Emily Deacon ran one slim index finger down the front of his jacket. “You’re the man in the uniform. You tell me.”
Costa glanced at the photo machine by the platform, took a deep breath, wondering if anyone would notice, then led her inside and pulled the curtain. The booth was tiny and smelled of cigarette smoke. Emily’s eyes glittered at him in the faint light.
“Such discretion,” she whispered, clutching him. “I think this calls for evidence.”
Her coins fell into the slot as he wrapped his arms around her slim, soft body. The flashes started firing the instant they kissed.
“Nic!”
The bursts of bright light stopped. Costa found his breath again. He wondered what was wrong. Emily looked flushed, embarrassed.
“What is it?” he asked, half wondering if there weren’t some way he could bunk off duty for the day.
“Company,” she murmured, and flashed a glance at the curtains.
Leo Falcone stood there, holding the grimy fabric open. A half-sardonic smile ran across the inspector’s thin-lipped mouth, denoting some amusement that had never been there in the man a couple of years ago, when he’d been just another hard-bitten boss in Rome.
“I was under the impression you were in Verona,” Costa said hastily, remembering to add, “Sir.”
“I was under the impression you were out looking for criminals,” Falcone replied, not unpleasantly.
Costa stepped outside the booth. Peroni was there, Teresa by his side, a look of suspicious bewilderment on his face. Commissario Randazzo stood by the platform, rocking back and forth on his shiny shoes, looking every inch the businessman in a smart grey suit. Next to him was a curious-looking individual in his fifties. He was of medium build, quite fit and strong, and had an aristocratic northern face, clean-shaven, with cheeks that were red, from sunburn or bad habits. Handsome once, Costa decided, but in that forced, artificial way that movie stars possessed, the kind of beauty that looked better from a distance. The man wore bright blue slacks and a perfectly pressed white shirt with a bright red scarf at the neck. He was balding, and trying to slow things by brushing the remaining wisps of fine, fair hair across his tanned scalp. A foreigner, Costa thought immediately. English perhaps. With money and a story behind him.
“Is there something wrong?” Costa asked, to no one in particular.
It was Randazzo who answered, and Costa found himself unable to shake the impression that the commissario was, somehow, measuring each word to make sure the individual next to him approved.
“Not at all,” Randazzo said, in the dry, dour tone of voice that belonged to a certain type of Venetian. “You’ve been chosen. All three of you. Congratulations.”
“For what?” Peroni demanded.
“A very important task,” the stranger interjected, in good Italian though with an obvious English accent. “I think,” he added, turning to Randazzo, “the uniforms . . .”
He stabbed a long index finger at the two men in blue. “Best they go, Gianfranco.”
Randazzo nodded obediently.
Nic Costa turned to Emily. She was slipping the photos from the machine into her bag, discreetly, as if they were somehow objects of shame.
“My name is Hugo Massiter,” the Englishman declared, and extended a long, pale hand to each of them in turn, pausing to imbue his smile with a little extra warmth when he took Emily’s outstretched fingers. “Let me offer you a ride.”
IT WAS MORE THAN A BOAT. IT WAS A FLOATING LIMOUSINE. The deck was polished walnut, gleaming under the sun, with a helmsman in a white uniform at the open wheel. The five of them sat in the covered cabin behind, on plush antique brown leather seats, Randazzo and Massiter on one side, both smoking. The three Romans opposite remained silent, each of them, Costa thought, more than a touch apprehensive, and in Peroni’s case downright furious.
“I’m sorry if we interrupted something,” Massiter said as the vessel eased out from the waterfront, out towards the dockyards and Murano. It had taken just over fifteen minutes to get from the station to the jetty close to the Giardini vaporetto stop. From there Costa and Peroni had led the two women to the police apartments, in a narrow street of cottages hung with washing and painted in bright, peeling shades of blue and ochre. There’d been scant time to change and explain to them the household arrangements. Randazzo was outside, glancing constantly at his watch, waiting to hurry back to the waterfront.
“We have two weeks’ leave booked,” Peroni grumbled. “Signed for. On the line. As of tonight.”
“You’re still on duty now, aren’t you?” Randazzo snapped back.
Costa reflected on the fact that he’d heard the commissario utter more words that morning than at any time in the past nine months. Nothing the stiff, sour-faced man had said so far, though, explained why Falcone had been recalled from Verona, and why they’d been dragged from normal street duties and pulled out of uniform, all for the apparent benefit of this odd foreigner, who was now staring at Randazzo with a look that spoke of disapproval and a kind of ownership.
“That’s no way to talk if we’re to get these chaps on our side,” Massiter complained to the commissario. “Look. I’m sorry about this. If there were an alternative, we’d be taking it. Also, I owe you all something by way of compensation. It’s best we get to know one another a little. Tomorrow night. There’s a reception at what I trust will one day be my gallery. Meet and greet. Keep some potential backers sweet. You get the idea. The place is still undergoing restoration, but in Venice what isn’t? You will come, I hope, all three of you. With your dates.”
Peroni and Falcone looked at each other, said nothing, then looked at Costa. He sighed. He got the message.
“I’ve seats for La Fenice,” he replied. “But thanks anyway.”
Massiter’s eyebrows rose. “You have the tickets with you?”
Costa pulled the envelope from La Fenice out of his jacket pocket. They were the most expensive tickets he’d ever bought.
“Hmmm.” Massiter frowned at the pair of biglietti, topped by the house’s phoenix crest. “I can’t say I know that part of the house. But I suspect you’d need binoculars. That is if there isn’t a pillar in the way. I’ve a company box. One of the best there is. Eight people. Bring along some friends. Any time you like.”
Peroni coughed hard into his fist and gave Costa a terrified glance.
“Just let me know the dates.”
“I’m not sure . . .” Costa objected.
“This week’s sold out entirely, you know,” Massiter continued, scarcely listening. “I’ve a contact who can get you twice what you paid for these. Here . . .”
He reached into the pocket of his slacks, took out a fold of money set inside a silver clip, withdrew a couple of two-hundred-euro notes, reached over and let them fall in Costa’s lap, then took the tickets for himself.
“I don’t mind running the risk. If they fetch more, I’ll pass it on.”
Costa said nothing, waiting for one of the two men next to him to intervene.
“Good,” Massiter went on. “Tomorrow it is. Seven p.m. Nothing fancy. Just some decent food and drink. A little music. It’ll be pleasant to have some real human beings there instead of the usual hangers-on. And—”
Leo Falcone leaned forward and stared into Massiter’s face. The Englishman looked affronted. He wasn’t accustomed to being interrupted.
“Why are we here?” Falcone demanded. “Why are we in some fancy private boat, going God knows where? And who the hell are you anyway?”
Randazzo glowered at the three men opposite him. “Falcone . . .” the commissario warned. “You’re not in Rome now. I want some respect here.”