Quick on the Draw Read online

  I sat on the miniature balcony attached to my room, just wide enough for a folding chair and a tiny round table. Bells were ringing at intervals, each peal sending flocks of birds high into the air as though flung by giant catapults. The sky was golden. I felt too restless, too full of good food and wine to go to bed just yet. Downstairs, the woman on duty at the desk watched with disapproval as I approached the front doors.

  ‘It’s late,’ she said. ‘And with all the tourists in the city, there are many pickpockets around. And other criminals.’

  ‘Thank you for the warning,’ I said. ‘I shan’t be out for long. Just going to take a little walk.’

  She produced one of those don’t-blame-me shrugs and thrust out her lower lip.

  Outside, it was a little cooler. From different streets, I heard shouts and laughter. The canals, clogged with gondolas and waterbuses, were as busy as Regent Street at midday. Mind you, it had been pretty much the same in Canaletto’s day, judging by his paintings. I was looking for Mr Bald Man with his glinting earring. Venice is pretty compact: the chances were high that I’d catch sight of him. One of these days. Except I didn’t have that many days. I hung about in the area but there was no sign of him. Despite the late hour, the streets were still crammed with tourists having a good time. It must be a little disconcerting for the residents, despite the revenue they brought in, to have their city taken over every year, especially with the tourist season getting longer and longer. Oxford is much the same. And Canterbury.

  It was as I was heading towards my hotel that I finally saw him. Naturally he was on the other side of a canal so narrow that he would have seen me if I hadn’t ducked into a doorway. Peeking out, I saw that he had crossed the bridge and was now walking back towards me. When he had passed my hiding place and sundry others had inserted themselves between him and me, I popped out like a maggot from an apple, mingled a bit with them and followed him. Was I on the trail at last?

  Baldy turned round corners, walked down little alleys and crossed another couple of bridges. He ducked through a sotoportego into a narrow street, turned into an even narrower one. Finally he stopped. He fiddled in a pocket, looking up and down the confined space of the street, and inserted a key. I walked on past him. I appeared to be part of a group who were talking animatedly, while I nodded and smiled as though taking part in the conversation. At the same time, I clocked the number painted in a black-rimmed white oval above the red door of the building he was standing in front of. 192. Great! Could I possibly have tracked down the place where Sandro was being kept? I’d have to confirm it in some way, or else eliminate it from my enquiries.

  I mooched slowly back the way I’d come. I turned and waved at the backs of the group with whom I’d pretended to be walking. I glanced very obviously at my watch. A woman with a purpose. A woman on her way to meet her lover. A woman taking time to stand at the edge of the canal and look down to where lights from the houses on either side were reflected in the murky water. The house with the red door showed a light high up in a small window. A window which I noticed had bars on it. Plants drooped from an altano. An empty birdcage hung from a hook attached to a beam. Otherwise, there were no signs of life. I was reluctant to move from my observation point but figured I had no choice. There was no café or restaurant here in this cramped calle where I could wait without arousing suspicion. And then the light at the top of the house snapped off. I figured that, as far as action went, that was it for the day.

  Having reluctantly walked back to my hotel and plodded up the stairs to my room, I sat out again on the tiny balcone and pondered. Should I tell Cesare about this development? If my earlier misgivings turned out to be true, and this was the place where Sandro was being held, I might be endangering his life. On the other hand, it could be that I’d been keeping tabs on a perfectly innocent Venetian citizen who happened to have lost the hair battle and liked a spot of gold around the earlobes. Or possibly the Marchese already knew all about the place. Perhaps Dominic, Sandro’s father, was the best person to discuss it with. But suppose he told Cesare …

  If only, I thought crossly, Sam Willoughby hadn’t buggered off to New Zealand and, instead of hanging out with blonde girls in Akubras, was around to advise me what to do.

  I wondered if the police had nailed anyone for Katy Pasqualin’s death by drowning yet. It was far too late to call anyone in England, but I would telephone Fliss Fairlight first thing in the morning.

  ‘Nothing definite yet,’ said Fliss the next day. ‘They’re pursuing several lines of enquiry, Joy tells me.’

  ‘Like they always do,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed. Lots of lines to pursue, if truth be told. She seems to have been quite a gal. And somewhat different from what you’d expect. They’re uncovering quite a lot of unsavoury information, which doesn’t exactly go with the standard English rose image she projected.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Drugs, for a start. Sugar daddies, if you can believe it.’

  ‘Daddies? You’re kidding! How many?’

  ‘At least three, so far. All very well-heeled. All desperately denying any connection with her. It’s a variation on crowd-funding! The girl gets given all sorts of expensive gifts, including cash, in return for looking good on his arm and yielding up her tender young body when required to do so.’

  My mind shifted inevitably to the woman I’d seen shopping in Rialto. A born mistress. And here was another. ‘Think one of them might be responsible?’

  ‘Perfectly possible. Or else paid someone to do the dirty deed, which is much more likely. The investigating team hopes to know more when they’ve had a chance to investigate further.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ I said. ‘Was she trying to blackmail one of them, I wonder?’

  ‘Officers at the Met are wondering too.’

  ‘What about the boyfriend?’

  ‘He’s not around. Gone to the States on business. Or so I understand.’

  I couldn’t think of much more to say. ‘I did tell you that in my opinion she was dead scared of something or someone, didn’t I?’

  ‘It’s been duly noted.’

  ‘Get back to me if there’s any further news.’

  ‘Will do. When are you back from Italy?’

  ‘It slightly depends.’ I wasn’t going to go into detail right at that moment. ‘Probably in three or four days.’

  ‘We’ll talk.’

  Katy had indeed been dead scared. Scared enough to cry even at a party. But of whom? Someone who had been present that evening? I tried to recall who had been there who might be termed a sugar daddy. There were the husbands of the ultra-chic women with lacquered hair. There was also the Marchese, Cesare. I ruled out Dominic Grainger, knowing that it was highly likely Sandro would invite his own parents to the gathering. Katy was surely smart enough to make an excuse not to attend if they had.

  I spent a sleepless night, worrying about what course of action to take. In the end, I’d come to the conclusion that I had two options. Either I did nothing, or I stormed the citadel on my own, did a bit of role-playing, see if I could come up with any details at all that might decide whether Sandro was or ever had been held hostage in the house with the red door.

  I’d drunk a contemplative coffee, paid my bill and was preparing to leave when I saw a tall man emerge from a restaurant-bar on the opposite side of the canal and start strolling along the riva. A tall, bald man. With a gold ring in one ear. And seen in daylight, somewhere in his middle thirties, if not younger. He was carrying a plastic bag which even from across the water I could see held a stick of bread, some pastries, some tomatoes, a slab of asiago cheese, some salami and a litre bottle of water. Supplies for a prisoner? It certainly didn’t look like dinner for a person able to get out and about. I more or less ran – as best I could for the crowds – to the nearest bridge, which unfortunately was in the opposite direction to the one he was going. As for keeping him in sight, it was pretty hopeless. By the time I got across, he’d vanished. Darn, dar
n, darn!

  I scouted about as unobtrusively as I could, stopping to admire doorways and window-boxes, to lift my camera in a pretence at taking photos. Just in case anyone was keeping an eye on me. But no bald men appeared. The one I was after had to be somewhere in the vicinity, but it was anyone’s guess as to where. If he were indeed one of the abductors spotted by Signora Moretti, at least I now felt a little more certain that Sandro hadn’t been shipped off to distant parts but was being kept somewhere fairly close at hand. Or was I assuming too much? Baldy could simply be going about his perfectly innocent business, bringing in some supplies for his wife and family, the earring one of those midlife crisis acquisitions since in Venice the bright red sports car wasn’t an option. How many men just like him were in the city at the moment? Which raised the question again of whether Sandro’s abductors were from Venice in the first place.

  If I hung about here, on the off-chance of seeing the tall guy again, it would be hard, if not impossible, to maintain a low profile. Trouble was, some of the backwater little canals were often deserted, even in the tourist season. I would stick out like a severed finger in a rice pudding if I hung around too long, or even showed up too often. But if the guy had materialized once and then disappeared in this area, he was likely to do so again. It occurred to me that I might have to extend my stay … which would be OK since Cesare would cover my costs, I knew. And I could get more research done for future articles. Pity I couldn’t paint or draw. What could otherwise have been more natural than to set up easel and artist’s gear, in order to produce a charming portrait of this picturesque corner of La Serenissima?

  I was very glad that I had opted not to take up Uncle Cesare’s offer of accommodation. Perhaps I would be forced to resort to my secret weapon and contact Renzo Vitali. I hoped not. Though if I thought about it, Renzo would provide excellent cover, and I was quite certain that I had more than enough strength of will – and of purpose – to resist any overtures he might make along the lines of me coming to stay at his place. And I had to admit that I would dearly love to see the stanza segreta he had mentioned at my brother’s dinner party. A room of glass sounded spectacular. Especially a hidden one.

  Back in my hotel room, I wrote him an email, saying I was now in Venice for a few days and would love to meet up for lunch or something. Before sending it, I deleted ‘or something’. Didn’t want to give the guy any ideas.

  Then I went out again, to stroll along the streets, cross the little bridges, drop into churches from which music was issuing. Monteverdi. Mozart. Vivaldi. It was all captivating: the combination of baroque music, stunning architecture, birdsong and flower baskets, houses of old rose, faded red, yellow ochre and pinky orange, the soft movement of water against stone. Above all, the light. A green glimmer in the shadows, a bolder brightness over sunlit canals. And at night, as the soft dusk fell, it would become a glittering radiance of gold and coral and fuchsia flushed with mauve as the sun went down behind the buildings.

  I had three more interviews to conduct the next day. Two that afternoon and one the following morning. And a kidnapped boy to find. I’d thought long and hard about the circumstances of his abduction – assuming Signora Moretti’s information was accurate – and concluded that it seemed very unlikely the items stolen from Cesare’s appartamento were not somehow involved. Would I be sabotaging Sandro’s relationship with his uncle if I asked about them when I phoned him tonight? Given the situation, I thought not.

  When I next opened my email, a response had already arrived back from Renzo, commanding me to meet him the following day, suggesting that we have lunch at a restaurant which I knew to be one of the finest Venice had to offer. Impatiently awaiting my reply. All of it liberally besprinkled with exclamation marks. I sat on the tiny balcony of my room watching the flights of birds wheeling and winging above the bell towers and church spires. I wondered whether Sandro, somewhere not too far away, was sawing off chunks of salami and slices of cheese to eat with bread and tomatoes.

  My new cell phone rang. Cesare, of course.

  ‘Signorina Quick …’ He sounded like someone who has just mounted the scaffold. ‘My sister Maddalena called me thirty minutes ago,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She is nearly beside herself with worry about Sandro,’ Cesare said. ‘I told her that we have matters in hand.’

  ‘I don’t suppose that was much comfort to her.’

  ‘Not really.’

  There was a pause. Then I said, ‘Do you think the death of Sandro’s friend Katy has anything at all to do with his abduction?’

  ‘Who can say?’ He sighed heavily. ‘But it is not a possibility we can dismiss.’

  ‘Look, Marchese …’ I swallowed. I bit the bullet. ‘I hope Sandro won’t mind me telling you this …’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Some of the former frigidity had returned to his voice.

  ‘But I do wonder if it has any bearing on what’s going on among that group of friends.’

  I explained. Quickly assured him that Sandro had restored the status quo. That he had found it unthinkable that one of his close friends could have committed these thefts. That the use of a pawnshop indicated that the valuable ring would be redeemed as soon as could be. As indeed it had been.

  He wasn’t best pleased. ‘I cannot believe I am hearing this,’ he said, his tone arctic.

  ‘I’m aware that it’s rather poor conduct from a group of people who should know better but—’

  ‘There are no buts. It is a simple abuse of hospitality.’

  ‘That’s exactly what Sand—’

  ‘I’m amazed that these young people could behave in such a way. Stealing from the person who was, in a sense, their host. It’s appalling.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘However, we have more important things to discuss.’ He projected such frostiness that even down the phone I felt cold.

  We talked some more about tactics. I explained about the follicly challenged guy with the earring. He listened in silence. While we both knew that the situation with Sandro was far more important than the loss – and quick return – of a few costly possessions, it was obvious that he was still seriously pissed off.

  After I’d hung up, I noticed a woman sitting on a balcony of the house opposite my room. She was staring across at me, not even attempting to hide her curiosity. I figured that even if she could lip-read, which seemed highly unlikely, I had said nothing which would indicate who I was talking to, nor what I was talking about. I waved. She waved back.

  Below me, the crowds of tourists were thinning out, either returning to their hotels before going out to dinner, or finding a café in which to sit and enjoy a glass or two with their friends and families. I would shortly do the same.

  Had Sam Willoughby ever been to Venice? I wasn’t sure. But I couldn’t help thinking what a pleasant travelling companion he would be. Knowledgeable, restful, always ready to share a new experience. Such as shearing bloody sheep.

  Mid-morning, I stood right in front of the house with the red front door. There was no knocker so I rapped with my bare knuckles, which was more painful than I expected. While I waited, I glanced to the side of the door where several bells were set one above the other, noting the names beside them. It looked like there were two flats to a floor until the top one. The names seemed to be Italian – Cafarella, di Giovanni – except for the one at the top. Or was it the bottom? Whichever. The odd name out was listed as Jerome Gregory. My nose twitched. There’d been a girl at school called Hanna Gregori who claimed to be of Italian descent. Could this be an Anglicization of the same name?

  I waited for someone to answer my knock. Nobody came. I knocked harder and felt the door shift slightly under my hand. I pushed it a bit and, with a hideous creaking sound, like something out of a gothic-inspired horror movie, it slowly opened. I looked up and down the street but for once there was nobody about. Too close to the lunch hour, I guessed. I slipped inside and closed the door as quietly as possible
– which wasn’t very. Nobody came. The house seemed full of silence.

  I was in a narrow hall with shallow stone steps leading upwards. As in so many houses in Venice, there was a faint whiff of sewers and decay. I’d memorized some of the names on the list beside the front door, in case someone suddenly appeared. Then I started up. And continued up. And up some more, until finally I was on the top floor and could go no higher. In front of me was a small window which offered a panoramic view over the roofs and terraces of the city. There were two doors, one to the left and one to the right. The left-hand one was ajar and I went towards it.

  ‘Buongiorno,’ I said tentatively. ‘Hello?’ Was Sandro inside? There was no answer. I was beginning to feel kind of creeped out. Why was the door open? Did I dare go inside? I decided I did. I stepped into a room with polished parquet flooring, a table and four chairs and a large TV set. Not much else. Doors led off towards bedrooms and a bathroom. I knew this because all the doors were wide open. I could see someone lying sprawled across a bed. For one heart-stopping moment, I thought it might be Sandro, but no. This guy was short and stocky, with thinning dark hair cut en brosse. He was also very dead.

  One of those cheese-cutters – a length of wire with wooden handles at either end that old-fashioned grocers use to slice off a hunk of Cheddar or Wensleydale – had been thrown round his throat and drawn as tightly as the strong hands of, say, a tall, fit man without any hair might have wrenched it. The man’s dead eyes bulged. His face was blue in colour, cyanosed from lack of oxygen. A small trickle of bloodied drool ran from one corner of his mouth to the edge of his chin. There was no other sign of violence, as far as I could see. Just the bedsheets tangled into a rat’s nest by his last desperate struggles.