Death & Restoration

1

Business meetings are more or less the same all over the world, and have been since the beginning of time. There is the man in charge; the man supposedly in charge; the man wanting to be in charge; their minions, their enemies and those waverers who float gently downstream, hoping things won’t get too choppy. And there is always a dispute, which serves the purpose of making half-felt antagonisms real. Sometimes these are of importance and justify the energy expended on them. But not often.

So it was one afternoon in September in a large but utilitarian room in a shambling, run-down set of buildings in that section of Rome loosely known as the Aventino. There were twenty people, all men of between thirty-five and seventy-five years old; fourteen items on the agenda, and two factions, each determined to sweep all before them and rout the forces of (on the one hand) dangerous and puerile innovation and (on the other) hidebound traditionalism irrelevant to the needs of the modern world. It was, the chairman thought as he took a deep breath, going to be a long afternoon. He only hoped that the two hours they had just spent praying together for God’s wisdom to infuse their collective decision would stop the imminent debate from getting too acrimonious.

But he doubted it, somehow. Much as he felt himself teetering on the brink of heresy in even considering the idea, he did sometimes wish the Lord could make his wishes just a bit plainer: then his fear might not be realized that he, Father Xavier Munster, thirty-ninth head of the Order of St John the Pietist, might also be the last. His heart sank as he saw the glitter of battle in the eyes of those souls nominally submissive to his total authority. Above all Father Jean, organizing his papers in front of him like so many divisions of tanks, waiting for the moment to advance. Determined to oppose, mindless of the problems he had to face. Although, in the circumstances, that was just as well. “Perhaps,” Father Xavier said with determination to the assembled collection of his order presently in Rome. “Perhaps we might begin?”

Five hours later, it was at an end, and the shattered brothers staggered out. Ordinarily, there were aperitifs on the terrace after such a meeting; this time only a few people, those who had not become too involved in the unseemly brawling, turned up. The rest went to their cells (such they were called, although they were little different to the sort of rooms students occupy) to meditate, pray, or fume with rage.

“I’m very glad that’s over,” murmured one of the most youthful of the brothers, a tall, handsome man from Cameroon called Paul. It was selfless of him to say it so mildly; he had hoped that his own concern might have been dealt with. But, yet again, his little problem was too far down the list to be discussed.

The words were addressed to nobody in particular, and were heard only by Father Jean, an old man who had stationed himself next to the Pernod bottle at the table. He peered upwards in the general direction of Father Paul’s face—which was a good eighteen inches above his own—and nodded. He was exhausted; that sort of combat does use energy and sometimes even he was surprised and alarmed at the deep sources of hatred that Father Xavier’s efforts at reform had stirred up in his usually placid soul. He had not come on to the terrace to be social; unusually for him, he was there because he needed a drink.

In the past he had always refused to be sucked into such disputes and still could not quite believe his new role as leader of the opposition. It was not what he had wanted; not his ideal way of spending his declining years. He still thought of himself as a natural loyalist. So he had always been ever since he was plucked out of village school at the age of twelve by a priest who had spotted his qualities.

But not this time, although the vehemence unleashed by the contest between himself and Xavier appalled him. Even at the height of the doubts and anguish thrown up by the great Vatican Council, he remembered nothing which could compare with the sheer unpleasantness the meeting room had witnessed that afternoon. But there was nothing to be done about it: the soul of the body was at stake; of that he was absolutely sure. Xavier was a good man, no doubt; a courageous one, even. And many saints had been as ruthless and determined to follow their vision, despite all opposition, as he was. Look at St Bernard; look at St Ignatius. Neither were exactly known for their ability to see all sides of an argument. But this was not the Middle Ages, nor the seventeenth century. Other techniques were required. Patience, tact, persuasion. And none of them were Xavier’s speciality.

So Father Jean nodded sadly to himself. “Over? Only for the time being,” he said. “I fear we have not seen the last of this dispute.”

Father Paul arched his eyebrow. “What more is there to say? It’s settled, isn’t it? You got your way. Surely you should be happy.”

Paul could speak with little heat because he, almost alone of the brothers, had not taken sides. Indeed, he wasn’t entirely certain what the dispute was about. He understood the occasion, of course, but the underlying cause meant nothing to him. All he understood was that it wasted a lot of energy that, surely, could be better spent.

“It was only defeated by one vote,” Jean replied. “Only by one vote. Last year-what did he try to do then? I don’t remember—he was turned down by five votes. Which means this will be taken as an encouragement, rather than as a defeat. You just wait.”

Father Paul poured himself an orange juice and sipped thoughtfully. “Oh dear. I do wish I could go home. I hardly seem to be doing the Lord’s work here.”

“I know,” Father Jean said sympathetically, wondering whether a second Pernod would be permissible. “You must find us shocking, and you’re probably right. And I’m sorry we’ve put off discussing the business of your going home yet again. Next time, perhaps; when tempers have cooled, we might bring the subject up. I will do my best, if that’s any help.”

A few kilometres away, in the very centre of the city, a quite different, more worldly, organization was ploughing its quietly effective way through life. The main door (newly electrified at hideously unnecessary expense) swished to and fro as eager policemen walked purposefully in and out. In small, windowless rooms technicians and filing clerks pursued their careers with keen concentration and devotion to duty. Further up the building greater harmony reigned, as detectives in their offices read, telephoned and wrote in their determined pursuit of Italy’s stolen artistic heritage. And from the top floor, from the room which was frequently described in the more respectful press as the brain centre of Italy’s Art Theft Squad, came a low rumble which was disturbed only by the persistent buzzing of a large, fat bluebottle.

The efficient machine was on autopilot; the brain was off duty. It was a hot afternoon and General Taddeo Bottando was fast asleep.

Not that this mattered, normally. Bottando was handsomely into his sixties and even he was now ready to agree that youthful sprightliness was no longer one of his dominant characteristics. Experience more than made up for this loss, however. So what if he husbanded his resources now and then? His overall strategic grasp was as good as ever, and his organizational powers unfaded by the years. Everybody knew what they were meant to do, and they got on with the business of doing it, without any need for him to supervise them day and night. And if something happened when he was not around (so to speak) then one of his team, such as Flavia di Stefano, was fully able to deal with the situation.

Such had been the way in which he had described his role that very lunchtime, to a pair of senior civil servants who had taken him out to a fine, excessively fine, restaurant to make up. For reasons which he couldn’t quite understand, Bottando had suddenly become popular, after years of battling for money and continued existence. Now, perhaps due to a major success a few months back, everybody loved him, everybody had always loved him, and everyone had always been his secret supporter against the machinations of others. All those years, and Bottando had never noticed. He had all but purred with pleasure, and had permitted himself to wallow in complacency as he played a significant role in the destruction of a second, then a third bottle of good Chianti.

Perhaps he should have seen it coming, an old hand like himself. The bonhomie, the admiration, the friendliness. But the wine and the warmth lulled him into assurance. Deep down, he was a trusting man, despite years in the police force contending with crooks and—what was worse—superiors. For once, he permitted himself to think that everyone was on the same side; we are all colleagues. Perhaps I really am admired and appreciated for my efforts.

His mood was one of confident, generous urbanity by the time the most senior of his colleagues—a man he had transferred away from his command years ago in a different life in Milan—leant forward with an ingratiating smile and said: “Tell me, Taddeo, how do you see the department developing? In years to come. I want you to take the long view here, you see.”

And so he gave a peroration, about international cooperation and regional squads and all that sort of thing. About new computers and new techniques and new laws which would all make the business of retrieving stolen works of art that little bit easier.

“And yourself? How do you see yourself?”

If he hadn’t been wary before, the alarms should have gone off now. All the signs were there; but he never for a moment even suspected the existence of the huge and omnivorous trap doors creaking open to swallow him up. He talked about teams and leadership and overseeing functions, talking the foreign language in which he had become fluent, if not entirely comfortable.

“Good, good. I’m so glad we are in agreement. That does make our task so very much easier.”

Finally, at long last, despite the heat and the drugging effects of the wine and food, a warning tickle activated itself at the base of his thick and powerful neck.

“You see,” the man said as Bottando mentally assumed a crouching posture but kept silent, “there are all these reorganizations. This new promotion structure.”

“Which ones? Have I missed something again?”

A nervous chuckle. “Oh, dear me, no. It hasn’t been published yet. In fact, you’re the very first person to be told of it. We thought it best, as you may well be the first person to be affected.”

More silence, more caution and a raised eyebrow.

“It’s all structural, you see, and I’d like it known that I am not happy with it.”

Which means, of course, that he is. Probably his idea, in fact, Bottando thought.

“So many people, all crammed up with no promotion prospects. The demographic age bulge. What’s to be done with them? All over the government, the very best people are leaving. Why is this? Because they’ve come to a dead end, that’s why. And then there is Europe. We are entering a new age, Taddeo. We must be prepared. The time to start planning is now. Not when it is all too late. So it has been decided—by people other than myself—to introduce some, ah, changes.”

“What, ah, changes?”

“Two things. Specifically, there is to be an intragovernmental liaison group to coordinate all aspects of policing. It will start with a particular area as a way of testing procedures and operations.”

Bottando nodded. He had heard all of this sort of thing before. Every six months some bright spark in a ministry decided to nail his promotion prospects to yet another piece of liaising. Never came to anything much.

“And the second, which will ultimately be linked with the first, is to sort out the relationship between your department with the new international art safety directive.”

“The what?”

“A European affair, funded entirely from Brussels, but the minister has managed to establish that it will be headed by an Italian. You, in fact.”

“And sit around writing memoranda which no one will ever read.”

“That depends on yourself. Obviously you will encounter resistance. You would have resisted it fervently yourself. It will be your job to turn this initiative into something.”

“Does this mean lots of foreigners?” he asked dubiously.

They both shrugged. “It will be up to you to decide what it is you want to do. Then to get the budget to pay for the staff to do it. Naturally, the staffing structure will have to be balanced.”

“It does mean foreigners.”

“Yes.”

“And where will this fine example of Euro-nonsense be located?”

“Ah, there now. Obviously, the most sensible place would be in Brussels. However …”

“In that case I’m not going,” Bottando began. “The rain, you know …”

“However,” the civil servant continued, “other factors come into operation here.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the fact that money spent in Brussels benefits Belgium; money spent in Italy benefits us. And, of course, we are the greatest centre for art. And, come to think of it, for art theft. So we are lobbying hard for it to be located here.”

“And what about my department?”

“You continue in charge, of course, but you will obviously have to delegate day-to-day operations, which will run in parallel, with some interchange of personnel.”

Bottando sat back in his chair, his good mood dissolving as the full implications dawned on him.

“What choice do I have about this?”

“None. It is too important for personal preference. It is a matter of national honour. You accept, or someone else gets your job. And you will have to go to Brussels in a week to explain how you will run this organization. So you have a lot of work to do.”

Not knowing whether to be pleased or irritated, Bottando went back to his office to try and figure out all the subtleties and, as was his habit, ended up sleeping on it.

It was not the best time for an anonymous tip-off to come in, warning about an imminent raid to steal one of the city’s works of art.

Jonathan Argyll walked home across Rome at half past six in the evening, taking some, but not a great deal, of pleasure in the bustle of a city anxious to get home for its dinner. He was tired. It had been a long day, what with one thing and another. A lecture in the morning, which was becoming routine now that his stage fright had left him and he had gauged the low expectations of the audience, followed by two hours of sitting in the little broom cupboard officially called his office, fending off students in various levels of distress who came to waste his time. Could they be late on this? Could he photocopy that to spare them the trouble of actually sitting in a library themselves?

No, and no. Much to his great surprise, his random career change nine months previously from art dealer to temporary lecturer in baroque studies had brought out a hitherto unsuspected authoritarian side to his character. Combined with a tendency to grumble about what students were like in his day, he had managed to institute a reign of terror for all who were lured into the great mistake of signing up for his course on Roman art and architecture, 1600 to 1750.

The Baroque. The Counter-Reformation. Bernini and Borromini and Maderno and Pozzo. Good lads, all of them. No need for slides or illustrated lectures in this of all cities; just send the idle good-for-nothings on walking tours. On their own on a Monday, escorted by him on a Wednesday. Mens sana in corpore sano. Health and knowledge, all in one package. Cheap at the not inconsiderable price the besotted parents of the little urchins coughed up to add a patina of cultivation to their offspring.

Even more surprisingly, he was quite good at it. His boundless enthusiasm for the more obscure and impenetrable aspects of baroque iconography slowly transferred itself to some of his students. Not many, admittedly; half a dozen out of thirty or so, but this was held by his colleagues to be pretty good going considering the motley collection of raw material they had to work on.

And the great virtue of it all was that he didn’t really have to prepare anything: his only problem was deciding what to leave out. And marking. That was depressing, of course.

“Medieval monks scourged themselves with birch rods; we do the same thing with essays,” the head of his department, a Renaissance man himself, explained in a philosophic vein. “It comes to the same thing in the end. Painful and humiliating, but part of the job. And purifying, in its way: it makes you see the futility of your existence.”

There was, however, a snag. Lurking ambition, somnolent or at least beaten into submission, had been awoken once more by the transition. Old habits and pleasures came back to haunt him. Having taken the job as a temporary measure because of the flaccid state of the art market, Argyll found himself rather liking the business, despite the students. He had even taken out his doctorate, long since forgotten and mouldering on the shelves while he tried to make a living as a dealer, and dusted it off. The itch was upon him once more: the desire to see his name in print. Nothing grand. A little article, with a decent array of footnotes on some minor topic, to get him back into the mood. An excuse for ambling around in the archives. Everybody else was at it; and it was a bit awkward to have lunch with a colleague. What are you working on? It was an inevitable question. It would be pleasant to be able to answer.

What indeed, though? He had been flailing around, trying to come up with something for a couple of months. Nothing, so far, had struck his fancy. Too big, too small or done already. The universal chorus of modern academia. It occupied his mind mightily these days.

Except when there was marking. That was the little nagging detail in the back of his mind which stopped him enjoying the view of Isola Tiburtina as he trudged through the thick fumes of evening carbon monoxide and across the Ponte Garibaldi on his way home. Fifteen essays on Jesuit building programmes. Could have been worse; they might all have managed to pull themselves together and produce something. And judging by the look of it, some of the offerings were going to be a touch thin. In abstract, he loved the conscientious students who worked hard and tried. When he had to mark the result, he loathed the little swots for the reams of paper they produced. But there was nothing to be done about it; a couple of hours of his evening were going to be devoted to reading their efforts, and trying to stay calm when, as was inevitable, one of them informed him that Raphael had been a pope, or that Bernini taught Michelangelo everything he knew about sculpture.

When what he really needed was a nice quiet evening with Flavia, who had promised faithfully to be home early and cook dinner for the first time in weeks. Now that they had, tentatively, decided to recognize reality and get as married in law as they seemed to be in practice, and Argyll had settled into his new job and was no longer fretting continually about his career, life had become as blissful as it could possibly be when you were proposing to link your life’s fortunes to a woman who never knew when her job would allow her to come home.

Not her fault; police work was like that, and she did her best. But it was galling, occasionally, to be so obviously pushed into second place by a purloined chalice, however much a marvel of sixteenth-century Tuscan workmanship it undoubtedly was. All very well, once in a while. But these things kept on vanishing. The thieves never rested. Did they not feel the need for a quiet evening with their feet up now and then like everyone else?

This time, Flavia would be home; she had left a message to that effect not half an hour ago, and Argyll was looking forward to it; he had even done his duty and got all the shopping on the way home so they could have a properly civilized meal together. He was so much looking forward to it that he felt a little anticipatory skip as he turned into the vicolo di Cedro, and began the last stage of the journey home.

And met Flavia coming down the street. She gave him a quick kiss, and looked apologetic.

“You’re going back to the office, aren’t you?” he said accusingly. “I know that look.”

“‘Fraid so. Just for a while. I won’t be long.”

“Oh, Flavia. You promised …”

“Don’t worry. I won’t be long.”

“Yes, you will be.”

“Jonathan. There’s nothing I can do. Something’s come up. It really won’t take a long time. There’s a little problem.”

He scowled, his good mood evaporating.

“I’ll go and do my marking, then.”

“Good idea. And I’ll be back by the time you’re finished. Then we can have a quiet evening together.”

Grumbling to himself about essays, Argyll mounted the stairs to the third floor, said good evening to the old signora on the first floor and nodded coolly but politely to Bruno, the young lad with a taste for filling the night air with very loud and extremely bad music on the second, before fumbling in his pocket for his keys. Odd, he thought. There was a very strong inverse relationship between the volume of music and its quality. He’d never noticed it when he was young.

Two hours later, he’d finished his marking; Flavia had not yet returned. Three hours later, he’d eaten his dinner and she was still not there. Four hours later he went to bed.

“When did this come in?” Flavia asked incredulously when she got back to the office and saw the slip of paper containing a brief summary of the anonymous phone call.

The office trainee, a young, fresh-faced girl called Giulia who looked as though she should still be doing her homework before washing up for her mother, blushed with distress. It was hardly her fault; the call had come in, and there was no one to tell. She said as much.

“About five. But you weren’t here, and I did go up to the General’s office.”

“And what did he say?”

“Well, nothing,” she said reluctantly. “He was asleep.”

“And you didn’t want to wake him because you’re new here and don’t know that it is quite acceptable to give him a prod. I know. Don’t get upset. It’s not your fault.”

She sighed. Being just and fair is hard sometimes. It would have been much more satisfactory if she could have shouted at the girl.

“OK. Let’s forget about that now. Did you take the call?”

The infant nodded, realizing that the worst was over. “It was very imprecise.”

“No code-words? Not one of our regulars?”

“No. Just that there was going to be an important raid in the next few days. On this monastery, or whatever it is. San Giovanni.”

“What do they have? Are they on our list? Have you checked the computer?”

She nodded again, grateful that she had done the basics. “They were burgled a couple of years ago, and were put on the register then.” She pulled out a piece of paper the computer had disgorged an hour ago.

“In fact, they have very little. Quite a lot of gold and silver ornaments, but that is mainly kept in a bank safe deposit; General Bottando recommended that after the last time. The only thing on the list which would seem to be worth anything is a painting by Caravaggio. Which is an important painting, although according to the book, not one of his best. And according to another book, isn’t by Caravaggio at all.”

“Insured?”

“No note of it here.”

Flavia looked at her watch. Damn. Jonathan would not be pleased. She could see his point. It was some time …

“Have you rung them?”

“No answer.”

“Where is this place?”

“On the Aventino.”

“I suppose I’d better go there on my way home,” Flavia said reluctantly. “Just to tell them to lock up carefully. Do we have anyone who can watch the place?”

Giulia shook her head. “No one except me.”

“You’re minding the desk. Oh, I’ll see what I can do. If you’d get some patrol cars to drive past the place periodically during the night. And while you’re sitting here drinking coffee all night, go through all the lists of coming and goings and sightings and arrivals. Anything at all. OK?”

Father Xavier, still at his desk and attending to the business generated by meetings, received Flavia in his office without ceremony and listened to what she had to say quietly.

“You must get reports like this all the time, don’t you?”

She shrugged. “A reasonable number, but rarely this specific. It would be foolish to disregard it. I thought it would be best to let you know so you could be on alert. Probably nothing will happen, but if you could put that painting into safe storage for a while …”

Father Xavier smiled indulgently. “I don’t think so. And I’m also sure that if any thief saw it at the moment, he would change his mind quite quickly.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s being restored. By an American gentleman, called Daniel Menzies. Who is doing a very thorough job of it, I must say. He tells me that people who know nothing about the restoration process are always frightened at this stage of proceedings, and no doubt he knows what he is doing, but it is in a very poor state indeed at the moment. He has removed the old canvas, large portions of what he says is nineteenth-century paintwork and a good deal of grime. As far as I can see, there is nothing left at all for any thief to steal.”

“And is there anything else?”

There was a slight hesitation as the priest thought, then shook his head. “We have many things of value to us; nothing of any great value to anyone else. You are aware that we were burgled?”

Flavia nodded.

“A bitter lesson,” he continued. “We had always maintained a policy of leaving the church open on to the street. There is a street entrance, as well as one from the cloister. Some local inhabitants always preferred it to the parish church. It was a mistake, as we discovered. Since then, the door has been firmly locked. It was one of the first things I had to contend with when I took over as superior. The only other way in is through the courtyard, and the door on to that is locked as well.”

“Alarms?”

“No. There are limits. It was considered unseemly that we should defend ourselves in such a fashion. I didn’t agree, but that was the decision of the council who have the last word in such matters.”

She stood up. “It may have been a hoax. But I thought it was wise …”

He nodded, stood up to show her out and shook her hand. “It was very kind of you, signorina. Very kind indeed, especially at such a late hour. And I will make sure that all precautions are taken.”

And Flavia, finally, felt her day was coming to an end. On her way back, she called in to Giulia, to see if anything else had happened. She shouldn’t, she knew. There is nothing worse than an interfering superior, constantly meddling and looking over your shoulder. It does no good at all, and merely makes you uncertain of yourself. She remembered that from her own youth. But she felt uncomfortable.

“Anything?”

“No. I’ve been going through the lists. Airports, hotels, sightings at railway stations, reports from dealers. Nothing of importance.”

“What about the unimportant?”

“Not much there, either. The only thing I did note was that someone vaguely involved in one of your cases last year arrived yesterday evening. Just a witness, though: no involvement in anything illegal. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“Who?”

“A woman called Verney. Mary Verney.”

Flavia got that little turning sensation in her stomach that always happened when she realized that, if disaster was going to be averted, it would be by sheer good fortune rather than skill or observation or intelligence.

“Some report you wrote seems to have been absorbed into the immigration computer. I don’t know why. It just came up as routine.”

“Any idea where she is?”

“No. But I can try and find out, if you think it’s important.”

“I do. I really do. Think of it as your night-time’s entertainment. Ring round every hotel in Rome if need be. The sooner you find her, the better.”

“Who is she?”

“An old friend. And a very clever woman. You’ll like her.”

“Ah, yes. Mary Verney,” Bottando said the next morning. “The English country lady. Why are you so interested in her? All she did was provide evidence against that man Forster last year. So you told me. Or was there more to it?”

“We got back eighteen pictures, thanks to her,” Flavia said. She didn’t like this bit. “And because of that I was happy to end the enquiry. Getting things back is our main job, after all. But once all the reports were written and the whole affair finished I became convinced she was responsible for most of the thefts in the first place.”

“And you never mentioned this?” Bottando said with a suggestion of slight surprise around the left eyebrow. She avoided looking too embarrassed.

“I couldn’t pin anything on her, and if I’d tried earlier we would never have recovered the pictures. It was a trade-off and, in the circumstances, a reasonable one.”

Bottando nodded. It was, after all, exactly what he would have done himself. He couldn’t complain too much.

“But she’s on the loose? A bit unwise, that, don’t you think?”

“Unexpected. She’s not so young any more, and I was pretty sure she’d retired. She’s no spring chicken, you know. And hardly needs the money.”

Bottando nodded. For some reason Flavia got the idea he was only half listening.

“But here she is,” he observed. “You want to bring her in?”

Flavia shook her head. “No. It may be a completely innocent visit, and it would be a waste of time. I don’t want to start anything official unless we have to explain our interest. But I don’t like her being in Rome. I thought it would be a good idea to let her know that we are aware she’s here. I’ll have her for a drink. It would accomplish the same thing. She’s staying in the Borgognoni hotel. With your permission, I’ll ring her up this morning. And put someone on to watch her.”

Bottando came out of his reverie long enough to frown with disapproval. “We can’t afford that. Don’t have the people. Besides, this monastery business seems a higher priority. If either of them is.”

“Well …”

“No. You can have Giulia. Time she got out of the office, and we can put the cost down to the ministry’s training budget. A bit of practice for her. But that’s all. Get her to stand outside San Giovanni all day …”

“She’s already there.”

Bottando peered at her. “Oh,” he said. “Good. You can have her follow this Verney woman afterwards, for a bit of variety, if you like. Couple of days of that and she’ll begin to realize what policing is really all about. But don’t use anyone else.”

He was right, she knew that; they couldn’t spare two people. Even sending Giulia out would mean masses of extra paperwork for everyone else. But the very presence of Mary Verney in Rome rattled her. She nodded, nonetheless.

Bottando grunted. “Good. Now, is there anything else? Thank you,” he said to his secretary as she slid into the room and deposited a vast file on his desk. He transferred it immediately to a drawer, which he closed with a satisfying slam. “Because if not, I’m going for a coffee.”

She stopped and looked carefully at him. “You all right?” she asked. “You don’t seem your normal self at all this morning. Did they give you food poisoning or something yesterday?”

He grimaced, and hesitated, and then gave into the temptation. “Come back in and sit down. I need to tell you something,” he said with a sigh.

“Sounds bad,” she said as she settled back on the armchair.

“Maybe, maybe not. I haven’t figured it out yet. I’m being promoted. I think.”

Flavia blinked and looked at him as she tried to think of the right thing to say. “You sound uncertain. These things are normally clear. Am I meant to congratulate or commiserate?”

“I don’t know. But basically I was given the option of being promoted and taking over some useless new department which seems to have been set up solely to soak up more money from the European taxpayer, or being booted out. With all the consequences for pay and pension that entails. I’ve been making some phone calls and I don’t as yet see any way out.”

She leant back in her chair and bit her thumbnail as she thought this one through.

“But you stay here?”

He nodded. “Nominally. That brings me to you.”

“Oh, yes?” she said cautiously.

“Essentially, you have two choices. Stay here and take over the day-to-day running of the department, where you will have to spend much more time in administration. Or help me set up this new Euro-nonsense. Where you would have to be junior to some Englishman or Dutchman or something and still have to spend much more time in administration. The second option will be exceptionally well paid, of course. Riches beyond the dreams of avarice. Tax free, as well. And more regular hours.”

“Which do you recommend?”

He shrugged. “I hope I have your services either way. Apart from that, you’ll have to make up your own mind on the matter.”

“When do I have to make up my mind?”

He made an expansive, all-the-time-in-the-world gesture. “End of the week? I hate to rush you, but I have to lay my plans. You can get some practice in this week. I’m going to be busy writing memos. Consider yourself on your own. And the eyes of the ministry are on us at the moment. If you could fend off all raids on the national gallery and the Presidential art collection until this is sorted out, I’d be grateful. And it would be best if raids we’ve been told about in advance didn’t happen.”

“Looks bad, you think?”

“Not ideal. Not ideal.”

Dan Menzies was a painstaking, methodical worker, labouring in a fashion which was totally at odds with both his bulk and his reputation. Despite the flamboyant gestures and the frequent use in his speech of dramatic metaphors—always talking about expunging this or that part in his campaigns of restoration—when engaged on a job he went slowly and extraordinarily carefully. Normally, of course, he commanded small armies of people, and it was typical of him that he talked in military terms while his more subtle colleagues headed teams. But that was for large projects, with lots of money. Then he would behave like an artistic General Patton, rushing from one place to another, shouting encouragement and advice and orders. But in this church he was on his own. He found it all strangely restful; he was restoring, he felt, more than the pictures. It was many a year now since he had worked alone, just him and the paint, trying to feel his way with his scalpel and his chemicals back to an instinctive idea of what the artist had in mind. And as he crouched there, oblivious of the hours passing by, and not even feeling the strain as his back muscles began to protest about the unfair treatment they were receiving, he realized that he was entirely happy. He must, he decided when the light had become so bad that he could work no longer, do this more often. Once a year, he thought as he stretched and washed the grime off his hands, he should do a painting on his own, with no one around. Well, maybe once every two.

Any of his colleagues in the restoring business, had they known about this tranquil, introspective mood would probably have been stunned into silence, so little did it fit his reputation or normal means of behaving. Menzies was known as something of a showman, never missing an opportunity to thrust himself into the limelight, and had earned plaudits and criticism in equal measure through the dramatic, and some said vainglorious, way in which he went about bringing pictures back to life. This he knew and accepted; it was an inevitable part of a competitive business, as far as he could see. For his own part, he thought he did his best, however much he might dress it up dramatically to please the audience. He also wanted very much to be liked, for he considered himself a likeable fellow, and never understood why his colleagues and rivals were so unfair. Dissimulation was simply an unknown skill, that was all. He had opinions, lots of opinions, and when someone asked him, he could never resist the opportunity of giving full chapter and verse. Was it his fault some of his rivals were fools?

And that was why he was here. He did not believe the best man won without working for it. There was a big project dangling there, waiting to be plucked, and he was determined to get it. If it meant spending six months in Rome in advance, that was part of the price. Restoring this dubious Caravaggio was a way of keeping himself occupied. A work of charity, just the sort of thing to arouse favourable comment. And a perfect excuse to be in the right place, talking to the right people as they made up their minds. It would be the high-point of his career, if he could get it. No one was going to stand in his way.

Suddenly, he was aware of a presence standing behind him, watching what he was doing. Bloody tourists, he thought. He tried to ignore the unpleasant sensation that tickled at his concentration, and succeeded for a while. But he ended up trying so hard not to be bothered that eventually he made a small mistake. His patience snapped.

“Piss off,” he said furiously, turning round to face the man. His eyes narrowed when he saw the figure, standing meekly there, foolish look on his face. That look of bovine stupidity on his face. Jesus.

“I’m sorry …”

“I don’t care if you’re sorry or not. Just go away. How the hell did you get in here, anyway?”

“Well, I …”

“You have no right to be in here. It’s not a public monument. Aren’t there enough of those in this city without you having to come barging in here?”

“I’m not …”

“Go on. Go away.”

The little man stood his ground, so Menzies, who weighed maybe twice as much as he did, lost his temper. He rose from his knees, walked over and grabbed him by the arm, then frogmarched him to the main door that led on to the street, taking the vast old key from the hook as he went. Unlocked it, pulled it open a foot or so, then ushered the man out.

“So nice to have met you,” he said sarcastically as the pathetic fellow walked blinking into the sunlight. “Do drop in again sometime. Like next century. Goodbye.”

And as he waved, Giulia, sitting on the steps of the church as she had been all that day, furtively took a photograph of Menzies waving in what seemed to be a friendly fashion. No reason to do so, but she was bored beyond endurance. Apart from spending her hours wondering whether the police was the right career for her, this was the first moment of excitement for hours. Then she scribbled down some notes, very precisely and carefully, leaving nothing out.

For the second night in a row, Argyll got back in the evening in the fond hope that this time he was going to get his quiet evening with Flavia. They didn’t seem to have had time to speak about anything at all for weeks and he was concerned that unless they got in a bit of practice, they might lose the knack entirely. He was a bit late himself this time, and walked in expecting her to be there already. She wasn’t. The apartment was occupied nonetheless.

“Oh, my God,” he said despairingly. “What the hell are you doing here?”

A small, elegant woman in her mid-to-late fifties sat serenely on the sofa by the window. She had a lovely face, which seemed kind, and looked as though she was fond of laughing. The sort who knew how to grow old graciously, a rare talent. A bit reserved, perhaps, but good company. An honest face. The sort you instantly felt you could trust.

Which just went to show what a lot of nonsense it was to place any sort of reliance on the interpretation of physiognomy. He must remember to point that out to the students. A very important aspect of seventeenth-century artistic theory and one which, in his experience, was completely wrong. Mary Verney, sweet-faced criminal that he knew her to be, proved this pretty conclusively.

“Jonathan!” this woman said, rising from her chair and coming to meet him with a warm smile and outstretched hand. “How lovely to see you again.”

Argyll growled with annoyance. “I’m afraid I cannot say the same for you, Mrs Verney,” he replied stiffly. “How you have the nerve …”

“Oh, dear,” she said, brushing his protests aside. “I suppose I couldn’t really expect a great welcome. But that’s all water under the bridge.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Oh, Jonathan. What a fuss you make.”

“Mrs Verney, you are a liar, a thief and a murderer. You organized it so that there was nothing I could do about it. Fine. But you really don’t expect me to be pleased to see you, do you?”

“Well,” she said doubtfully. “If you put it like that …”

“I do. Of course I do. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I take it you never mentioned that little matter to Flavia?”

“Not exactly.”

“I wondered why she was so keen to see me,” Mrs Verney said with a slight frown. “A harmless little old lady like myself.”

Argyll snorted.

“No, really. I am. I confine myself to good works and repairs to the house.”

“Paid for by your ill-gotten gains.”

“Ill-gotten gains? Really, Jonathan, you do sound like a Victorian melodrama at times. But if you want to put it like that, indeed. By my ill-gotten gains. And it uses up all my time.”

Argyll snorted again. “So why are you here?”

“Gin, please. And tonic, if you have it.”

“What?”

“I thought you were asking me if I wanted a drink.”

“No.”

She smiled sweetly at him. I know this isn’t easy, dear, she seemed to be saying. Argyll, who in fact rather liked the woman, however much a monster of turpitude she really was, crumbled into abject politeness.

“With ice?”

“Please.”

He assembled it and handed it over.

“Now,” she went on. “Let me make it clear that I am not here of my own volition. The last thing in my mind when I came to Rome was seeing either of you. I hardly expected a warm welcome from you, at least.” She held up her hand as he was about to interrupt. “I’m not blaming you in the slightest. But Flavia rang and invited me for a drink. In the circumstances, I could hardly refuse.”

“In what circumstances?”

“She had taken the trouble to find out that I was here. Which means that I am a marked woman. And I don’t want to waste police time, so I thought it best to reassure her that I am here merely for a holiday. Then she can devote herself to catching real thieves.”

“You are a real thief.”

“Was, dear. Was. There is a big difference. I told you. I’m retired.”

“Somehow I find that difficult to believe …”

“Look,” she said patiently. “I am on holiday. Nothing sinister at all. I just hope that I can convince you eventually. If I can, I am sure your sanctimoniousness will evaporate and you’ll become a normal human being again.”

“Sanctimonious? Me? You turn up here out of the blue …”

“I know. You’re in shock …”

“Really?” asked Flavia brightly as she came in through the door with pasta and a couple of bottles of wine. “What about?”

“With sheer pleasure at seeing me,” Mrs Verney said smoothly.

“Yes,” Flavia said. “Isn’t it nice? When I noticed she was here, I thought, how nice it would be …”

Mrs Verney smiled. “And here I am. I’m delighted to see you both again. I’m most anxious to hear all your news. How are you both? Married yet?”

“In the autumn,” Flavia said. “That is the plan.”

“Oh, congratulations, my dears. Congratulations. I must send you a wedding present. I hope you will both be very happy.”

“Thank you. I was wondering whether you would like to have dinner with us. Unless you’re busy, that is …”

“I’d be delighted. But I was going to invite the both of you. If there’s a decent restaurant nearby …?”

“That is kind. Why not?”

They smiled at each other with total lack of sincerity. Argyll scowled at both of them.

“Not me, I’m afraid,” he said with entirely fake regret as he saw his opportunity and patted the pile of essays by his side. “Confined to barracks.”

Five minutes of a routine attempt at persuasion followed, but he stood firm, and although it cost him disapproving comments about being an old misery, he eventually saw the pair of them off to the restaurant round the corner which was their usual eating place when cooking seemed too much to bear. He had a miserable meal of pasta instead, followed by two hours of essays. Not an ideal evening; not what he’d planned at all. But in comparison to the alternative it seemed positively heavenly.

It was an agreeable meal; no doubt about it. Pleasant little trattoria, simple but delicious food and that combination of amiable informality that only Italian restaurants ever seem to manage properly. The two women chatted happily throughout, working their way through a fund of gossip like long-lost friends. Flavia even enjoyed herself. The same could not be said for Mary Verney.

She was seriously, deeply alarmed. It was too much to expect that the Italian police wouldn’t notice her arrival, but she had assumed that demarcation disputes, bureaucracy and lack of manpower would delay things. She had done her best to be invisible, arriving by train rather than aircraft because checks at airports were better, not using her credit card, that sort of thing. It must have been the hotel registration that did it. Odd that; she’d believed no one bothered with those sort of checks any more. Evidently wrong. Maybe it was the computers. It just showed how old she was getting.

And instead of coming to police attention in a week or so, or not at all, they had noted her on her first day, and gone out of their way to make that clear. It was obvious that Flavia didn’t know why she was here, but it was likely she would be watched; and that would cramp her insufferably.

She poured herself a whisky when she got back to her hotel room to think it over. She had stayed in the Borgognoni once before, in 1973. It was an ideal hotel, even nicer now it was under new management and had been redecorated. Then it had been comfortably luxurious and had the inestimable advantage of being within a few minutes’ walk from the Barberini Gallery. As she had been in Rome to steal a picture from the Barberini—a small but delightful Martini, which she had been seriously tempted to keep for herself—it could not have been better. But the feature which tipped her finally in the hotel’s favour, now as then, was the number of exits it possessed. Front ones, back ones, side ones. For guests and employees and delivery men. She had always insisted on this when working; you never knew when a discreet disappearance might come in handy. Like now.

So she made her phone call, set up an appointment, and slipped out the back when she’d changed and finished her drink. As she walked across Rome to the Hassler hotel, she cursed her ill-luck once again. She had been quite genuine about retiring. She had spent more than twenty-five years stealing paintings and had never been caught; only came close once. And that was enough. It had been the rule she had made in her youth, and she intended to stick to it firmly. Never, ever, take risks. She had totted up her winnings, disposed of her last embarrassing possessions, and settled back to grow old in comfort.

Until three weeks ago when her daughter-in-law, even more hysterical than usual, telephoned. She never had much to do with the silly woman. Why her son—normally a sensible person—had decided to marry such a fusspot was quite beyond her. She was completely brainless but—and here Mary Verney had to give grudging approval—a doting mother to her grandchild. Louise, eight years old, was in fact the only member of her family Mary had a great deal of time for; the only one who had much in the way of spirit. You could see it in her eyes. An adorable child; Mary Verney’s normally well-disciplined heart melted each time she thought of the little beast.

How Kostas Charanis divined this she could never figure out. She had worked for him once, more than thirty years previously, and it was the one time a working relationship had become more than merely professional. He paid, she acquired the painting he wanted. And then she had, over the next year, spent a great deal of time in his company, in Greece and elsewhere. A lovely man. With an edge of steel when he wanted something. As, at the time, he had wanted her, she found it exciting rather than frightening.

Nonetheless, when Mikis, his son, turned up out of the blue four or five months previously with another commission, she had been friendly but firm: no thanks. Never revive old flames, never take commissions out of sentiment, never come out of retirement. She had worked because she needed to, not for the hell of it. Now she didn’t need the money, and saw no reason to take any risks at all.

And, quite apart from such practical reasons, she didn’t like Mikis Charanis. Didn’t like him at all, in fact. None of the father’s intelligence, or subtlety or strength. A spoilt brat, with delusions of unearned grandeur. She remembered him as a six-year-old, the last time she had met Kostas and they had said their final farewells; the child was standing in the street with a friend. There’d been a fight, and the boy had deliberately and cold-bloodedly taken his friend’s hand and broken every finger on it. To teach him a lesson, he said afterwards. Even if she’d been short of cash, the fact that he was involved would have made her turn it down, no matter what fond memories she had of his father.

She thought he’d taken it well, even though he’d made another approach, more pressing this time, a few weeks later. Again, she had no trouble in turning him down. Tell your father I’m too old, she said. Find someone more sprightly.

Then he took her granddaughter. One morning, she had been taken to school by her mother, dropped off at the gates. Two hours later a teacher had rung, wondering where she was. Even before the police could be told, Mikis had rung, warning against contacting anyone in authority. She remembered those broken fingers then, and the look on his face.

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.