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and led her on through the square towards the steely waters of the lagoon. The main expanse of the piazza was away to our right and the pink-on-white fancy of the Doge’s Palace was off to our left. But I wasn’t interested in either of them. My attention was focussed on the two granite columns ahead of us, at the entrance to the Piazetta. The columns framed a view across the lagoon to the cathedral of San Giorgio Maggiore, and in times gone by, thieves and criminals had been strung up from them, as a warning to others not to follow their example. And there I was, ignoring the lesson, already planning in my own mind how I might set about breaking into the bookshop after dark and, more to the point, asking myself how best to access the antique floor-safe I’d spotted behind the shopkeeper’s desk.

 
FOUR
    If there’s one thing I try to focus on when I’m writing my Michael Faulks burglar novels, it’s barriers . By tossing as many obstacles as possible into the path of my hero, and making life fiendishly challenging for him, I hope my readers will feel compelled to read on to find out what happens next. It’s a handy technique, and it’s served me pretty well over the years. The part that troubled me, however, was that someone seemed to be pulling the exact same trick with yours truly.
    Take, for example, my decision to break into the bookshop. It was by no means easy. I’d made a promise to myself to focus on my writing while I was in Venice – to see what kind of crime novel I could produce when I really committed to the novel rather than the crime side of the equation – and I felt guilty turning away from that pact.
    Just to make things more awkward, I’d given Victoria the same pledge, and I could well remember how pleased she’d been when I’d told her the news. Yes, she enjoyed hearing about the stunts I’d pulled over the years, and I’d long suspected that she found the roguish side of my personality somewhat endearing, but the thing that had originally brought us together had been my writing. She was the first person to truly believe in my work, and she had absolute faith that one day my stories would reach a wider audience. It was because of her that I’d decided to attempt the kind of ambitious thriller I might never have tried otherwise – and it was for her, as much as for me, that I’d been prepared to knuckle down to my career in writing and draw a line under my career in theft.
    So it was for this reason, above all others, that I found myself not long after midnight, in the somewhat curious position of having to sneak around my own home (very much like a burglar in the night) with the intention of letting myself out undetected.
    Fortunately, Victoria was snoring, and being a keen student of human behaviour, I took this to mean that she was asleep. I nudged her door open a fraction to peer inside. Sure enough, she was out cold, eyes shut and jaw slackened, with the duvet pulled up to her chin. I suppose I should have been relieved to see it, because it made leaving my apartment a good deal simpler, but the truth is I felt stung.
    Why? Well, it was only a few hours since I’d passed her a copy of my new manuscript. And granted, I’d been nervous because I’d invested time and energy into the novel, and there was a lot riding on her verdict. But one thing I’d felt confident about was the opening third. I thought it was gripping. Unputdownable , in fact. And yet Victoria had happily abandoned the script on her bedside cabinet before plunging into a deep and tranquil sleep.
    I backed away and returned to my bedroom, trying not to let it get to me. Too late. It already had. What could I have overlooked, I wondered? More to the point, what had she missed? And just how far had she got before tossing my work aside?
    Now, if I were a normal person, I imagine that I would have been able to give the matter some sensible consideration, and that I might have concluded that I was being unreasonable.