“You could have lost everything.”
Massiter laughed. “But I did, in a way! Don’t you see? Oh, enough of this. I hate sounding maudlin. How are the builders doing? You look as if you got stuck in paint yourself.”
Emily crossed her arms over her paint-spattered overalls. “I think the place will look fine for tonight. But you should find yourself a good architect, Hugo. I’m not sure the structure here is as sound as you think. This is not a conventional building. There’s more wood than I expected. Some of the ironwork . . .”
Some of the ironwork was virtually rust. In most cities she doubted the palazzo would be approved for public use at all. But Massiter had sway with the authorities. Without it he wouldn’t have got as far as he had. He was a survivor, in spite of the odds.
“I can believe that,” he said, with a grimace. “Hang on: I thought I’d found myself an architect.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Emily . . .”
It was so sudden she couldn’t move on the narrow balcony high above the island’s cobblestones. Hugo was holding her forearms, his fingers lightly touching skin, warm, affectionate.
“Please don’t go,” he whispered. “I know I’m only an old fool but I’d rather you stayed around a little longer. Work here, as much as you like. None of that . . .”—he glanced at the storeroom door—“ . . . means anything. It’s history, and history really is bunk.”
“Perhaps you could find her. I could help. I have friends.”
“I’m sure you do,” he said, smiling. “But it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. I don’t want Laura found. Wherever she is . . . whatever’s happened, it’s water under the bridge. It’s time I started living my own life again.”
His head came forward. She flinched instinctively, wondering, all the same, what she would do if he attempted to kiss her.
Instead Hugo Massiter was reaching over her shoulder, peering down towards the lively grey water, past San Michele, on to the busy vaporetto stops at Fondamente Nuove, on Venice proper. A couple of racing skiffs were pulling across the lagoon, two lines of hooped backs in each straining for the lead. Approaching them were three large open boats making a steady progress towards the island, each carrying a cargo of figures clad in black and white.
“I see the musicians,” he said. “They’re early. Do you like music?”
“Some.”
“Good. You must never trust a person with no fondness for music, you know. It demonstrates a serious detachment from life. That young man of yours. Does he . . . ?”
In one brief instant, chastely, with the swift, easy grace of a relative, he brushed his lips against her cheek, was done, turning back to the apartment, beginning to whistle, something classical.
“Vivaldi,” she said.
He stopped, looked back at her, smiling, an expression of bliss.
“Perfect,” Hugo Massiter declared. “You are, I swear, perfect. Apart from that outfit.”
The overalls were a mess. She wondered when Nic would arrive with fresh clothes.
“Never mind,” the Englishman said. “I have an idea.”
THE BRACCIS LIVED IN A RED-BRICK TERRACED HOVEL just a couple of hundred metres from their shabby little factory. The sunless street stank of cats, stale rubbish and gas from the nearby workshops. There was a small, restless crowd outside when the three cops arrived. The two carpenters were among them, sinister smirks on their faces. The bad-tempered, on-the-edge mood of the mob reminded Costa of his early days in the force when luck would occasionally push him into the uniformed squad working Roma-Lazio matches.
“You going to arrest him?” someone yelled as Costa led the way towards the door.
Peroni stopped and gave them the look. It got quiet for a moment.
“Why would we want to do that?” the big cop demanded.
“For messing around with his sister,” the heckler replied. “And the rest.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peroni barked back at him. “Why don’t you all just go home and let us do our jobs?”
The older carpenter butted in. “If you’d been doing your jobs, none of this would’ve happened. We don’t like dirty bastards like Bracci around here. You take the sonofabitch away with you. Otherwise we deal with this ourselves.”
Falcone was on him in an instant. “If anyone so much as sets a foot inside this house, he will, I assure you, wake up in jail. Understand?”
“Call in uniform,” the inspector snarled at Costa. “I want a guard on this place, and anyone who so much as squeaks thrown in a cell for the night.”
Costa smiled at the carpenter, who was getting the full dressing-down treatment from Falcone, something no one in earshot was likely to forget. Then he walked away from the melee to get a little privacy. The duty man in Castello sounded sleepy, amazed by the request for assistance.
“You want what?” the bored voice on the other end of the phone line demanded.
“Uniform. All night if need be.”
“Would that be ten? Twenty? Any particular size or colour?”
“Just get some men here,” Costa retorted. “We don’t want a riot on our hands.”
“This is Venice, friend. We don’t have riots. What have you people been doing?”
Asking the right questions, Costa thought. Which was, perhaps, not a Venetian tradition.
“Three men minimum,” he snapped. “Now. If this goes wrong, it’s on your head.”
Then he walked to the door and kept his finger on the bell until a surly Enzo Bracci appeared, in jeans and a tight grubby tee-shirt. The young man was smoking a joint, eyes glazed, a familiar smell hanging round him. He looked ready for a fight.
“Get out of here,” Enzo muttered. “You’ve done enough already, haven’t you?”
Costa nodded back at the angry crowd. “You want us to leave you with this?”
Enzo spat on the ground, not far short of Costa’s feet, and glared at the approaching hulk of Gianni Peroni, followed by Falcone.
“Without you we wouldn’t have had this. Is that what cops are for these days? Spreading shit?”
“We didn’t mean for that to happen, Enzo,” Peroni said apologetically. “And I’d advise you to put that thing you’re smoking out of our sight too. Don’t tempt me. We have to talk. Inspector Falcone here says so and you wouldn’t want to go saying no to him, now, would you?”
He eyed Falcone up and down, flicked the smoke into the gutter with one bent finger, then opened the door mouthing a torrent of low curses.
ALDO BRACCI WAS in the tiny, airless front room, a dark place, illuminated by just a single lamp. He clutched a grappa bottle, swaying back and forth on a cheap wicker chair. Fredo was with him. The younger son’s eyes were full of anger and grief.
Falcone held out his hand. “My name’s Inspector Falcone. We need to talk.”
“Really,” Bracci mumbled, his voice thick and slurry.
Peroni pulled up three chairs. The cops sat down next to Bracci. Then Peroni gingerly removed the bottle from his hands.
“Not a good idea, Aldo. A man needs a clear head at times like these.”
“Jesus,” Enzo Bracci swore, shaking his head from side to side. “How could you do this to him?”
“We didn’t,” Costa said. “It happened. We’ve got some men coming to deal with those jerks outside.”
“I can deal with them!” Enzo yelled. “It’s why they’re here that pisses me off. We told you. Papa was with us all the time. We worked all through the night. You’ve got no right, no business, spreading all this crap around.”
“I can talk for myself,” Aldo muttered. “Don’t treat me like I’m a cripple.”
Falcone picked up the bottle and looked at it. “Cheap stuff,” he observed.