The Venetian Candidate

by Philip Gwynne Jones

Genres: International Crime & Mystery; Mystery; Amateur Sleuth

Synopsis

'An unputdownable thriller' Gregory Dowling

'It is no surprise to find that Philip Gwynne Jones lives in Venice... art and architecture interweave into a story that builds to an almost surreal climax' Daily Mail

'Gwynne Jones's talent for evoking place and atmosphere is clear as ever' Literary Review

'An impressive, tersely-written account linking old crimes to the political contention in the country at present... Recommended' The Critic
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To tell the truth is a revolutionary act.

Battered by floods and crushed by overtourism, the city of Venice faces an uncertain future. The election of a new Mayor, therefore, has never felt more important.
As the candidates jostle for position and alliances are made and promises broken, Andrea Mazzon, a controversial writer and historian, emerges as a strong candidate.

Nathan Sutherland, meanwhile, has more important things on his mind as he investigates the case of an elderly British academic who has disappeared while researching the fate of his grandfather during the Great War. The trail leads to a remote Common-wealth war cemetery where, under the ice and snow, Nathan makes a discovery that links the terrible events of a century ago with the electoral campaign in La Serenissima. A campaign that might ultimately set the victor on the road to the Senate - and on the road to murder. . .

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Praise for Philip Gwynne Jones

'I devoured all Philip's novels and felt transported to Venice with a new intimacy' Val McDermid

'Superb - always gripping, beautifully constructed and vivid' Stephen Glover

'Clever and great fun' The Times

'Sinister and shimmering, The Venetian Game is as haunting and darkly elegant as Venice itself' L.S. Hilton, bestselling author of Maestra

'The Venetian setting is vividly described... good, fluid writing makes for easy reading' Literary Review

'Un-put-downable . . . If you love Venice, you'll love this because you'll be transported there in an instant. If you've not been to Venice, read this book and then go. If you like intrigue, and a clever plot, you'll love this book' Amazon reviewer, 5*****

'The lively, colourful narrative scuds along as briskly as a water taxi...you'll enjoy the ride' Italia Magazine

Release date: May 28, 2019

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 90000

Sample

My breath steams in the air and fogs the windscreen of the Land Rover. I wipe it clear, and my fingers come away damp and stinging with the cold. My body is starting to shake in the freezing air. I could, I know, switch on the engine and turn the heating up, but any noise would seem inappropriate. I don’t want to break the silence.

Ahead of me I can see three dark figures, still amidst the white, their silhouettes blurred by the misted windscreen. Again, I wipe it clear, this time with the sleeve of my coat in order to spare my fingers.

I take a deep breath, and pull down the mirror to check my reflection. My image smiles back at me, almost laughing at the absurdity of this act of vanity. Yet this has become a reflex, an act of self-protection. Never appear looking less than perfect. Never have a hair out of place. And, most certainly, never wear the same dress twice.

It’s different for men, of course.

I smile back at my reflection. My eyes are a little red, a little tired perhaps, but nothing too noticeable. At least to an audience of three.

Three people. And a dead man.

I should get out of the car. I’ d told them I would wait for them here, but it would be ridiculous to come all this way for nothing. At the very least, I owe them that. And, for myself, there would be some sense of an ending.

More importantly, the Land Rover is bone-chillingly cold. I need to get out and move around. I smile back at my reflection, flip up the vanity mirror and open the door.

Immediately the wind wrenches the door out of my hand, and scythes at me through my clothes. Inadvertently I cry out, and one of the figures – I cannot see exactly who it is – turns and looks at me.

I pull myself out of the car, fighting against the wind, my hair whipping against my face and make my way down the track to the cemetery gate. Ahead of me, I can see the great stone cross on which two swords are fastened into a cruciform shape.

The figures are hunched over before the gravestone. Nathan has an arm around Federica, trying to shield her from the wind. Dario checks his watch. I can see from the expression on his face that he thinks we should be going before the weather becomes even worse.

‘Nat?’ He looks up at the swirling snow. ‘We shouldn’t leave it too much longer.’

Nathan nods. ‘You’re right.’ He straightens himself up, and shivers. ‘We should be getting back. The roads are bad enough, even in that thing.’

Federica holds on to his arm. ‘It was a nice idea. Really. Perhaps we’ll come back in the spring.’ She hears my footsteps approaching, even over the howling wind, as my feet crump in the snow, and smiles at me.

‘I’m glad you wanted to come,’ she says.

I make my way over to them, unable to stop myself shaking. It is, I tell myself, just the cold.

There are only the four of us there, in the blue half-light of early evening. Four grey shadows cast as we stand, heads bowed, before the grave of a long-dead man. And then, in an instant, there is a flash of red against the white of the snow.

Nothing says ‘Christmas is over’ quite like the seventh of January. Even more so when it happens to be a Tuesday. Right up until the mini-Christmas of Epiphany you can kid yourself that the holiday is still rolling on, but in your heart of hearts – if you’re an adult, and even more so if you happen to be British – you know that La Befana is a poor substitute for Babbo Natale.

Federica had left for work, extracting a promise from me that the flat would be back to normal by the time she returned home. In truth, there wasn’t all that much to do. We’d given up on tinsel years ago, given that Gramsci saw anything sparkly and low-hanging as a challenge. A tree, however, was something on which Fede was not prepared to compromise. It had to have lights on, it had to be decorated and – above all – it had to be real, even if that meant sweeping up pine needles every day.

I unwound the lights and then rolled them up and packed them away, ready to be stashed in the suitcase under the bed where they would remain until next December. Then I removed the ornaments, one by one, saving the angel for last. Because it terrified me.

The varnish on the face had cracked, its smile was just a little too broad, and the eyes seemed to follow you around the room. Initially, I’d positioned it so that it was facing away from us but Fede had objected. It had belonged to her grandparents, she told me, it was a precious memory of family Christmases and so – in spite of everything – she loved it and the festive season would not be the same without it.

I couldn’t really argue with that, and so the angel stayed.

I took it down and tried not to meet its malevolent gaze. I wrapped it in tissue paper and placed it, face down, in a shoe box along with the other ornaments. Then I put the box in the suitcase under the bed, and locked it.

You couldn’t be too careful.

That just left the tree. Denuded of its decorations, it cut a sorry figure. A bare Christmas tree, post-Christmas, on a wet Tuesday morning. Yep. The festive season was over, all right.

I wondered how I was going to get it downstairs without shedding needles everywhere. Was a dead Christmas tree the sort of thing that one could just learn to live with? Give it a few weeks, and we’d hardly even notice it was there. But that, I admitted to myself, was going to be a hard sell to Federica.

It needed to be moved. But first, I could treat myself to a coffee, a read of the paper and then, perhaps, I’d have earned myself the right to a morning nap.

I looked at the headline and shook my head in disbelief. Police were still trying to identify a man who’d been found, frozen to death, in an ATM vestibule up in Cannaregio. He’d been there all night. At least one person, it was thought, had made a cash withdrawal without even checking to see if he was all right. The season of goodwill, evidently, was very much over.

I turned to the second page. After a brief Christmas truce, the two candidates for Mayor of Venice had come out swinging in readiness for next month’s election.

Anna Fabris versus Giuseppe Meneghini.

Fabris, a university professor of philosophy (typically shorthand for left wing) versus Meneghini, a businessman (typically shorthand for right wing). Fabris, resident in the centro storico; Meneghini on the mainland, but with a desirable pied-à-terre in Venice itself.

Venice would vote in great numbers for Fabris; terraferma for Meneghini. So Meneghini would probably win. And nothing, in Venice at least, would change.

I scanned the article quickly. Insults had been exchanged, followed by a despairing plea for civility by Andrea Mazzon, a minor independent candidate with nothing to lose by appearing to be the reasonable one. Or at least as reasonable as a man generally perceived as being an actual fascist could be.

There were others, of course. The Partito Democratico on the left, together with at least two variants of the Communist Party. On the right, the Lega and the Fratelli d’Italia. But Venice seemed to have little appetite for the main parties, this time. This was going to be a battle of independents.

I sighed. Perhaps there’d be something nice on the following page? Perhaps there’d be a photograph of a kitten?

A bar I knew up in Cannaregio, a welcome refuge whenever I found myself in that area of town, had closed its doors for the last time, the great November flood having proved the final straw.

Removing a dead Christmas tree, then, was beginning to look like the least depressing option. I folded the paper up, and tossed it onto the sofa for Gramsci to sit on. At least it would make one of us happy.

I gave the tree an experimental push, and cursed as needles dropped to the floor. Any attempt to move it, it seemed, would end in disaster.

What if I could somehow slide it across the floor? What if I could make the surface just a little bit smoother? I rummaged away in the cupboard under the sink and found a can of furniture polish. Perfect. I sprayed away at the area between the tree and the door. Then I got down on my hands and knees and pushed the tree, ever so slowly, across the near-frictionless surface.

It worked like a dream.

Nathan, my boy, you’re a genius.

This still left the problem of getting it downstairs and out into the street, where it would join its equally sorry-looking brothers and sisters in waiting for Veritas to come and take them to the graveyard of ex-Christmas trees. But I’d cross that bridge when I came to it. Besides, I thought, pine needles on a dimly-lit staircase might be things that could happily be ignored.

I managed to push it as far as the apartment door and got to my feet. Any sudden movements now could spell disaster. I opened the door, as slowly as I could, hoping there’d be no draught blowing in. Just a couple more gentle pushes and we’d be clear.

My mobile phone, resting on the desk in what passed for my office, began to ring, buzzing and rattling against the hard surface. Gramsci opened one sleepy eye, took in the whole scene, and yowled when he saw his new favourite toy on the verge of being taken away from him. He jumped down off the sofa and raced across the floor, his little paws slipping and sliding on the polished surface, and launched himself at the tree in a last, desperate attempt to prevent me from moving it outside.

Silently, and inevitably, every last needle dropped to the floor.

I sat there gazing at Gramsci in silent disbelief. Then I shook my head, and got to my feet, making my way over to the office to answer the phone.

I stretched my hand out towards it and picked it up.

It stopped ringing.

I looked back at Gramsci, his paws now scrabbling away through the pine needles, as if he had set himself a personal challenge of trying to get them to cover as much surface area of the floor as possible.

He paused, and looked up at me for a moment, before returning to his work.

I sighed, and slumped into the chair behind my desk.

The phone rang once more. I grabbed at it, stabbed at the buttons and shouted ‘WHAT?’ a little bit more loudly than I had intended.

There was silence on the line for the moment. Then, ‘I’m sorry, I think perhaps I’ve got the wrong number.’

Ah shit.

‘Er no, you probably haven’t, sorry. It’s just my cat is intent on making my life a misery, and now I find myself with a pile of pine needles to sweep up and—’

He cut me off. ‘Am I speaking to the British Consulate in Venice?’

‘Yes. Yes, you are. Well, sort of. It’s the Honorary Consulate.’

‘Right. I see.’ He paused. ‘Is there a proper one I can call?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Just one moment, please.’

I put the phone on mute, and glared across the room at Gramsci. ‘This is your fault, you realise?’ Then I banged my head gently on the desk, before switching on my brightest smile, and replacing Grumpy Nathan with Sunny Nathan.

‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated, ‘how can I help you?’

The voice at the other end of the line took a deep breath. ‘I’m not sure if you can. I’ve been all round the houses this morning. I’ve called the police in Venice, but couldn’t really make myself understood. Then I called the British Embassy in Rome, and they suggested I call the Consulate in Milan. And then they told me to get in touch with you.’ He took another deep breath. ‘I’m a bit at the end of my tether to be honest. I think you might be my last hope.’

‘Okay. Well I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll do all I can, I promise. Just tell me what you need.’

‘It’s my brother. He’s in Venice at the moment, and I’m starting to worry that he’s gone missing.’

I nodded to myself, and took out a pen.

‘Well, now. I’m sure we can sort it out. People do sometimes just drop out of contact for the simplest of reasons and—’

He cut me off. ‘I know all that. I know all that. For Christ’s sake, people have been telling me this all morning.’ He took another deep breath and then continued, with a slight tremor in his voice. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just starting to worry, you understand?’

‘Of course.’ I clicked at the pen. ‘Why don’t we start with your brother’s name?’

‘Shawcross. Anthony Shawcross.’

I scribbled it down. ‘And your name is?’

‘Stephen. His brother, as I said.’

I put a slash next to Shawcross’s name, and wrote ‘Stephen’ next to it.

‘Okay then, Mr Shawcross, how long have you been trying to contact your brother?’

‘It’s been just over a day now.’

My hand froze, on its way to the paper. ‘Ah.’

‘“Ah”? What do you mean, “Ah”?’

‘Well,’ I took a deep breath as I tried to find words that were suitably diplomatic, ‘given that the last contact with your brother was relatively recent, I think that does explain why you’ve been sent around the houses this morning. In all honesty, the police probably won’t be interested for at least seventy-two hours. It would be different if there was a child involved but that’s not the case here, of course.’

‘So you can’t help me? Nobody can help me, is that what you’re saying?’

‘Not quite. These things usually work themselves out, as I said, but there might still be a few things I can do. Can I just ask you if there’s any particular reason to feel concerned for your brother’s safety?’

Shawcross took a deep breath. ‘My brother is a very sick man, Mr,’ he paused, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.’

‘Sutherland. Nathan Sutherland. Again, I’m sorry to hear that. Tell me more.’

‘He’s …’ he paused again, reaching for the words in the hope that choosing the right ones might somehow make the situation less real, ‘very ill, as I said.’

‘I see.’

‘We told him – that’s my wife and I – we told him not to go on this bloody trip. But he wouldn’t be dissuaded.’

I nodded to myself. Venice in January could be a cold and lonely place for a single traveller. As if on cue, the wind rattled the windows.

‘I understand. Is your brother here on holiday, or is it business?’

‘A working holiday, he called it. He was researching our family tree. One of our relatives was killed in Italy during the First World War. Tony had got it into his head that he wanted to stand at our grandfather’s grave. I don’t quite understand that myself, but this was always more his sort of thing than mine. And so, I told him this trip wasn’t the best idea in the world but he said he’d be perfectly fine, and he’d call me every day. Except, well, yesterday he didn’t.’

‘Okay. Have you tried calling him? It might just be that there’s no credit left on his phone and he doesn’t know how to top it up. That happens more often than you might think.’

‘I’ve tried that. The phone just rings out.’

‘How about social media? Any postings on Facebook, Twitter, that sort of thing?’

‘No.’

‘Instagram?’ I paused. ‘TikTok?’

There was a dry laugh at the other end. ‘Tony isn’t a social media sort of person, Mr Sutherland.’

‘What about his employer?’

‘Tony’s a librarian. At Magdalen College.’

I whistled.

‘That’s what I call him anyway. He describes himself as an archivist. Apparently there’s a difference, but I’ve never quite worked out what it is. And, no, they haven’t heard anything from him either.’

I drummed my fingers on the desk. Missing persons were a rare occurrence and usually had a happy ending. Phones, sometimes, just failed to work or were switched off. It could just be that Anthony Shawcross thought he had better things to do on what might turn out to be his last holiday. And twenty-four hours, really, was no time at all. Nevertheless …

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘There isn’t all that much I can do given the timescales. But that doesn’t mean that there’s nothing I can do. I’ll start by calling the hospital. As you said, your brother, sadly, is unwell. That’ll be the first place to start.’

‘Thank you. Is there anything else?’

‘Well, do you have an address for him? A hotel, bed and breakfast, something like that?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t. Stupid of me. I never imagined it being important.’

‘Okay. No matter. Wherever he’s staying, they’ll have had to register his presence with the local authorities. I can find that out.’

‘And the police? You said they won’t investigate at short notice.’

‘Not officially. But I might be able to call in a few favours. Get things moving, that sort of thing.’

‘Thank you. I’m very grateful.’

‘It’s not a problem. I’ll be in touch.’

***

I called the Ospedale Civile in Venice, without success. Then I called every hospital within a reasonable distance on the mainland. And then I tried every doctor in Venice that I could think of. Nobody had heard of an Anthony Shawcross. I even rang Father Michael Rayner from the Anglican Church, just in case he’d had an emergency call-out, but without success, and I wasn’t about to try every remaining priest in the city on the offchance Mr Shawcross was Catholic.

That only left the Questura. I wasn’t convinced I really did have any favours to call in, and so I was pretty sure the answer would be little more than a sympathetic sucking of teeth and the suggestion I wait a couple of days.

Still, it was either that or sweep up the remains of the Christmas tree. And it would at least allow me to tell Shawcross that I had indeed done all I could for the time being.

I picked up the phone and dialled.

‘Pronto.’

‘Vanni! My lucky Christmas Angel at the top of the law enforcement tree!’

There was a pause, and then a chuckle, ‘I’m sorry, Nathan, is that how the British Honorary Consulate conducts its business over the telephone these days?’

‘It’s my New Year’s Resolution, Vanni.’

‘Well, Happy New Year to you, Nathan. And I hope Father Christmas was good to you.’

‘He was. Fede bought me a lovely Jethro Tull box set. The remastered Passion Play sessions with all the out-takes.’

He chuckled again. ‘What a marvellous woman she is.’

‘She got me some headphones as well. I think the two might be related. How about you?’

‘Socks.’

‘Socks? Fantastic. Socks are good.’ I paused. ‘Anyway, I’m sorry to bother you, Vanni, but I was wondering if I could call in a favour.’

‘A favour? Do I owe you any, Nathan?’

‘Well, no. But I was wondering if I could have this one on account.’

He sighed. ‘That depends. Go on then, tell me what it is.’

‘I’ve got a not-quite missing person.’ Vanni, I could tell, was on the verge of sighing again, so I hurriedly continued. ‘Seriously ill, apparently, and hasn’t been in contact with his brother for over twenty-four hours. Not answering his phone, but no records of him being in hospital. So I was wondering—’ I took a deep breath.

‘Yes, Nathan?’

‘If he’s staying anywhere legitimate they’ll have registered his passport details. Could you check that out for me?’

‘I can do that, Nathan. That shouldn’t be too difficult.’ He chuckled. ‘I thought it was going to be something more complex. What’s the gentleman’s name?’

‘Anthony Shawcross.’ I spelled the name out for him.

‘Okay, Nathan. Just leave it to me.’

‘Thanks, Vanni. You’re a pal. Just one other thing.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘If you find out where he is, would you mind coming with me? Just, you know, in case it’s something unpleasant.’

‘Ah. I see it’s getting more complex already, Nathan.’

‘There’s lunch in it for you, Vanni.’

He chuckled. ‘Just give me thirty minutes.’

‘Thanks for coming out, Vanni.’

‘Oh, Nathan, it’s the beginning of the year, the city is quiet, and there’s a free lunch involved. Of course I was going to come out.’ He clapped me on the back. ‘This must be a bit unusual for you though, I imagine? Tourists getting themselves in trouble in January?’

‘Well, the guy’s brother seemed genuinely worried so I figured it was something I should look into. And it saved me from having to dispose of a dead Christmas tree.’

‘Why don’t you just get an artificial one?’

I shook my head. ‘Never going to happen.’ I rubbed my hands together. ‘Cold out, isn’t it?’

Vanni laughed. ‘Even after all these years, Nathan, you still need to talk about the weather. What’s that line about taking the Englishman out of England?’

‘Come on, it’s freezing. Can we at least talk inside?’

He nodded. ‘I suppose it is a bit chilly.’

I grinned. ‘That’s it. Now you’re getting it.’ I took a look around. The icy wind was blowing in off the open lagoon, and along the Cannaregio Canal. Most of the bars and restaurants were still closed and would remain so throughout January, as their owners headed off in search of the sun during what passed for the low season. ‘Where’s open?’

Vanni nodded in the direction of Tre Archi. ‘Al Parlamento should be. Come on.’

Cannaregio was a little off the beaten track for me, but Al Parlamento was always a pleasure to visit when I found myself in that part of town. It managed to be both modern and cosy at the same time, the polished wooden tables and black ash furniture offset by the ropes that lined the ceiling and walls and gave the bar a vaguely nautical feel.

‘Are we properly eating? Or just having cicchetti?’

‘Cicchetti are properly eating, Nathan.’

‘Okay. And to drink?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m on duty. Just a red wine, please. And a couple of tuna and egg tramezzini.’

I made my way over to the bar and looked at the range of food in the cabinet. Meatballs, of course. Small octopuses. Fried crab claws. Sliced meats and cheeses. All of those would be good. But what would be best on a freezing cold day? I smiled, as I saw the rows of crispy orange arancini, fried risotto balls. Perfect for getting some heat back into me.

I smiled at the barista. ‘One of these, please.’

He nodded. ‘Which filling?’

‘There’s more than one?’

‘Mozzarella. Ragù. Pistacchio and mortadella.’

‘Damn, that’s difficult. Tell you what, I’ll have one of each.’ I nodded in the direction of Vanni. ‘And two tramezzini with tuna and egg for my friend.’

The barista raised his eyebrows. ‘I think you’ve done the better, there.’

‘Ah, he’s a man of simple tastes. Besides, he’s at work. He’s got to be sensible.’

‘Okay. Anything to drink?’

I paused for a moment. A spritz would seem the obvious thing, and yet it was quite obvious that I was having a rather more substantial lunch than Vanni. Perhaps it wouldn’t be fair to rub his nose in it by having a proper drink as well. I’d join him in a modest glass of wine.

‘Just two ombre rosse, please.’

He nodded. ‘Okay. You go and join your friend and I’ll bring your arancini over when I’ve warmed them up.’

I pulled a chair up next to Vanni. ‘So. Did you find anything?’

‘I’ve got an address, that’s all. I just hope this isn’t going to be something that spoils our lunch.’

I shook my head. ‘Nothing is capable of spoiling lunch.’

The barista arrived with my plate of arancini.

Vanni raised an eyebrow. ‘You sure you’ve got enough there, Nathan?’

‘Well, I don’t know when I’ll next be up here.’ I bit into the first, the heat from the molten mozzarella scorching my tongue. I drained half my glass of wine in an effort to stop it burning.

‘Good?’

‘Very. And you’d have to say it’s got some heat back into me.’ I looked down at my plate. ‘I might give them a couple of minutes though.’

Vanni nibbled at his tramezzino. I couldn’t help but notice he was looking just a little enviously at my plate.

‘Tell you what, Vanni, why don’t you take one of these?’

‘Oh, I couldn’t.’

‘You could.’

‘No, I really couldn’t.’ He patted his stomach. ‘I enjoyed Christmas a little too much.’ He finished the remains of his sandwich, wiped his fingers on a paper napkin, and took a little sip of wine. ‘Mm-hmm. That’s better. So, let’s talk.’ He reached into his coat, took out an envelope, and laid it on the table between us. ‘Let’s have a little look at this, eh?’

He opened the envelope and took out some photocopied sheets. ‘Here’s his passport. Or, at least, the important bits. Anthony Thomas Shawcross, date of birth June 19th 1958. Next of kin Mr Stephen Shawcross, who seems to be his younger brother.’

Vanni jabbed his thumb in the direction of the Cannaregio Canal, heading out towards the open lagoon. ‘Seems he rented an apartment here just a few weeks before Christmas. From a signor Righetti who now lives out on the mainland – Mestre, Spinea – somewhere out in that direction anyway.’

‘Ah. One of those. An absentee landlord.’

‘Exactly. It seems he has a few places around here. Anyway, he’s been very helpful.’

‘He has?’

‘Oh yes. Firstly I told him that I was not from the Guardia di Finanza. Then I told him I had a very good friend at the Guardia di Finanza. After which he was positively falling over to help me. Now, what else do we have?’ He licked his index finger and paged through the photocopies. ‘Anthony Shawcross, Librarian. Magdalen College.’ He paused. ‘Did I say that right?’

I smiled. ‘It’s pronounced “maudlin”, Vanni.’

‘It is?’ He shook his head. ‘No wonder you English are terrible at other languages. It must take you a lifetime to learn to pronounce your own.’ He made little air quotes with his . . .