The Case of the Missing Madonna Read online

  And he could be right.

  He and Huntington went back a long, for the most part unpleasant, way. And there was one incident he could never forgive, or forget.

  I can blame Huntington for her death, but he and I both know I was truly the one at fault.

  Patrick allowed himself a moment to remember, but only a moment.

  The past is over with. I’m a different man now. Or am I?

  He looked up as the waiter, who’d been trying to get his attention, plonked the two pizza boxes on the table in front of him. Patrick thanked him and picking up the boxes, which were emitting a wonderful smell, headed back to La Residenza.

  Patrick tried the bedroom door and found it locked.

  ‘Huntington? I have food.’

  He heard a groan, as Huntington swung himself from the bed and rose, then the padding of feet.

  ‘You shouldn’t have locked the door,’ Patrick admonished him.

  ‘I didn’t want any unwelcome visitors.’

  ‘You’re expecting some?’

  Huntington eyed him. ‘Don’t we always?’

  Patrick didn’t like his inclusion in the statement, although it was true.

  He handed a box to Huntington, who took it back to the bed with him. Patrick chose a chair at the table by the window. The lingering smell of blood and disinfectant was now supplanted by the rich scent of tomato, garlic and cheese. Patrick would have preferred to eat seppie alla veneziana in the small restaurant in the nearby Calle del Dose, but the pizza was a decent enough substitute for his favourite Venetian squid and he attacked it with gusto.

  Huntington was doing the same. Having demolished the pizza, Patrick replenished their glasses.

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘what happens now?’

  Later, lying in the dark, Patrick revisited what Huntington had told him. The location of the other painting had surprised him. In a city full of religious paintings, many of them featuring various versions of the Madonna, he’d assumed the duplicate of the Fragonard would have been here.

  But he’d been wrong. According to Huntington, the second location was Torcello, the small island where settlement of the lagoon had begun.

  Despite much probing, Huntington had refused to divulge anything other than that. After this limited disclosure, he requested two more painkillers and told Patrick he needed to sleep. He obliged and, having filled Huntington’s tumbler with whisky, he took what remained of the bottle with him.

  Back in his own room, he showered, standing under the beating water, turning his face to the spray, remembering.

  They’d chosen to eat at the Corte Sconta the first night she spent with him. The famous restaurant was just a few minutes’ walk from La Residenza, provided you knew the way. Finding it in the dark, in the maze of narrow streets that all looked the same, had given them some trouble, which had made them laugh.

  Finally there, though late for their booking, they had ordered the speciality, with a bottle of Prosecco di Valdobbiadene. The scallops were as creamy and delicious as promised, the asparagus fresh and delicate. But no food could compare to what happened afterwards. He’d fallen in love that night, although he hadn’t realized it at the time, thinking himself drunk on good food and wine, a beautiful woman, and moonlit Venice.

  Patrick turned the shower to cold and embraced the stinging onslaught on his skin, trying to obliterate memories of the past.

  Stepping out, he walked naked to the window and sought the sky. The moon tonight was masked by dull cloud, much like his thoughts. Lying down on the bed, he stared at the ceiling, listening to the faint night sounds of the city – the purr of a water-taxi engine, an explosion of laughter from the nearby café, the toll of a church bell sounding the hour – and the words ‘Nothing about this seems right’ echoing in his head.

  THIRTEEN

  His mobile woke him before dawn. Grabbing it from the bedside table, he noted that the number on the screen was unidentified.

  ‘Courvoisier?’

  Patrick’s sense of relief at the sound of Charles’s voice disconcerted him.

  ‘How is he?’ Charles asked.

  There was no need to use the name. They both knew who Carruthers was referring to.

  ‘He took a bullet. I patched him up. He’s asleep next door.’

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘It went straight through his upper right arm. And he took a beating.’ Patrick paused. ‘What did they want to know?’

  There was a pregnant silence before Charles said, ‘He’s not answering his phone. Can you put him on yours?’

  Patrick went next door and knocked.

  ‘Huntington? Charles wants to speak to you.’

  When there was no response, he knocked again, more loudly this time.

  ‘Huntington.’

  Patrick tried the door and was surprised to find it unlocked.

  ‘Huntington,’ he called as he flung it wide, only to discover the room empty of Giles and his bag.

  ‘He’s gone,’ he told Charles.

  Charles Carruthers wasn’t one for swearing, but he did so now.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Patrick demanded.

  ‘I need you to go after him.’

  ‘I’m here to retrieve the property of the monks of St Honorat. Nothing else,’ Patrick said firmly.

  ‘Then retrieve both paintings and bring Grazia back safely.’

  ‘You bastard,’ Patrick said, remembering how Huntington had asked him to leave so he could go to sleep. Patrick recalled going into the shower and turning it on to full power. If Huntington had left the hotel then, he wouldn’t have heard. It seemed Huntington hadn’t been as unwell as he’d pretended.

  If so, why bring me along, if he didn’t intend making use of me? Because I was backup. A backup he no longer thinks he needs.

  No wonder Huntington wouldn’t give him the full story last night.

  Having been patched up, he’d decided my presence was no longer required. Either that or he feared I was only here to appropriate the Madonna and take her back.

  Patrick was already down the stone steps and pulling at the heavy front door of La Residenza. Dawn was breaking in a fiery red over the Campo Bandiera e Moro. The resident pigeons rose in a fluttering cloud as he strode quickly through them. The one and only piece of information Huntington had been willing to divulge last night was that the island of Torcello was their destination.

  He’d told Charles this. And after a short silence, Charles had responded, ‘Take a water taxi to the basilica on Torcello. There’s a private residence on the eastern tip of the island opposite. It has its own jetty, but better to arrive unnoticed. You’ll have to find a discreet way to get across the intervening canal.’

  Reaching the Riva degli Schiavoni, Patrick went in search of a water taxi. It took him fifteen minutes to find one that was manned at this early hour and ready to go, which made him wonder how the hell Huntington had left for Torcello even earlier. Unless, as he suspected, Huntington had left the previous evening, when transport was plentiful.

  There was nothing good about any of this, Patrick decided, as the speedboat wound its way through the passageways of the lagoon. Charles had him operating as an agent, without the information and backup he would have had in normal circumstances. Something he’d vowed would never happen again.

  I’ve been played like a chess piece. Maybe right from the beginning.

  Huntington would never have willingly sought his help. Someone else must have wanted Patrick back in and under their command. But who? Forsyth hated him as much as Huntington did, but Forsyth hated even more the fact that Patrick had seemingly escaped his clutches. He would draw him back in, if only to punish him.

  And what about Charles?

  Patrick trusted Charles, at least as much as it was possible to trust anyone in this business. One thing had rung true during their conversation. Charles suspected Huntington had given away information that could endanger Grazia, and Patrick didn’t want the death of another woman on his co
nscience.

  The vaporetto wouldn’t begin plying the lagoon until 8.00 a.m., so Patrick didn’t expect any visitors to have reached Torcello’s main jetty yet. From there, a short walk would lead him across the narrow island to the main tourist destination, the Basilica of Santa Maria Assunta and the surrounding remains of the glory that had once been the birthplace of life on the lagoon.

  As the taxi navigated its way up Canale Borgognoni, Patrick asked the driver to drop him at the vaporetto stop and told him he would make his own way from there. Paying him handsomely, Patrick asked if he might be willing to return for him, if required.

  ‘I may have to leave in a hurry,’ Patrick said.

  The driver handed him a card.

  ‘I’ll wait at my sister’s, on Burano,’ he said. ‘Call me and I’ll come back for you.’

  Patrick thanked him and jumped ashore.

  The path across the island was deserted, the adjacent canal as still as glass. The magnificent settlement of 20,000 which had preceded Venice had now dwindled to only twenty permanent inhabitants, none of whom Patrick met en route. The Locanda Cipriani, one of the scattering of restaurants catering for lunchtime tourists and the only place to stay on the island, was still shuttered.

  Crossing the small canal that divided the main island, Patrick hurried along the wider gravel walkway that led to the famous Byzantine church with its austere exterior and striking campanile. Yards further on, he reached the jetty Charles had spoken of.

  Using his binoculars, Patrick checked out the island opposite. The narrow strip of land looked like a series of small holdings, except in the east where a tiny strip of water split the island in two. On the other side of this, an avenue of trees suggested a long drive heading eastwards. Beyond that, Patrick could make out a large white square, which he took to be a helicopter landing spot.

  At the furthermost point, he saw the red roofs of the dwelling house Charles had spoken of. Closely packed bushes lined the entire shore, no doubt to discourage visitors, but there was a jetty close to the house for invited guests.

  On his side of the canal two small boats were tethered at the jetty, one of which had an outboard engine and, more importantly, a set of oars.

  Patrick chose that one and, with a quick look round, lowered himself in, hoping its owner wasn’t in the vicinity. Had there not been any boats, he would have swum across, although he suspected that tackling the muddy weed-filled canal would have offered more danger than swimming through a rough sea off Cannes.

  He aimed for the spot, just east of the intersecting canal, where the drive began. Early morning light was reflected off what might be the white gravel of a manufactured beach. He hoped he might drag the boat ashore there, or drop anchor close by. From there he might make his way to the house via the tree-lined drive, which appeared to be the only concealment available.

  Patrick stepped out of the boat and pulled it a little higher. Before abandoning it, he tucked a €50 note under one of the oars by way of a thank you, in case its owner should retrieve it while he was elsewhere.

  The trees bordering the drive were uniform, trimmed into shape like the plane trees in Cannes. They shaded the white road perfectly. In minutes he was passing the helicopter pad and, ahead on the left, he spotted the glistening blue water of a swimming pool, surrounded by a selection of loungers, and what looked like a Jacuzzi. The pool was obviously open for use, but neither it nor its surroundings were occupied.

  On his right lay the private jetty, currently occupied by two speedboats, both impressive. Whoever was here was used to travelling in style. Now it was plain why this spot had been chosen for the dwelling house that lay before him. Tucked at the far end of the island and surrounded by water and mudflats, it resembled a castle with a moat. The only missing item was a portcullis.

  Patrick stood in the shelter of the trees, half expecting the howl of a dog to herald his approach, but it seemed the owners didn’t think their castle needed guarding by such means.

  Now he was within sight of the building, Patrick took stock and decided he would simply approach the house and ring the bell, if there was one. The main residence consisted of two buildings, of which the left-hand one faced a landscaped garden leading to the pool. The right-hand structure focused on the jetty and was connected to it with two walkways. There was a further building east of the jetty, which he assumed housed all the equipment required when you owned a boat or two.

  As Patrick approached the main building, a woman appeared on the patio and began to walk towards the pool. She was tall with dark hair, wearing a robe over what he assumed would be a swimsuit. Patrick melted back among the trees and watched.

  Reaching the pool, she took off her robe, exposing a red bikini. Dropping the robe and towel on a lounger, she made for the pool, performed a racing dive, and with swift strokes began to move through the water.

  Patrick followed her and, having made sure that he would not be visible from the house, sat down on the lounger and waited.

  The woman did a racing turn and began to plough her way back. Just before she reached the end of the pool, she spotted Patrick. To say that Grazia Lucca was surprised to find him there would have been an understatement.

  Patrick put his finger to his lips.

  ‘Stay in the water. I don’t want to attract any attention,’ he told her quietly.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded.

  ‘Charles sent me.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened to Giles?’ She sounded worried.

  ‘He had an accident. I agreed to come in his place,’ Patrick replied swiftly. Grazia didn’t look convinced, so he held out his mobile to her and said, ‘You can check with Charles if you like.’

  ‘It’s OK, I believe you.’ She paused. ‘Does Marco know you’re here?’ She nodded in the direction of the house.

  ‘Have you enlightened him about me?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘I told him what you suggested.’

  ‘So I’ll be accepted into the gang?’ Patrick said with a smile.

  ‘Unless Giles arrives and blows your cover.’

  Grazia pulled herself out of the pool and put on the robe.

  ‘The paintings. Are they here?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘They should arrive this morning.’

  ‘Is one of them the one from St Honorat?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Grazia looked askance at him. ‘You’re not going to mess this up, are you?’ she demanded.

  ‘It isn’t my intention,’ Patrick said. ‘Tell me who’s here.’

  ‘Both the Hirondelle and the villa belong to Marco. But besides Fratelli, there’s a man here called Bach.’

  ‘German?’ Patrick asked.

  Grazia nodded. ‘As are the two bodyguard types who came with him. Boneheads if you go by the tattoos.’

  ‘So the Fascists are involved?’

  ‘I thought Charles had brought you up to date?’ she countered.

  ‘There was a lot to take in at short notice.’

  They had reached the patio. Patrick would have preferred more time alone with Grazia, but she didn’t appear to want that. Beyond the glass doors, Patrick could make out the figure of Marco. He was on his mobile, talking in animated Italian.

  Grazia slid open the door and stepped inside.

  ‘Marco,’ she called. ‘Mr Coburn’s here.’

  Marco almost dropped the phone in surprise. Then, collecting himself, immediately said a hurried farewell to whoever he’d been talking to and came towards Patrick, holding out his hand.

  ‘At last.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m a little late,’ Patrick said.

  ‘No worries.’ Marco assumed a delighted smile. ‘How did you arrive?’

  ‘By speedboat.’

  ‘It’s at the jetty?’

  ‘My driver has family in Burano,’ Patrick replied. ‘He’s gone there to wait for me. I believe we’re expecting the paintings?’

  ‘They should be with us very soon.’ Marco paused. ‘We’
re about to have breakfast. Will you join us?’

  Patrick estimated Herr Bach to be in his fifties. A man of middling height, he was in good shape and wouldn’t be overpowered easily. The two boneheads had youth on their side, as well as the advantage of upper-body weight. Patrick thought he could manage one of them, but two at the same time might prove a problem.

  Had Fratelli been on his side, that would have been different. Marco was proving a puzzle. Forsyth had given the impression he wasn’t to be trusted. Patrick wasn’t so sure. Marco’s frequent glances at her over the breakfast table confirmed Patrick’s impression that he lusted after the gorgeous Grazia. Patrick couldn’t envisage a scenario where Fratelli would want her harmed.

  Bach and his men on the other hand would, Patrick feared, dispense with anyone who got in their way. Bach had accepted him as the elusive Mr Coburn, with only a flicker of interest and irritation in his eyes.

  By his second cup of coffee, Patrick had come to the conclusion that none of the three parties round the table trusted one another. All had their own agenda and their own desired outcome, as did he. And all of them were waiting for a judgement to be made on the authenticity of the paintings they were about to view.

  What happened after that would be anyone’s guess.

  Patrick stole a look at Grazia, wondering if it might be possible to speak to her alone before that event. Now that he’d weighed up the opposition, he wanted to warn her what to expect. Seated next to Grazia, he could sense her growing tension. Patrick wondered if having him there had made things better or worse for her.

  Charles had tried to paint Grazia as having no more of a role than that of authenticating expert, but Patrick wasn’t so sure. He recalled their first meeting back in the diplomatic tent. The impression he’d gained was that Grazia Lucca was a force to be reckoned with.

  The silence round the table was broken by the thrashing sound of helicopter blades passing over the house.

  ‘They’re here,’ Marco said, with a satisfied smile.