Detective Gallo knew that the Doge’s Palace and the magnificence of St Mark’s Square were just a short boat ride away, and part of him was tempted to do some sightseeing, but that wasn’t what he was here for. This was business, not pleasure, and he needed to get started right away.
He strolled over to the line of water taxis, approaching the first in the queue, and said in low tones, ‘The White Palace Hotel.’ The driver nodded, and Roberto stepped on board, settling himself in his seat, his overnight bag resting on his lap as the boat pulled away into the traffic of the canal.
It was a bright and sunny February day, though the temperature was hovering just above freezing, and Venice was looking splendid. Detective Gallo was open-mouthed at the views, wondering why he hadn’t visited before. The city was astonishing, over a thousand years of history proudly on display, like a living museum.
His journey took him almost the full length of the Grand Canal, chugging beneath the Rialto Bridge as scores of tourists leaned out from the distinctive balustrade. A handful of them waved; Roberto Gallo did not wave back.
They passed the Palazzo Grassi, then wove beneath the Ponte dell’Accademia, before the iconic church of Santa Maria della Salute hoved into view to the south, with the Piazza San Marco to the north. Then came an enormous white building on its own private island, familiar to Detective Gallo from photographs he’d seen in the many travel brochures he’d browsed.
‘There it is,’ said the driver, a surly man with a balding head and a shabby overcoat. He looked Detective Gallo up and down. ‘Are you staying there?’ he asked, his tone betraying surprise.
Roberto was aware that he didn’t look like a typical guest of the White Palace Hotel. He wasn’t rich, he wasn’t beautiful, and he was carrying a single small, unbranded bag, not a clutch of monogrammed Louis Vuitton luggage.
‘No,’ he said shortly, meeting the driver’s gaze and handing over the fare. The driver shrugged, unbothered, and turned his gaze towards his destination.
The White Palace Hotel was certainly impressive, Detective Gallo thought. It was a four-storey palazzo painted, as its name suggested, completely white, with its roof tiled in the distinctive terracotta that was used throughout the city. He knew that all kinds of extremely wealthy, high-profile people stayed here: celebrities, CEOs, heads of state. If she was here, then she’d done well for herself.
Detective Gallo paid the fare without tipping and requested a receipt, which made the driver grumble. The cost of the journey was extortionate enough, Gallo reflected, without adding extras, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to claim the expense back without his superior questioning it. But how else was he supposed to reach a private island, if not by boat? The vaparetti didn’t stop here – yet another plus point for those guests seeking complete privacy. No one could set foot on the Isola dell’Angelo unless they were a guest or a member of staff.
The driver wasn’t permitted to take the private channel that led directly inside the hotel, so he’d stopped at the jetty on the north of the island, where Roberto disembarked and strode up the steps. A uniformed bellboy, stationed just inside the enormous glass double doors, rushed across to help, but Roberto Gallo irritably waved him away.
Detective Gallo found himself wondering about the lives of the people who would stay here. They would be in complete contrast to his own, mostly unremarkable existence as a country policeman solving unremarkable crimes. Except this one.
He’d seen photographs in the paper of Lucia de Santis arriving earlier that week, and knew that the Hollywood actor Brad Redford was also staying at the White Palace while he worked on a new film in the city.
Still, Roberto mused, if he could resolve the case that had been plaguing him for a decade, it would bring its own rewards.
The inside of the hotel was even more impressive than the outside, with a polished marble floor and ornately carved pillars, frescoes decorating the walls and chandeliers made from handblown glass. A pianist played gentle background music on a grand piano, and the entire building had an astonishing air of calm and sophistication that Roberto had never experienced before.
He approached the long, polished-wood reception desk, where the woman greeted him with a practised smile.
‘Good afternoon, welcome to the White Palace Hotel, how may I assist you?’
She wore a name badge that read ‘Vittoria’, and she had dark hair pulled back into a neat chignon at the nape of her neck. She wore a white shirt beneath a navy waistcoat, and discreet gold jewellery at her ears and neck. Detective Gallo stared at her for a moment before ruling her out; her face was rounder, her nose wider.
‘Good afternoon,’ he smiled shortly, pulling out his ID card and pushing it across the counter. ‘My name is Detective Roberto Gallo, and I’m looking for a missing person. I wondered if you’d seen her before.’ He pulled a photograph from his inside pocket and slid it across the desk towards her, taking back his ID.
It was a passport-style photo, a head-and-shoulders shot showing a young woman of around fifteen or sixteen years old, with long dark hair and a pretty face. She had green eyes and an innocent expression.
Vittoria picked up the photograph, stared at it and frowned.
‘Yes, she does look familiar,’ she said finally. ‘But we have so many people pass through here, I couldn’t place her. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Her name is Maria Monti,’ Detective Gallo pressed. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’
Again, Vittoria paused for a moment, clearly thinking hard, then shook her head. ‘No, I’m afraid not. I could look through the guests’ records if you give me some time – perhaps come back another day when I’ve had time to check?’
Detective Gallo smiled politely but without warmth. ‘And you have no employees of that name?’
‘I don’t think so, although I can’t be certain. We might have had someone in the past. We have a lot of seasonal workers in the summer, and for Carnevale. But we do keep scrupulous records,’ she said proudly.
‘Naturally.’ Detective Gallo inclined his head. ‘Well, thank you for your help, Vittoria. Here’s my card if you do happen to remember anything. It has the details of my station and department. While I’m in the city, you can contact them; they can get a message to me if needed.’
Vittoria took it without glancing at it and put it in a drawer behind the desk. ‘I understand.’
‘Perhaps, while I’m here, I’ll stay for a coffee. Could you point me in the right direction?’
‘Of course, Detective. Our lounge is just across the lobby and to your right.’
‘Thank you for your time. You’ve been very helpful,’ Detective Gallo said, as he turned and walked away. Before he took the boat back across the lagoon, he would take a good look round the White Palace Hotel. It wasn’t that he distrusted what Vittoria had told him, but it never hurt to check everything thoroughly for himself.
The detective settled himself into a quiet corner seat in one of the lounges and ordered a black coffee from one of the waiters. He took out his notebook, and looked once more at his notes.
Of facts there were few, but they were straightforward.
Lorenzo Mancini had disappeared ten years ago, and now his body had been found. The relative isolation of the ledge, its aspect out of the sunlight and the detritus that had accumulated over the decade had meant that the body was remarkably well preserved.
The boy’s watch was still on his wrist, and caught up in the strap had been a cluster of hairs. They had been lucky to be able to identify some of the DNA, and it was tracked down via a family member to the Montis in Cannegia. This was where he had met Maria’s mother. Wizened and crippled by arthritis, she had no doubt about her daughter’s culpability.
‘The only thing I can tell you is that Maria was always going to be trouble. Her father worshipped her, but I knew she had something bad in her, il diavolo.’ The old woman glared out at him from her chair in her small, one-bedroomed apartment, handing him a photograph of a teenaged girl. She was smiling; her dark hair circled her face in long curls.
‘But she was only fifteen years old?’
The flat was filled with pictures of her other children at various moments in their lives, but her mother had no pictures of Maria on display.
‘What has that got to do with it? I was made a young widow because of her, causing her poor father so much grief!’
Inspector Gallo sighed as he looked out over the Lido. Was he just a foolish old man? Why wasn’t he out fishing on the lake back home, instead of chasing the shadows of the past?