“Just a second. What do you mean, he was going to bring the money with him? In cash?”’
“I said I wanted the money. In cash. I’d had enough of being made a fool of.”
It got worse and worse. Flavia by now could barely believe what she was hearing. She had heard of some stupid operations in her time, but this set new standards.
“And then?”’ she asked. “What went wrong?”’
“I don’t know. I went to the church just after six, unlocked the door and took the Virgin off the wall, and put it in a bag. Then I waited. And someone hit me. That’s almost the last I remember.”
“And that was when someone took the Virgin?”’
“No,” he said definitely.
“How do you know?”’
“Because she was still there. I know.”
“How? You were unconscious.”
“She talked to me.”
“What?”’
“I was dying, I know I was. And she saved me through her grace. She came to me and said, “Don’t struggle, don’t worry, it’ll be all right. I’ll make sure.” Such a soft and gentle voice; full of compassion and care. Immediately I felt suffused with a warm glow of peace.”
The old Catholic in Flavia fought a momentary battle with the equally venerable old cynic, and decided to call it a draw. It had made Xavier cooperative; that in itself was truly something of a miracle. That didn’t mean she was prepared to accept that the icon wasn’t stolen by the man who hit him.
“It was a miracle,” Xavier went on. “My skin goes cold just to think of it. I have acted badly, and deserve little favour, yet I am blessed with her forgiveness. Tell me, what are you going to do with me?”’
She shook her head. “I have no idea at all. Fortunately, other people decide that. I merely find out what happened. But you are in big trouble, believe me.”
Flavia walked from the Gemelli to the office; a long walk, right across the centre of town, taking her across the river and through the medieval quarters. By all reasonable standards it was absurd and a waste of time that could be much better spent. Stopping for twenty minutes at a quiet, back-street bar for a coffee and a glass of water was even more foolish. But she reckoned she needed time to think things through.
And besides, she thought she needed a little celebration. Not because of any achievement on her part, certainly. She realized she had come perilously close to having another murder on her hands. But she knew that Charanis had gone into the hospital, talked to Father Xavier and left. It established that Charanis was not only still in Rome, but also, it seemed, did not have the picture. He must have thought Burckhardt had it; then killed him when he refused—or couldn’t—say where it was. And he’s still trying. What makes him think there is any chance of getting hold of it now?
And there was the obvious point that if he didn’t have it, who the hell did? That perhaps was the central problem, and, consequently, one that had to be put aside and forgotten about for a while. Mary Verney was the prime suspect, of course, except for the fact that she was still here.
Flavia sipped her drink, and watched the office workers and occasional tourist who had been lured down the street thinking they were on the way to somewhere, stopping frequently and looking with puzzlement at their maps, turning them upside down and then doing an about turn before heading back the way they came. Know how you feel, she thought as she paid her bill and stood up.
One final detail awaited her on her desk which clinched it. A note from Fostiropoulos, admirably swift. The director of the Athens museum negotiating for Charanis’s pictures was concerned about one picture in particular. A Tintoretto with very dubious origins. Naturally the man hadn’t mentioned it to anyone before because he didn’t want to offend a vastly rich potential donor unfairly, but he was keen to know where it came from.
It took Flavia only twenty minutes to find out. The picture had vanished twenty-six years ago from a castle in Austria. Just like that, no warning, no clues and never seen again. Exactly the style of Mary Verney when she was on top form. One of the ones they hadn’t found out about last year. Got her.
Half an hour later, she had Mary Verney arrested. No politeness, no personal touch this time. Just three large policemen with a car. She told them to bundle her in the back and bring her to a cell in the basement. Don’t talk, don’t say a word. No explanations. Make it seem as grim and intimidating as possible. Frighten the life out of her.
They did a good job of it. For all her life of crime, Mary Verney had never been in trouble with the police before. Even traffic wardens made her nervous, and the experience of the Italian police at their least charming rattled her considerably, as did the fact that she was left to stew on her own for three hours before Flavia decided the time had come for a conversation. When she walked in with a file of notes as a prop, the woman seemed properly chastened. Flavia adopted a world-weary, businesslike air. Another one to put in jail. Oh, dear.
“Now, then,” she began after she’d sat there for several minutes reading her notes and making marks in the margins with a pencil, “I should tell you that we have enough for the magistrate to charge you on several counts. Firstly with leaving the scene of a crime. Secondly, conspiracy to commit theft, and thirdly—and most importantly— conspiracy to commit murder.”
“Murder?”’ Mary Verney said, her head jerking up in astonishment. “What murder?”’
“Peter Burckhardt.”
“That’s absurd.”
“I don’t think so. We will be arguing, with evidence, that you informed one Mikis Charanis of Burckhardt’s presence in the church of San Giovanni on the morning that the icon was stolen and Father Xavier was attacked.”
“I’d never even heard of this Charanis before.”
“We will prove that twenty-six years ago you stole a Tintoretto for his father.”
“Nonsense.”
“Far from being retired, as you say, you came to Rome specifically to steal that icon, either for the father or the son. I don’t care which one. Personally, I think you should have taken your own advice. You’ve lost your touch. Greed, Mrs Verney. I’m surprised at you. I would have thought you had enough sense to know when to stop. Now you’ve blown everything.”
There was a long pause, as Mary Verney considered how right Flavia was. She always knew in her bones this was going to be a disaster, so the fact that she was sitting here, quite probably facing a hefty jail sentence, should come as no surprise. And all because of that man, whom she had liked and trusted, and who didn’t even have the courage to face her himself.
Was there any way out? If she kept quiet, she would undoubtedly go to jail. What’s more it was unlikely Charanis would believe she would keep quiet, and so would carry out his threat. And if she told the truth? Surely the same result.
“How long are you going to take over this?”’ Flavia asked.
“I was wondering whether you might want to come to some accommodation.”
“No. I don’t need to. So talk to me.”
“The question is whether you can help me.”
“The question is whether I am prepared to.”
This seemed to produce a stalemate, and Flavia was not in the mood for playing games today. There had been more than enough of those already. “You seem to be wanting a deal. You give me something, I give you something. I’m not interested. I want the truth, full, whole and unabridged. I want a way of checking it. And I’m not going to offer you anything in advance at all. No promises, no deals and no assurances. Take it or leave it. I don’t know why you’re so desperate to steal this picture, and I don’t care. That’s your business. So, either get on with it, or forget it.”
A third long pause, then Mary shook her head. “I know nothing about any icon or murder. I was walking on the Aventino that morning merely by coincidence. I haven’t stolen anything or injured anyone. I am a little old tourist. That is all I have to say.”
Andwitha calm look very much at odds with what she felt, Mary folded her hands on her lap and gazed placidly at the policewoman sitting opposite to her.
Flavia glared at her angrily. “I don’t believe a word of it. You’re in this up to your neck.”
She shook her head. “How many times do I have to tell you? I do not have the icon.”
