The Venetian Game

by Philip Gwynne Jones

Genres: International Crime & Mystery; Mystery

Synopsis

A game of cross and double-cross in Venice, one of the most beautiful cities on earth.

From his office on the Street of the Assassins, Nathan Sutherland enjoys a steady but unexciting life translating Italian DIY manuals. All this changes dramatically when he is offered a large sum of money to look after a small package containing an extremely valuable antique prayer book illustrated by a Venetian master. But is it a stolen masterpiece - or a brilliant fake?

Unknown to Nathan, from a vast mansion on the Grand Canal twin brothers Domenico and Arcangelo Moro, motivated by nothing more than mutual hatred, have been playing out a complex game of art theft for twenty years. And now Nathan finds himself unwittingly drawn into their deadly business . . .

*****

Vengeance in Venice, the second book in Philip Gwynne Jones' sensational Venice series, is available now

Release date: March 2, 2017

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

Her Majesty gazed down serenely from her position on the wall, as the family Mills gazed back at me with rather less equanimity.

The question was coming. Any minute now. But in the meantime I shuffled the papers on my desk, and smiled back at them. She looked tired and red-eyed, he, angry and one step away from a good old shout and swear, the boy, visibly bored.

‘That’s one hell of a painting,’ said Dad, jabbing a finger at sua Maestà.

‘It is, isn’t it? I inherited it from the previous consul. He had a rather larger office than I do. He thought it would create the right atmosphere. A bit less foreign, more reassuring.’ I gave her a jaunty salute. ‘God bless her, eh?’

A short but awkward silence followed as I swore to myself that I would never, ever again attempt to use humour at work.

Dad looked at the tiny, bedraggled flag dangling from the miniature flagpole on my desk.

‘That’s seen better days. You think they’d have got you a new one.’

‘Erm, it is a new one. It’s just difficult to stop the cat playing with it.’ I tried to move the conversation on to safer ground. ‘There are just a few questions I need to run through with you. Then I’ll make some phone calls and you can get back to your holiday. Okay?’ I gave them my best disarming smile. ‘You’ve been to the police, of course?’

He nodded.

‘You have the reference number?’

He rummaged in his wallet and extracted a crumpled photocopied sheet. I scribbled the details down.

‘Right, please bear with me for a few minutes. I just need to phone Milan and make an appointment for you.’

I picked up the phone and started to dial, but he raised his hand. ‘I’m sorry, but why do you have to call Milan?’

I replaced the receiver. I smiled, again. ‘I need to make an appointment for you at the consulate there; hopefully for tomorrow. That’s where you need to go to collect your Emergency Travel Documents. Think of them as temporary passports, just to get you home.’

‘Can’t we just get them here?’

Bingo. The question. Guaranteed to be raised every time, and twelve months down the line I still hadn’t come up with a convincing answer.

‘I’m afraid not. I only have an honorary position, I’m not an official consul or ambassador. For passports and travel documents you need to go to the official Consulate General in Milan. Now it’s just two hours away on the train. It’s a very pleasant city, lots to see. You should only be in the consulate for thirty minutes or so; less if we can get all this documentation sorted out today. My advice is to treat it as another day of your holiday. Don’t let all this spoil things for you.’

His wife brightened slightly. ‘Milan sounds nice. I’ve always quite wanted to go there.’

He was having none of it. ‘I suppose this isn’t going to be free?’

I suppressed a sigh. This, too, was a regular one. ‘The ETDs will be one hundred and twenty euros each. And, of course, there’ll be the rail fare; but if we get that sorted out straight away we might be able to keep that down to, oh, perhaps a hundred or so euros in total.’

‘How much?’

‘Well, you’re looking at not far south of five hundred euros to get you home. And remember, when you get back, you will need to get those passports replaced as well.’

‘I thought you people were supposed to be able to help us?’

This time, the sigh couldn’t be suppressed. ‘I am helping you Mr …’ Here I made the briefest of pauses as my eyes flicked over the sheet in front of me. ‘Mr Mills. I really am doing everything that’s possible.’

‘So why can’t you just give us these … emergency passport things?’

‘As I said, I am just an honorary consul. I’m not authorised to do so.’

He shook his head, and forced out a laugh. ‘So this is where the taxpayers’ money goes, then?’

A full house. When they reached this point I generally didn’t feel the need to be polite any more. ‘I don’t get paid, Mr Mills.’

‘And I suppose you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart?’ He smiled at his wife. See, nobody gets the better of me.

‘Exactly that. Now then, I can phone my colleague in Milan and make an appointment for you. Then we can look at the Trenitalia site – which, I should warn you, is incomprehensible to the novice in both Italian and English – and book your rail tickets. I can even sketch out a pleasant day’s itinerary for you and recommend a nice restaurant. Or if you’d prefer, I’m quite happy to let you spend the rest of your holiday sorting all this out yourself. Entirely up to you’.

I started to file the papers away, at which point he threw up his hands. ‘No, really. It’s okay. I’m sorry, it’s just the last day’s been a bit difficult. You know.’

I nodded, and picked up the phone again. I smiled at the small boy. ‘You’ll like Milan, Simon, is it? Simon. Chance to see the San Siro. Who’s your favourite then, AC or Inter?’

He gave me a blank look. ‘He prefers rugby,’ said his mother.

We stared at each other in silence for a few seconds, until Gramsci padded in. The child reached down to stroke him and then snatched his fingers away as if burnt. His mother reached for a paper handkerchief to staunch the blood.

‘I’m so sorry. I’m afraid he’s not very friendly.’

Gramsci lunged for the flag, but I swatted him away in time. He plopped himself on to the windowsill, the better to gaze down upon the outside world with bad intent. There was another awkward silence. Then, mercifully, the receiver crackled. ‘British Consulate, Milan.’

‘Helen. It’s Nathan here. The usual thing, if you could. Three ETDs needed. Adult male, adult female, male child. I’ll fax you the details directly. Can you fit them in tomorrow?’

‘Hello, Nathan. Hope things are lovely in Venice? Just checking now. Yes, they’re in luck, I can fit them in at one p.m.’

I looked across my desk at la famiglia Mills. They stared back with a mixture of confusion and antipathy. Not their fault, I suppose. Some little sod on a water bus had swiped her handbag. Next thing they knew their entire holiday was revolving around police stations and consulates, and any thought of having a good time had become secondary to the sheer bloody hassle of getting home again. Even in a tourist-friendly city like Venice, it must have been annoying and frightening in equal measure. Perhaps I’d been too harsh. I was about to confirm the appointment when he whispered the words ‘taxpayers’ money’ again.

‘I’m sorry, Helen, I don’t think that’s going to be possible for them.’

A brief pause, then, ‘In that case they’ll have to be here at nine a.m. sharp. Not a minute later. They’ll have to leave Venice by six thirty at the latest.’

‘That will be fine, Helen. Thanks again. Talk soon!’ I replaced the receiver. Childish, perhaps. But you had to take these little victories when you had the chance.

I smiled across the desk. ‘I’m so sorry, but it looks as if you’re going to have a rather early start …’

The family Mills went morosely upon their way. I rested my head on the desk and closed my eyes. Just twenty minutes more and I could close up for the day, and the chances were that nobody would be turning up now.

There was a gentle cough. I gave a start and straightened myself up.

‘Sorry. The door was open.’

The speaker was a man in, perhaps, his early sixties. Smartly dressed, perhaps overdressed for the time of year, in a dark three-piece suit that was just ever so slightly too tight. With a thinning widow’s peak and clear blue eyes, he might once have been a handsome man. Gramsci, incredibly, was sitting in his arms, purring.

‘No, it was my fault. I’m sorry. Please come in.’

He placed Gramsci upon the floor with a surprisingly delicate motion, before sitting himself down.

‘Mr Sutherland I presume?’

‘That’s me. You’re honoured, incidentally. He doesn’t usually like strangers. Or people in general.’

He took a handkerchief from his top pocket and wiped his hands – perhaps a little theatrically – to be sure of clearing away any stray hairs.

‘So, how can I help you Mr …?’

‘Montgomery. Simple matter, really, and it won’t take too much of your time.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a padded envelope. ‘I’d like you to look after this. In the wall safe. Just for a few days.’

He made as if to push the envelope across the table to me, but I held up my hand.

‘I’m sorry, could you just say that again? What do you want me to do?’

‘This package. Just take care of it for a few days.’ He pushed it towards me, ever so gently.

‘I really do apologise, but before we go any further you have to understand that I can’t possibly do this.’

He inclined his head. ‘Yes, I know. You’re not a left-luggage facility or anything. But it really will only be for a couple of days.’

I shook my head. ‘Really, I can’t. I don’t even know what’s in there.’

He smiled. ‘Well now, what do you think it might be?’ And he pushed it across the table, more firmly this time.

I turned it over in my hands. ‘As far as I know it’s a photo of your mother. Or drugs. Or stolen jewellery. Explosives. A computer hard drive with all sorts of beastliness on it.’

He should have been offended, but seemed to find it gently amusing. ‘Really?’

‘Mr Montgomery, you seem to be a very nice man. More than that, you are perhaps the only person to enter this office that my cat has not attempted to savage. But I can’t take a package containing the Lord knows what and stick it in the safe. Can’t you use a locker at the station? Or at your hotel?’

‘I’d be happier if it was here. I mean, you’re British, aren’t you?’

‘Well, yes. But I’m sorry. I can’t help you.’

‘Let’s just say that it’s a photograph of my mother. And that I’m prepared to give you ten thousand euros to look after it for me.’

Every muscle in my body attempted to move two inches upwards, but I managed to restrict myself to a solemn nod of the head. ‘Ten thousand euros?’

‘Exactly.’

‘You must have loved her very much. The answer is still no.’

He nodded. There was silence for a moment, as we stared at each other.

I broke first. ‘So. Is there anything else I can do?’

He said nothing, but just continued to stare.

This was becoming annoying. I opened a drawer, withdrew a business card from the stack inside, and passed it over to him. ‘Here’s my number, just in case you need it. But time is getting on, and if there’s nothing else I can do for you …’

He reached across the table, but made no move to pick it up. Instead, he reached for the miniature flagpole. He turned it over in his hands, then placed it directly in front of him, and gently bounced his index finger off the point. He pursed his lips in a silent expression of pain. ‘That’s quite sharp. You want to be careful.’

I kept my eyes on his, as I stretched my hand across, and pulled it back to my side of the table. ‘I will be. Now time, I’m afraid, really is getting on …’

‘That’s the second time you’ve said that.’

‘I know, but I should be closing up for the day.’

‘You’ve got ten minutes yet. What are you going to do with them?’

He hadn’t raised his voice at all, but I didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking. ‘Mr Montgomery, I think you should go now.’

He continued to stare, then shook his head as if to clear it and tugged at his collar. An expensive shirt, but just a little too tight. Then he splayed his fingers and drummed them on the table. ‘You know, I never had this trouble with your predecessor.’

‘My what?’ This time I really couldn’t suppress a little start.

‘Your predecessor. The previous consul.’ He lingered over the words as if explaining something to the simple-minded. ‘I never had this trouble with him.’ He leaned forward, ever so slightly.

I forced myself to remain still. ‘There must be some mistake.’

He grinned. ‘Oh I don’t think so.’

I held his gaze. ‘Mr Montgomery, I’d like you to leave now.’ He nodded. He reached down to give the treacherous Gramsci a tickle under the chin, and got to his feet. I decided to give it one last go, for my own curiosity if nothing else.

‘I don’t suppose you could tell me what’s really in there?’

He smiled again, but there was no warmth in it. ‘I could. But I don’t think I’m going to. Be seeing you.’

Paradiso Perduto was rammed. The band were not that good but the material – covers of Deep Purple, Black Sabbath and, enterprisingly, Jethro Tull – seemed to have attracted every Venetian male of a certain age through the door. It was loud, sweaty and smelled of fish and fried food. In a good way. I thought I was having a good time.

‘Does it have to be so loud?’

‘You’re getting old, Nathan. Of course it has to be loud. I bet you never go to La Fenice and say, this Verdi guy, he has some great tunes but he’s too loud eh?’

‘I can’t afford La Fenice, Dario. And yes, I am too old for all this. This is making my ears bleed.’

There was a sudden moment of silence and I became aware that I was shouting as heads turned to stare at me. Then a burst of synthesiser and a driving, insistent guitar riff. Dario grabbed my shoulder and shook me.

‘Pink Floyd! “Astronomy Domine”! Syd Barrett years, from—’

‘Dario, how do you know all this shit?’

He looked genuinely affronted. ‘Nathan, this is your heritage.’

‘Well maybe. I just mean, how do you know so much about all this stuff? I never go on about Gaber or Celentano.’

‘But nobody listens to that. Well, they do, but not really. This is proper British music. No other country in the world made music like this. You should be proud!’

‘Well, I suppose I am. I just feel … I dunno … just a bit too old for all this.’

‘Look around, Nathan. Everyone’s here. Old guys, kids, even grumpy bastards like you.’

It was true. The audience was a mix of students, longhairs and middle-aged guys like us. The bar was serving up portions of fried fish, meatballs, baccalà, grilled cuttlefish; whilst Spritzes al bitter or al Aperol were dispensed and slid across the counter with machine-like efficiency. I took a swig of a disappointing Italian lager. They were always disappointing. On a hot day, they seemed like the best thing in the world for the ten seconds they took to become warm and flabby. I wished I could have a proper beer. A cigarette seemed like a pleasant idea but Dario, I knew, would shout at me.

I drained my glass. ‘Same again?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, why not? It’ll dull the pain. And get us a wee octopus, eh?’

Whilst he was gone the band struck up an old Hawkwind song, ‘Master of the Universe’. It got an excited ‘yay’ out of me. By the time Dario returned I was singing along. Gentle air guitar might possibly have been involved.

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. I’d always wondered about the deep-set lines around his eyes. When we first met, I thought he’d had too much sun. Later, I realised it was that he just smiled a lot. He grabbed my shoulders and shook me again. And when Dario shook you, you stayed shaken.

‘You see! I said you’d enjoy it!’

‘Yeah well, it’s Hawkwind isn’t it? Never heard a covers band playing this before.’

‘Hawkwind, shit. Let me tell you my Pink Floyd story.’

I set down my beer and fixed him with a cold stare. ‘Okay. I’ll hear the Pink Floyd story. But if I hear you speak about Hawkwind like that again our friendship is at an end.’

He grinned, and for a moment I feared more backslapping would be involved. ‘I’m joking, Nathan. “In Search of Space” is quite good. But the Pink Floyd story …’

I munched upon the wee octopus. Little octopus. On a stick. Genius. ‘Okay, let’s hear it.’

‘It’s 1994, right? Roger Waters has left, years ago. Nobody thinks the rest of them can do anything without him. And then they make The Division Bell. Their last album, and it’s a great album. And they’re going to play in Venice. In Venice!

‘Now, I’ve got my ticket of course. But one afternoon, I’m in the office and I get a phone call. It’s Maria – she was my wife at the time – and she’s on the Zattere. And she’s seen them, all three of them, they’re sitting outside Nico’s having a Spritz.

‘I’ve got to get there, but how? Twenty minutes on the bus from Mestre, and then get a vaporetto? No, they’ll be gone. I tell my boss I’ve got to go, I’ve had an important call, I’ll be back in an hour.

‘I jump on the bike, it’s my old Moto Guzzi Le Mans 850. I’m away down Corso del Popolo, turn in to the Via della Libertà, on to the bridge and then I’m hammering along to Venice. It’s a beautiful day. It’s cool, but the sun is shining on the lagoon. The sky is clear. I’m ripping along the outside lane and the old city is getting closer and closer and all I can think of is Pink Floyd are having a drink at Nico’s and I’ve got to get there before they leave.

‘I get to the end of the bridge and I turn off towards San Basilio. And then there’s a checkpoint, where the old stazione marittima used to be. There’s a cop there but – and you have to believe this – he’s an old friend. We did National Service together. I shout out that I’ve got to get to Nico’s because Pink Floyd are there and he waves me on!

‘So I’m at San Basilio and I know I’ve got to be careful now because there’s people everywhere. Everybody is shouting and waving at me, they think I’m a crazy tourist, or a drunk or maybe someone’s making a film. I head up the first bridge, and then I’m on the Zattere heading along the side of the canal. There’s another bridge, I’m airborne for a moment and then I’m down.

‘There they are. Nick Mason. Richard Wright. David Gilmour. I screech to a halt, kick the stand down, take my helmet off. And now I’m shaking. I walk up to them, and say to Gilmour “I just have to say, you are fantastic.”

‘And Gilmour just looks at the bike and shakes his head. And then he smiles.’

He stopped, and grinned. ‘That’s what happened. That’s my Pink Floyd story.’

I drained my beer.

‘You’re telling me you rode a motorcycle along the Zattere, just to tell Dave Gilmour how much you loved him?’

‘Sì!’

I shook my head. If it was almost anybody else I would cry bullshit. But things like this did seem to happen to Dario. I punched his arm and immediately wished I hadn’t. It was like punching a brick wall.

‘You mad bastard. So what happened?’

‘They signed their tablecloth for me!’

‘No, what happened about riding a motorcycle through Venice?’

‘Oh, I lost my licence for twelve months. Because I lost my licence, I lost my job. Because I lost my job, Maria left me. I couldn’t get a job so I ended up rejoining the army. But it was worth it. I still have the tablecloth. I’ll show it you the next time you come over.’

The band had laboured through ‘Freebird’ and were packing up for the night. I checked my watch. Only just past eleven, we still had an hour.

‘Are we having another?’

‘Better not. I told Valentina I wouldn’t be too late.’

‘Ah, go on. Just a swift one.’

He stared at his glass, considering the idea. ‘No, I need to go. Always better to do what the wife says, eh?’

There was a fleeting, but awkward, silence.

‘Sorry.’

I shrugged.

‘You okay?’

I shrugged again. ‘Yeah. More or less. Most of the time.’ I changed the subject. ‘You know, I had someone come into the office today who made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I refused it.’

‘So what was it?’

‘He asked me to look after a package for him. Just for a few days, he said.’

‘Drugs?’

‘Almost certainly. Anyway, I sent him on his way. You sure you won’t have another?’

He shook his head. I feared a bone-crushing hug, but he spared me and we went our separate ways. He, back to the railway station for the next train to Mestre; me, back to San Marco. I wondered if I should wander over to Fondamente Nove to take a boat. The vaporetti would be less crowded now, and the wait, looking out across the dark waters of the lagoon to the cemetery island of San Michele, would be suitably meditative.

I decided to walk. It was a warm night, just right for wandering the streets. I made my way down through Cannaregio and over the Scalzi Bridge. Then along the Rio Marin Canal, silent now, turning off past the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista. Years ago, I’d got lost in Naples in the small hours of the morning and spent an increasingly panicky two hours trying to find my hotel, imagining every footstep behind me belonged to someone with evil on their mind. Venice was not like that. When you needed to get home late at night, you waited for a boat or you walked through its labyrinthine streets. And you never thought twice about it. I liked the feeling of solitude and had taken to walking for hours late at night, when I would hardly see another soul. I rarely got lost these days, which made me feel a little sad.

I emerged into the Campo dei Frari, and smiled, as I always did, at the graffiti sprayed on the side of the convent: ‘Silvio, can you dance like Mussolini?’ The city was busier here, a few bars and restaurants still open. Then I passed the church of San Pantalon with its brick façade and picked my way through the late-night drinkers sitting on the bridge that led into Campo Santa Margherita. From the way locals spoke of it, you might be forgiven for thinking that the campo was twinned with Gomorrah. Truth be told, it wasn’t that bad. Music blasted out from every bar as late-night drinkers spilled into the square. In the morning, there would be a sea of bottles, pizza boxes an. . .