Venetian Vendetta: The Tremayne Mysteries Series Page 20

  ‘Can I offer you something?’ He waved a hand at a battered saucepan sitting beside the cement sink, and laughed harshly. The laugh started a bout of coughing that he couldn’t stop and Nancy jumped up and poured cold water from the one tap into a chipped glass that lay abandoned on the draining board.

  Renzo took it without thanking her, but she didn’t notice. She felt such sympathy for the boy that she thrust her hand in her bag and brought out a wad of money. ‘Please take this. You must eat properly or you’ll struggle to recover.’ She looked across at the fly that was buzzing aimlessly over an open packet of salami.

  Archie put out a restraining arm, stopping her from handing over the banknotes. ‘Before you spend your surprise windfall on more gut rot,’ he said to the boy, ‘we want some information from you.’

  Renzo had reached out eagerly for the money, but now he fell back into the armchair, hiding his hands in the torn sleeves of a dirty white shirt. ‘What information?’ He sounded recalcitrant and hardly a willing source.

  ‘We’ve come to talk to you about this.’ Archie fished from his pocket the piece of torn canvas. ‘Is this your handiwork?’

  Renzo peered at the scrap and once he had managed to gain focus, his eyes registered alarm, then quite deliberately he scrubbed his face clean of all expression. ‘It looks like it’s from a di Cosimo,’ he said haughtily. ‘But I wouldn’t expect you to recognise it.’

  There was something desperately sad about his boyish arrogance; it was all that was left for him amid this pit of squalor.

  ‘No, you’re right. I wouldn’t,’ Archie responded evenly, ‘but my friend here would. She works in art and can tell a fake a mile off.’

  Renzo’s arrogance fled, his face crumbling. ‘It’s not a fake. It’s a di Cosimo,’ he said forlornly, but without hope of being believed.

  ‘And that’s why a painting worth hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions, has been torn into pieces, is it?’ Archie asked conversationally.

  ‘Stupid, eh?’ Renzo gave a nervous giggle.

  ‘Stupid to leave a trail of evidence behind. Evidence of wrongdoing that leads to you. You painted this.’ Archie leaned forward, waving the scrap of canvas in Renzo’s face.

  ‘No, no. I didn’t.’ The boy’s voice broke.

  ‘Yes, you did. Don’t keep denying it, son. You did it for money.’

  ‘I have to eat.’ His face had grown sullen. He’d given up any pretence now that the painting was authentic.

  ‘Indeed you do and who would blame you for using the only talent you have in order to live? They might, however, blame the man who commissioned you to paint it: Dino Di Maio.’

  Renzo gave a gulp. ‘How do you know that?’

  It was not stolen pictures then that Dino was involved in, Nancy thought, but forgery. She looked at Renzo, slumped and shivering, and said gently, ‘How many of these paintings did you do for Dino?’

  ‘Lots,’ the boy said miserably.

  ‘Twenty?’ Archie put in.

  ‘Fifty,’ the boy mumbled. ‘But he didn’t pay me—not for the last batch at least.’

  ‘And that’s why you were at the San Michele cemetery. To confront him?’ Nancy asked.

  ‘You saw?’

  ’I did. I was at Signora Moretto’s funeral.’

  ‘It was the only thing I could do. I couldn’t get near the man at his house or on his boat or at the casinò. I wheedled my way onto the vaporetto—I didn’t have a single lira to make the journey—but it wasn’t any good. He wouldn’t even speak to me,’ Renzo finished despondently.

  ‘And you’re sure you’ve never been paid for those last paintings?’

  The boy shook his head, his chin sunk onto his bony chest. His shivering seemed to be getting worse. But then he suddenly lifted his head, his eyes alight with a rush of anger. ‘And look what he’s done to my work. He’s a philistine.’

  ‘There we can agree,’ Archie said. ‘Tell me, did you deal directly with Dino?’

  ‘No. His captain, or whatever he is. Salvatore. He came here with a list of paintings his master wanted and colour plates for me to copy. Then he came back to collect the paintings when they were finished.’

  ‘Did anyone else come?’ Nancy asked.

  The boy looked blank. ‘Why would they?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she went on. ‘Salvatore may have been busy or away sailing the yacht. Perhaps Dino sent a friend, someone like Luca Moretto?’

  The boy looked bewildered. ‘I don’t know him.’

  ‘And did you know Marta Moretto? It was her funeral you gatecrashed.’

  ‘No. I’ve heard of her though. She’s some big noise in Venice. Or was… she was the woman whose funeral you were at?’ His poor, battered brain was struggling to remember. Methylated spirits or whatever he was drinking hadn’t yet destroyed his mind completely, but Nancy knew she must rescue him and urgently. He was little more than a child.

  Archie was made of sterner stuff. ‘So,’ he continued, ‘you were given precise instructions as to which painting to copy?’

  Renzo nodded. ‘And it wasn’t always easy. I have my own style, you know.’ He rallied for an instant in defence of his artistry. ‘I had to keep adapting it. It’s me you can see there,’ and he pointed to the grass that had struck the false note with Nancy.

  ‘Were they mainly Renaissance artists you were asked to copy?’ she asked.

  ‘No, and that’s another thing.’ His voice had got stronger as he contemplated the ills he’d suffered. ‘They were works from every period and just when you think you’ve cracked the Renaissance stuff, you have to do a French Romantic or a Russian impressionist.’

  ‘None of them seem to be the very biggest names in art,’ Nancy mused.

  ‘No. The second division, I guess. But Dino must have sold them.’

  ‘Oh, he did,’ Archie answered him. ‘He crated them up and sailed them to Albania where, I imagine, some crooked middle man bought them from him and in turn sold them on to a network of equally crooked distributors, who then resold them to unsuspecting and largely ignorant punters.’

  ‘Everyone making money.’ Renzo looked down at his grubby toes and frayed sandals. ‘And I didn’t get a tenth of their value, I bet.’

  ‘Less than a tenth,’ Archie said cheerily. ‘You’re not a good businessman, Renzo. But you are a criminal.’

  ‘You’re going to report me?’ That seemed to electrify him. He jumped up from the foul-smelling chair and cast wildly around for a weapon, his eye coming to rest on a rusty kitchen knife lying unwashed by the sink.

  But Archie was before him, grabbing his wrist and twisting it until the boy cried out in pain. ‘I wouldn’t do that, son. I really wouldn’t. It can only make matters worse.’

  The boy sank onto the floor, seeming to fold in on himself. He began rocking backwards and forwards in a worrying fashion. Nancy bent down to him and tried to take the hands that were tightly swathed in the ragged sleeves of his shirt.

  ‘Renzo, how old are you?’

  There was a pause before the boy said, ‘Seventeen.’ His voice wavered.

  ‘Do you know where your parents are?’

  He looked up with the smallest hint of hope in his face and sounded stronger. ‘Dad’s in the Caribbean. Some island. He sent me a postcard at Christmas.’

  Nancy waited and after a while the boy scrambled to his feet and went over to the only shelf the kitchen possessed, nailed unevenly to a wall criss-crossed by mouldy patches. Renzo rescued the card which seemed to have pride of place and screwed up his eyes to read. ‘Malfuego. That was it. Looks great, eh?’

  ‘And your mother?’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘She went off with some guy two years ago and I haven’t seen her since.’

  ‘What would you say to joining your father on Malfuego?’

  ‘You’ve gotta be joking. It costs thousands of lire to get there.’

  ‘If you were able to get there, do you think your father would welcome you?�
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  Renzo thought for a moment. ‘He did kinda suggest I might want to make the trip.’

  ‘So…’ Nancy sounded briskly practical. ‘If you had a ticket to sail, you could go.’

  ‘I s’pose. If I had one. But what would I do when I got there?’

  ‘Forge paintings?’ Archie suggested.

  ‘Shh.’ Nancy hushed him. ‘You need to be with your father, Renzo. You need someone to take care of you, until you’re properly well.’ She looked down at the postcard the boy had handed her. ‘There’s a phone number here. I’m guessing your father meant you to call him. It’s probably not that easy, but did you try?’

  ‘How could I? I’ve no money.’

  Nancy pulled out another wad of notes from her purse and placed it on the scratched wooden table beside the first pile. ‘This is for food and this,’ she pointed to the new money, ‘is for the phone call. You can book a call to your father this afternoon. Tell him you’re in trouble and need to come to Malfuego for a while. Ask him to send you a boat ticket—a ticket, mind, not money. He’s a businessman, I believe. He should have the funds to do that.’

  ‘He’s got enough,’ Renzo said truculently. ‘But I’m stuck here. I can’t get out of this hovel.’ His shoulders bent over and he began the disturbing rocking again.

  Nancy took hold of him and gave him a sharp shake. ‘You can and you will. You will phone your father, get a ticket sent here and I’ll make sure you have the money to get you to whichever port the ship sails from.’ His eyes brightened at the thought of another pile of lire notes. ‘But not,’ she said severely, ‘until you have the ticket.’

  Archie’s eyes were signalling that she was making a promise she couldn’t keep. They were leaving for London in two days’ time and Hastings senior was unlikely to have sent a ticket by then. But she had Concetta in mind. Concetta had known Renzo’s family and she was a good woman. She would help, Nancy knew. And she would also keep the boy to the agreement. Nancy could see that would be very necessary; a crafty look had come into Renzo’s eyes.

  ‘And what if I don’t spend the money like you say?’

  ‘More meths or low-grade brandy?’ Archie asked briskly. ‘Then you’ll be dead before the police find you. And they will find you because we’ll have turned you in.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’ It was a futile protest.

  ‘We can and we will. Now before we go, a list of those paintings you forged—the ones you can remember.’

  ‘I don’t have any paper,’ he said sulkily.

  ‘That’s where you’re lucky.’ Archie pulled a sheet of paper and a fountain pen from an inside pocket. He took the cap off the pen and handed both to Renzo.

  Nancy’s eyebrows arched in surprise. She should have thought of listing the paintings Renzo had forged, but she hadn’t.

  Archie saw her expression. ‘Once a Boy Scout,’ he said, with a wry smile.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Nancy felt vindicated—her suspicions of Dino Di Maio had proved correct—and on their way back to the vaporetto stop, she was eager to remind a silent Archie that she had got it right.

  ‘I knew that crate on the Andiamo was contraband of some kind,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Forgery rather than stolen pictures, but still criminal.’

  ‘How you’re going to prove it is another matter.’

  Archie’s tone was dour, but she remained unabashed. ‘I can prove it, or rather the police can, now we have a list of forged paintings. Surely that will prod them into taking action.’

  ‘A list that does nothing to tie Dino to it—or Renzo Hastings for that matter. I wanted the boy to sign the paper but he’d have refused, and I didn’t want to risk him tearing it up.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you didn’t press him. But even though we can’t connect the forgeries directly to Dino, once the police start investigating they should be able to.’

  She glanced hopefully at him, but Archie remained morose. ‘How do you propose getting them to start an investigation? Have you thought of that? Are you going take the list to the Questura yourself and spill out your suspicions?’

  She couldn’t do that. It would mean Leo knowing she had continued to dig after he had expressly asked her not to. Had more or less banned her from considering Dino as any kind of wrongdoer. After their difficult conversation this morning, they had reached a kind of truce, but it was fragile and Nancy knew that if any more of her doings came to light, the marriage would be in serious trouble.

  She was haunted, too, by the lurking doubt that Leo might know more about those forgeries than he’d said. After all, he had valued a number of Dino’s paintings. What if Dino had involved him in false valuations? The fact that her husband had been so adamant his friend was not involved in criminal activity, and so keen to paint her claim as outlandish, only increased her uneasiness. But she could say none of this to Archie.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she suggested hesitatingly, ‘we can pass the list to the fraud team with an anonymous note.’ That would ensure the Tremayne name was not involved.

  When Archie made no response, she redoubled her efforts to convince him. ‘The police would be duty bound to take some action, and if they find any of those paintings—and they must, I think —then the trail will lead them to Di Maio.’

  ‘And to Renzo.’

  ‘You think they would find him?’

  ‘Why not? If they find Dino, they’ll find our prolific painter.’

  ‘Still,’ she brightened, ‘that’s some way ahead. By the time Renzo’s name appears in the police files, he should be in the Caribbean. Hopefully there’s no extradition treaty between Italy and Malfuego.’

  ‘Even if there were, it would probably be too much bother to extricate a minion like Renzo Hastings. Di Maio is the big fish and they’ll enjoy frying him if they ever get hold of him.’

  They had reached the Redentore landing stage in record time. Nancy glanced to her left, hoping to see a ferry on the horizon, but the lagoon was calm and on this side of the Giudecca Canal, largely empty. She had begun to fret she’d not be home before Leo returned from the Questura and would be forced to concoct an elaborate lie as to where she had been. In his present mood, he was unlikely to believe her.

  ‘If they get Dino, they’ll get Salvatore, too.’ Archie broke the silence and was thinking aloud. ‘That would be extremely satisfying.’

  Nancy hadn’t given Salvatore a thought this morning. Or his wife. ‘Poor Luisa,’ she said. ‘How awful! She is such a nice woman.’

  ‘Don’t waste your sympathy. Salvatore is in it up to his neck and his wife must know that. In any case, from what I hear there are plenty of others who think she’s a nice woman. The men will be buzzing around if her husband goes to prison. Luisa is a quite a girl by all accounts.’

  Nancy looked startled.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘Nice girls don’t… Why do you think Salvatore was at my throat the minute I asked about his wife?’

  She was saved from answering by the sight of a number four chugging towards them. As it pulled in, she could see it was nearly empty and once on board, she made her way to a seat near an open window. Archie sat across the aisle from her, relapsing into a familiar silence as the boat’s engines began their churn.

  They had been travelling several minutes before she said, ‘The police may eventually get Dino for forgery—I hope they do—but they won’t accuse him of murder. No one will make the connection between the forged paintings and Marta’s death.’

  ‘If there is a connection.’ Archie stretched his legs full length and lay back in his seat. ‘Are you still sure of that? The boy didn’t know her. He’d never met her or Luca Moretto.’

  ‘That means nothing. I doubt Marta would have gone to the Giudecca looking for Renzo. Something else must have alerted her to what was going on or made her suspicious. Then she confronted Dino with it.’

  ‘Why would she though? That’s what I don’t get. The woman owns the most prestigious antiques business in Venice
. She’s wealthy, she’s nearing retirement…’

  ‘Why is that a problem?’ Nancy wrinkled her brow.

  ‘It’s a problem because I can’t imagine why she would challenge a man like Dino, a man who belongs to the same wealthy elite. Why would she accuse him of being a common criminal, even if she suspected it?’

  ‘Because she believed, or she knew for sure, that he was besmirching the honour of a city she loved.’

  ‘Wow. That’s certainly something.’ Archie’s expression was hard to read. He was either going to laugh uproariously or say something very scathing.

  Nancy rushed to defend her words. ‘I know it sounds desperately old-fashioned, but I believe it. It was something Marta said—it felt odd at the time, but it’s stayed with me. She was determined to make the Moretto name great again, determined to do wonderful things for Venice. She loved her city and if she was intent on ensuring a splendid future, the last thing she would have wanted was someone like Dino working against her. A man with ties to her family, a close friend of her son’s. Dino could bring her whole project into disrepute.’

  ‘So why didn’t she go directly to the police?’

  ‘She knew Dino well. Like you say, they moved in the same circles and he was close to her family. She must have known him since he was a small boy. She gave him the chance to defend himself and if he couldn’t, to stop doing what he was doing and clean up his business. But he carried on regardless and then she threatened to go to the police. That was what sealed her fate.’

  Archie leaned towards her. ‘More extravagant guesses?’

  ‘Not that extravagant, but guessing, I agree. It does sound plausible, though, doesn’t it?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Minimally perhaps. What doesn’t sound plausible is that she told all this to Luca.’

  ‘Why not?’

  The boat bumped up against the San Zaccaria landing stage. Nancy had been so absorbed in arguing her case, she hadn’t realised they were nearing their destination and had to scramble to follow Archie down the gangway.

  ‘Why doesn’t it sound plausible that Marta would tell her son what she feared?’ she asked again after they’d been walking for several minutes.