David Hewson - The Lizard's Bite

He held it up in front of her. “You’re Laura Conti. I know why you’re here. I know why you’re hiding. Piero’s done a good job keeping you safe. The postcards. Putting you so close to him, so close to the city. It’s clever. He’s a smart man.”

“Piero?” she asked. “Where is he? What have you done with him?”

“I haven’t done anything with him. He’s not here. I thought perhaps you knew . . .”

“He’s the landlord. Nothing else. I don’t understand what you’re saying. It’s nonsense.”

“Laura . . .”

“Not that name!”

He took one step towards her. She shivered at his closeness.

“I need your help,” he said. “I need it desperately. And I can’t allow this to go on. It’s wrong. There’s a time to run away, and a time to face up to your past. This is that time. You and Daniel—”

“Daniel, Daniel, Daniel . . .” she whispered, holding her head in her hands. “What are you talking about? My name is Paola Soranzo. I live here with my husband, Carlo. We are simple farmers. Now leave us alone.”

Costa tossed the photo on the table. She didn’t even look at it. “I can’t do that,” he said. “Not for your sake. Not for mine. I have to . . .”

He was reaching into his jacket, looking for the badge, when the man crept up behind him, quiet as a church mouse, unseen until the moment the long, ugly double barrel of a shotgun emerged round Nic Costa’s right shoulder and angled up towards his face.

A hand came round the left side of his chest, found the gun in its holster, removed it, threw the weapon to the floor. Then he came slowly into view. Daniel Forster could pass easily as a Sant’ Erasmo farmer now. His hair was dyed almost black, long beneath a grubby beret. He wore a heavy moustache and stubble. And he had the farmer’s hunch too, the turned shoulders that came from working the fields. Costa was impressed. He raised his hands and kept them high all the same.

“Signor Forster . . .” he began to say.

“Shut up!” the man yelled, then cracked the side of Nic’s head painfully with the barrel of the shotgun.

The woman was screaming, in fright or anger. Costa didn’t know which. Then the hard wooden stock of the gun fell again, and he tumbled to the floor, not caring.

THE LAWYERS’ OFFICES WERE ON THE THIRD FLOOR OF a block on the Zattere waterfront in Dorsoduro, with a view out to Guidecca, the low residential island opposite. Emily Deacon forced her mind off the conversation briefly and stared at the Molino Stucky, the old mill almost opposite. This was, like the Isola degli Arcangeli, a piece of Venetian obsolescence seeking a purpose in a new, changing world. Unused for decades since the company behind the towering, red-brick factorylike structure collapsed, it had been through any number of redevelopment schemes trying to revive the place for industrial or manufacturing purposes. Now it was turning into a mix of hotels and apartments, a sign of the way Venice was headed. Massiter was right. There was only one form of commerce allowed in this city these days—the milking of ever-increasing numbers of visitors. Compared to the Molino Stucky, the Arcangeli’s island was paradise, a unique mix of extraordinary architecture and location, not some ungainly refurbished mill block perched at the end of an island few would ever wish to visit. She could appreciate why Massiter didn’t intend to be encumbered by the Arcangeli’s futile aspirations to continue their glassmaking trade. He’d seen the main chance and was now intent on seizing it.

She listened to the argument continuing to rattle from side to side, between Massiter’s two surly attorneys, one English, one Milanese, and the single local lawyer representing the Arcangeli, a man who was both out of his depth and, it seemed to her, a little afraid of the Englishman. Michele Arcangelo sat by the man’s side, intent on stiffening his resolve every time some new demand from Massiter fell on the table, his one good eye staring at the sheaves of papers and plans that marked, as he surely knew, the end of the Arcangeli’s tenure on their sad little island. His brother Gabriele remained mute on the other side, looking as if he wished he were anywhere else in the world. This was all, Emily decided, Michele’s game. He was driven by his ego, his desire to be seen as an equal with his father. Massiter’s solution left him with nothing but money. Plenty of money. Several million euros to spare, even after the family’s debts were cleared. All the same, it was apparent to her this was meaningless. Without some stake in the island’s future, Michele Arcangelo would deem this deal worthless. Unless the alternative was even more difficult to swallow.

The Arcangeli had conceded every point but one. That last concerned the fornace . Michele was insistent that Massiter hold to his original offer, allowing them to work the place unhindered and set up a small shop to market their goods. It was a final sticking point, one Massiter was reluctant to let pass. On the yacht, Emily had seen enough of the plans for the scheme to understand what the Englishman wanted for the building. It would be a restaurant and conference facility, sitting alongside the gallery of the palazzo, the premium hotel rooms of the mansion, and in front of a new hotel facility of cheaper rooms intended to be squeezed in at the rear of the property. The idea that he’d allow a working furnace, with its gas and smoke and industrial stink, to live alongside the rest of the island was unthinkable. Tourists demanded perfection, solitude, a promise of escape. Not the Arcangeli clan’s hot, noisy nights of glassmaking on their doorstep. This doubtless explained why Massiter had concealed from the Arcangeli from the beginning his greater plan for the island, allowing them to believe his interest was merely personal, focused on the establishment of the exhibition facility.

There was a reason for Emily’s presence in the room. She wanted to keep Hugo Massiter’s trust, as much as possible, until it no longer mattered. Trust and usefulness were indivisible to him. So she looked at her watch and, quite deliberately, interrupted Michele in full flow as he embarked upon a bitter tirade about the major changes being introduced into the contract at such a late stage.

“We’ve two hours to conclude this, gentlemen,” she said. “Is it really worth pursuing these points? Or should we just call it a day? Everyone from the mayor down is scheduled to see you people sign on the dotted line at six. If that’s going to be cancelled, let’s do it now.”

Michele’s glassy eye glinted at her. “The mistress speaks,” he snarled. “Is this one more insult you hurl at me, Massiter? If so—”

“I’m his architect,” she interrupted. “I’m here to try to ensure that, whatever contract Signor Massiter signs, it makes some kind of economic sense. He’s too shrewd a man to wind up in the financial mess you did. I intend to keep it that way.”

The man’s wrinkled hands stabbed at the papers on the table. “So you knew ? All along? That this was what was on his mind?”

Massiter was watching her, smiling. Impressed, she judged.

“Many people work on contracts of this scale,” she replied. She felt emboldened by her position, able to play this charade. “None of this is one person’s work alone. I apologise to both of you if this sounds rude, Signor Arcangelo. But an enterprise which is to survive must be based upon sound financial planning. Not daydreams.”

“Like ours?” Michele roared.

“Like yours,” she rejoined calmly.