by Iain Pears
‘You can’t blame her for all this.’
‘I’m not blaming anyone. All I know is, if Taddeo had just turned up and handed in the picture, people would have asked how he got it.’
‘You could have found another one in a ditch.’
‘Don’t be silly. We couldn’t get away with that one twice. Nearly didn’t the first time. Now, will you please clean up this mess?’
‘Just a second,’ Argyll said sternly. ‘I didn’t mean last week. I meant now. You could have told her now that you had the money. Why didn’t you?’ He scrutinized her face very closely. ‘You’re going to keep it, aren’t you,’ he said accusingly.
At least she had the grace to look a little embarrassed.
‘After forty years of impeccable, legendary honesty, Bottando comes across you again and within weeks he’s walking off with three million dollars stuffed down his trouser leg.’ He shook his head. ‘You really are quite something.’
‘We can worry about all that later,’ she said, pointing once more to Bossoni.
‘Let’s worry about it now.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you have more money than you need, so you say, and, thanks to you two geriatric hooligans, Flavia is out of a job. And because if you didn’t have dishonourable notions about hanging on to the stuff, you’d have had no trouble telling Flavia all about it. But you didn’t. Bottando told her a direct lie and said he’d handed over the money to a man in a balaclava.’
‘Ski mask,’ she corrected.
‘Whatever. It was a lie, which speaks volumes.’
She grimaced in the manner of someone about to explain something very simple to someone even simpler.
‘Jonathan, what were we meant to do with it? It would have been such a waste to give it back. After all, it was the price of getting the picture back and the picture was returned. I recovered it. And I don’t work for nothing, you know.’
‘And Bottando agreed?’
‘After I’d worked on him a bit. It’s remarkable the effect being eased out of a job has on even the most upright of people.’
‘Well, I’m not going to be the one to tell all this to Flavia.’
‘I should hope not. She’d be most upset. She quite possibly wouldn’t understand.’
‘But silence, as they say, is an expensive commodity. So we might be able to help each other.’
Mary Verney looked closely at him. ‘Dear me,’ she said. ‘So much for the quiet and inoffensive scholar routine.’
‘It’s the company I keep,’ he replied. ‘It rubs off on you. Besides, we putative fathers have to go a-hunting and a-gathering, you know.’
‘Very well,’ she said with a sigh. ‘It’s a deal. We can sort the details out later, no doubt. Or do you distrust me that much?’
‘I would never dream of it. Now, this corpse …’
They walked tentatively back to the terrace and looked at Bossoni’s body lying on the ground. Then Mary got a thick tarpaulin from the house, they wrapped him in it with great distaste, and dragged him slowly to his car.
‘I suppose we’d better put him in the boot,’ he said calmly. It was amazing what you could get used to. ‘That’s what you people normally do, isn’t it?’
‘What do you mean, “you people"? I don’t make a habit of this, you know.’
‘You’d never know.’ He opened the boot and peered inside with a torch. There was a jumble of tools, and bits of paper, and old sandwich wrappers and newspapers. Argyll cleared them all to one side to make room. Then he saw the thick brown envelope.
He looked at it, and thought, then picked it up and peered inside. And realization dawned. With his hands trembling, he shook the big brown folder out into his hands. He opened the cover and read ‘Report on the murder of Signora Maria di Lanna on May …
‘Oh, my God,’ he said. ‘He had it in his car all the time. He hadn’t handed it in. He was going to keep it for himself.’
The body quite forgotten, propped up against the side of the car as though he was having a nap, Mary Verney and Argyll sat down to read in the light of the Fiat’s headlight. And as they read, Argyll’s blood began to run cold, and panic came over him once more, but far more violently.
‘Dear God. She’s walking into a death trap,’ he said quietly, after they’d scanned the summing up.
He ran back into the house, picked up the phone, and dialled her mobile. Within seconds, a chirruping began to come from the handbag Flavia had left behind her by the table on the terrace. He stared at it aghast.
‘Take your car. Drive to Rome. Find them both. If you’re lucky you’ll be in time. If not you can warn them and get them out of the way.’
Argyll looked at her. ‘But …’
‘I’ll take care of this one. Don’t worry. There’s a nice forest about fifty kilometres from here. Then I’ll hose down the terrace. Go, Jonathan. Hurry.’
19
The closer they got to Rome, the more nervous Flavia became, so nervous that even her unaccustomed car-sickness began to fade. The shock of seeing Bossoni shot finally began to affect her; she felt cold, shivery and numb. She constantly looked around to see if they were being followed, scrutinizing every policeman to see if there was any flicker of recognition when they saw Bottando’s car or her face. Even worse, her mood communicated itself to Bottando, so much so that he took a detour to cruise past the entrance to Flavia’s apartment, slowing down just enough to see the black Fiat still parked down the street, two men strategically posted front and back. Bottando grunted; there was no need for further comment.
Then they went on to Bottando’s apartment. Again, the car. Again the watchful pair of eyes.
‘Damnation,’ Flavia said. ‘They’ll have searched it.’
‘Just as well I didn’t tidy it up before I left, then,’ Bottando said perfectly calmly.
He had stopped the car while they looked, then pulled out, turned sharp right and drove away as discreetly as possible.
‘I think they saw you.’
‘I know they did,’ he replied. ‘But I bet I know this part of town better than they do. Never overestimate the intelligence of these people.’
There was no proof that he was right, but no proof either that he was overly optimistic; Flavia saw no sign of any following car. Bottando drove them to a residential district behind the Vatican where they sat waiting for the day to begin. They didn’t talk; Bottando seemed preoccupied and once turned to Flavia to tell her something, but she had fallen asleep and was breathing softly and peacefully. He looked at her with affection mixed with regret, then let her be. He could not sleep himself.
When the first bars and cafés finally began to open he woke her up, and they went to have coffee and something to eat. Flavia washed as best she could to wake herself up, then Bottando drove to the Colosseum and parked down a side street. They walked to the metro station – in one end, out the other – then on to the first passing bus. They got off at the Capitoline, then became tourists, walking into the Forum just as it opened. They strolled among the ruins, finally finding a secluded jumble of rubble where they could sit and talk. All around the early tourists walked, snapping with their cameras, consulting their guidebooks, looking with frowns on their faces from plans to reality then back again, trying to make sense of what they saw.
‘We don’t have a very strong hand here, do we? We don’t have either the report or the proof. Presumably Bossoni got both of them. All we have is a photocopy, which isn’t much use. There’s nothing much we can do.’
Bottando nodded. ‘True. And against us we seem to have at least bits of the secret service, and a desperate prime minister. There’s nothing we can do about that; no chance of righting wrongs or seeing justice is done, I think. All we can do is try and immunize ourselves. Di Lanna’s the only person who might help us.’ He heaved a heavy sigh. ‘You can always offer him his money back,’ he said gloomily. ‘That might help.’
She looked at him. ‘We don’t have it,’ she
pointed out.
‘Well …’ he began.
‘It doesn’t matter anyway,’ she interrupted. ‘Even if we did have it I’m damned if I see why I should offer anybody anything back.’
‘Pardon?’
‘No. Enough’s enough. If we can get hold of the money, we keep it. We might well need it more than di Lanna ever will. We’re faced with the prospect of being pursued without end. Especially now Bossoni is dead. I hate to say it, but if this doesn’t work and di Lanna won’t help we’ll probably have to go into hiding, at least for a bit. I don’t want to stay around to see how much Sabauda wants to stay in office.’
‘You’re beginning to sound like Mary.’
‘Sensible women looking after idealistic men. Don’t tell Jonathan. He’d be appalled.’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘A week ago I was head of the art squad, you know,’ she said. ‘Now I’m sitting on a stone talking about going on the run with a suitcase full of dodgy money. What happened?’
‘Prime ministers,’ Bottando said. ‘You can’t say I didn’t warn you.’
They sat there for another half hour or more, considering other options, such as going to a magistrate or the newspapers – with what? Bottando asked – but came up with nothing. So it was decided. They stood up and looked at each other.
‘Good luck,’ Bottando said quietly. ‘You’re going to need it. You sure you don’t want me to come?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I know him. We got on quite well. Best me alone.’ She smiled wanly. ‘All I want to do is paint the kitchen, you know.’
He smiled. ‘And all I want to do is enjoy a long and quiet retirement. I’m sorry I got you into this mess.’
‘I’m sorry I got myself into it. You always did say prime ministers can ruin your life. I didn’t think you meant it quite so literally.’
Then she gave him a quick peck on the cheek and walked away.
From then on, Flavia’s biggest problem was her nerves. She was convinced that, at any moment, someone would leap out from behind a lamppost and shoot her.
In fact, nothing of the sort happened. She bought herself a hat from a stand selling trinkets to tourists to hide her face, then walked to the Chamber of Deputies. No one paid her any attention. She attached herself to a group of tourists and strolled into the building without having to show any identification. Shocking lapse of security. And she walked along the dingy corridors to di Lanna’s office without anyone asking her business, or looking at her strangely. But just as she was about to reach the relative safety of his office, she hesitated, and walked on until she came to a little bench and sat down.
She was breathing deeply, almost panting, as she struggled to get a grip on her reluctance. It was something Argyll had said. What was it? Something about one artist’s style hiding another. What was that about? That little examination Bulovius had subjected him to. So what? Why did that stick in her mind? And why was it joined to his description of the Claude? Not a happy ending after all, that’s what he’d said.
She thought back and back to her school days. Classical mythology. They’d had to do it when they were about twelve. The more she thought, the more it receded towards the horizon. She sat there for five minutes, maybe longer, her brain refusing to hand over the memories she needed. Why had Sabbatini gone after that particular picture? This was the question she’d asked again and again. Why was he so precise? Eventually, she shook her head and got up. There was no point in delaying any further.
This time there was a secretary guarding the entrance. She told her that she wasn’t expected, but that the deputy would see her. It was an urgent matter.
A few minutes later, he did. She went into the poky inner office, and di Lanna rose from his chair to welcome her, waving her to the same wooden seat she had sat in not long before. He smiled; that same, slightly sad, unpolitical smile.
‘Good morning, signora. I am glad to see you again. I hope you have some good news for me this time.’
Flavia opened her mouth to speak, then stopped as all the comments and all the questions suddenly came together in a great panoramic whole. Her brain was spinning, she felt dizzy from the realization of what it all meant. Of course it was true. Just as Argyll insisted that a flicker of instinct must sometimes overwhelm a vast mass of evidence in attributing a painting, so it was the same with crimes.
And there was suddenly no doubt whatsoever in her mind. Years of experience and training had fine-tuned her sensibilities, made her aware of contradictions and loose ends. She was very good at her job, she realized, and knew at the same moment that it was all for nothing. What a waste, she thought absently, and noticed that she really didn’t care very much.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said, fighting to get her breath under control. ‘But I don’t suppose you will find it too bad.’
‘Please continue.’
‘I imagine you have just had your office swept of all those listening devices, is that correct?’
He nodded.
‘In that case we can drop all the pretence and talk plainly. I’ve come to offer you a deal,’ she said. ‘I’d like to have you arrested, but practically speaking I don’t think it’s possible.’
He looked quizzical and amused. ‘Arrested?’ he said mockingly. ‘Dear me. Whatever for?’
‘For the murder of your wife and your brother-in-law,’ she said quietly. ‘Not that you killed them yourself, of course. Bossoni did that for you.’
His face had gone stony, immobile and frightening. Had she made a mistake? She had just accused him of the worst possible crime. No one should get away with it. But he had, and he was going to. There was nothing Flavia could do about it. She would have to be very clever just to stay alive herself.
Di Lanna spoke again, all the easy-going relaxed charm gone from his voice. ‘This conclusion is based on what reasoning or evidence?’
And now it was time to lie. How could she say she had never seen the report composed by Balesto, that she was guessing what it said by interpreting Sabbatini’s crazy behaviour? The symbol of the act; and she was reading and interpreting the symbols, using them to grasp something that was for ever beyond her reach.
She could not possibly say that she had reached her conclusions because Sabbatini had so carefully chosen to steal a particular picture by Claude, that when he read in the papers about it arriving he went straight forward, his indecision overcome. Because the true story of Cephalus and Procris doesn’t end happily; rather, Cephalus shoots the wife he had so recently married with the arrow she had given him, and no goddess brings her back to life again. Procris gives him power, and he uses it to kill her.
Maria had brought her husband power through her family’s money, and di Lanna had used it to kill her. That was what the bank statements would show: a transfer of funds to Bossoni for carrying out the murder. And after that, di Lanna used his righteous grief to move against Sabbatini, have him removed as a beneficiary of the father’s trusts. He took most for himself, and became a power in the land. Who could do anything about him? All the politicians were in his debt, everyone knew what had happened to Balesto. Di Lanna was untouchable. If he fell, so did everyone else.
But she didn’t say any of this. She guessed, and hoped instead. ‘This is based on the Balesto report, and on the transcripts of banking transactions which he also discovered.’
Di Lanna smiled. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
‘Because Bossoni recovered them? True, he did. But he didn’t give them to you, did he? He started working for himself.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘He told me. But you needn’t worry about him.’
‘No? Why is that?’
‘He’s dead. That’s what I came to tell you.’
‘So you are now the only person who knows anything about this?’
‘That’s right. What happened?’
He considered for a moment, then shrugged. ‘The picture disappeared, and I was sent a fax. A photocopy of a page from
Ovid. Maurizio being certain that I got the message. Typical of him. It should have been obvious but, as usual, his mind was so tortuous that what he did couldn’t be understood without an explanation. So I contacted Bossoni. To clean up. But he seems to have decided to take advantage of the situation. I’d paid him off before, but once he killed Maurizio and got the report he became more demanding. When the ransom demand arrived I knew it came from him. Three million dollars. I paid it. You understand, no doubt, why I wanted this dropped?’
‘Crystal clear.’
‘How much do you want now?’ he asked wearily.
‘Nothing. You will never find the reports or the proof. And I will never use them unless I am provoked. I will leave you alone and, in return, you will leave me alone.’
‘Why is that?’
‘How long has the prime minister known about this?’ she went on, ignoring his question.
‘Since the moment it happened. Why do you think I’m his biggest supporter?’ He looked at her sadly. ‘I’ve had this hanging over my head for more than twenty years now.’
‘What do you want? Sympathy?’
‘No. For the last six months, members of my party have been talking about pulling out of the government. This whole business, sending the report to Maurizio, was a warning from Sabauda. If I stepped out of line, he’d destroy me.’
‘I thought it was sent to him by the magistrate.’
Di Lanna looked scornful. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. This was one of Sabauda’s dirty tricks.’
‘He can’t do without you, you daren’t do without him.’
‘That’s about it.’
‘I cannot think of a bigger punishment for either of you, then. You deserve each other. If I could put you behind bars, I would. But I doubt whether I could take on you and the government.’ Di Lanna smiled in agreement. ‘But you can’t touch me either. Lift a finger, and the report gets published. It might not finish you off, but it would damage you. Embroil you in lawsuits with your trustees for the rest of your life. Bring your career as party leader to an end. That I could do, I think. With the report and the proof.’