The Medici Murders, page 24
‘Was,’ he murmured.
She put her arm through his and pulled him close, guilty, knowing he might read this the wrong way, determined all the same. ‘I would like to know.’
He finished his drink and asked if she wanted another.
‘Just tell me, Jo.’
He grunted something under his breath, and when he looked at her, she thought she saw a shadow of his father. Cold, uncaring, intent on getting what he wanted.
‘If you insist. Julie was a pretty young thing he took a shine to.’
‘Thing?’
‘That’s the way he always puts it. She was a runner. A dogsbody. Unpaid. I was doing less than she was but getting money for it. I liked her. She came from academia or somewhere, dead keen to get into TV. Amazing how many people are. If only they knew. My dad always understands how to use anyone desperate. That’s his way in. His modus operandi. Control and command. Haven’t you worked that out? It’s all a game. Fixed for you in advance. All my life I’ve been surrounded by people making things up. Dad. Mum too. It’s like … finding everything you do is written by someone else. And we’re just players, following his script. I didn’t want to do TV at all. I wanted to write. Or teach. But he said I didn’t have the talent. I had to do whatever he could line up for me.’
‘I was asking about Julie Dean,’ she insisted. Not you, she thought.
‘I tried to be friends with her. I think that’s when he first noticed. He loves stealing things. Especially something he’s never valued until he sees that someone else does. I’d really like another beer.’
‘I’d really like you to finish the story.’
He winced, looked out into the dense grey cloud ahead of them. ‘Dad took her out a couple of times. To talk work supposedly. He kept a flat near Broadcasting House. Like an idiot, she went to meet him there.’ Jolyon Godolphin shrugged. ‘I guess you know what happened next.’
‘I guess I do,’ she whispered.
‘Julie was just nice. Came from an ordinary background. Had an ordinary degree. What wasn’t ordinary, what Dad didn’t appreciate, was that she wasn’t going to take being raped by him. Wasn’t going to be bought off by a job on the production team. A favour here. A reference there. Lots of them did, more than I know. But not her. Julie went screaming to the management.’
She had to ask even though she knew the answer. ‘And?’
He laughed and she wanted to hit him. ‘What do you think? A famous TV historian against a desperate twenty-eight-year-old unpaid runner from a council flat in Peckham? I doubt they listened to her for more than five minutes. They made sure to keep my mum out of it. Me too. All I understood was that Julie didn’t turn up for work again. We might never have known anything had happened if …’
He went quiet.
‘If what?’
‘If she hadn’t thrown herself under a train at Oxford Circus a week after she was fired. Not that it made any difference. Stupid.’
He waited to let that sink in.
She downed the rest of her beer. ‘Julie Dean killed herself?’
‘Still, Dad sailed on. I’m not sure Mum was ever quite the same with him after she found out. She told me she’d kill him if he ever did that again. Oh …’ He squeezed her arm, and something in his face told her this evening was coming to a close. ‘He did. With you. If he hadn’t looked so pathetic tonight, I’d be asking for a ringside seat.’
He got to his feet, then went inside and paid the bill. ‘I’m going back to the hotel. I’ve had enough for one night. Do you want me to see you home?’
He didn’t appreciate rejection any more than his father did. Just responded in a different way, with coldness rather than aggression.
‘I can find the hotel for myself.’
‘Thought I’d offer. Be warned. Dad doesn’t like losing. Never had much experience of it. He won’t go easily. This is the start of something. Not the end.’
Duke Godolphin, she thought, wasn’t going to have much choice. Not after she’d talked to New York.
They parted company at the bridge to San Pantalon.
Patricia Buckley was walking by the canal, peering through the thick fog trying to find the way to her hotel, when her phone rang.
She knew it would be him.
When he demanded a meeting straight away, by the Ponte San Tomà, she knew she’d be there too.
BY MIDNIGHT, A SWIRLING grey cloud had swept in from the Adriatic and cast its icy, swamping breath across the lagoon, from Chioggia north to Jesolo. In the streets and alleys around the Frari, the street lights barely shone beyond a few metres onto the frosty cobbles. A handful of late-night strangers still stumbled around, hunting for the way ahead, some in costume, staring hopefully at the small, shining icon of their phone screen, seeking help. Venice, it occurred to her, seemed permanently populated by the lost.
Patricia Buckley was different, good at directions. When she was young, she’d reached the level of cadette in the Girl Scouts until the discovery of boys intervened. The way back to the accommodation the quiet Englishman had found for her seemed simple enough. Turn left at San Pantalon and head along the canal towards Piazzale Roma. The Ponte San Tomà and the hotel Godolphin had chosen for his party lay in the opposite direction, towards one of the quieter stretches of the Grand Canal. He was, he said, waiting for her there.
Four minutes it took her to reach the café called Ciak, a sanctuary she’d found while staying at the Valier, a quiet and friendly spot to escape Godolphin’s constant, grasping clutches. The place was closed, lights dimly on. She walked to the bridge and almost bumped straight into him on the steps, close to where the sign for the Casa di Carlo Goldoni hung on the wall of Elena Barozzi’s old home, barely visible in the murk. Duke Godolphin stood beneath the faint glow of a single lamp, still in his stupid doge’s costume, bauta mask loose around his neck. He looked exhausted, drained, more than a little drunk.
The lagoon seemed to be evaporating all around them, the briny heaviness of its mist seeping into her lungs. She was glad she’d had that talk with Jolyon, even if it ended in an uncomfortable parting. For too long she’d been cowed by his father’s brash and bullying persona. The way he held his favours over her as a promised gift if she obeyed his will. Or withdrew them with terrible consequences if she denied him. In the end, she’d tried to straddle a middle ground, refusing his attentions while attempting to pacify him with her work, sealing the shift of the Venice project from development status towards a green light, with all the money and contractual obligations that followed. Yet there was no middle ground with this man, and in her heart she’d always known that. Either she gave in fully to his demands, both personal and professional, or she became a foe.
Like Julie Dean.
‘I don’t know why I came,’ she said, before he could utter a word.
‘You came because you’re interested,’ Godolphin replied, his voice low, gruff, for once a touch uncertain.
‘Interested in what?’
It was meant to be a smile but looked more like a leer. He came close, brushed the sleeve of her jacket. ‘It’s cold out here, Patricia. Let’s go somewhere private. This room they found you, in your hotel …’
‘Not a chance.’
That amused him. ‘There’s always a chance, dear. The question is, are you bold enough to take it?’
‘What do you want?’
‘You seem different. More … forthright. I like that in a woman.’
‘Do you?’
‘I do. We could go far together. Make a little money. Enjoy one another’s company. I could teach you things. Provided we resurrect the Passeggiata. Slightly changed, of course. There’s still time. You haven’t told Cyrus about that little farce tonight, have you?’
‘I was going to wait till the morning.’
‘Good idea. Time enough for us to repurpose the package. Make it more enticing.’
She wished she’d never responded to his summons. ‘You’re wrong there. This deal’s dead.’
Closer still, he leaned down and she stepped back from the stink of strong grappa. ‘Not yet. The two of us can breathe life into it yet. Make it better.’
She noticed he’d removed from his sleeve the ornate stiletto, supposedly the design of Michelangelo. It gleamed in the waxy yellow light of the street lamp, firm in his fist. There was the briefest snatch of music, hard, crude rap, from a passer-by she couldn’t see. The racket disturbed something along the canal, a bird, a rat, rustling, scuttling.
He cocked his head to one side and didn’t move. A manipulative man, she’d known that all along in her heart. But she’d allowed him to play her so skilfully she’d scarcely seen it.
‘You’re better than being a lackey to those creatures in New York. There’s a story here. Can’t you feel it? Perhaps not the one I envisaged. A darker tale. A mystery within a mystery.’
‘About what?’
‘About Wolff, of course. The man who sent me this.’ The dagger glittered in the yellow light. His voice had fallen a tone. So close he sounded old, asthmatic, not the confident, arrogant figure he portrayed on screen. ‘This mysterious charlatan who tried to take me down. Damned near succeeded too. Tried to rubbish poor Michelangelo along the way. It was a clever ruse, you must admit. Hell of a story at the bottom of it. Fakery and fraud. They always make a good tale.’ His gaze turned in the direction of the Grand Canal, and the Valier. ‘One of those bastards was behind it. The envious. Those of meagre talent. Jealousy’s something a man like me must endure. Always have. Between the two of us, we can find out.’
He’d turned the dagger so the hilt was pointed towards her. ‘Take it. A gift. A down payment as it were.’
She did, and held the weapon in her freezing hand. Better in her fingers than his.
‘Agreed?’ he asked. ‘I’d happily come to your room and run through some ideas. You won’t regret it. I promise.’
Patricia Buckley stood in front of him and tried to peer into his bleary eyes. ‘You really don’t listen, do you, Duke? We make historical documentaries. I’m not in the market for the story of your vengeance, your bitching over petty details.’
He grabbed the arm of her flimsy black cloak, not noticing how she tried to recoil, or caring. ‘There’s nothing petty here, love. This could be the making of you. I would be eternally grateful. One good series and we’re made for many more. A different style. Finding forgeries, frauds, exposing them. I front it. You’re the executive producer. Who knows where that might lead? I am a man noted for his gratitude.’
Even though she couldn’t break free of his grip, she had to say it. ‘Is that what you told Julie Dean?’
A sudden breeze whipped round them, so cold her fingers gripped the hilt of the stiletto more tightly as the point brushed against his chest.
‘They got at you, then?’ His voice was cold and full of fury.
‘You mean they told me? About a woman you took advantage of? You raped? Who complained and was ignored? And killed herself? Jolyon said—’
‘My son’s a pathetic idiot who’d be nothing without me. He didn’t have the guts to talk to the girl himself. Why shouldn’t I? She wanted something. I’d every right to ask for a little in return. That …’ he shook her shoulder, hard, ‘is how the world works.’
‘Get off me.’
‘That …’ another shake, harder this time, ‘is what a lowly thing like you must do. Don’t tell me life’s different back in your precious network. Don’t tell me the likes of Cyrus and his chums never come calling. Don’t …’ she could feel him pressing himself against her, ‘try to tell me you’re clueless what you can get if you open those pretty legs.’
‘Don’t touch me!’
But he did, in a way she’d never forget. And that was when the knife seemed to possess a life of its own.
Her arm shot back then forward, the long, thin blade stabbing at the scarlet jacket of a costume doge.
Her fingers failed. The thing clattered on the ground.
Patricia Buckley’s hand went to her mouth. Tears seemed to stream out of nowhere, hazing her vision.
Duke Godolphin staggered back against the low metal railing of the bridge, spitting vitriol and curses in her direction.
He was gasping, and even the words wouldn’t come right.
Terrified, she turned and ran into the foggy night, arms pumping, tears pouring, cheap black cloak flapping like the wings of a desperate crow. By the gloomy hulk of the Frari she threw the thing into a bin.
Then, sobbing, shivering, wondering, she started on the shambling walk home.
‘I KILLED HIM,’ SHE said to the hushed group gathered in the Carabinieri station meeting room. ‘I’m sorry. I killed him and I should have admitted it. Should have saved you. I was just scared and …’
Valentina stayed quiet but kept her eyes on me. This was like the interview with Jolyon earlier. I was the one who was supposed to call out the flaw in the story.
So be it. Though why she was pushing me this way, I’d no idea.
‘Th-that can’t be right.’ I wanted to let Patricia Buckley see the conviction in my face. But her eyes were on the grey tiles and she was weeping. Perhaps my intervention surprised the others. I found they were all looking at me, while I was probably going red in the face.
‘Explain yourself, Arnold.’ It was Valentina, head cocked to one side like a bird listening for prey. ‘What can you possibly mean?’
‘You know very well, Capitano.’
‘Possibly. But tell me anyway.’
‘Because of the circumstances. When he was found, you said. The knife was still there.’ It was hard to say without picturing it in my head. ‘Still … in him. Patricia may have wounded Duke Godolphin. But if she was able to drop the knife, then it’s quite impossible she killed him. Someone else must have inflicted that particular blow.’
Valentina clapped her hands twice. ‘Sound reasoning. Then who? Who was it?’
‘I h-have …’ I stopped. The damned stutter seemed stuck. ‘I have no idea. How could I? All I know is it wasn’t this young lady.’
She raised her finely manicured eyebrows, gazing at me and then the rest of them. ‘Your English friend is correct. The knife was firmly embedded in Godolphin’s chest when we recovered him from the canal. Clearly the man met two enemies that night. It was the second who inflicted the injury that was more severe. There. I said you’d make a detective, Arnold. You shouldn’t doubt yourself so much. While you …’ she pointed a finger at the tearful woman opposite, ‘you may have wounded the man, perhaps in self-defence. But you were not responsible for his demise.’
George Bourne walked over to Ugo’s table, took a spritz in each hand and returned to his seat. ‘Of course she wasn’t.’ He took a mouthful from one glass, swallowed it, then did the same from the other. ‘I’m sorry. All of you. I would have fessed up, as it were. In the end. It’s just … everything …’ His voice began to break. ‘Everything begins to look so damned stupid.’
THE BAR HE’D ADOPTED was called Il Mercante, a nod towards Shakespeare for those who cared. To the older residents of the city, it would always be the Caffè dei Frari, an elegant establishment dating back a century and a half, little changed in all that time, a peaceful den of subtle mirrors and fin de siècle paintings, with a stylish, swirling mezzanine above. All located behind a modest door beneath the eye of the great basilica’s eastern front, close to the bridge over the narrow canal that bore the Frari’s name.
There, Bourne had felt at home from the storm Duke Godolphin had been building around him all week, a sense of peace he’d decided he’d share with his husband when he got back to London. A return visit to Venice was in order, the two of them this time. The experience with the old man – the tension, the arguments – had got to him so much that, in drink a little, he’d decided to make a fresh start. To see if he could resuscitate their marriage, heal old wounds. Be a little less pompous at times, which was, he knew, simply camouflage for his own insecurities.
The Mercante helped no end, since it was the kind of quiet, intimate institution that surely suited those of a literary and imaginative calling. This wasn’t about ordinary booze at all. No off-the-shelf Campari spritzes or substandard, hasty Negronis splashed together with cheap gin and vermouth. Instead, the polite and attentive waitress had talked him through a curious menu divided into three courses, each pairing a unique cocktail with an equally unusual tiny snack.
For openers he’d chosen a salty, smoky amatriciana of vodka, dry vermouth and black tea, coupled with parmesan foam, pineapple gel and balsamic vinegar. Both impressed and surprised, he followed this with a mix of Sant’Erasmo artichoke with pear, wine, Martinique rum and St Germain elderflower liqueur, a tiny dish of herb and flower jellies on the side. Finally, as he rolled back on his comfy seat, feeling at one with the world and every soul in it, he finished with the ‘dessert’, a small tumbler of milk, crushed cornflakes, Russian ‘bread wine’ and vanilla liqueur, with a sprinkling of different coffees in an ornate dish. It reminded him of the puddings at boarding school, warm and familiar but with a substantial kick beneath the comfort.
He couldn’t wait to introduce Ralph to the place. They’d splash out and stay somewhere fancy like the Danieli, queue for the sights, take a gondola, drink coffee in Florian’s. Act, for once, like everyday visitors. No need for culture. Simply being there, together, was the aim. To enjoy themselves the way they used to before career and money and ambition began to hammer a spike between their rising positions at rival publishers. Venice might break Duke Godolphin, but the place could surely heal the two of them. Or perhaps, he mused as he downed the last of the creamy pudding cocktail, that was just the drink talking. It was worth a try in any case.
More mellow than intoxicated, he wandered out of the bar after that third course and stood by the narrow canal outside, chilled by the icy fog. The lights of the great rose window across the way were barely visible. He’d yet to step inside the Frari but promised himself he would do so before catching the flight back to Heathrow the following day. The editorial director would be demanding to know what Bourne’s star author had to offer next. It would give him no pleasure at all to say … not a thing. The Godolphin era was over, along with Duke’s flagging TV career. The man’s books had been Bourne’s source of hits for years, and he had a suspicion that was all that had kept him in a job. Losing that golden goose might mean the end of any meaningful role left for him in publishing. This odd trip had made him realise he no longer cared. Nothing lasted for ever. To delude oneself to the contrary, as Godolphin clearly did, only led to misery, disappointment and pain, for others too. There were more important things in life than forever trying to hit a number on a spreadsheet.
