Death and Restoration

by Iain Pears

  He also, it seemed, was not used to dealing with members of the police and managed to convey the impression very swiftly that he strongly suspected that all such people had sweaty hands and probably did not bathe all that frequently. He sat behind his desk for all the world like someone preparing to make a last stand against the barbarian hordes, and made polite but condescending conversation until the distinguished visitor was ushered in.

  This was, oddly enough, a trade representative from the Greek embassy, which caused confusion all round until it was explained that just because he was a trade representative, it didn’t mean he had anything to do with trade, you see.

  “May I ask why the head of the department is not here, as I ordered?”’ the Italian said. Flavia bristled slightly, and she noticed an amused look from Alberto.

  “I am the head of the department,” she said, and noticed how well and easily the words rolled off her tongue. “And you ordered nothing. You asked me to come, and I agreed. Now, do I gather that you, sir, are a spy, and we’re playing silly games here?”’ she continued, ignoring the Italian completely.

  “Exactly, dear lady,” he enthused. “Silly games. Exactly that.” He gave her a large stage wink as he nodded approvingly.

  “Good. I’m glad we’ve got all that sorted out,” said the Italian in a suit. “Perhaps we might proceed. I don’t have all day, and Signor Fostiropoulos is a busy man as well.”

  “That’s a pity,” Flavia said. “We have all the time in the world. What’s a murder or two, after all?”’

  “That’s what we’re here for, is it not?”’ Fostiropoulos said.

  “I don’t know. Why are we here?”’

  “You have been making enquiries, about a Signor Charanis.”

  “We have.”

  “And I am here to inform you that you have made a bad mistake. The idea that he could be in any way involved in any disreputable activity is quite ludicrous.”

  “I don’t even know who he is.”

  “He is a very wealthy man. Huge interests, all absolutely above board. He is a greatly respected man.”

  “And a powerful one, if he sends you along to defend him.”

  “Don’t be flippant. Or rude, signorina,” said the Italian diplomat.

  Fostiropoulos nodded. “Quite all right. He is indeed powerful. I have come along merely to save you from wasting your time on a fruitless line of enquiry.”

  “He wouldn’t collect paintings, would he?”’

  “Very much so. But that is hardly a crime.”

  “You still haven’t told me why you are so sure it’s fruitless.”

  “Firstly because Signor Charanis is at this moment in Athens, and has been since last week. Secondly because the man you are interested in is in his thirties while Signor Charanis is seventy-two. And thirdly because it is simply absurd to consider the idea that he would ever consider doing such a ridiculous thing. He could buy this picture—could buy the entire monastery, in fact—out of his small change.”

  “I see. Nonetheless, we do have a rented car with our victim getting into it, and it was rented in the name of Charanis.”

  “Criminals have been known to use pseudonyms in the past.”

  “Have you seen his photograph?”’ Flavia handed over the grainy reproduction taken from the video machine. Fostiropoulos took it and, she noted, kept it. The difference between a spy telling the truth and a spy telling a lie was, she supposed, difficult to detect; and Fostiropoulos had probably had years of practice. Flavia’s instincts, more than her observation, told her the man instantly began covering something.

  “I don’t recognize him. Certainly not Signor Charanis, who is over seventy.”

  “I see.”

  The Greek stood up. “That’s my contribution done, then. I must be going. I do very much hope that you find this man, whoever he may be. And that you will find that I have been of assistance to you. I’m sorry to bring this meeting to an end so swiftly, but I think there is nothing else to say on the subject. It was a pleasure to meet you, signorina.”

  He nodded to Alberto, who had not been successful in saying anything at all, and did the same to the diplomat, who showed him out with all due ceremony, then shut the door and breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Goodness,” he said. “That was close.”

  “What was?”’

  “We very nearly had a major incident on our hands there. Do you have any idea how powerful this man is? Fortunately, swift action avoided it.”

  “What major incident? Come to think of it, what swift action? I didn’t notice anything.”

  “He was very upset.”

  “No, he wasn’t.”

  “I hope you appreciate his consideration in coming here.”

  “No one has thanked us for our consideration in coming here yet,” she snapped. “We’re not responsible to you, you know. Besides, he didn’t say anything at all.”

  The diplomat eyed her coldly. Flavia eyed him back. She didn’t understand why she was behaving like this, but she undoubtedly enjoyed it. Did Bottando enjoy being obstreperous so much? Was it one of the hidden perks of the job?

  “What could he say? You go around levelling baseless accusations which turn out to be a tissue of nonsense to conceal the gross mistakes you’ve committed, and you expect him to help? A lesser man than Fostiropoulos would have lodged a complaint at ministerial level and left it at that.”

  “In that case you people are complete idiots.”

  “I beg your pardon?”’

  “And you are a bigger idiot than most. We make a routine enquiry—which normally takes weeks to process—and within twenty-four hours we have a top-level meeting with some Greek spook, who comes round here like a bat out of hell to point us in another direction. Doesn’t that strike even you as a bit odd?”’

  “No.”

  “I’m quite prepared to accept that our thirty-ish suspect is not a seventy-two-year-old millionaire. So ready to accept it that this meeting was unnecessary. So what was it in aid of? Eh?”’

  A shrug, and the meeting ended. A few seconds later, Flavia and Alberto found themselves once more in the empty corridor outside.

  “Moron,” she said when the door to the office had shut. “What a waste of time.”

  “Do you believe him or not? Fostiropoulos, I mean,” Alberto asked.

  “I believe what he said. It’s what he didn’t say that bothers me. Still, we’re just not going to get any help from that quarter, I’m

  afraid. Back to work.”

  They walked down the stairs, and queued at the desk in the lobby to hand in their security passes and sign out. The receptionist checked the passes, ticked them off and said, “This was left for you, signorina.”

  She handed Flavia a small envelope; she opened it and read:

  “Dear Signorina di Stefano,

  “I trust you will do me the great honour of joining me for a drink at Castello this evening at six p.m.

  “Fostiropoulos.”

  She groaned. “Of all the luck. Not only do I not get any useful information, I have to spend the evening being oozed over.”

  “Don’t go,” suggested Alberto.

  “I’d better. You never know. I might squeeze something out of him. If I don’t, I might risk another international incident. I must say, I do hate the personal touch. Especially when touch is likely to be the operative word.”

  “It’s a tough life in the police. Now you know why they paid Bottando so much.”

  “You heard about that, did you?”’

  “Oh, yes. Word travels, you know. I hope it doesn’t mean too many changes. What happens to you?”’

  “I’ve been offered the job of acting chief.”

  “I’m impressed. Ma’am.” He bowed politely.

  She grinned. “What do you think? Could I do it well?”’

  He thought carefully.

  “Oh, come on,” she said.

  “Of course you could. Although if you become as rude to ev
eryone as you were to that diplomat man they’ll go begging for Bottando to come back.”

  “Was I that rude?”’

  “Not diplomatic, no.”

  “Oh. I was a bit nervous.”

  “Try smiling coquettishly next time you tell people they’re contemptible morons with brains the size of a pea.”

  “You think?”’

  “It might help.”

  She nodded. “Maybe you’re right. I need to practise.”

  “You’ll get the hang of it.”

  “Now, tell me. What are you up to today?”’

  Alberto groaned. “What do you think? Miserable routine, checking hotels and airports and credit cards, mixed in liberally with miserable enquiries, explaining how it is that we ended up deploying thirty-five people in six vans with enough weaponry to fight a civil war in an attempt to arrest someone who wasn’t there. And, what’s more, telling it all to a large group of people who make their career out of telling other people how things should be done. Largely because they were so bad at doing it themselves that they had to be taken off active work to safeguard the public.”

  Flavia nodded. “I thought so.”

  “What about you?”’

  “Do you know, I’m not entirely certain. I’ll go to the hospital to see whether Father Xavier has come round and can talk. If he has, I’ll see what he has to say. If not, I have a horrible feeling I’ll spend the day sitting at my desk twiddling my thumbs hoping something will turn up.”

  Jonathan Argyll, in contrast to Flavia’s mood of vacillation, set off the same morning with high hopes of accomplishing something useful. He had never been very interested in the nuts and bolts of Flavia’s type of crime, the how and the who of policing. Like all people who did not have the task of actually locking people up, he found the why of it all very much more interesting. In his view, everything else should be subordinated to that, and it would make crime a far more fascinating prospect. Of course, it wouldn’t result in many arrests, but that was not his concern. How the painting of the icon was stolen was simple enough, after all. Someone went in and took it. Easy. Who stole it was more interesting but offered only a couple of possibilities, judging by what Flavia had told him. Why they stole it, on the other hand-now that was a bit of a puzzle, as far as he could see. Just the sort of thing for a subtle, complex mind.

  This flying painting, borne by angels, had not excited over much interest in the past few centuries; he had woken up that morning with the task of discovering why that situation had changed as his project for the day. For the week, if necessary, as he had given his charges a long essay to write which should keep their brows furrowed for several days.

  He hadn’t told Flavia, being someone who liked to spring his surprises fully formed, but he reckoned he had an idea already. Not a big one, but something. It was a question, he thought, of what triggered Burckhardt into action. Whether that would help in getting the picture back was another matter, of course.

  He explained his quest to Father Jean when he arrived at San Giovanni.

  “You may look with pleasure, if you think it will help in any way,” the old man said.

  “Do you have a record of what this man looked at?”’

  “Which man?”’

  “Burckhardt. The dead man. The one in the river. He cited some of your archives in an article, so unless he was a total fraud, he must have used them. I thought it might be useful to know what he looked at.”

  Luck was not with him. Father Jean shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t keep records?”’

  “Oh, no. On the rare occasions someone comes here, we just give them a key to the archive room.”

  “Is there a catalogue of the documents?”’

  Father Jean smiled. “After a fashion, but it’s not very satisfactory. In fact, it’s unusable.”

  “Still useful.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Why’s that?”’

  “Because it was all in the head of Father Charles, who knew the papers backwards and forwards.”

  “And he’s dead, I suppose.”

  “Oh, no. Full of life, but he is over eighty and his mind is not what it was.”

  “You mean he’s senile?”’

  “I’m afraid so. He has his lucid moments, but they are becoming more and more rare.”

  “And he never made a catalogue?”’

  “No. We planned to get it all down, and would have done so except that Father Charles had a stroke and was put out of commission. If we ever get a catalogue, we’ll be starting from scratch. And I’m afraid it is not a very high priority.”

  “That makes life more difficult. Is there any chance of seeing him anyway? Just in case?”’

  “Probably. But I can’t take you to him myself. We have our latest crisis to deal with.”

  “What’s that?”’

  Father Jean shook his head. “We seem to have a popular religious revival on our hands.”

  “Isn’t that good?”’

  “Do you know, I’m not sure. I’m afraid the order spends so time running hospitals and schools that we are no longer sure what to do with religious feeling. Especially when there are signs that it is superstitious and idolatrous.”

  “I’m not with you.”

  “That icon. You heard, no doubt, that it was a sort of local protector. Guarding the quarter against plague and bombs?”’

  Argyll nodded.

  “All that had died out, of course. Except for a few old people like Signora Graziani, it was hardly remembered. So I thought, anyway. For some reason the theft has brought it all to the surface again. They’re like that, the Romans. However much you may think they have become brash and materialistic, scratch the surface …”

  “So what’s going on?”’

  “Everything. Late-night vigils asking the icon to return. Genuine fear, it seems, that the quarter is exposed to danger by its absence. Confessions tagged to the locked door hoping that a genuine show of contrition will make it relent, and come back …”

  “But it was stolen.”

  Father Jean shook his head. “It seems not. It seems that in the minds of a surprising number of people here, it got up and walked out on its own to indicate Our Lady’s displeasure. And will not return until she is satisfied everybody is in a properly repentant frame of mind. Obviously, I’ve read about phenomena like this in history books, but I never thought that I’d witness such a thing. It’s genuine, you know; absolutely genuine. The trouble is, that the order is being blamed.”

  “What for?”’

  “For cutting Our Lady off from her people. Closing the doors. It’s all General Bottando’s fault, in fact, as he was the one who told us to lock the doors.”

  “That’s his job.”

  “Yes. And I’m coming to believe that it should have been our job to ignore him. So you see, we have to discuss this, and work out what to do.”

  “Of course. Perhaps if you could tell me where this Father Charles is? If there’s any chance of getting something out of him …”

  “Oh, that’s easy enough. He’s here. We look after our own, you know.”

  Father Jean looked at his old watch, and grunted. “I can take you to him quickly. if he’s alert, I’ll leave you. Then you’ll have to fend for yourself.”

  Very quickly, he headed off down corridors, up stairs, mounting higher and higher in the building until the decorations gave way and was replaced by older, blistered and peeling paint. The windows got smaller and smaller, and the ever more narrow doors became looser on their hinges.

  “Not lavish, I’m afraid,” Father Jean observed. “But he refused to move.”

  “He wants to live here?”’

  “He has done for sixty years and refused to budge even when he was the superior. We wanted to give him a lighter room on the ground floor. It would have made it easier for him to get around, and the doctors thought that more cheerful surroundings might help his mind. But he wouldn�
�t have it. He never did like change.”

  He knocked on the door, waited for a moment then pushed it open.

  “Charles?”’ he said softly into the gloom. “Are you awake?”’

  “I am,” an old voice said. “I am awake.”

  “I have a visitor for you. He wants to ask about the archives.”

  There was a long pause and a creaking of a chair from the other side of the darkened room. Argyll noticed the strong, musty smell of underventilation and extreme old age in the air, and braced himself for a difficult and unrewarding encounter.

  “Show him in, then.”

  “Are you able to talk to him?”’

  “What have I just been doing?”’

  “You’re in luck,” Father Jean whispered. “He’ll probably lapse after a while, but you might get something out of him.”

  “Don’t whisper, Jean,” came the voice, cross now. “Send me this visitor, and get him to open the shutters so I can see what I have to deal with. And leave me in peace.”

  Father Jean gave an affectionate smile and padded softly out of the room, leaving Argyll, oddly nervous, alone. He stumbled across the room to reach the wall and opened both windows and shutters. The morning sunlight streamed in with such intensity it was almost like being hit.

  The light revealed a sparse, austere room, with a bed, two chairs, a desk and a shelf of books. On the wall was a crucifix, and from the ceiling hung a light with a single, unshaded light bulb. In one of the chairs sat Father Charles, looking at him calmly andwiththe infinite patience of age. Argyll stood still while the inspection was on, not daring to sit down until invited.

  He was surprised by what he saw. He had half expected an wizened little man, as pitiful as old age can be, doddering and pathetic. Instead, the sight presented to him could hardly have been more different. Father Charles was still big, and must have been enormous when young. Barrel-chested, powerful and tall, even in ill-health, he dominated the room and made the chair he was sitting on seem far too small. More important still was his expression, which flickered with interest as it studied Argyll’s face with care, taking all the time he wanted, conscious that nothing would happen until he was ready to allow the interview to proceed.