Alex was standing beside another fourteen-year-old boy who happened to be his closest friend at Brookland. He had been surprised to hear that Tom Harris was going to be on the trip, as Tom wasn’t exactly interested in art or history. Tom wasn’t interested in any school subjects and was regularly bottom in everything. But the best thing about him was that he didn’t care. He was always cheerful, and even the teachers had to admit that he was fun to be with. And what Tom lacked in the classroom, he made up for on the sports field. He was captain of the school football team and Alex’s main rival on sports day, beating him at hurdles, four hundred metres and the pole vault. Tom was small for his age, with spiky black hair and bright blue eyes. He wouldn’t have been found dead in a museum, so why was he here? Alex soon found out. Tom’s parents were going through a messy divorce, and they had packed him off to get him out of the way.
“It’s a granita,” Alex said. It was what he always ordered when he was in Italy: crushed ice with fresh lemon juice squeezed over it. It was halfway between an ice cream and a drink and there was nothing in the world more refreshing.
“Come on. You can order it for me. When I ask anyone for anything in Italian they just stare at me like I’m mad.”
In fact, Alex only spoke a few phrases himself. Italian was one language Ian Rider hadn’t taught him. Even so, he went with Tom and ordered two ices from a shop near the market stalls, one for Tom and one—Tom insisted
—for himself. Tom had plenty of money. His parents had showered him with euros before he left.
“Are you going to be at school this term?” he asked.
Alex shrugged. “Of course.”
“You were hardly there last term—or the term before.”
“I was ill.”
Tom nodded. He was wearing Diesel light-sensitive sunglasses that he had bought at Heathrow duty-free. They were too big for his face and kept slipping down his nose. “You do realize that no one believes that,” he commented.
“Why not?”
“Because nobody’s that ill. It’s just not possible.” Tom lowered his voice. “There’s a rumour you’re a thief,” he confided.
“What?”
“That’s why you’re away so much. You’re in trouble with the police.”
“Is that what you think?”
“No. But Miss Bedfordshire asked me about you. She knows we’re mates. She said you got into trouble once for nicking a crane or something. She heard about that from someone and she thinks you’re in therapy.”
“Therapy?” Alex was staggered.
“Yeah. She’s quite sorry for you. She thinks that’s why you have to go away so much. You know, to see a shrink.”
Jane Bedfordshire was the school secretary, an attractive woman in her twenties. She had come on the trip too, as she did every year. Alex could see her now on the other side of the square, talking to Mr Grey. A lot of people said there was something going on between them, but Alex guessed the rumour was probably as accurate as the one about him.
A clock chimed twelve. In half an hour they would have lunch at the hotel where they were staying. Brookland School was an ordinary west London comprehensive and they’d decided to keep costs down by staying outside Venice. Mr Grey had chosen a hotel in the little town of San Lorenzo, just ten minutes away by train. Every morning they’d arrive at the station and take the water bus into the heart of the city. But not today. This was Sunday and they had the morning off.
“So are you—” Tom began. He broke off. It had happened very quickly but both boys had seen it.
On the opposite side of the square a motorbike had surged forward. It was a 200cc Vespa Gran-turismo, almost brand new, with two men riding it. They were both dressed in jeans and loose, long-sleeved shirts. The passenger had on a visored helmet, as much to hide his identity as to protect him if they crashed. The driver—
wearing sunglasses—steered towards Miss Bedfordshire, as if he intended to run her over. But, a split second before contact, he veered away. At the same time, the man riding pillion reached out and snatched her handbag.
It was done so neatly that Alex knew the two men were professionals—scippatori as they were known in Italy.
Bag snatchers.
Some of the other pupils had seen it too. One or two were shouting and pointing, but there was nothing they could do. The bike was already accelerating away. The driver was crouched low over the handlebars; his partner was cradling the leather bag in his lap. They were speeding diagonally across the square, heading towards Alex and Tom. A few moments before, there had been people everywhere, but suddenly the centre of the square was empty and there was nothing to prevent their escape.
“Alex!” Tom shouted.
“Stay back,” Alex warned. He briefly considered blocking the Vespa’s path. But it was hopeless.
The driver would easily be able to swerve round him—and if he chose not to, Alex really would spend the following term in hospital. The bike was already doing about twenty miles an hour, its single-cylinder four-stroke engine carrying the two thieves effortlessly towards him. Alex certainly wasn’t going to stand in its way.
He looked around him, wondering if there was something he could throw. A net? A bucket of water? But there was no net and the fountain was too far away, although there were buckets…
The bike was less than twenty metres away, accelerating all the time. Alex sprinted and snatched a bucket from the flower stall, emptied it, scattering dried flowers across the pavement, and filled it with bird seed from the stall next door. Both stall owners were shouting something at him but he ignored them. Without stopping, he swung
