‘Signor Trevisan, may I make a suggestion?’
‘Please do.’
‘I may be able to help you move this investigation forward. In return I would ask that you keep our conversation confidential. That you mention it to no one, from your service or mine.’
‘Go on.’
‘Yevtukh is dead, I have no doubt of that whatsoever. The woman he met in the bar, and who took him out in the motor launch the next day, is almost certainly a professional assassin. Multilingual, but probably Russian. Name unknown. She was in Venice with another woman, again probably Russian, and possibly her lover. The two of them had been shopping in San Marco two days earlier, and had visited the Van Diest boutique, the Pasticceria Zucchetti and other shops in the area. Both are highly CCTV-aware, and the assassin is extremely skilful at altering her appearance. We think that she’s slim, of medium height, with high-cheekboned features and dark blonde hair. Eyes probably grey or grey-green, but we think that she often wears coloured contact lenses. Also hair-pieces and wigs. The other woman has been described as sporty-looking, with short blonde hair.’
‘You’re sure of this?’
‘I’m sure. And the pair of them must have stayed somewhere locally, either together or separately, given that there’re two days between the San Marco shopping trip and Yevtukh’s disappearance.’
‘We can certainly see if we can find any record of them.’ Trevisan looks at her intently, and Eve is suddenly conscious of her appearance, and, in particular, of the ugly nylon sockettes showing round the edges of her shoes. For years now she has sought others’ approval of her professional competence, giving little or no thought to how they actually see her. But being here in Venice, seeing how Italian women carry themselves, and how they take pleasure in themselves as elegant, sensual beings, makes her want to be appreciated for more than the sharpness of her mind. She would like to walk through San Marco and feel the swirl of a beautifully cut skirt, and the breeze from the lagoon in her hair. Those shop assistants in Van Diest, this morning. They were dressed, it seemed, entirely for their own pleasure and enjoyment. Their clothes whispered secrets that endowed them with confidence and power. In her damp rain-jacket and jeans, Eve doesn’t feel confident or powerful at all. She feels lank-haired and clammy beneath the arms.
The conversation winds down. ‘Tell me,’ Eve asks, as Trevisan ushers them to the entrance. ‘Where did you learn your excellent English?’
‘In Tunbridge Wells. My mother was English, and we spent every summer there when I was a child. I used to watch Multi-Coloured Swap Shop on BBC1 every Saturday, which is why I’m so honoured to meet Noel Edmonds in person.’
Lance winces. ‘Ah.’
‘Please, I understand professional discretion. Mrs Polastri, I’m glad we were able to help each other. Officially, as you requested, this meeting never took place. But it has been a great pleasure.’
They shake hands, and he’s gone.
‘For fuck’s sakes,’ says Eve, as they step out into the moist dusk. ‘Noel Edmonds?’
‘I know,’ says Lance. ‘I know.’
On the way back they catch a vaporetto, a water-bus. It’s crowded, but Eve’s feet are sore and it’s a relief not to be walking. The vaporetto takes them the length of the Grand Canal. Some of the waterside buildings are illuminated, their reflections painting the broken surface of the water with gold, but others are shuttered and unlit, as if guarding ancient secrets. In the half-dark, there is a sinister edge to the city’s beauty.
Lance rides the vaporetto all the way to San Marco, but Eve gets off at the stop before, and walks up towards the Fenice opera house, and a tiny boutique that she spotted earlier in the day. In the window is a beautiful scarlet and white Laura Fracci crêpe wrap dress, and she can’t resist a closer look. The boutique looks terrifyingly expensive, and part of her hopes that the dress doesn’t fit, but when she tries it on it’s perfect. Barely glancing at the price, she hands over her credit card before she can change her mind.
It occurs to her to look in at the Van Diest store, to find out if they’ve found any CCTV footage of the two women. They haven’t, she learns, as the video was deleted two days ago. Seeing her disappointment, the manageress looks thoughtful.
‘There was another thing about the woman who bought the bracelet that I remember,’ she says. ‘Her scent. I always notice scent, it’s my passion. My mother used to work at a perfume shop, and she taught me to recognise the . . . ingredienti. The sandalwood, cedar, amber, violet, rose, bergamotto . . .’
‘So do you remember what scent this woman was wearing?’
‘I didn’t recognise it. It certainly wasn’t one of the usual designer brands. Freesia top note, I think. Base notes of amber and white cedar. Very unusual. I asked her about it.’
‘And?’
‘She told me what it’s called, but I can’t remember the name. I’m sorry, I’m not being very helpful.’
‘You are. Truly. You’ve been a great help. Perhaps if you remember the name of the scent, or anything else about these two women, you could speak to Questore Armando Trevisan at the police station in Santa Croce, and he will pass it on to me.’
‘Certainly. Can I have your name? And perhaps your mobile phone number?’
Eve tells her, gazing wonderingly at the jewellery in the cases. A collar of incandescent sapphires and diamonds. A necklace of emeralds like a cascade of green fire.
The manageress pauses, pen in hand. ‘I can see you admire fine jewellery, Signora Polastri.’
‘I’ve never seen pieces like this. Close enough to touch. I see why people want them so much. Why they fall in love with them.’
‘May I make a suggestion? I’m
