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Clinging to the rail as he leaned over the bridge again, Mr Deacon stared down into the canal, but could see nothing.
    And then suddenly – bobbing up to the surface as though about to strike – came the flayed and bloodied carcass of a woman.
    *
    I remember my first sight of Mr Deacon, how he came hurrying into the hotel where I was sitting drinking coffee. He was out of breath and had obviously been running. Tall, elegant and well dressed, he was clearly in some kind of shock, holding his hat in his left hand and breathing like a piston pump.
    “There’s a body …
in the canal.”
    The manager of the hotel came out from behind the bar, sour-faced, irritable already.
    “Qual è il problema?”
    “D’you speak English?”
    “A little.”
    “I’ve just seen a body. Corpo.”
    “Corpo?” The manager’s eyes widened. “Body?”
    “Yes! I just saw it. In one of the canals. I just saw it!” Mr Deacon said heatedly, taking the glass of water offered to him and drinking it in one. Slumping into a seat, he took off his coat and bowed his head, distraught. “It was covered in blood … she was mutilated, ripped up …
Oh, God. We need the police.”
    I couldn’t tell if the manager was angry because he had been disturbed, or because he thought he was dealing with a fool. But the fool was obviously not about to be fobbed off.
    “We need the police!”
    The manager glanced at me imploringly and I walked over.
    Seeing me, Mr Deacon appeared immediately relieved. “Can you help me?”
    “I’ll try.”
    “You’re English.”
    “Yes,” I agreed. W
hat happened?”
    “I’ve just seen a body. A corpse. From the look of it it’s been in the water a while; it’s decomposed …” He swallowed drily. “It just popped up, just came to the surface …” He looked sickened, struggling to remain calm. “We need the police.”
    “Yes, yes,” the Manager agreed, glancing
at me again. “Si può ottenere la polizia? Presto!”
    “Yes, quickly!” Mr Deacon urged, picking up on the words he understood. “As quickly as you can.”
    I reached for my coat. The manager was agitated, watching us and trying to follow our conversation as I prepared to leave. As for Mr Deacon, he was jumpy, anxious.
    “Are you from the boat?” I asked him.
    “Yes, from the cruise ship.” We shook hands as he introduced himself. “My name’s Deacon, Geoffrey Deacon. I’m taking a trip I promised my wife. I always said we’d come to Venice, but I left it too late. She’s dead now …” He looked at his watch, suddenly galvanised. “We have to hurry and get this sorted out! All the passengers have to be back at the quayside for the launch to pick us up
four p.m.”
    I held his gaze. “Are you
sure
it was a body?”
    “I saw it with my own eyes!” Mr Deacon replied, indignant that I should question him.
    “But it could have been a dumped bag—”
    “No!”
    “A dead bird—”
    “It was a body!”
    “The fog’s dense today; it makes visibility difficult—
”
    “It cleared momentarily and I saw her!” Mr Deacon fired back at me. “It wasn’t a bird, or a bag, or anything innocent. It was a body. A woman’s body. I know what I saw.”
    The manager folded his arms. He understood very little English and was confused. “La luce può giocare brutti scherzi in inverno—”
    “It was
not
a trick of the light!” Mr Deacon replied, picking up a thread of the manager’s words. “For a moment the sun came through the fog and I saw a dead woman. I saw her as clearly as I see you.”
    “OK.” I exchanged a glance with the manager. “Look after Mr Deacon, will you? I’ll go for the police.”
    Surprised, the Englishman looked up. “Why not ring them?”
    “You don’t know Venice,” I replied. “T
hey’d think it was a hoax. No, I’ll call by the posto di polizia first and explain what’s happened. Then the police can come back and pick you up. You’ll need to show them where you saw the body.”
    I looked