Death & Restoration ja-6 Page 3

  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 occupi
ed 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 ca
ught; 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.