by Iain Pears
But they didn’t yet have an explanation. The more she thought, the more she realized this awkward little fact. Someone had left the church with a bag which was just about big enough for a small icon. Mary Verney had left empty-handed. Their witness was sure of that. She had only been in the church for a minute or two; not long enough to hit Father Xavier, steal the icon and hide it somewhere. They’d have to search the church again, just to be sure. This Burckhardt was almost certainly the one who took the picture, and also the man who attacked Father Xavier.
Stood to reason. Icon and icon man. Bit of a coincidence otherwise.
But why steal it? Obviously because he wanted it. But a distinguished man like him? Stealing in person? Very unusual. Unheard of. Even the stupidest dealer would subcontract something like that. To a specialist. Like Mrs Verney. So what was he doing leaving before she got there? And surely someone like Mrs Verney wouldn’t do a job and take her employer along for the ride?
This stumped her, so she punished her stomach some more by smoking another cigarette and having another coffee and staring at the ceiling in the hope that something would occur to her.
It didn’t. And then, before she could take that precious half hour off for something to eat she’d been promising herself since five o’clock, Alberto rang. He had news, he said. They’d found someone floating in the Tiber. Did she want to come and have a look? She might be interested.
Why? she asked. Nothing novel about that.
“Ah, well, you see. His name was Burckhardt. He had identification on him saying he was an art dealer. From Paris. So I thought …”
“I’m on my way.” She picked up her jacket, calmed her stomach and walked out.
Whoever was responsible hadn’t tried very hard to conceal what they’d done; the body would have surfaced and floated ashore sooner or later anyway, even if one of the ancient, slow dredgers that pursue the thankless task of scooping up silt from the bottom of the river hadn’t sucked him up bodily and spat him out into the cavernous hold of the boat.
On the other hand, it was lucky that anyone had noticed. Had one of the crew not been new to the job, and been leaning over the railing watching because he was not yet experienced enough to have lost interest, the body might have been instantly buried under several tons of sand, taken out to sea and dumped four kilometres or so in the Mediterranean. Equally, had the new recruit not been the son of the captain, it is likely that his alarm would have been ignored anyway.
Either way, it was only by mere chance that the corpse of Peter Burckhardt was discovered so quickly, allowing the police to avoid a considerable waste of time in their less than urgent desire to talk to him. Time which they were instantly able to divert to the more urgent task of discovering who had taken him a couple of miles down river, shot him in the head, then tipped his body in.
And why, of course. He had nothing on him which helped in any way, except for an address book containing several hundred numbers which the unfortunate Giulia was told to ring up, one by one, in search of stray information. Certainly, there was nothing which instantly made the enquiry progress by leaps and bounds. The information lay in the existence of the corpse itself. But even that was relatively uncommunicative, offering no help over when it got there or who put it there. And, so the pathologist assured Flavia morosely, it probably wouldn’t. Not even a bullet, which had gone straight through and out the other side.
“So whoever it was shot him was standing close? Is that fair?”’
“Maybe. Depends on the gun, doesn’t it? If you want a guess …”
“Why not?”’
“I’d say small pistol, fired close. Less than a metre. More I cannot say. Certainly not at the moment.”
Great. She had expected no less, and certainly no more.
“There is one thing, though,” Alberto said as she was about to leave.
“What?”’
“In his pocket.” He held out a piece of paper in the palm of his hand. “We found this.”
“So?”’
“It’s a key for a left-luggage deposit.”
“Can I borrow that for a while?”’
“If you sign for it and give it back.”
“So fussy you are.”
“Can’t trust anyone these days, you know. Do you have any ideas?”’
She shook her head. “None that make sense. What about you?”’
“We thought we’d have that restorer in for a chat. Menzies.” She looked puzzled.
“They were enemies,” he pointed out. “So your friend says. Came to blows. Had another squabble a couple of days ago. You’re the one who says art restoring is a vicious business.”
“Not that vicious. Had someone pulled his head off, then Menzies would be your man. But shooting him?”’ She shook her head.
Alberto shrugged. “We’ve got to do something to pass the time. Unless you can suggest something better …?”’
She couldn’t, so she signed a receipt, put the key in her pocket, and walked slowly away.
There are well-established ways of finding out where keys come from, but they are enormously tedious and often take a long time, even when you are fairly sure that what you are looking for is a left-luggage locker. Nonetheless, Flavia put the machinery into action, and herself sat at the desk in her office and tried to hurry things up a little.
Let us assume, she thought, that this is important. Let us assume that it will get us somewhere.
She got out her old and much-used map of Rome, spread it on her desk and considered. The twin stations of Ostia Lido and Ostiense were the most likely, although there was also the metro station at the Colosseum. If it had lockers.
Keys, she thought as she walked to the taxi rank and pushed her way to the front of the queue. The Romans accepted it; the tourists looked daggers at her. Keys, she thought as the taxi inched its way into the traffic. Lots of keys. To lockers and to church doors. Tiresome. But, you never know. Journey’s end might be just around the corner. With a bit of luck.
Not today. Not with that key, anyway. The Colosseum was a dud; Ostia Lido was a dud; Ostiense was a bit of a poser.
For a brief moment she had a surge of hope. The station had its bank of lockers, and a few moments’ examination led her to one labelled C37. It was locked. With a tremor of anticipation, she put the key in, and smiled as it turned in the lock.
There was a bag inside. But not a canvas one. A suitcase, covered in American airline stickers.
She pulled it out, still hoping but already half suspicious that something wasn’t right, put it on the floor and opened it up.
Socks. Underpants. T-shirts. A tag identifying the case as the possession of Walter Matthews, 2238 Willow, Indianapolis 07143. USA.
Totally perplexing. She frowned as she sat cross-legged in front of the scattered contents, oblivious to the passengers skirting round her, trying to figure out the connection. She didn’t understand. She was just about to start putting all the bits and pieces back into the case when she vaguely heard a footstep from behind. She ignored it, but was forced to be a bit more attentive when this was followed up with a loud cry of triumph as she was put into a neck lock by a large, sunburned, muscular and American arm.
“Gotcha!” screamed Walter Matthews of Indianapolis.
“Oh, for God’s sake …”
“Thief! Police!”
An interested circle of passengers gathered round to watch this little drama, and Flavia was pinned to the ground by the outraged tourist for several minutes until the station manager put in an appearance. Followed by two passing carabinieri who attempted to arrest her while the manager tried to calm the situation down.
“Look, guys …” Flavia said.
“Shut up. You’re under arrest.”
“I am not under arrest.”
“Oh yes? That’s what you think.”
She reached for her identification, and was instantly pinned to the ground again.
“Jesus Christ! I am in the police. Let
me go, you stupid morons.”
It was said with sufficient force to make them hesitate long enough for her to drag the identification out of her back pocket. Her colleagues in law enforcement looked at it, twitched with embarrassment, then let go of her arms, producing a bellow of outrage from Walter Matthews.
“Oh, be quiet,” Flavia snapped, conscious that she wasn’t exactly enhancing Rome’s international image but not really caring either. “Take your bloody bag and be grateful we don’t confiscate it.”
Not that he understood a word, of course, until she calmed down long enough to translate a slightly calmer version. Crime. Murder. Locker involved. Police investigation. No damage. Thanks for your cooperation which is greatly appreciated. Etcetera.
All this in English, which the station master did not understand. Which was a pity. If he had, he might have been more sympathetic; as it was, he was more indignant about the smooth running of his station and was distinctly cool about answering Flavia’s questions.
He couldn’t go into details, he told her, because he was merely a standin while the real station manager was on holiday.
“Where?”’
“Vienna. The State Railway choir. They’re going on tour in Austria. Verdi’s Requiem. And some Palestrina. Signor Landini is a tenor.”
“Good for him. How is it that there are two keys? I have one, this American had one.”
He shrugged. Evidently one had been reported lost and replaced.
“When?”’
Another shrug. Such matters are always put in the book.
“Get the book.”
Reluctantly, he did. Flavia examined it with care. Nothing.
“You would have cut the new key sometime. Is there a record of that?”’
There was always a duplicate set, he explained. People lose keys all the time, and get very upset.
“So you have no idea when the second key came into operation? When the original went missing?”’
“No.”
“Can you tell if this is the original?”’ She handed over the key found in Burckhardt’s pocket. The station master looked at it and nodded. It was the original. You could tell by the numbering. She retrieved it, and looked so discouraged the man finally took pity on her, and picked up the phone.
“Lockers? Did Signor Landini ask you to get out any replacement keys in the past few days?”’
There was a pause. “Yesterday? The number? Good. No, everything’s in order. He forgot to note it in the book, that’s all. Holiday spirit, I suppose. He didn’t say anything about who lost the key? I thought not.”
He put the phone down. “Yesterday,” he said. “Someone came saying they’d lost the key yesterday.”
“I heard. They didn’t say when yesterday?”’
“No. Signor Landini reported it just before he left.”
Getting the necessary permissions to go into Burckhardt’s hotel room took the usual length of time. That is to say hours; he was on his own, there was no one to ask and official permission had to be sought from some legal nook and cranny. Left to her own devices, Flavia might well have just let herself in with a picklock, but the carabinieri were involved and they were terribly fussy about that sort of thing these days. They used not to be, but what with enquiries and investigations and assessments and all that, everyone was being awfully careful and punctilious about following the rules. Partly to avoid trouble, and partly to show to the powers-that-be that following rules was time-consuming and expensive.
So while they fussed around magistrates, and pathologists fussed around Burckhardt’s body, and Paolo went chasing after Mary Verney, Flavia was left temporarily with nothing to do. Instead she went back to San Giovanni, to see if Alberto had collared Menzies yet. There was no one around, so she saw Father Jean instead.
“What are all the flowers for? On the steps to the church?”’
The old man frowned. “They’re from the local population. Trying to persuade their Lady to return and forgive them.”
“What for?”’
“For neglecting her.”
Flavia thought back to her schooldays, and scratched her head. “Does that make good theology?”’
He smiled, and shook his head slowly. “It makes appalling theology. But what’s that got to do with it? They think she is displeased, and has withdrawn her protection. Frankly, it teeters on paganism. And, of course, we are being blamed. If we hadn’t cut her off by closing the doors … Do you know, one of us, Father Luc, was shouted at in a tobacconist yesterday? Told he was bringing disaster on the quarter? Can you believe it in this day and age?”’
“Hard.”
“Staggering. Father Xavier’s idea, you know. To shut the church. But none of us realized she was held in such affection. Anyway, the flowers and baskets of fruit are to woo her back. If it goes on, we’re going to be visited.”
“Who by?”’
“The parish overseer, and our Cardinal supervisor. This could cause trouble for us, you know. We will get criticized for shutting the church, and criticized for encouraging superstition. I know it. Signorina, you know, I’m too old for this.” Flavia looked at his old and lined face, and the slump in his shoulders and couldn’t do anything but agree. Fortunately, it was outside her province, although she thought Bottando would probably give useful, worldly advice. But he was fat and sixty, and could do things like that. She had her work cut out doing her own job, let alone telling other people how to do theirs.
“It’s about keys,” she said, to get the subject back on to more comfortable territory. Then paused for a long while. Father Jean sat patiently, waiting for her to elaborate.
“A man was seen coming out of the door of the church at six-thirty. Somebody on the inside must have opened it. How many keys are there? Who has them?”’
“To the big door? The one on to the street?”’
She nodded.
“There is only one,” Father Jean said.
“Can I see it?”’
“By all means. It hangs on a hook just inside the door.”
“I’d better check it’s there.”
He smiled. “There is no need, although you are more than welcome to do so if you wish. I saw it myself this morning. Have you arrested this man? It may be uncharitable, but if he attacked Father Xavier I will find it very hard to forgive him.”
She grimaced. Evidently no one had yet told them. “I’m afraid that this case is becoming rather complicated,” she said. “Mr Burckhardt was found in the Tiber this morning. He had been shot.”
“Oh, my goodness. The poor soul.”
“Indeed.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand what all this is about.”
She looked at him sadly. “You are not the only one, Father, believe me. This is becoming very much more than the theft of a not very important work of art. It’s a nightmare. I hope that Father Xavier will help. Assuming we’re allowed to talk to him tomorrow.”
“You don’t think that he is in any danger?”’
She shrugged her shoulders. “I didn’t think anybody was. I was evidently wrong. I’ve had a guard put over him.”
“For some reason, I am not as reassured as I might be.”
“No,” she agreed flatly. “Nor am I.”
“I would like to send one of our more muscular brothers down to sit by him.”
“I’m sure that would be fine. What is it?”’
Father Jean was looking suddenly ill at ease, very much like someone who felt the need to say something but was too delicate to begin.
“Come on, you can’t surprise me. Nothing can surprise me today.”
“I was wondering when we would be seeing the General. I’m sure, of course, that you are more than experienced enough. Please don’t think that. But as General Bottando knows us from the last time … I like to think he and I struck up a rapport, you see, and I was looking forward to seeing him.”
“I’m afraid that’s unlikely,” she said. “I have been put in char
ge of the case. General Bottando is too—ah—preoccupied at the moment.” She did her best to avoid being irritated, and just about managed. It was, after all, something she was going to have to get used to.
“I am sorry. I mean, I didn’t wish to imply for a moment …”
“I know. But there it is. So if there is anything to say, you’ll have to tell me, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, dear. I don’t wish to seem doubtful. It’s not about you, but simply because I don’t know you, you see.”
Flavia gave him an exasperated look. So much dithering. It was obvious he’d disgorge eventually. Why couldn’t he just get on with it?
“I’m afraid that in the last day or so I have discovered certain things which I find deeply distressing.”
“And which you don’t want anyone else to know about?”’
He nodded sadly.
“I’m quite able to forget something if it is not directly relevant,” she said. “My job is to find a thief and a murderer. Not to spread other people’s dirty laundry around the world.”
He grunted, took a deep breath, then began. Or almost began. A few circumlocutions to warm up first.
“You’ve gathered, perhaps, that Father Xavier and I did not always see eye to eye on many matters?”’
She nodded. “Something like that.”
“Not very long ago, I was effectively the second in command here to the superior general, Father Charles. He was probably the best leader this order ever had. That’s not just loyalty on my part; he kept us going through the rough times of Vatican Two and its aftermath, and had a way of quelling arguments and gently persuading people. It is a rare skill. I’d known him all my life, virtually. He was a few years older than me, and I loved him like a brother. A real brother, you understand.”
She nodded.
“And he got ill. He was old, had a good life and got ill and could no longer discharge his duties. We elected Father Xavier to replace him. You may think it unfair of me, but I think he is a weak man; he has little certainty in his soul, so borrows the appearance of it, if you see what I mean.”
He glanced at her, and she shook her head. Not a clue.
“When he decides to do something he doesn’t feel he is right, in the way that Charles did. He persuades himself, and because he is so doubtful, he presents his ideas with much more dogmatism and fervour than if he was really convinced. When he has an idea, he is determined to stick to it, for fear of revealing his own weakness to himself. He confronts rather than persuades, and angers rather than conciliates.