As soon as the hurdle of check-in was cleared, Connie found her room and threw herself onto her bed with a sigh of relief. The journey had been unusually trying. One of her passengers, Martin, sixty-seven, from Cheltenham, had not been able to lift his case because of his bad back – although it was a company rule, made very clear at booking, that everyone was responsible for their own luggage. So Connie had had to lug his heavy suitcase on and off the trains, along with her own. Then the hotel next to where they overnighted in Turin was hosting a wedding, the shrieks and thumping music going on into the early hours. And, to cap it all, the train on to Lake Garda had been cancelled, and Cheltenham Martin had been pickpocketed as they hung about at Turin station, his wallet stolen out of his back pocket. Luckily it had only contained his bus pass, some loyalty cards and his RAC membership: his bank card had been in his shirt pocket at the time. But he was upset, and it had taken Connie a while to calm him down.

None of that matters now, she thought, as she lay on her back, looking up at the light from the water outside reflected on the cream ceiling in glinting ripples. She’d got her passengers here, safe and sound, the sun was shining, and Bianca, as always, would give them a wonderful time.

The weather had been perfect so far – sunny and hot, but with a pleasant breeze – the tourists gradually coalescing into their groups and obviously enjoying themselves, with the lake excursions, pretty squares to explore, and the pavement cafés in which to sit with a cool drink or gelato.

Now it was day five: Venice, Connie’s all-time favourite.

They took an early train to the city, then a couple of private water taxis along the Giudecca canal to Piazza San Marco. The first sight of the city – although Connie had seen it more times than she could count – always took her breath away. It sat shimmering in the soft morning light above the water of the lagoon, its elegant skyline of domes and campaniles like a chimera: if she closed her eyes, she thought, it might vanish as if it had never been.

As the group stood on the square, phones held in front of their faces almost before they’d even taken in the extraordinary thirteenth-century Byzantine façade of the basilica, she spotted Gianni, the guide who would lead the walking tour through the city.

‘Adesso … You come with us, bellissima?’ he asked flirtatiously, when they’d greeted each other. He was young and handsome, sunglasses perched on his dark hair, the muscles of his tanned arms stretching the short sleeves of his white polo shirt. He was relatively new to guiding, and a touch cocky, Connie thought. He seemed to think his job was almost beneath him.