Present Day Luna Hotel Baglioni, Venice Gondolas rock like giant cradles on moonlit canals blessed by the soft warmth of a perfect summer evening. Across Venice, classical musicians take to the boats and cast song bait for the shoals of romantic tourists snapping at the water's edge.
Tina watches it all from the bedroom window of the hotel, and can tell Tom is in no mood to join in.
She'd gone out soon after breakfast and he'd forgotten the key she'd left for him. Forgotten the cell number she'd written down and pushed into his hand. It seems he'd forgotten absolutely everything, except seeing a dead fifteen-year-old on a slab in a mortuary.
She'd planned a special surprise to lift his spirits when he returned from the morgue, but he'd made straight for the desk in the far corner of the room and had festered there ever since. There's no point springing the surprise when he's in this state of mind. The time has to be exactly right for these things, or you might as well not bother.
She flicks on CNN. Some political row over Obama's economic policy. She scowls at the screen and leaves Tom to scribble on hotel notepaper at the desk. 'Damned Republicans and Democrats, I really wish they'd just stop fighting each other and pull together to get us out of this shit.'
He manages a grunt.
'Hey, I forgot to tell you. I want to go hear some Vivaldi – either tomorrow or the night after. Would you like to come? Or is that not your kind of thing?'
He stops writing. 'Sure I'll come. I'm more Nickelback than Vivaldi, but yeah, I'd love to go. Widen my horizons.'
Tina turns down the sound, carries a leaflet over and drops it on the desk. 'I got it from reception. The concierge has a friend at the Ateneo di San Basso who can fix good tickets. It's the San Marco Chamber Orchestra, and they're supposed to be the best.'
He glances at the leaflet. It tells how Vivaldi had worked in Venice as a violin teacher, then went on to write more than sixty works and became director of the Sant'Angelo theatre. Tom puts it down. 'I only know The Four Seasons, and for much of my life I even thought that was a hotel chain.'
Tina laughs. 'Time to educate you, then. What are you scribbling?'
'Just some thoughts. Something a cop said at the morgue has been going round in my head.'
She slips behind him and rubs his shoulders. 'Maybe Paris or London would have been better options after all.'
'You're telling me.'
'So exactly what is going round in that lovely head of yours?'
He writes down four letters and underlines them. 'C-U-L-T – I think what we might be looking at is the workings of a cult. Part Satanic, part mired in old pre-Christian worship and mythology.'
'A new cult, or an old cult?'
He looks up at her. 'Good question. That's what the Carabinieri are going to have to work out.' He puts an arm around her waist and eases her on to his lap. 'Listen, I'm sorry I'm not very pleasant to be with today. This thing is eating at me.'
She kisses him. 'I know. I understand. It's good that you're the kind of guy who tries to help out.' She stands up, grabs his hand and pulls him to his feet. 'Get off your sad ass for a minute and come see something.'
She drags him across the room, past the TV, the dresser and newly made-up bed that she can't wait to unmake again. 'Shut your eyes.'
He feels foolish.
'Hands over them. No peeping.'
Tina's too small to check if he's cheating. She stands on tiptoe to try, and then takes his hand again and walks him a few more steps to his left. 'Okay. Now you can look.'
He does.
He's standing in front of her open wardrobe, staring at racks of blouses, skirts, dresses, pants and shoes. So many shoes!
'To the left, stupid.' She uses both hands to turn his broad shoulders.
Now he gets it.
More clothes. Men's clothes. New clothes for him. Just for him.
'I didn't buy you any altar robes,' she says, instantly feeling clumsy about the comment. 'I guess even if your bag turns up, you probably won't be needing them again.'
Her generosity leaves him stuck for words. He runs his hand across the hangers: two pairs of lightweight trousers, three crisp cotton shirts, two V-neck lamb's wool jumpers and a black wool jacket, lined in silver and styled to wear formal or casual.
He turns round to say thanks – and maybe even to reveal that no one's bought clothes for him since his mother died. But Tina's not there.
She's over by the bed. Stretching a pair of Calvins between her thumbs. 'Come here. I need to see if your sad but perfectly formed ass fits in these.'