The Good Thief's Guide to Venice (35 page)

‘I owe you rent, anyway,’ I said. ‘In lieu of notice. And it sounds as if Antea may need some care. Hopefully this can go towards paying for it. Tell her I’m sorry, will you? And tell her I appreciate everything she’s done for me – from the moment I arrived until now. All of it.’

He tossed back his head, clearing his fringe from his piercing eyes. I looked down sheepishly and made for the door, then turned as I bundled my way through.

‘Listen,’ I told him, ‘for what it’s worth, I’m really not the monster you might take me for.’

He glowered back, jaw clenched. ‘Whatever it is you need to tell yourself when you look in the mirror, young man, is no concern of mine.’

I checked myself into a one-star hotel in Cannaregio, close to the train station. The place rated itself too highly. My single bed sagged in the middle, the sheets were stiffened with age and the lock on the door to my room wasn’t worth the name. Still, I didn’t believe it was somewhere Graziella and Remi would be inclined to look for me, and even if they did, I’d taken the precaution of registering with one of my stolen passports. I needed rest, and plenty of it, and after tucking the attaché briefcase under my arm, I eased my head down against the lumpy pillow and fell into a deep, zombie sleep.

Hours later, feeling groggy and smelling worse, I stumbled outside in my borrowed tux as far as a shabby internet café. Once I had the information I needed, I called Victoria on her mobile to tell her my plan and then I frequented a couple of tourist outlets until I’d acquired a bottle of water, a pizza of questionable origin and a red Ferrari baseball cap to take back to my foul-smelling suite.

Time dragged. After I’d amused myself by watching the bugs crawling across the ceiling of my room, and disgusted myself by consuming two-thirds of the soggy pizza, I popped the clasps on the briefcase and counted the cash inside. I’d given Martin more than I’d realised – fifty thousand euros, to be exact – but it still left me with plenty. Four hundred and fifty thousand euros was far from shabby, I admit, though I’d gladly have traded it for the chance to go back to the life I’d been leading before Graziella showed up.

I smoked the last of my cigarettes and waited until evening before sampling the delights of the communal bathroom, where I showered beneath a dribble of cold water without soap or shampoo. There was no towel to dry myself on, so I turned the tux inside out and used that instead. Then I climbed into clean clothes, eased my new baseball hat on over the weeping sore at the back of my head, gathered together my belongings and headed out into the grey winter light.

The concrete steps outside the Santa Lucia station were clogged with backpackers and day trippers. I weaved between them, feeling conspicuous. The shiny metal briefcase didn’t exactly complement the blue sweatshirt and jeans, worn baseball shoes and bright-red Ferrari hat I had on, and I guess if I’d been sporting a three-piece suit, I might have blended in a little better. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much I could do about that, and so I settled for keeping my head down and using the peak of the cap to cover my eyes. True, it risked making me appear even more suspicious, but the alternative was probably worse.

An electronic departure board was suspended high above the station concourse and I craned my neck to scan it. I could smell diesel fumes and brake dust, mingled with the aromas of a fast-food buffet. My train was the next to depart, in less than five minutes, and I swerved around a young couple with Canadian flags embroidered on their rucksacks and broke into a lurching shuffle.

The Stendhal – destination Padua, Vicenza, Verona, Brescia and Paris – was made up of a long chain of white-on-blue carriages, some of them laid out with sleeping compartments and others with rows of reclining seats. I was nearing the last of the sleepers and beginning to fear the worst when I finally spied Alfred and Victoria watching for me from a half-open window.

Checking over my shoulder, it looked as if I was in the clear. A man in a green jumpsuit was emptying bags of rubbish into a litter cart and a woman with a cashmere shawl and sunglasses was carrying a Chihuahua towards the next carriage along. Up ahead, a stringy guard in a blue Trenitalia uniform waved me aboard and I clambered up the steps and bundled inside our three-bed compartment to be greeted by a crushing hug.

‘Steady, Vic.’ I eased her away, choosing to ignore the way her eyes had misted over. It seemed she’d invested in a new outfit. Gone was the green evening dress, replaced by a pair of tan cotton trousers and a pink sweater over a lemon blouse.

‘Were you followed?’ she asked.

‘Of course not,’ I told her. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’

I threw my luggage onto the bench beside Alfred, then lifted the briefcase for them both to see.

‘My goodness,’ Alfred said. ‘Is that what I think it is?’ He found his feet in a hurry and slapped me hard on the back, the brass buttons rattling on his navy-blue blazer. ‘How on earth did you get it?’

‘Long story,’ I told him. ‘But take a seat. It’d be a relief to share it.’

We were rolling out of Padua a half-hour later, passing grimy freight carriages, a double-decker commuter train and an unlit football stadium, when I completed my account. An attendant had interrupted us shortly after we’d left Venice to claim our passports and find out which dinner sitting we wished to attend. Other than that, we’d enjoyed complete privacy by keeping the door to our compartment closed and trusting the rumble of wheels on track to mask anything an eavesdropper might hear.

Part-way through my story, Victoria had donned a pair of my plastic disposable gloves and had taken to kneeling on the bench seat beside me while she tended to the gash on the back of my head. She’d used cotton pads from her make-up bag to apply the antiseptic solution Martin had given me, then done her best to stick me back together with the butterfly plasters. She didn’t seem entirely satisfied with her work, but I’d already had close to my fill of being prodded and jabbed when the carriage rocked unexpectedly and she damn near tickled my frontal lobe.

‘Bloody hell, Vic.’ I ducked away and pressed my palm to where it hurt. ‘That’s it, you’re finished.’

‘But I think you may need a few more stitches.’

‘I’d rather bleed. Now, sit.’

She made a huffing noise and arranged her lips into a sulky pout, then collapsed next to me and peeled off her gloves.‘It’s not easy, you know.’

I did know. Believe me. But after carefully slipping my baseball cap back onto my head, I reached across and gave her hand a squeeze.

‘You’re an angel.’

‘And you’re a moron.’ She snatched her hand free, stuffing the used gloves into the metal litterbin fitted beneath our compartment window. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t get the hell away from that bookshop when you found Graziella’s uncle had been shot.’

‘I thought he’d done it to himself, Vic.’

‘Well, you should have checked for the gun.’

I was about to respond when a high-speed train flew by in the opposite direction, sucking us towards it and then blowing us aside. A two-tone horn blared out, too late to offer any kind of warning, and I waited for the noise and the juddering to subside before continuing.

‘Point taken,’ I said. ‘But hindsight is a wonderful thing.’

‘And you definitely should have left when you saw the bomb-making equipment.’

I glanced across at Alfred for help. He seemed delighted to provide it.

‘Darling, why don’t we just focus on the positives, hmm? I’d say it’s all worked out rather well, wouldn’t you?’

‘Charlie could have been killed, Dad.’

‘Yes, but he wasn’t. That rat Borelli was. And I can’t think of a more fitting way for him to go. Shot by a fellow who only tracked him down because of what he did to poor John and Eunice in Monte Carlo.’

‘I’m not sure Remi’s motives were quite that noble, Dad. And anyway, wouldn’t you have preferred to see Borelli stand trial for what he did?’

Alfred smoothed his fingers across the plush fabric of his seat. ‘Darling, I think the likelihood of that happening was rather slim, don’t you? And if you canvassed the members of my team, your mother included, I’d wager they’d be quite satisfied with his fate.’

‘And we’ll share the money,’ I put in. ‘A three-way split. Not so bad, considering.’

‘Considering what?’ Victoria snapped. ‘Has it occurred to you that the police might still link you to the Count’s death?’

‘I don’t see how. Martin and Antea won’t say anything. And Graziella and Remi are hardly going to want to advertise their involvement in all this.’

‘You’re assuming Remi is still alive. Didn’t you say that Graziella was planning to kill him?’

There was a sudden clatter and
whoosh
as we plunged into a tunnel. The vacuum was fierce, popping my ears, and it wasn’t until we emerged from the other side that I was able to continue.

‘It did seem to be on the cards at the time,’ I admitted. ‘Though it’s possible I jumped to the wrong conclusion.’

‘Doesn’t that bother you?’

‘Not unduly. And I’m not sure why it should concern you, either. He had evidence linking Borelli and Graziella to the murder of your father’s friends, but he chose to use it for his own profit. Hardly the behaviour of a saint.’ I paused, and absorbed the look of horror on Victoria’s face. ‘But, if you care for my opinion, I don’t think Graziella was in a fit state to kill anyone when I left. Your trick cigarettes made sure of that, not to mention that I’d swiped her gun. And besides, Remi has already proved himself adept at tracking people down. I imagine she could find that appealing.’

‘You mean they might come after you?’

‘They might.’ I nodded, studiously avoiding my own reflection in the darkened glass of our carriage window. ‘But they’d have to find me first. And I’m really not sure they’ll bother. For all they know, I might have spent the money by the time they catch up with me. And what’s to prevent me from going to the police? True, none of this paints me in an appealing light, but it’d be an awful lot worse for them.’

‘You really believe they’ll just let it go?’

‘I didn’t see them at the train station, did you?’

She thumped a fist into her thigh. ‘But I’m worried, Charlie.’

‘Don’t be. It’s not good for your blood pressure. Although, if it makes you feel any brighter, I do have one more trick up my sleeve.’

Actually, it wasn’t up my sleeve – it was inside the rear pocket of my jeans. I plucked the item free and held it between my forefinger and thumb for Victoria to see.

‘Holy cow! That’s my data recorder.’

‘It is indeed.’ I clicked the
rewind
button, followed by
pause
and
play
. Graziella’s voice could be heard. It was a little tinny, I confess, but her words were audible all the same. I thumbed the
stop
button. ‘I had it with me when I returned to the bookbinding shop,’ I explained. ‘The transmitter in the lid of your pepper spray was powerful enough to record everything Graziella said. Every incriminating word.’

Victoria reached out for the recorder and I pressed it into her hands before inclining my head towards Alfred and patting him on the knee. ‘Hungry?’ I asked.

‘Ravenous,’ he replied.

The meal was surprisingly good. The dining car was a light, airy space, cocooned against the shimmering blackness outside our window. We indulged ourselves with a three-course meal, followed by a selection of cheeses, all of it accompanied by a passable white wine from the Veneto region. True, it wasn’t quite the Orient Express, but I could feel the tension and stresses of the past few days begin to fade away as the train rattled onwards through the low-lying countryside beyond Vicenza, passing the occasional glow of a minor station and tracking the odd stretch of motorway.

It was while I was letting some of the cheese settle in my belly and watching the hypnotic rise and dip of the electricity cables running alongside us that Alfred reclined in the chair opposite me, laced his hands behind his head and asked, through an indulgent yawn, where I planned to go next.

‘I’m not altogether sure,’ I told him, and to be honest, I wasn’t very comforted by my answer. Yes, I’m a wandering soul, but I usually like to have some idea of where I intend to wander
to
. ‘I won’t stay in Paris for long – the consequence of a promise I made some years ago – but I’d like to see Pierre and ask his advice on what to do with my share of the money. You’ll know yourself how difficult it can be to open a bank account with cash these days, but he’s likely to have some suggestions. And after that, who knows?’

‘Well, have you considered Asia? My team could use a man like you.’

I smiled. ‘I’m flattered, Alfred, but I suspect my destination lies elsewhere.’

Victoria was sitting next to me with an earphone in her ear, connected by a wire to the data recorder. I plucked the earbud free, keen to have her complete attention.

‘I hope you’ll forgive me for this, Vic, but I also want to see if Pierre has any work for me. I gave clean living a shot, but I don’t think I’m cut out to be just a writer. I miss my other life too much. This past week has been hellish, no question, but I can’t pretend there weren’t times when it felt good to be out on the scam again. It’s reprehensible, I know, but it’s who I am.’

‘Oh, relax,’ she said, winding her earphones around the recorder and then reaching for her wine. ‘I was telling Dad the same thing last night.’

‘You were?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘I know you better than you think, Charlie. And to be perfectly honest, I happen to believe it’s a good idea.’

‘You do?’ I placed my palm against her forehead. ‘Are you feeling okay? Got a temperature at all?’

‘I’m no idiot, Charlie.’ She batted my hand away. ‘Any fool could see how twitchy you’ve been. And it was quite obvious from your manuscript how much you’ve missed it. If you ask me, that’s why your book was so over the top.’

‘Oh.’

‘Well, don’t give me that hang-dog look. You already had some idea how I felt about the script.’

‘That bad, huh?’

‘Depends.’ She rested her wine glass on the table and twisted it by the stem. ‘I have a plan that might work.’