‘The Rigon family? They used it as a restaurant, but moved on when they sold the business.’
The woman tutted. ‘There’s no record of ownership by anyone of that name. Perhaps they leased the property.’
‘Sì. Perhaps. Is it owned by Vittorio Gatti?’ Lucia asked.
‘There is no ownership by someone of that name.’
Lucia startled. ‘Oh . . .’
‘There may be an unofficial lease in place; unregistered with thecomune, but who would know? It’s of no concern to us.’
‘And what of the potential criminal activity?’
The woman took back Lucia’s note and scribbled the phone number112on the back. ‘Thecarabinieriwill help you.’ Readjusting her phone, she hit play and the video resumed.
Lucia collected her things and left the office, her nerve shattered.
Coming to the first service canal on her short ten-minute walk home, she dropped to the embankment and sat on the edge of thefondamenta. Lucia let her legs dangle freely for a moment before retrieving the address note from her pocket.
“Thecarabinieriwill help you . . .” They’re too busy to deal with this.
She scrunched the note into a ball and dropped it into the canal.
She watched as the paper absorbed the murky turquoise water, becoming slowly translucent before it sank into the shallow depths.
Out of sight, out of mind, she consoled herself.Eighty-seven days, Lucia. Let’s get back to work.
sei
After a few days of teaching and day-to-day life at La Scuola Rosa, it felt like Wednesday rolled around quite quickly.
Lucia had been contacted by some lenders for further documentation for her pending loan applications, with a few sounding promising based on pre-approval figures. But for now, Lucia, Mariella and Francesco had one thing to focus on: correcting their students’ work.
Mariella had prepared lunch while Lucia and Francesco started on the marking, which was spread across the large mahogany table on the ground floor of the school.
‘No matter how many times I tell them . . .’ Francesco muttered under his breath, attacking one grammar test with his red pen. ‘Irregular.Irregular. How many times . . .?’
Lucia tittered across from him.
‘Corrections aside,per favore!’ Mariella announced, puffing as she made her way down the stairs from Lucia’s apartment. She set Lucia’s cast-iron chef’s pan down on the heat protector pad in the middle of the table. ‘My muscles all have Le Creuset emblazoned across them. Move those papers,’ she snipped again. ‘Risi e bisi. Andvino.’ She walked to the front door and flicked theApertosign toChiuso, and was just about to return to the table when she suddenly caught sight of movement across thecalle. ‘Lucia!’ she gasped, waving her hands. ‘Come quick!’
Lucia and Francesco locked eyes briefly before bolting to the front window. Even Foscari wanted some of the action, following behind.
The front door of La Commedia had been partially opened. Perhaps only an inch or two, but there was no mistaking it.
And then, he appeared.
Three curious sets of eyes watched intently as a tall, brown-haired man emerged through La Commedia’s front door. Dressed smartly in navy slacks, dark cropped boots and a long black woollen coat, he wound a grey scarf around his neck before turning to lock the door behind him. Stepping from the landing to the pavers of Calle del Leone, he looked both ways before turning to his right and immediately disappearing from view over the small bridge running over the service canal.
‘We all just saw that,no?’ Francesco asked, his gaze still fixed across the road.
‘Very much so,’ confirmed Mariella.
Lucia stepped out onto thecalleand immediately shuddered in the cold. Foscari tottered behind her, circling her feet with concern.
With an unobstructed view of the empty street on the other side, Lucia knew she was too late. The man, whoever he was, was gone.
She turned around and shrugged at Mariella and Francesco in the window. ‘Gone.Sparito!’
