by Iain Pears
The child was well and being indulgently looked after, he’d said. Nothing to worry about. She’d been told it was a surprise holiday, and she would have a wonderful time for the next month or so. If all went well. Mary Verney was told that all depended on her. It was a simple job.
She was paralysed with anger and terror in equal measure, but had swiftly understood that there were no alternatives. She had tried ringing the old man in Athens to plead with him, but had not got through. She left messages, but he didn’t reply. Eventually, she realized he was not going to. He wanted something, and the steel was showing.
This time, she didn’t find it exciting.
For herself she could take risks, but this was the one area where she would never risk a thing. It was all agreed with Mikis that same day: she would go to Rome and would acquire the painting Charanis was so excited about. The sooner it was handed over, the sooner Louise would be restored to her family.
She had not yet figured out why it was so important to him; she’d done a little background work the first time he came, but couldn’t even find the thing listed in any of the guidebooks, directories or inventories she’d consulted. Mikis hadn’t been so keen to tell her, either. She’d found a little on the monastery, of course, but that was no substitute for a close examination.
The problem was the rush; she wanted her granddaughter back, and Charanis was in a hurry as well. A project she would usually plan for six months at least, to make sure everything went well, had to be done in a couple of weeks. Even worse was his insistence that she, and she alone, should be involved. She’d protested about this.
“Look: give me half a year and there would be no problem. But if you want it this quickly then slightly more direct methods might be better. Drive a truck through the door, grab it and run. It’s not a method I approve of, but it shouldn’t worry you. I know some people …”
Mikis shook his head. “Absolutely not. I want only the smallest number possible involved. That’s why I chose you. If I’d wanted a gang of bruisers I could have found them myself.”
That she believed. She seethed but accepted, then laid the best and safest plans she could come up with in time. In five days’ time, a party of pilgrims from Minnesota would arrive in Rome and, because of local connections, would be offered bed and board in the monastery of San Giovanni. Mary Verney, aka Juliet Simpson, was already booked into the party through an old contact in America. All she needed was a few days in advance to double-check the plans and check for possible problems. In principle, it should be easy, as long as her luck held.
Less than twenty-four hours after she arrived, it broke; Flavia noticed her and, although the meal was entirely polite and unthreatening, made it clear that she would be watched. Looking out of her hotel window as she finished off her drink, she saw the Italian had meant it. Sitting at a table in a cafe opposite the entrance was the same youthful girl she had noticed behind her on the way back. Not doing a very good job of being discreet, but that was perhaps the idea.
So she changed, and slipped out of the back; she doubted they would have enough people to waste more than one on her at the moment. Then walked, by a slightly circuitous route, to the Hassler—very much grander than her own hotel, but she was in an economical frame of mind these days—marched straight in, up the stairs and made for room 327. Always be on time when possible. She was not in a good mood, but was damned if she was going to let it show.
“Good evening, Mikis,” she said evenly when the door opened. The man who let her in and offered her his hand was in his thirties, but already overweight. He had been drinking, and she was pleased to see that he was nervous. She felt a wave of contempt flow over her.
“Bad news, I’m afraid,” she said unceremoniously.
He frowned.
“Very bad,” she went on. “I’ve been to see the police. They rang this afternoon. They knew I was here, and they are buzzing like a nest of wasps. For which I hold you responsible.”
He frowned with displeasure. “And why do you think that?”’
“Because you’re a clumsy amateur, that’s why. Have you been talking to anyone else about this? Getting someone lined up in reserve? Boasting to your friends? If you have any, that is.”
He stared at her. “No,” he said shortly.
“Are you sure? Absolutely sure? Because someone has been indiscreet. They must have been. It’s the only possible explanation. And it wasn’t me.”
He shook his head firmly. “Absolutely not.”
“The whole thing is blown to bits,” she said. “You’ll have to abandon the idea.”
Again he shook his head. “Sorry. I’m afraid not.”
“It’s all very well for you to say that. Courage in adversity. I’m the one who goes to jail. And if I do, you don’t get your picture.”
He didn’t even reply, so she carried on, hoping to make him see reason. “Listen, I told you how I work. This is exactly the sort of situation I have always managed to avoid. I don’t want you talking to anyone else and above all I don’t want you here.”
“That’s unfortunate,” he said evenly. “But there is nothing you can do about it.”
“And I want this whole thing cancelled, or at least postponed. Now.”
He shook his head, opened his wallet and handed over a small photograph, of a child. “Came this morning. What do you reckon? Quite a good likeness, I thought.”
She took it and stared grimly at a picture of her smiling granddaughter for a few seconds. As is traditional in this most ghoulish of modern art forms, there was a copy of yesterday’s newspaper, clearly showing the date, in the foreground. Just so there would be no misunderstanding. Her attempt to push him off-balance hadn’t worked. Back to the drawing board.
“So what do you expect me to say?”’
“Nothing. But I want it understood I must have that picture quickly.”
“Why doesn’t your father just buy it? He’s got enough money. It can’t be worth that much.”
He smiled indulgently. “It’s worth a king’s ransom, in the right hands. And it is not for sale. So this is the only way.”
“Why’s it so important? It’s not a great picture. I could buy you one twice as good in a gallery for less trouble than this.”
“That is not your concern. Your job is to get it. For that you don’t need to know why I want it. And you will get it. I have every confidence in you. So let us not waste time talking. You have a job, and you’d better get on with it.”
She was angry when she left five minutes later, with the suppressed fury of total impotence. It was something she was not used to and, yet again, she had that slow growing feeling of age creeping up on her. She felt lonely, in fact, having to rely on her own resources and discovering that, for once, they weren’t enough.
It also made her vengeful in a way which was of no use but was no less demanding for all that. Had she been a man, she might have gone out and got drunk and ended up in a brawl. Instead she fixed on the one person nearby with whom she had some sort of acquaintance. When she got back to her hotel by the back entrance, Mary walked straight through the lobby, out the front and crossed the road to the bar.
“Excuse me,” she said to the young woman still sitting patiently and reading her book. Mary noticed with satisfaction the look of perplexed alarm on her face as the poor girl realized what was going on.
“Yes?”’
“You must be a colleague of Flavia’s, I assume.”
“What?”’
“Well, you’ve been following me around all evening, and look terribly bored sitting there with that book. I was wondering if you wanted to come up to my room for a drink? Then you could watch me in comfort.”
“Ah …”
“Please yourself. But as we seem to be stuck with each other for a bit, I thought I might as well introduce myself formally. So that tomorrow we could say good morning properly, rather than pretending we don’t know each other.”
“I don’t think …”
“Or I could just give you my itinerary for tomorrow, so you’d know where to go if you lost me. It’s so ridiculous, your trying to be discreet.”
“Listen …”
“What, my dear? What’s your name, by the way?”’
“Giulia Contestanti.”
“What a nice name.”
“Thank you. But this won’t do.”
“Why not?”’
“Because it won’t.”
“Oh, I’m not meant to know you’re following me, is that right? Don’t worry”—Mary leaned forward in a conspiratorial whisper—”I won’t tell. Promise. Do I take it that you don’t want to come for a drink?”’
“No, I don’t.”
“Pity. Oh, well. I’m off to bed. I’ll be up at about seven and I’ll leave when the shops open. You’ll find me pottering up and down the via Condotti most of the morning. I need a new pair of shoes. I promise not to wave when I see you. It can be our little secret, eh? Good night, my dear.”
And, leaving the poor girl red-faced with embarrassment, Mary Verney went to bed.
4
Argyll was in a sulky mood the next morning, and sat sullenly over his toast when Flavia came into the little kitchen after her shower. She peered at him to assess his mood, made herself a coffee and sat down.
A long silence followed.
“What’s up with you?”’ she asked eventually.
“Nothing.”
“Yes, there is.”
He chewed his toast for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right. There is. Why did you invite that woman for a drink?”’
“Mary Verney? I thought you liked her.”
“No.”
“Business.”
“What sort of business?”’
“A warning shot. Just so that she knows we are aware of her presence. I’ve been meaning to ask you about her.”
Argyll sniffed cautiously.
“Do I conclude that she wasn’t quite as innocent as my report said over the Giotto thefts?”’
Argyll gave a hesitant nod. “Since you ask,” he began reluctantly, “I suppose I should tell you …”
But she held up her hand. “No doubt. But it might be better if you didn’t. We got the pictures back and closed the case to everybody’s satisfaction. If she was more involved and knew more than she let on then it might be better to pass over it in silence. If you tell me anything else, I’d be obliged to report it. That is the way it stands, isn’t it?”’
He nodded.
“But if I suggested that she was as crooked as a corkscrew, you wouldn’t feel obliged to leap to defend her good name?”’
He shook his head.
“Thought so. I was never entirely convinced by her story.”
“You weren’t?”’
“No. But we did get the pictures back, and that was all I was interested in. Keep the rest to yourself. But she may not be here simply on a holiday.”
Argyll shrugged. “I really don’t know,” he said cautiously. “As far as I can see she has more than enough money. And her complaints about being too old had an air of truth to them. What are you going to do about her?”’
“Nothing. Except watch her every step, bug her phone, read her mail and never let her out of our sight.”
“Which she will spot.”
“That’s the idea … She assures me she is here on holiday. Maybe she is. I just want to be certain.”
“Is that why you were late the other night as well?”’
She sighed. So that was why he was grumpy. In abstract she sympathized. In practice, she wished he had a bit more sympathy for her. What was she meant to do about it? Stay at home while things got stolen all around her?
“No,” she said patiently. “That was something else. We had a tip-off about a possible raid. On a monastery. I had to go down and warn them. I don’t like it, either, you know. But we’re short of people ever since …”
“I know. Budget cuts.”
“Well, it’s true. I don’t hang around street corners at night for my own pleasure, you know.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Oh, well. I’m used to it, I suppose.”
“Don’t be so long-suffering.”
“I am long-suffering.”
“And don’t be crabby, either. That’s my job. I’m a bit fed up too, you know.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”’
“Bottando’s going.”
“Where?”’
“Going. Just going. He’s been promoted. Against his will. It’s that or being demoted, it seems.”
Argyll put down his toast suddenly. “Good God. That’s sudden, isn’t it? What happened?”’
“A coup detat, I think. But he’s going in two months. To head some useless Euro-initiative, which will probably result in art theft doubling over the next few years.”
“You sound very certain. Isn’t he going to do anything about it?”’
“Apparently not. He says there’s nothing he can do.”
“Goodness. So who takes over?”’
“He remains nominally in charge. But he’s offered the day-to-day running to me. If, that is, I don’t want to go with him.”
“Do you want to run the place?”’
“I don’t know. Do I want everything to depend on me and be responsible for operations? I don’t think I do. Do I want to work for Paolo, or someone brought in from outside? No. Not that either.”
“You want things to stay as they are.”
She nodded.
“And they’re not going to. What will you do?”’
She shrugged. “I haven’t thought about it.”
“What would going with him involve?”’
“Sitting in an office from nine to five, organizing. Home every evening at six. No rushing around late at night. Vast amounts of money, tax free.”
He nodded. “Every sensible person’s dream, right?”’
“Yes.”
He nodded again as he turned this over in his mind. “Hmm. Do you want to do it?”’
“I’d get to spend more time with you.”
“Not what I asked.”
“Oh, Jonathan, I don’t know. I suppose you think I should go for the quiet life.”
“I didn’t say that. Obviously I wouldn’t mind seeing you every now and then.”
“I thought so.”
“But if you go with Bottando you could end up in a dead-end, boring job which drives you crazy, money or no. When do you have to decide?”’
“He’s given me a week.”
“In that case you should think about it for a week. And so will I. So let’s change the subject. This monastery. Did you fend off the criminal classes? Which monastery was it, anyway?”’
“San Giovanni. On the Aventino.”
He nodded. “I know it.”
“Really?”’ The things he knew about this city never ceased to amaze her. She had never heard of the place before.
“It’s got a dodgy Caravaggio in it.”
“Under restoration.”
“Ah. Who’s doing it?”’
“A man called Dan Menzies. Ever heard of him?”’
Argyll nodded fervently. “The Rottweiler of Restoration.”
“So it’s worth a lot of money?”’
“If it’s a Caravaggio, and if Menzies hasn’t repainted it as a Monet, yes. And the subject matter is a bit gloomy for your average buyer of stolen works of art, as I recall.”
“What is it?”’
“The breaking of St Catherine on the Wheel. A bit morbid. And good evidence for it not being by Caravaggio. He didn’t take to women much. These private collectors usually go for the more cheerful stuff, don’t they? Sunflowers and Impressionists, and all that sort of thing. Baroque religion doesn’t look so well in the dining room. Puts people off their food, in fact. Besides, it’s probably quite big. Getting it out would need a removal truck, I’d imagine.”
“So what’s the story on Menzies?”’
&nbs
p; “None that I know of. Very loud, bellows away so you can hear him from miles off, but it may be that his bark is worse than his bite. I’ve never met him. More than that I can’t say. You think he’s in cahoots with someone, do you? Tipped them off the picture is out of its frame so they can sweep in and roll it up.”
She shrugged. “No. But if someone is going to pinch that picture, and would want to hit it before it goes back on its stretcher, they’d have to know when the best moment would be to go in.”
“Better put a tail on Menzies, then. Tap his phone, that sort of thing.”
“We don’t have the people.”
The first thing Flavia had to deal with when she arrived was Giulia, who brought her crisis of confidence with her into the office. This did at least make her forget about major career decisions. “Oh, stop making such a fuss,” she said crossly, when Giulia recounted her meeting in the cafe with Mrs Verney and then burst into tears. “It happens, and it’s partly my fault for not telling you that she’s a bit more complicated than she looks. Now stop making that noise.”
Flavia paused for a moment when she realized how very much like Bottando she must sound to the poor girl. Except that Bottando would have managed to be a bit more avuncular, which was quite beyond her range. Naturally Giulia was upset; it was more or less the first time she’d been allowed out of the office since she’d arrived after her initial training; she wasn’t very good yet and to have her nose rubbed in the fact like that must have been distressing.
“You go and recover yourself by writing the reports for a day, and then maybe you can have another go. It’s just a knack. Don’t worry about it. Who’s following her at the moment?”’
“No one.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” She stood up and reached for her bag.
“Where is she? In her hotel?”’
Giulia looked at her watch. “She said she was going shopping, and we could find her in the via Condotti most of the morning.”
Grumbling to herself that this was a ludicrous way of running a police force, Flavia walked out of the office to fill the gap. Tell Bottando, she said, to find someone to take over at lunch. If he’s around. She’d ring in later to say where she was.
She tracked Mary Verney down in a shoe shop, as she was trying on a pair of fairly expensive shoes. The wince on her face suggested they were not perfect.