Giotto's hand

by Iain Pears

  “I see,” Flavia said, deciding to keep to facts, rather than go into motives. “So he was with you from when, about eight to nearly eleven?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Which covers him for all the period in which Forster might have been killed.”

  “Yes,” she said. “You see? That’s what I mean.”

  “By far the easiest thing would be for you to tell this to the police. Get it over and done with.”

  “And you think they’ll keep quiet about it? They arrested Gordon and they’ll have to let him go. They’ll say why and it’ll be all over the village by the end of the week.”

  “But Sally,” Mary said sadly, “the only two people in Norfolk who don’t know about you and Gordon are your husband and Gordon’s wife. Surely you realize that?”

  Sally’s hand went up to her mouth in an expression of shock. “No,” she said.

  “Well, I know about it. And I’m not the nosiest person around here.”

  “Excuse me,” Flavia said, breaking into this confessional. “Can you tell me why Gordon didn’t tell the police this? It’s not as if he had a great deal to lose.”

  “Because…” she began reluctantly.

  “Because what?” Mary said sternly, picking up something that entirely passed Flavia by.

  “Because Gordon saw George coming out of Forster’s house.”

  “Ah,” said Mary with concern. Flavia sat back in her seat. There was no point in her interfering or saying anything at all. Mary Verney was a much better interrogator than she was.

  Gradually, Mary got Sally to say that Gordon had walked from his cottage past Forster’s house and seen George coming out of the door. He’d hurried off with his head down, but seemed shaken and upset about something.

  She shook her head. “He didn’t pay any attention at the time. But the next morning, when Gordon heard what had happened, he got worried that maybe George had done something drastic. You know about the cottage.”

  “And rather than incriminate him, he kept quiet, even when he was arrested. Good for him,” Mary concluded unexpectedly.

  Flavia sighed. She was having a hard time understanding the thick East Anglian accent, and was a little bemused by the way in which the façade of English village life was turning out to be just a little thin. On the other hand, she cast her mind back to some little towns she knew in Italy. Incest, wife-swapping and mass family murder seemed to be the local pastimes everywhere.

  She leant forward in her chair. “But this was before eight, wasn’t it? It must have been.”

  Sally nodded. “Yes. On his way to the pub. About seven.”

  “So what’s he worried about? One thing the police seem sure of is that Forster didn’t die until after nine. Maybe later. His evidence doesn’t incriminate George at all, really. Especially as there is no motive.”

  “There is a bit of a motive, though,” Mrs. Verney explained. “Or at least something that could be made into one. Did Jonathan not tell you about Forster threatening to evict him?”

  “Ah.”

  “George has lived there all his life, and wasn’t at all happy. In fact, he hated Forster, and said some regrettable things about him on occasion.”

  “Like ‘I’ll kill the bastard’?”

  “That’s the general line.”

  “I see. He said this to a lot of people?”

  Mary Verney nodded.

  Flavia considered this. “In that case, it’s only a matter of time before the police find out,” she said eventually. “Gordon has to talk to them. If they find out on their own he’ll be prosecuted for obstruction, or whatever they call it here. As for you, Sally, I suggest you tell Gordon that. There’s no reason for you to get any more involved. The police have more pressing things to concern themselves with.”

  Sally nodded reluctantly and stood up. “I’d better get back,” she said. “Otherwise Harry’ll wonder where I got to.”

  “Do you want me to have a word with George?” Mary asked. “I’m sure there’s nothing to it. But it might be better if he had his explanation ready. I could talk it over with him.”

  “Oh, would you?” Sally said. ‘That would make me feel better.”

  “I’d be delighted. Then Gordon can say what he knows without having to bring you into it at all.”

  Flavia smiled encouragingly, and Mary ushered a relieved woman out of the house again.

  “Non-stop action in this place, isn’t it?” she said once Mary had returned to the sitting room and placed herself in front of the fire to warm up.

  Her hostess nodded. “So it seems.”

  “Were you surprised?” Flavia asked.

  “That Gordon was innocent? Not at all.”

  “About George.”

  “Very much so. So surprised that frankly I don’t believe it for a moment. I prefer to take a benevolent view of human nature, as Jonathan may have told you. Besides, what about the burning papers? I can’t see George doing that.”

  “Forster is dead.”

  “Dead, yes. But perhaps not murdered. Besides, I thought you wanted it to have something to do with pictures. Or has poor Jessica become the front runner now?”

  “We’re doing our best, you know. Everybody is.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But I’m beginning to lose patience over this a little. You don’t know Geoffrey was murdered and you don’t know he was a thief. So why bash away at it? The village has been turned upside down by all this, you know. You can’t have everybody under suspicion, one after the other.”

  “Forster’s death would have been investigated even without us. And if it’s any consolation, the police seem to be losing heart. So am I, frankly.”

  “Good.”

  13

  Seated behind the desk in his office that evening, as the sounds of the city dwindled and the rush hour came to its appointed end, General Bottando was feeling more than a little frustrated. It is very hard, the thought that investigations can get along perfectly well without you. It makes you feel old, and redundant. And, of course, he was vulnerable in that area, what with Argan trying to elevate this line of thought to the status of official policy.

  That problem was temporarily quiescent at least, although Bottando thought that this was probably only a lull before the final storm. Apart from a little note again urging greater activity over the raid on the via Giulia, his secretary reported that Argan’s word processor had fallen silent in the past day or so; no more memos were flying around documenting the iniquities of the Art Theft Department.

  That said, it was probably because the air was already saturated. The quality of the man’s information was also extraordinary. He had known that Flavia had seen della Quercia, had latched on to Sandano’s withdrawing his confession, figured out the real reason why Flavia had gone to England.

  Now, after subtle metamorphosis, Bottando was gullible about these silly theories, believed a convicted criminal because it fitted in with those theories and had sent his obedient little girl to England at vast expense in a last ditch attempt to hang on to his job.

  Well, true enough, if you wanted to look at it like that. But where was the information coming from? Who was feeding the information? Bottando, with the heightened senses of a man fighting for his life, reckoned he knew. Paolo. A good boy, he thought a little patronizingly, but wanted to get on faster than was seemly. In too much of a rush, he was, and attaching himself to a victorious Argan would undoubtedly speed things up a bit. Had Bottando neglected him? Maybe so.

  But the rights and wrongs of it were irrelevant at the moment. Argan had his office mole. The question was, what to do about it?

  Nothing, at the moment. That would have to wait.

  The trouble was that the more he jotted down little notes, the more he was, very reluctantly, kicking and screaming and protesting all the way, coming to the appalling conclusion that, perhaps, the abominable Argan was right after all. Maybe he was losing his touch. He could just about encompass the latter, but the fo
rmer proposition went so much against the fundamental laws of nature that it still made his head swim in bewilderment.

  For the umpteenth time, he got out his notes, and read them once more, to see if he could spot any hole through which he, and the rest of the department, could wriggle.

  Forster implicated in theft of picture in 1963 from Florence, Giotto number one. Connected loosely with disappearance of a Pollaiuolo from Scotland, 1976, Giotto number thirteen. Connected with theft of a Fra Angelico from Padua, 1991, Giotto number twenty-six.

  Three connections, all popping up from nowhere, unbidden, in less than a week. Volunteered, you might say. And that was the thing that was giving Bottando a headache, making his bones creak and giving him the feeling that there was something wrong somewhere. Far too much of a coincidence that someone who, if he were Giotto, had successfully covered his tracks for a quarter of a century, should suddenly have his sticky fingerprints appearing everywhere.

  And, of course, there was the other side of things. If you looked at it carefully, there was nothing whatsoever to show that Forster had stolen anything. He didn’t have much money, and did not have an extravagant lifestyle. No one had proved he was anywhere in the vicinity when any of the pictures were stolen.

  Bottando shook his head and ground his teeth. He was giving up the fight, he noticed. He was sitting here, waiting for fate to overtake him. And that wasn’t good enough. It was time to put up a bit of a struggle. He could start with Fancelli and go on to Sandano.

  He smiled to himself, and felt better. That was one problem solved already. He shovelled his papers into his bag, and marched with a very much more jaunty step out of his office.

  His secretary had already gone home for the evening, and Bottando started to write her a Little note.

  Two things, he scribbled. Firstly, could you ring Florence and get them to pull Sandano in for me. I’ll be there by ten in the morning. Secondly, could you ring Argan. Apologies, but I’ve been called away. Urgent business. I’ll let him know when I’m back.

  And, having taken the first step towards taking control of his universe, Bottando left.

  Merely being on the road again made Bottando feel better. Driving around, talking to people, gripping life with both hands. That was the trouble really, he thought to himself as he parked his car in a carefree manner in a restricted zone in the centre of Florence and placed his “police” card in a prominent place on the dashboard, he had been deskbound for too long.

  Even though the first visit, to Fancelli, had produced nothing except to demonstrate that Flavia had done a decent job, he was content. The ailing woman had repeated her story more or less word for word, and the indignation which the very idea of Forster produced in her seemed genuine enough to him. Also, the birth certificate of her son recovered from the municipal authorities and naming Geoffrey Forster as the guilty party, so to speak, was pretty convincing.

  But no harm in checking. That was what real policing was all about, and what he was trying to defend. It wasn’t Argan at all, really. In a way, he continued philosophically as he walked to the Carabinieri station where Sandano was being held, the dreadful man was right. He was out of touch. But not for the reasons that Argan thought. Rather, he’d spent too many hours writing memoranda, sitting around while other people, like Flavia, did the interesting work.

  He was still in this reflective mood when he was shown into the little cell in which a disgruntled Sandano sat cross-legged on a pull-out bed. Bottando sat heavily on the chair opposite and beamed affectionately at the man.

  “Sandano.”

  “General. I’m impressed. A visit from the big boss man himself. Just to torment me for no reason.”

  “You know as well as I do that we don’t torment people for no reason,” Bottando replied levelly. “We always have a reason.”

  “Oh,” said the crestfallen thief. “You found out. I suppose my grandmother told you.”

  The statement left Bottando a little bemused. Found out about what, he thought? Hadn’t Flavia mentioned something about him looking unusually shifty?

  “That’s right,” he replied knowingly, hoping that Sandano’s natural death wish would solve the problem. “A responsible citizen. And I want to hear all about it. Even though I know everything already. It’ll be easier for you in the long run, you know. Cooperation.”

  Sandano scowled at him for a while, then puffed mightily, hesitated, and gave in.

  “Oh, all right. But just you remember Flavia’s promise.”

  “I remember.”

  “It was nothing to do with me, you know. I steal things, OK. But hitting nightwatchmen. That wasn’t me. I just drove the truck.”

  What the hell is he talking about? Bottando thought, trying to compose his features into a look of stem disapproval.

  “He wouldn’t pay up, you see. We broke into the shed on the dig site, took all the statues, and delivered them as required. And when my brother went round to get paid, this guy tells him to get lost. The deal had fallen through and he didn’t have the money yet. It wasn’t me who went back and drove a car through the window and took them back either, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just want you to know that that’s not my son of thing. I was back in Florence by then.”

  “Right,” said a faintly surprised Bottando.

  “That man. He thinks he can do anything. Bastard. He’s got all of you lot in his pocket. That’s why he did it.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Really, poor old Sandano was dim. Whoever heard of criminals confessing before even being asked? “And while you’re in a confessional mode. You might want to tell me a little about the Fra Angelico.”

  “Fra Angelico?”

  “Florentine painter. Renaissance. Back of your car. Remember?”

  “Oh. That. I’ve told you the truth. I told that girl of yours…”

  Bottando held up his hand. “A word of advice, dear boy. Not girl.”

  “No?”

  “No. Never.”

  “OK. Anyway, I told Flavia the truth. I didn’t steal it.”

  “I know you didn’t.”

  “So what are you asking for?”

  “I just want to hear your story again. For myself. Off you go.”

  “Well, it’s all true, what I told Flavia. I never stole that picture. I just got unlucky at the border.”

  “Yes?”

  “And I said I’d done it because the Carabinieri offered a deal.”

  “And then this man Forster turned up to talk about it?”

  “Like I said. About three, four months back. Just after I got out for those candlesticks in the church.”

  “Did he say he’d stolen it?”

  “Not exactly. But he knew all about it, like I say. And I know it was all hushed up. I mean, it was never in the papers, was it?”

  “I see. So he turns up. Then?”

  “He came and asked what had happened. About the theft, the handover and what had gone wrong. I told him, and he said he was sorry I’d gone to jail for something I hadn’t done, and if I wanted to clear my name by retracting my confession that would be fine by him. And he gave me some money, like I said.”

  “But he didn’t actually say he’d done it?”

  “Well, no. Not exactly.”

  “So how did you know his name?”

  “He told me. And gave me his card, in case I missed something and wanted to contact him.”

  “Gave you his card. I see. Describe him, would you?”

  “I’m not so good on that sort of thing. A bit shortsighted…”

  “You should get glasses, then. Do your best. Remember your grandmother.”

  “Well, now. He was English, like I say. Rotten Italian. Late fifties or older. Full head of hair, dark brown, almost black… well-cut. Almost well-dressed. Average height, well-built for his age.”

  “Average this, average that,” Bottando commented. “Very useful. No distinguishing features? Duelling scars or anything?”

  “Not th
at I noticed. I’m doing my best.”

  “Of course. So someone freely tells you his name, gives you his card, visits you in prison, asks you about lots of things that he should have known already had he stolen the painting. And you think that he was clearly responsible for the theft. You must think he was as stupid as you are, hmm?”

  Sandano looked offended.

  “I suppose you threw the card out?” Bottando asked, then nodded without surprise when Sandano said he had.

  “Giacomo, please. As a friend, listen to me. Take my advice.”

  “What?”

  “Go straight. Give it up. Get a job.”

  “Everybody tells me that. Even that judge.”

  “You should listen. Now, one last thing. Those statues. What happened to them? Where are they?”

  Sandano looked bashful.

  “Come on. You might as well get it over and done with. I won’t tell.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “They’re under my grandmother’s bed. You must know that if she… Oh. I’ve done it again.”

  Bottando nodded and beamed at him. “That’s what I say, give up.”

  “Lovely man,” he said under his breath as he left.

  He rang Flavia as soon as he’d finished having a thoughtful drink in the nearby bar to consider matters, and told her about Fra Angelico.

  She was not happy to hear his interpretation, especially as it was obviously right: as Bottando said, it’s what comes of underestimating the stupidity of the criminal classes.

  “Little moron,” she said when he finished. “When I get my hands on him next time…”

  “You can torment him at your leisure. But you see what this means, don’t you?”

  “If Forster stole that painting, what the hell was he playing at by going back to talk to Sandano?”

  “That’s the problem. It would still be possible to make out a very good case for this all being a figment of my imagination. Especially if you now tell me that his death might not have had anything to do with his business at all. Is that what you’re telling me?”