Nino Bergstrom.’

‘Oh, yes …’ the man said, opening the door and letting Nino enter.

The hall was vaulted, several suitcases piled on top of one another, a florid opera poster hanging over an ornate iron table. Without a word, Tom Morgan beckoned Nino to follow him into the main room. Low chamber music was playing, a photograph of Seraphina stood on the mantelpiece, and an orchid lay dying on a paint-cracked windowsill. Then, as the rain began outside, Tom flicked on some lamps.

‘Seraphina’s parents asked me to talk to you,’ he said easily enough, although he was jumpy and Nino could just catch a faint scent of marijuana in the room. Fair-haired, over six feet in height, Tom Morgan was dressed in jeans and an open-necked shirt. But his feet were bare – surprising on a cold afternoon.

‘So, what d’you want to know?’

‘I’m so sorry about your wife—’

‘ Sorry ,’ Tom repeated, as though the word was an insult, ‘sorry … yeah, I’m sorry too. I saw her, you see, in the morgue. The Venetians aren’t very good with death. Apparently I wasn’t supposed to see her body, but there was a mix-up …’ He rubbed his eyes as though he could erase the memory. ‘She was … Christ, it was terrible. She was everything to me. And then the fucking police asked me all those questions, making me feel like a suspect.’ He turned to Nino, suddenly angry. ‘Who are you really?’

‘I’m asking questions about Seraphina’s death.’

‘And her parents hired you?’

‘No.’

‘So who did?’ Tom countered, walking over to a cabinet and taking out a joint. He lit it and inhaled, smoke juddering from his lips, his manner veering between confusion and hostility.

‘I’m working for an old friend of Seraphina’s.’

‘Who?’

‘Gaspare Reni.’

‘Never heard of him,’ Tom replied, sitting down and flinging one arm along the back of the sofa. ‘I know all Seraphina’s friends, and I’ve never heard of him.’

‘Gaspare’s an art dealer. I met Seraphina through him. He knew her parents well,’ Nino replied. ‘Seraphina knew him when she was a girl, although he wasn’t a close friend—’

‘So why’s he so interested in her death?’ Tom put his head on one side. ‘If my wife only knew this dealer when she was younger, why does her death matter so much to him?’

The hostility caught Nino off guard. ‘Gaspare took Seraphina’s death hard. He sent me over here to find out if there’s anything which might lead us to her killer.’

Without being invited, Nino sat down. The action surprised Tom Morgan as he inhaled again on the joint, his narrow fingers shaking. Was it guilt? Nino wondered. Was he involved in his wife’s death? Or just jumpy after seeing her body? Looking away, Tom closed his eyes, and Nino took the chance to study his surroundings. Although it wasn’t situated in the most expensive area of the city, the apartment was sumptuous, well furnished with antiques and the ubiquitous modern additions of TV and computer.

Obviously Tom Morgan was successful.

‘What do you do for a living?’

‘Interior designer.’

‘But Seraphina was a scientist?’

‘Yeah,’ Tom replied, ‘scientists can marry artists.’

‘So you think of yourself as an artist?’

‘What the fuck!’ Tom snapped, putting down his joint and leaning towards Nino. ‘Look, I’m only talking to you because Seraphina’s parents asked me to. It’s a favour to them. But I don’t have to answer your questions – the police have asked me plenty already.’

There was a sullen pause, Tom leaning back in the sofa and crossing his legs. His expression was unreadable. At times belligerent, at times emotional – it was, Nino thought, like trying to talk to a firework.

‘Did you know Seraphina?’

‘Yes,’ Nino replied. ‘I only met her once, but I liked her.’

‘Where did you meet her?’

‘In London.’

‘And this Gaspare Reni, is he based in London?’

‘Yes.’

Recrossing his legs, Tom blinked several times, then inhaled deeply. ‘Seraphina was visiting London on a short trip. She’d been there before with her parents and with me. She wanted to see the sights.’

‘On her own?’

Again, the tilt of the head. ‘Well, go on, ask.’

‘Ask what?’

‘What you’ve been trying to fucking ask ever since you came in. Were we happy? Was our marriage a good one? Did I have girlfriends? Did Seraphina have a lover?’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘Have I missed anything out? That’s the usual list, isn’t it? The police have already gone over it with me a number of times.’

‘I’m not your enemy,’ Nino said quietly. ‘I’m only trying to find out what happened.’

‘Seraphina was killed, that’s what happened.’

‘All right,’ Nino said, his tone hardening, ‘I’ll be blunt. Did you have a good marriage?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you have other women?’

‘No.’

‘Did Seraphina have another man?’

He smiled oddly, shrugging his shoulders. ‘No.’

‘Were you happy?’

Without answering, Tom stood up and moved over to his dead wife’s photograph. Picking it up, he traced her face with the tip of his forefinger, pressing it firmly into the glass as if he wanted to break through to the image beneath.

‘We met, fell in love, and got married. My company sent me here to work, and Seraphina was thrilled. After all, it was her birthplace; she loved Venice, knew so much about it.’ He put the picture down and pushed his hands deep into his pockets. ‘For the first six months it was heaven – I couldn’t believe I could be so happy. My first marriage was shit—’

‘You were married before?’

‘Yeah, and before you ask, my ex-wife isn’t dead. She went off with someone else.’ His tone was abrasive. ‘Then, when Seraphina and I moved here, things got even better.’

‘So you didn’t always live in this apartment?’

‘No, she didn’t like the one we first lived in, so we moved. Anything to make the little woman happy, hey?’ He walked over to Nino. ‘Are you married?’

‘No.’

‘I wondered, what with you being prematurely grey and all.’ He smiled at his own joke, turning to look out of the window. ‘Why was Seraphina visiting this Gaspare Reni?’

Lying wasn’t difficult. ‘She was just looking up an old friend.’

‘She didn’t tell me about it. Seraphina told me about everything else she did in London, but she didn’t mention you or Gaspare Reni. So maybe,’ he said, his tone challenging, ‘I should be suspicious of you . Maybe I should be asking you questions. Like why was she visiting Gaspare Reni?’

‘Just a social visit.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘No.’

‘So my wife visited a man she hadn’t seen for years, just to say hello?’

‘That’s right.’

Pausing, Tom Morgan stared down at his bare feet. With his left foot he traced out the pattern in the carpet, his hands still in his pockets. Silent, Nino watched him. Did he know about the painting? Despite Gaspare’s warning, had Seraphina told her husband about it? And had he told someone else? He was an interior designer – a Titian portrait would have fascinated him. And it would have been very profitable if he’d been able to sell it. Perhaps Tom Morgan had been angry, wanting his wife to get the painting off Gaspare Reni so he could sell it on to one of his wealthy customers. Perhaps they had fallen out over it. Fought over it.