The Venetian Legacy (Venice) by Philip Gwynne Jones

Author:Philip Gwynne Jones [Jones, Philip Gwynne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2021-03-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 27

I woke up next morning and decided I needed a cop. And that meant Vanni.

There were plenty of other things I needed. A bottle of milk in the fridge, Gramsci to start being nice, a beer with Dario. Federica being home would have been good as well, but she’d telephoned to say that she was spending another day with Marta. I’d been sparing in what I’d told her. I hadn’t mentioned my new friend, and a near-death experience involving a fast car driven by a possible mafioso had also slipped my mind.

That was the problem. The big five-letter word.

Mafia.

Before I ever moved to Venice, friends asked me – only sometimes in jest – if I was worried about the mafia. My reply was that I was going to work as a translator, and not as an anti-corruption judge and so I didn’t think they’d pay very much attention to me.

Well, here I was, still working as a translator and now very much concerned that if I wasn’t careful they might start paying an uncomfortable amount of attention to me. This wasn’t something I dared mess around with. I needed professional help, and I wasn’t sure if Busetto was the ideal person. I telephoned Vanni, and arranged to meet him for a late breakfast. Then I called Dario and arranged to meet him for a late lunch.

The long journey back to Venice at least gave me the chance to read the newspapers thoroughly. Michele Ballarin’s death was still big news. His memorial service had been scheduled for the following day at the Madonna della Marina. That was something to pencil in. It might be interesting to see the sort of people who’d turn up. Hopefully Fede would be back by then. It would be a nice thing to do together on our honeymoon.

‘Just coffee?’ said Vanni.

‘Thanks.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘Not corretto?’

I shook my head. ‘Too early in the day, even for me. I need to keep a clear head.’

We stood outside Bar Filovia, watching the crowds in Piazzale Roma come and go. Tourists piled on to crowded vaporetti, whilst locals fought their way in the opposite direction, prior to cramming on to buses that would take them to Mestre and beyond. Japanese visitors with suitcases that could have blocked out the sun battled for space with old ladies and their shopping trolleys. A queue was forming at the ticket office whilst tourists stood in line at the ticket machines, baffled by the range of transport options on offer and the fact that the selection seemed to vary according to language.

‘I thought we might have gone somewhere more private, Vanni. This is kind of a delicate matter.’

He nibbled away at his brioche, trying and failing to stop flakes of pastry falling on his shirt. ‘I thought this was the best place.’

‘Are you kidding? All the world and his brother seems to be here.’

‘Yes, but nobody’s paying any attention to anything except where to go and where to get a ticket.’ He laughed.

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