All the Rage (15 page)

But then never had she encountered the likes of Paris Hilton, who was at this very moment standing across the street, modelling the latest fashion creation for the TV cameras, and surrounded by an entourage of pampering, silly people. Kara found it quite spellbinding.

‘Vulgar,' said the actor, observing the action from the window.

‘Another world. ' Kara sighed.

‘Would you like my autograph? ' the actor asked, shamelessly.

It turned out the actor was in fact passing time before meeting a publicist at Brown's Hotel. He regaled Kara with stories of his adventures as an A-List celebrity; named the starlets he had taken advantage of, and listed the terrible insecurities of his profession. She in turn nodded sympathetically, counting the lines on his surgically enhanced features.

When he finally departed, he insisted on giving her his mobile phone number.

‘Be sure to ring now,' he said, kissing her fondly on both cheeks, adding, ‘You have an impeccable disposition, my girl. You could go far in theatre. '

Watching intently as he sauntered across the road, Kara was then surprised to see him greet (‘Hello, Darling! ') the model with an infectious huge hug and an array of over the top air kisses. Old friends. Old foes. Old luvvies. Acting to the last. Kara howled with laughter.

 

***

 

Coming out to see what all the commotion was about, Michael gathered up the envelope which he had found on the doorstep in the morning.

‘Am I missing all the fun? ' he asked, moving to the window. A crowd had gathered on the street to watch the photo shoot. Michael did a double take. ‘Is
that
Paris Hilton? '

‘Never heard of her,' Kara said, sarcastically.

Removing the contents from the envelope, Michael too was somewhat caught up in the circus. It was truly entertaining. Unfolding the letter, his eyes glanced down. He was silent as he read the contents.

‘
Jesus Christ
,' he murmured, ashen-faced.

‘What is it? ' Kara asked, following his gaze down to his outstretched hand.

He passed her the unfolded piece of paper. ‘What the hell do you make of this? ' he asked.

On what appeared to be a photocopy of an old newspaper clipping, Kara read:

Dublin Evening Herald, 1978

 

NORTH STRAND DEATH. FAMILY MEMBER HELD.

 

At 8 o'clock this morning local emergency services rushed to a disturbance at a house on Clonmore Terrace, after being alerted by neighbours who heard the sound of screaming. The property, as yet to be identified by the Gardai as part of their on-going enquires, has been sealed off as an investigation begins. It is understood that a body of a man has been discovered. A senior Gardai spokesman has issued a statement announcing that a possible murder inquiry is now under way.

The identity of the victim has also been withheld until a forensics team can confirm the exact nature of the cause of the fatality. A press conference has been set at 10am tomorrow morning.

What can be substantiated though is that a member of the immediate family has been detained in custody for further questioning. A source for the local Gardai has revealed that they are not seeking anyone else in connection with this incident.

 

Reporting piece by Frank Magee.

 

Kara's eyes were now firmly fixed upon the typed message on the bottom of the newspaper cutting, which read:

 

YOU ARE IN GRAVE DANGER

 

‘Oh, Michael, what is this? I don't understand. '

He watched her shake her head and saw a tear form in the corner of her eye. Like him, he knew she was undoubtedly trying to digest the contents of the cutting, and make sense of it. A kind of rushing fear suddenly engulfed him.

She handed the cutting back to Michael, who re-read the details and then checked the envelope. It simply stated his name in capital type.

‘Christ,' he said again.

‘Should we call the police? ' Kara asked.

‘I need to think,' Michael said, and aimed himself toward a private cabinet in his office. He retrieved two glasses and a bottle of scotch. Pouring generously, he handed one to Kara. ‘Here, get this down you. ' They swallowed hard and fast.

Michael paced the gallery. ‘This envelope was delivered by hand, earlier this morning. I collected it off the doormat. There is no address or postmark.
Someone
wants me to know
something
…something that I am not actually aware of. Or am I? Whoever was responsible for this
is also warning me. ' Michael finished the contents of his glass and poured another. Kara declined. He was dismayed by the cryptic message. ‘I need to think…'

‘What does a possible murder story from 1978 have to do with you, Michael? It's scary. '

Michael pondered this very question. A thousand thoughts re-entered his brain, swirling crazily and without meaning. He recalled his conversations with Maggie and the connection she made with her family life in Dublin. Could this be the thread? Surely not, but it was a plausible explanation.

‘We do absolutely nothing,' he said.

Kara jumped, startled. ‘
What
? '

‘This isn't actually an implied threat, Kara. It is a warning. We do not know what it means at this stage. So we wait. '

She downed her scotch and now impatiently insisted on a refill. Michael replenished both their glasses.

‘
Wait
? Wait for what? ' Kara asked.

‘Whoever was responsible for this,' he said, waving the piece of paper in the air, ‘is local to us. They have to be. That's why they felt the need to put it directly into our letterbox. They now know for sure that we have read it. We don't understand the implications. Therefore, we wait. '

Her eyes widened, and he knew for sure that Kara had taken the point.

‘We wait for the next instalment,' she said.

‘Exactly,' Michael said, without a care thanks to drinking three whiskies in as many minutes. It was the kind of situation that called for it. But he knew deep down that his response was all false bravado. ‘And it will come, you can be sure of that,' he added.

Much to his dismay, the bottle of whisky was empty. More crucially, he sensed that his reserves of courage were going the same way, too.

Chapter Nine

 

Later that evening, in the solitude of his home, Michael thought of everything and nothing, such was the confusion that cluttered his overworked brain. This bewilderment seemed to compress his skull and cause a pain like a deadly arrow shooting between his eyes. Extraordinary images from the past few days flashed before him with frightening speed. From somewhere, the first conversation he ever had with Lauren sprang into his mind. He thought of Kara, and the fear she tried to suppress on witnessing the mysterious press cutting. Then there was Adele and
him
…enough!
Enough!
His head throbbed and his mouth felt like dry parchment.

He showered and wrapped himself in a white towelling dressing gown. Retreating to his bedroom, he took two aspirin and prayed for a decent night's sleep, freeing him, momentarily at least, from the dark entanglements which were shaping and manipulating his life.

He had to ask the question: who was doing the manipulation?

This was what he knew.

Lauren was seeking to rid herself of the past by means of masterminding a new beginning, which was a perfectly reasonable thing to do, in his view. But in this dark, muddled past were many demons that brought conflict into her rational thinking.
They
dictated to her, controlled her and owned her. It was clearly evident that the two people closest to her, Maggie and Julius, could not offer release from this inescapable torment. Now Lauren was using him – the respectable art dealer – as the bargaining tool, the prop, on which to lean. The point was, though, just how far was he prepared to go to save her?

If Julius was a victim, it was becoming apparent, according to Maggie, that he, too, could be dragged down a similar path.

And what of this woman called Maggie? The sister who appeared from absolutely nowhere and yet knew of everything and everyone, himself included. Her description of Lauren's childhood was both deeply affecting and plausible. He had no reason to doubt her story. And yet she troubled him. For all her nobility, Maggie was an unknown quantity, a person capable of placing the blame for Lauren's behaviour squarely upon Lauren's own shoulders. Maggie was a damaging force. Not to be messed with. On the one hand, he should steer clear of her. On the other, he would probably need her help. However misguided it could prove to be.

Julius and Antonia were intrinsically connected, he was sure of it. They were linked, body and soul. Finding Julius was the key,
if
he was alive. So far, there was not a shred of evidence that he was. Inexplicably, the image of Bruno scratching at the base of the renewed buttress made him shiver with the sudden recollection. What secrets did the soil hold? He imagined bones and flesh decaying in the ground. In spite of this, he had to believe that the artist was alive. The alternative was too shocking to grasp. But it played relentlessly on his mind all the same.

The telephone rang downstairs. He hurried to get it but was unsuccessful. Instead, the answerphone kicked in. He listened to the message:

‘Michael, this is Adele. Sorry to ring at this hour. I'm going into the gallery tomorrow to do the VAT returns. I should arrive just after eleven, but I'm at the dentist first, so I could be later. I know we have issues to resolve and I know that you might want to avoid me, so this is a little warning if you want to stay away. I know you hate confrontations. If there is a problem, let me know. Bye. '

He replaced the handset and pondered. He was niggled. Once again, she was setting the agenda, always calling the tune. His imagination ran wild. Was she now retiring to the bedroom with John? Graphic images tortured his mind. He could barely contain his anger which was directed squarely at them both. But just as this simmered and boiled over, another thought crept in to his head and then slipped away again.

He cursed. What really bothered him so deeply as to override the stark possibility of them making love?

Just then, he was interrupted by the ringtone on his mobile. Racing upstairs, carelessly knocking over the glass of water on his bedside table, he just caught the signal.

‘Hello, is that you, Adele? '

‘Michael, I hope it is not too late to call. This is Agnes. '

Agnes. Agnes! He had clean forgotten about her, but was greatly comforted to hear her voice. ‘Never, never too late for you, Agnes. Have you some information for me? '

The line crackled with interference, which made him concentrate even on the silence before the first sentence.

‘Michael,' Agnes shouted above the din, ‘I thought you should know, even at this late hour. Tomorrow I'm away on a business trip to Turin, which would make it difficult to talk. '

‘Yes, yes. I understand. ' He was desperate for news.

‘It's about the girl,' she said, pausing to cough lightly, ‘we have found her. '

 

***

 

He did not sleep. Instead, using the Internet, he booked a seat to Venice from Gatwick on the 9am flight. Hurriedly, he packed an overnight bag, booked a taxi for 5. 30am and rested as best he could. The sheer excitement of making contact with Antonia overrode all other emotions. Through her, he would learn the truth of what happened to Julius, and dare he hope, shed light on his whereabouts. If he was alive and living anonymously in Venice, then, even in his wildest dreams, could there be the possibility of a meeting? It was worth a shot. A bloody long shot, he had to admit. But he never wavered in his belief that somehow going to Venice was the key to unlocking the mystery of the vanishing artist.

He would meet Antonia face to face, and seek the answers. To do that, he would have to do all the running. If he was clever, she would talk. If he was dumb, she too would disappear and remain untouchable. The door would stay firmly locked. Therefore, the softly softly
approach was paramount. Although he felt his visit was necessary, the rush to get there was a little rash and chaotic, and he had to slow down. The last thing he needed was to transfer his anxiety to Antonia, and ruin everything. Exhausted, yet contented, he finally closed his eyes in the knowledge that the truth would finally emerge. He had to believe it.

At four, his alarm rang. He showered again, hastily consumed black coffee and burnt toast, and dressed in a smart navy blue light woollen suit by Georges Rech. An open-necked white shirt, brown leather shoes and belt conveyed just the right impression – elegant and relaxed – he guessed.

The taxi was prompt, the journey straightforward. At Gatwick, he had time for a proper breakfast, whereupon he phoned Kara. He explained the events of the night before and the action he was now embarking upon.

‘Be careful, Michael. I don't like what's happening,' she said.

‘Everything will be fine. I'll be away for just a couple of days. '

‘What if you don't find Julius? '

‘What if I do? 'The conversation hung heavy in the air, creating a void between them.

He knew she wasn't convinced.

Eventually, she argued, ‘Michael, I don't understand why Adele is coming in again. Normally, she would finish the returns in an afternoon. Now you tell me she needs more time. '

‘Watch her like a hawk,' he instructed, reminding himself of the telephone message from Adele earlier. Something didn't add up.

Then the penny dropped for him, and, he suspected, for Kara as well.

‘Bloody hell, Kara,' Michael yelled. ‘You told me that she commandeered your office. Did you work together at any time after she arrived that afternoon? '

‘No. I explained how territorial she was. I was made to feel unwelcome in my own space. '

‘And the VAT files were nowhere to be seen. '

It was Kara's turn to interrupt. ‘Oh, my God, Michael, are you thinking what I'm thinking? '

Michael suddenly saw a new perspective that made his stomach churn. ‘She never did the returns,' he figured. ‘That's why we couldn't find them. '

‘So,' Kara said. ‘In that case, what the hell did she find to do all afternoon? '

The question remained unanswered as flight number BA1267 was called over the intercom.

Banking steeply above the clouds, the Airbus 2000 levelled out for a routine flight which landed safely at Marco Polo airport at just after 11. 45am. Security was tight, but eventually Michael just managed to catch the crowded Alilagura water taxi before it throttled back from the jetty. The white spray from the churning water tracked their journey across the lagoon to a distant magical city, a city built on an archipelago of 118 islets, the buildings of which stood precariously upon millions of sunken larch poles. Venice.

This fantastic city never failed to enthral him. The great mass of decaying gothic buildings, squashed and squeezed, burnt and faded by the blazing sunshine, was testament to mankind's ingenuity. Fighting a constant battle against the forces of nature, the old lady of grandeur was sinking slowly, whilst the relentless tides ensured the waters would continue to rise. And submerge her treasures to the murky deep.

It surely was the most romantic, yet doomed place on earth. The Bridge of Sighs would be the final epitaph.

Arriving at the Hotel Danieli, a former Doges' residence, Michael settled into his opulent room overlooking the Piazza and started to retrace the conversation he had with Agnes.

 

***

 

All that morning, Kara continued to build up resentment at the impending arrival of Adele. She fumed. Being effectively side-lined from her own office was one thing, having Adele camp down again on her territory was another. What was going on?

Ronald was in today and his constant chirpiness was grating on her fast-receding patience with the world. Even Marcus
got it when he phoned to arrange a date for the evening. ‘Don't bother me just at this moment, Marcus. I'm having a bad day. ' He didn't deserve it, but someone had to pay.

The newspaper article directed at her boss bothered her. It was eerie and intrusive. Who was out there watching them? On entering the gallery earlier, she was nervous of discovering yet another envelope. There was none, much to her relief. She was spooked by everything, including Ronald's vulgar pink tie.

Whatever she did, or tried to accomplish, was a total disaster. She was clumsy and loud and fidgety. In short, she was looking for a fight. Ronald must have read the signs and kept a wide berth. Wise man, she reckoned. Marcus didn't have the same intuition, she reminded herself, forcing a smile.

What was most galling was the bloody deceit of
that
woman. Why did Adele pretend to occupy her time with the sod awful VAT returns, for Christ sake?

Bloody Jesus Christ! It hit her like a sledgehammer.

The files.

Kara's blood ran cold. She and Michael had guessed right: Adele never intended to do the VAT returns… all she wanted was access to Kara's computer. That's why she insisted on privacy. She was withdrawing detail from the files that could incriminate her. Kara hurried to her desk and worked fast.

Over the past couple of weeks she had systematically built up a name base containing the sensitive information that showed Adele's involvement in cash sales. In turn, this would enable Kara to prove tax evasion, and thus be able to be used as evidence in order to get Adele to back down in all her ludicrous demands on Michael. If she could achieve this, the business could be saved. Michael could be saved! If there was one thing she was convinced of, it was that Adele would back down from any kind of scandal. It was a persuasive weapon.

Shit! Just as she had feared, scrolling quickly down her file bank, all the appropriate ‘names' had been wiped clean. Adele had gone to war and won.

It had now become a dirty business. And Adele had come to the table better prepared than most.

Ronald interrupted her thoughts. ‘Marcus is on the line again…'

‘Tell Marcus to piss off,' Kara barked.

 

***

 

Antonia Forlani was twenty-eight years of age, Venetian by birth, born to an architect and his wife, a beautician. Both parents were still alive and living in the city. Antonia was a part-time legal secretary, working on the edge of the San Marco district, on the Calle della Bissa. She lived with her parents, near the Rialto Bridge. Home was a small cramped third- floor apartment. According to Agnes, through her contact, Antonia was saving her monthly income to help find a place of her own.

There was another thing. She had a four year old child, a girl named Manuella.

She lived with her parents and Manuella. And that was that.

At first, Michael was disappointed. There was no mention of a husband or boyfriend. The search for Julius looked flat. But he still had her to pursue. Surely one would lead to the other.

Agnes had been very thorough. She furnished Michael with Antonia's exact route to work, her hours of employment, and more importantly, her daily ritual of stopping off for wine and simple tapas each afternoon at the Cantina Do Spade. She did this every day at four o'clock, without fail.