the old man said, wrinkling up his face so that his nose almost disappeared beneath the surface. ‘This? Call this a boat? Pah!’
‘It seems very nice,’ she observed vaguely, aware that this wasn’t exactly the most nautical way of phrasing it.
‘All flash and noise,’ he said. ‘About as well made as an orange box. They can’t make boats any more. Can’t do anything properly in the lagoon any more.’
Flavia looked over the flickering, shining water to the island of Burano on her left, saw the seagulls whirling overhead in the wind and spotted an oil tanker peacefully chugging its way out to sea in the distance. The boat cut a creamy wave through the dark green water of the lagoon as it headed towards the city. ‘It all appears in proper order to me,’ she said.
‘Appears, yes. But it’s not appearances that count. They’ve forgotten about the flow.’
‘Beg your pardon?’
‘Flow, young lady, flow. This lagoon is full of channels. Very complex, each one serves nature’s purpose. They used not to disturb that. Now they chop huge paths through the lagoon to let things like that in.’ He gestured dismissively at the tanker.
‘With the wind and the tide in the right direction, everything goes haywire. Just like that. Can happen in minutes. Water flows in the wrong direction, washes everything to the surface, floods and leaves it. Smells disgusting. Comes of trying to be too clever. The city’s choking in its own muck because of their stupidity.’
He was getting into his stride about the iniquities of the modern age when his son, glancing over his shoulder and evidently fearing for his tip, ambled back. Flavia wished he had stayed where he was. It was no doubt perfectly safe to leave an unguided boat hurtling through the water at high speed, but she would have felt more confident had someone been there just to make sure. A demonic driver on the roads, she was nervously cautious when it came to water. The result, no doubt, of growing up in the foothills of the Alps.
A few sharp words and the old man was dispatched forward to wrap some ropes, or whatever you do on boats, and she was left alone to study the scenery. Flavia watched with delight as the first signs of Venice itself rose above the horizon. The campanile, then the tower of San Giorgio, the crumbling brick of the Frari. More boats, buses, gondolas and the heavy working barges that ferried goods from place to place, appeared on the water. Then the crumbling brick and peeling stucco of the buildings on the main island itself, as the taxi swung around its northern end and headed for the Piazza San Marco.
The driver propelled his boat along at what seemed like an impossibly reckless speed, weaving in and out of the traffic, and aimed it at the side of the canal. He slammed the engine into reverse at the last moment, swung round and then, with a little flourish, brought it to a dainty, perfect halt at exactly the right place. The result of years of practice. Flavia paid, handed over a healthy tip and walked up the steps on to Riva Schiavoni, with the driver bringing up the rear with her bags.
Checking in at the Danieli Hotel took only a few moments. Again, she was obeying Bottando’s instructions to the letter. It was not often she was virtually ordered to stay in the most famous and expensive hotel in the north-east of Italy, and she was determined not to let the opportunity slip. Ordinarily, the Danieli was crammed with the richer sort of German and American tourists, and even the monumental gothic lobby sometimes bore a striking resemblance to a bus station, with crowds of frantic tourists milling around afraid of being left behind and piles of luggage stacked in corners. But the season was ending and, while tourists were still very much in evidence, they had been culled to more manageable proportions. The staff were consequently less harried than usual and, for Venetians, almost polite.
The room was delightful, the weather still sunny and the bed remarkably comfortable. The only other thing anyone might reasonably ask for was food, and she resolved to take care of that immediately. The trip in had taken a good hour and it was well into Flavia’s lunch break, so she changed into more suitably professional-looking clothes and headed back down the stairs. If Bottando had taught her one thing, it was that really good and reliable policework could not be done on an empty stomach. At the desk in the lobby she asked for directions to the central questura, bought a newspaper in the shop so she could see how the local press were reporting the murder, and headed off for a hefty, if solitary, meal.
She was content and only slightly indigested as she walked slowly up the steps of the questura at around three that afternoon. The building was a very Venetian affair. Evidently it had once been the palace of a nobleman of substantial wealth, but it fell so far from its original glory that it was co-opted by the state and colonised. Rooms that were once enormous and well-proportioned had been divided, then subdivided, into dingy little cubicles connected by even darker, more unkempt and depressing corridors. Whatever the budget of the local police, very little of it went on keeping their headquarters well decorated. All very economical and proper, no doubt, but a pity. Her own department in Rome occupied much smaller premises, but Bottando’s ability to delay handing back stolen works of art that were recovered (he always quoted paperwork in order to hang on for a few months to pieces he particularly liked) meant it was much more appealing to the eye. Very important for department morale, even if the best works tended to be stored for security reasons in his own office.
Her holiday mood was evaporating rapidly by the time she had wandered up and down for ten minutes hunting for her destination. It waned still further when she was shown into the office of Commissario Alessandro Bovolo and saw the small, ill-humoured man behind the desk, ostentatiously reading papers and pretending not to have noticed her arrival. But she had decided in advance to be the perfect colleague and was determined to give the man a chance. So she waited patiently, composing her face into cheery nonchalance. Silence fell, apart from the odd snuffle from Bovolo, the rustle of paper and the faint, but quite amazingly irritating, sound of Flavia humming quietly to herself. Eventually, Bovolo could stand her limited musical talents no more. He dropped the sheaf of seemingly absorbing documentation, smoothed down his lank, mousy hair and looked up with the air of an important man reluctant to be distracted.
By no stretch of the imagination could he be considered handsome, even in the best of circumstances. Late forties, he had a thin face, slightly pointy nose, blotchy skin and small colourless eyes. Apart from that, there was not much to be said for him. If one of the fishermen in the lagoon accidentally dredged up a large herring, dressed it in a crumpled grey suit and arranged it in a chair with a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles over its nose, the resemblance would have been extraordinary.
‘Signorina di Stefano,’ he said eventually, with too much emphasis on the ‘signorina’ for Flavia’s taste. ‘The elegantly-dressed young expert from Rome come to show us how to catch murderers.’ The slightly watery smile that accompanied this made her suspect he was not wildly enthused about making her acquaintance. She was quick that way.
‘From Rome, yes. Expert, no,’ she replied, deploying her sweetest and most disarming smile for the occasion. ‘Whatever the accomplishments of my department, catching murderers is scarcely one of them.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘Solely to help if you decide you want it. We do know a lot about the art world, after all. General Bottando was very much of the opinion that my assistance wouldn’t be needed. But as the minister insisted, here I am. You know how ministers are.’
‘And I suppose you’ll go away in a few days and write a report about us,’ he stated with a suggestion of suspicious sarcasm in his voice. ‘No doubt trying to save your own skin.’
Aha. The carabinieri grapevine was working with its usual efficiency. Bovolo
