The Immaculate Deception

7

The moment she knew that Bottando had been sniffing around in the files after talking to her about the case, Flavia remembered that dreamy look in his eyes, and knew that he was about to pull his ‘we old men may be past it, but you’ll find that experience does have its uses’ routine on her. Normally she would have humoured him, waited until he got around to pulling off his little coup, come round with a look of satisfaction on his face and presented – voilà – his suggestions. And she would have looked terribly impressed and grateful.

But she was in a bit of a hurry, and this particular business was not good for her patience or sense of dramatic flair. So she rang him up instead.

‘File,’ she said. ‘The one you took. What’s it about?’

Instead of the tone of smug self-satisfaction she’d been expecting, however, Bottando sounded rather upset to hear from her.

‘And there was me hoping to surprise you,’ he said. ‘Dear me. I must be losing my touch. If you would like to join me for lunch, I will tell you what occurred to me. It may be nothing, of course, but it might give you something to occupy your mind a little.’

Lunch was the last thing she wanted, her stomach was still so iffy, but she knew that Bottando was quite dedicated to the business of maintaining civilization in this particular form, so she agreed. Salad and water she could probably deal with.

‘It was the chocolates that did it, of course,’ Bottando remarked forty-five minutes later when they had settled, ordered and crunched their way through a couple of breadsticks. ‘How old are you, my dear?’

Flavia scowled. It was going to be one of his long, urbane performances. Oh, well. If he produced the goods, it would be worthwhile putting up with a bit of smugness.

‘Thirty-six,’ she said.

‘Good heavens,’ Bottando said. ‘Are you really? Well, well. How remarkable. Forgive me for asking. It is none of my business, I know, but are you and Jonathan ever …’

Flavia scowled some more. Sometimes, the ability of Bottando to sound like her mother was almost eerie. Besides, the ticking of the clock had begun to sound rather loud of late.

‘You’re quite right,’ she interrupted tartly. ‘None of your business.’

Bottando harrumphed. ‘And not to the point either,’ he said hurriedly. ‘All I wanted to know was how well you remember the late seventies.’

It was going to be a long one. ‘Well enough, I think. Why?’

‘Maurizio Sabbatini. Ring a bell?’

‘No.’

Bottando looked faintly pleased. ‘No reason why he should. He was never of any great importance. Never came to trial even, so his name was never well known. However, he was very much a member of the extreme left back then, and committed to direct action to bring down world capitalism. You remember the sort of thing, no doubt.’

Flavia nodded patiently. The food arrived. Bottando tasted, and ate with appreciation. She picked.

‘You are going to continue, I hope?’ she prompted after a while.

‘Of course, of course,’ Bottando replied, wiping a touch of truffle juice from his mouth. ‘October, 1979 – I have read the file, you see, hence my precision at dates – he robs a bank in Turin. Solo effort, it seems; he never believed in working with other people. A frightening, and then bizarre, experience for all concerned. He wears a face mask, waves a gun at people, collects the money. Then he throws it all out of the window, recites a poem about the coming revolution and hands out chocolates all around. Takes a bow, and leaves.’

Bottando paused as the plates were taken away, the glasses refilled.

‘Chocolates,’ Flavia said.

‘And face masks. One of the pope, this time. He had always had a sense of humour, it seems, even as an urban guerrilla. And although nominally classed as a terrorist he was only ever on the fringes of the really dangerous groups. He knew them all, of course, but found their high seriousness and dedication tedious. They, in return, considered him too whimsical and unreliable to be trusted.

‘Anyway, such stunts were hardly the sort of thing which meant he could remain unidentified for long. But he was never brought to trial.’

‘Fancy that.’

‘Indeed. The file is silent on the matter.’

‘And then he becomes an art thief with a weakness for the seventeenth-century Italianate landscape?’

‘No. He becomes an artist. A performance artist.’ The air of faint disdain was easily detectable. As far as Bottando was concerned, the only good thing to be said for any art after about 1850 was that it was a blessing when it was stolen.

‘He isn’t particularly successful, as his particular brand of heavy-handed social critique is a bit out of tune with our cynical age. He’s regarded, indeed, as rather quaint, and quite possibly gets gallery space out of nostalgia rather than for any serious admiration for what he does. Most of the people handing out the money, after all, are of the same generation. That’s how it appears, anyway. There is, I suppose, a certain kudos to be had in patronizing a terrorist, even one who is a bit long in the tooth.

‘There we are. He only has a file with us for cross-referencing purposes, so it’s not complete. But it does indicate a tendency towards whimsical parodies of crime, the chocolates, daft face masks and a habit of working alone. Combine that with a career going nowhere and the possibility of raising large sums of money.’

Flavia thought. That Bottando had produced the goods was almost certain. But she was annoyed he’d sat on the information for such a long time.

He did, at least, have the grace to look sheepish.

‘Now, what I was going to do was tie it all up for you, and present him on a plate. My swan-song. I didn’t intend to take the credit, you understand. Just have a final fling before retirement. Unfortunately…’

‘Oh, no.’

‘Possibly a good thing. I was contacted by the prime minister’s office, and told that I was to take charge of this personally. I did protest on your behalf, but they were quite adamant on the matter.’

Flavia scowled. She was scowling a lot these days.

‘I also mentioned that I – we – could quite possibly recover the painting without paying any ransom, given a moderate bit of good fortune. But I was very firmly told to do nothing of the sort, as you were as well. Pay the money, get the picture back, and forget it. It was made clear that any attempts to prosecute would probably be squashed in that devious way that the state has sometimes. I imagine that the reasoning is that there could be no trial without publicity. And publicity is just what they want to avoid.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Hmm is as good a reaction as any,’ Bottando commented.

‘I assume that this man has vanished?’

‘Of course. You’d hardly expect him to be at home.’

Flavia shook her head in disbelief. ‘You really should have told me all this …’

Bottando looked properly shame-faced. ‘Of course I should have. You’re quite right, my dear. Quite right. I should have. But has it made any difference?’

She paused. ‘I suppose not. It’s just that I always seem to be the last to know anything these days.’ She tried, but failed, to make her objection sound as though it was more than mere pique.

‘So now we have to bring this thing to a conclusion. Which means we need the money, and some routine for swapping it.’

She sighed heavily, and told him about her morning.

‘You have three million dollars in a suitcase in your office?’

‘In the safe. And it’s in a cardboard box, not a suitcase.’

‘Whose money is it?’

‘How should I know? Someone close to the prime minister, obviously. Apart from that. I’ve not a clue.’

‘Any arrangements made for the swap?’

‘In the next couple of days.’

‘I’d better do that, I think.’

Flavia began to protest. ‘Orders, Flavia, orders. And probably better in any case. If something goes wrong, I get blamed, not you. I think Friday would be best.’

‘Why Friday?’

‘Because my retirement starts officially on Friday. Caution, you know. Too late to take my rather reduced pension away, even if it is a complete fiasco.’