When Valentina Morassi gets back to headquarters the dead girl's father is waiting in the cold reception area. He's reported her missing and still doesn't know the awful truth.
Valentina quickly learns that the victim is fifteen-year-old Monica Vidic. A Croatian schoolgirl, visiting Venice with her dad as something of a bonding trip. An ugly divorce had ripped the family apart and forty-two-year-old Goran had thought the trip would help his daughter deal with it.
They'd gone to St Mark's together, and then she'd stormed off after dinner while arguing about where she wants to spend her weekends. The father thought he'd find her back at the hotel but she never turned up. Soon after midnight he and the concierge had searched the bars, clubs and train station. The paperwork on Valentina's desk shows they even reported her missing to the Polizia, but her body was found before an alert made it into the morning briefing sessions.
Valentina gets both a male and female officer to accompany Goran to the morgue, though from the photograph he's given her, there's no doubt the butchered girl in the canal and the smiling kid doing a thumbs-up on a funfair ride are one and the same. When they're finished, they'll take him back to his hotel. Sit with him while he phones his ex-wife, then see if he needs a doctor and help in dealing with all the bureaucracy that comes with death in a foreign country.
More notes on her desk tell her that colleagues have already finished interviewing the retired fishmonger who found the body. She reads Luigi Graziuso's statement on her way to the interview room where the other witness is waiting. The old man says he was out walking his dog when he came across the girl's body dangling from a rope. At first Luigi thought the girl had slipped and was caught half in and half out of the water, so he shouted for help. It was only after screaming his lungs out and pulling for several minutes that he realised she was dead.
It was then that the young American had arrived. He'd sat with the dead girl while Luigi went to the door of an apartment building and got someone to call the Carabinieri.
Valentina pauses outside the interview room and looks through a pane of wired glass at the American witness: Tom Shaman. A tourist with no fixed abode. Strange. She studies him for a while. Normally, witnesses who've found dead bodies don't look as calm as he does. There are usually outward signs of distress. Edginess. Depression. A head hung low in reflective thought. But not this guy. He looks at ease. Comfortable. Bored, if anything.
She pushes the door open and he looks her way. Bright brown eyes. Some natural warmth. Tall when he stands. One of those guys who meets the world with a bone-crushing handshake. 'Buongiorno, I'm Lieutenant Valentina Morassi.' She looks again at her notes. 'You're Tom, Tom Shaman?'
'Yes.'
'Sorry to have kept you waiting. Please sit down. Do you talk Italian?'
He smiles. A nice smile. Easy. Maybe practised. 'Not enough to get us through this.'
'Okay. Then please forgive my bad English.'
Tom doesn't think there's much to forgive. She seems smart. Bright as a button, as his mom used to say. 'You sound word perfect. Did you learn English at school, or did you live abroad?'
She pointedly ignores his question. 'Can you tell me what happened this morning? How did you come upon the young woman in the water?'
Tom understands her need for brevity. 'I was out walking and heard a man shouting. I crossed some bridges and found this old guy trying to pull the girl out of the canal. Some small dog was barking and running round. I guess it was his.'
'It was. A terrier.'
Tom wonders what happened to it. Guesses it ran off home. 'The old fella couldn't manage to get her out. Though he was doing his best. I think he thought the girl was still alive.'
'Did you?'
His face shows the first flicker of sadness. 'No.'
'And then?'
'I finished pulling her out. By that time the old guy had gone off to get help. I sat with him until your officers showed up, and then I was asked to come here.' Tom glances at his watch. 'That was about three hours and one bad cup of coffee ago.'
Valentina frowns. 'I'm sorry, you're right, the coffee is not good. But as I'm sure you can see, we're a little busy with more important things than being waiters at the moment.'
'Glad to hear so.'
Valentina notes the riposte. Normally she'd like that in a man. But not one sat in an interview room. 'You told one of my colleagues that you are American. You live in LA and you're just here on holiday?'
Tom shakes his head. 'Not quite what I said. I am American. I no longer live in LA, and I'm not here on holiday, I'm just passing through.'
'Through to where?' The question comes out more aggressively than she meant.
He thinks about telling her it's none of her business. Contemplates explaining that recently he's been to hell and back and now just wants to go to his hotel and have a long bath.
Valentina repeats herself. 'Where? Through to where?'
'I really don't know yet. Maybe London. Maybe Paris. I've not seen much of the world and I'm going to spend some time putting that right.'
It's the kind of comment ex-cons make when they're just out of the slammer. Valentina makes a note to come back to it. 'So what about LA? That's not home any more?'
'No.'
'Then where is?'
'For tonight and the next seven days, home is gonna be here. Then I'll see.'
'What do you mean?'
'What I said. Home is pretty much – in the words of the song – wherever I lay my hat.'
Her face shows she's not in the mood for a sing-along. 'Why did you leave LA, Mr Shaman?'
Tom leans back. This is a tough one to explain. Though he knew it was coming. It was inevitable. And judging from the scepticism in her eyes, she's not going to buy anything but the full, checkable truth. So he's going to give it to her. Or at least, most of it.
'Because, some months back, I killed someone.'
He tries to sound casual, but guilt sticks like tar to every syllable.
'Actually, that's a lie – I killed two people.'