The Good Thief's Guide to Venice by Chris Ewan

into trouble again.’
    ‘Oh that ,’ I told her, and took a healthy pull on my wine. ‘Christ, the very idea couldn’t be further from my mind.’

 
TEN
    One of the things I’d tried to do in my new novel was to create a compelling villain for Michael Faulks to go up against. To this end, I’d spent many hours at the planning stage, breaking down Faulks’ strengths and then using those components to build an adversary who was more powerful in every department. I ended up with the character of Don Giovanni, a seven-foot-tall, six-teen-stone Mafia godfather with a network of enforcers and crooks throughout Italy and beyond. Don Giovanni lived in a heavily guarded villa on the shores of the Lido, from where he oversaw his extensive criminal enterprises. A chess grand master, a dab hand at Shaolin Kung Fu and a champion breeder of Argentine Dogo fighting dogs, he was the most complete enemy Faulks had ever had the misfortune to come up against.
    In short, I knew everything I could care to know about The Godfather of the Veneto, and the threat he represented. So, on reflection, it was hard for me to ignore the fact that I knew next to nothing about my own aggressor. Most importantly, I had no idea what was in the attaché briefcase Graziella had given me, or whether anything she’d told me about returning it happened to be true. I was aware that she had a talent for burglary, I got the impression she was in some kind of bind, and I could hazard an educated guess at her cup size, but beyond that, I was clueless.
    And yet, somehow, I still found myself trudging through a sleety drizzle and the musty, sinuous alleys of San Marco, heading for the district of Cannaregio at a quarter past eleven that night.
    Graziella’s call had reached me less than an hour before, shortly after I’d escorted Victoria back to my apartment and watched her climb into bed with my manuscript for company. I’d been in the kitchen making Victoria a cup of tea at the time, and the noise of the kettle had masked my half of the conversation.
    ‘It is time,’ Graziella had announced, in a breathless voice. ‘We will be at the casino in thirty minutes. You have the briefcase?’
    ‘Yes, I have it,’ I told her. ‘And I’m assuming you still have my book.’
    ‘Then you have read my instructions? You are ready?’
    That was hardly answering my question, but I decided to let it go. ‘As ready as I can be. Are you sure there’ll be staff on the property?’
    ‘ Si . But just two, I think.’
    ‘Anything else you want to tell me?’
    ‘Be very careful. Do not make a mistake. And when you put the case in the strongroom, make sure it is somewhere he will see it.’
    ‘Would you like me to open it for him too?’
    ‘Do not joke about this. Please. The case must stay closed.’
    Touchy, touchy. ‘Or?’
    ‘Or you will be killed.’
    She cut the connection just as the kettle came to the boil. Talk about raising the stakes. I’d gone from having my favourite book confiscated to having my life threatened in one short phone call. I suppose it was the sort of thing that a mind more reasoned than my own might have spent a good deal of time considering. In fact, it was exactly the kind of plot development I’d normally have discussed with Victoria.
    Hmm. Was now the time to bring her on board, I wondered? Somehow, I didn’t think so. If I told her what I’d become involved in, there was no way she’d see things from my point of view. There’d be a lot of talk about calling the police, for starters, and even if I got her past that, she’d never be comfortable with the prospect of my breaking into the palazzo. Too many risks, she’d say. Too much unknown. And you know what? She’d be right.
    I carried the tea through to her, along with two biscuits. I dare say you can put the chocolate digestives down to my guilty conscience.
    ‘This section works well,’ she told me, with a strained smile that reminded me of the look my old art teacher