round the countryside and to movies and dinner and museums with her, but that was it. She had provided the openings, had he been so minded, and he had not taken them. He just stood there, looking awkward.
She'd eventually got used to that and settled for his company. It was the blithe way he announced he was leaving Italy that finally made her lose patience. Just like that. A career to be made, so he was off.
And what about her? she'd felt like asking. He was just going to go and forget her? Just like that? Who was she meant to go to dinner with?
But if that was what he wanted to do, he could go, as far as she was concerned. So she said, in a chilly, angry voice, that if his career needed it, he should go. The sooner the better, in fact. Then she'd got on with her work.
Now here he was again, with problems.
'I'm not interested,' she said shortly. 'I don't care if the whole of the National Museum is scattered along the Pacific Rim, and I don't have any time to waste talking to you, you . . . Englishman.'
And slammed the phone down and made chuntering noises as she tried vainly to remember what it was she'd been doing before he'd rung.
'Jonathan Argyll, I assume,' came a deep, reassuring voice from the doorway behind her as General Bottando walked in clutching a sheaf of papers. 'What's he up to these days? I heard he was in America.'
'He is,' she said, turning round and hoping he hadn't heard too much of her conversation. 'He just rang me up to tell me about a murder.'
'Really? Whose?'
Flavia told him, and Bottando whistled in surprise. 'Good heavens,' he said. 'I'm not surprised he rang. How extraordinary.'
'Fascinating,' she said shortly. 'Is there anything you want? Or is this a social visit?'
Bottando sighed and looked at her sadly. It was perfectly obvious to him what was wrong, but it wasn't at all his job to say. And even if he had tried to give her the benefit of his advice, he was fairly certain it would not have been well received. She was touchy that way, and had no respect for the wisdom of age.
'I've got a little job for you,' he said, confining himself to business. 'Needs tact and delicacy, I'm afraid.' He looked at her doubtfully before proceeding. 'You remember that little drinks party we had a few weeks back?'
It had been a small celebration for Bottando's fifty-ninth birthday. A date and a number shrouded in secrecy, but the office had weasled it out by dexterous spying on the personnel returns. They'd all clubbed together to throw a surprise party in his office, and presented him with a little Piranesi print and a large plant to replace the one that had died because he always forgot to water it.
'Well,' he went on a little nervously. 'That plant. Someone watered it to show me how to do it, and water spilled over the desk and I grabbed a piece of paper to mop it up.'
Flavia nodded impatiently. He did ramble sometimes.
Bottando produced a stained, crumpled and almost illegible document and handed it to her shamefacedly. 'Been under the pot ever since,' he said. 'Carabinieri report about a burglary in Bracciano. Should have followed it up weeks ago. You know the remarks they'll make if they ever find out. Could you go and do something about it?'
'Now?' she said, glancing at her watch.
'If you could. Damned man's a curator at some museum. Influential. The sort who complains. I know it's getting late. . .'
With a long-suffering look she got up and stuffed the report in her bag.
'Oh, all right,' she said. 'Got nothing else to do. What's the address?'
And, radiating disapproval of her boss's inefficiency, she marched out of the office.
*
The Alberghi family inhabited a castle - a small one, but a castle nonetheless - rather handsomely sited overlooking the lake. The area has gone downhill in recent years; the nearest bit of fresh water to Rome, it is swamped by people desperate to get away from the heat and dust and pollution of the capital. So they come to the heat and dust and pollution of Bracciano instead. It makes a change, and also means the water is no longer quite as fresh as it once was. Those local residents who bought their houses some time ago are not pleased at the disturbance that thousands of noisy Romans bring with them; others make a small fortune out of them and are perfectly happy about it.
The Alberghi were firmly in the former category. Their castle looked basically medieval with lots of modern conveniences added in the sixteenth century, like windows. The owners were not the sort of people who rushed out to sell Coca-Cola and popcorn to the tourists. The place was more than a little secluded; from the road the only indication that it was there at all came from the signs at the gate warning of ferocious dogs and announcing that you were entering private property so go away.
If the gateway was unwelcoming, the owner was even less hospitable. It took some time for the door to be opened, and even longer for the appropriate person to put in an appearance. They were the sort who still had servants; indeed, they were clearly thesort who, without a cook, would starve to death. Flavia handed her card to an ancient woman who opened the door, and waited for results.
'And about damn time too.' The voice of the owner preceded his actual appearance. He came limping down the stairs shortly afterwards, bristling with indignation. 'Pretty disgraceful, I call it.'
Flavia looked at him in a cold manner. It seemed the best way to deal with the situation; to adopt a general air that implied that Alberghi was at fault himself and should count himself lucky he was getting any attention at all.
'Pardon?' she said.
'Four weeks,' he said, glaring at her. 'What do you call that? I call it appalling, myself.'
'Pardon?' she repeated frostily.
'The robbery, woman, the robbery. Good God, we have thieves swarming all over the house and what do the police do about it?
Nothing, that's what. Absolutely nothing. Can you imagine how my dear wife . . .'
She held up her hand. 'Yes, yes,' she said. 'But I'm here now, so why don't we get on with it? I gather you were meant to be drawing up a list of everything that was stolen. Have you got it?'
Still grumbling and stroking his moustache with fury, he grudgingly led the way in. 'Waste of time, I suppose,' he complained as they passed through a dusty entrance hall into a dark, wood-panelled study. 'Can't imagine you'll get anything back now.'
He flung open the top of a desk in the corner and extracted a sheet of paper. 'There you are,' he said. 'Best I can do.'
Flavia looked at it and shook her head despairingly. The chances of getting anything back were always fairly small, even when the descriptions were complete and photographs appended. Any burglar with even half a brain knew that it was imperative to get stolen goods over the border fast.
But this thief needn't have bothered. The list was about as useful as an old sweet packet. On the other hand, it did provide a useful cover for the department's tardiness. No one could blame them if Alberghi's goods were never seen again.
''One old landscape. One silver pot, an old bust, two or three portraits,'' she read. 'Is that all you could manage?'
For the first time she got him on the defensive, and his moustache twirling switched from aggressive to defensive mode. 'Best I could do,' he repeated.
'But this is useless. What do you expect us to do now? Go round and examine every portrait in Europe in the hope one might turn out to be yours? You're meant to be an art expert, for heaven's sake.'
'Me?' he said scornfully. 'I know nothing about it.'
In the circumstances, Flavia thought that the tinge of pride in his voice was misplaced. A small amount of expertise would have greatly increased his chances of recovering his family possessions. Mind you, now she thought about it, he did not look much like a museum curator to her.
'I thought you worked for a museum,' she said.
'Certainly not,' he said. 'That was my uncle, Enrico. He died last year. I'm Alberto. Army man,' he said, chin jutting up and chest popping out at the very mention.
'Isn't there a list or inventory or something? Anything would be better than this.'
'Fraid not. Uncle had it all in his mind.' He tapped the side of his head as he spoke, in case Flavia was
