'I couldn't possibly tell you that. Can you confirm the story?”
'No. In fact, I can deny all knowledge of it.”
'There was no theft?”
'Don't be ridiculous. How long could you keep that quiet?”
'No ransom paid?”
'Not by me. You asked me this a week ago, if you remember. I told you then that it was illegal, and that we don't have access to money like that. How much were these guards paid?”
'We never pay for stories,' he said. 'We don't have much money either. But I was told the guards were hauled up in front of you and told to keep their mouths shut.”
'Didn't do a very good job, then, did I?”
'No. Nor did you answer my question. Did an armed gang steal a painting from the museum last week?”
'Absolutely not.”
'Did you pay a ransom to get it back?”
'Absolutely not. There was no armed gang stealing anything from the museum last week. Or the week before.”
'Any other comments?”
'Yes. Never trust the word of guards. Heroic or otherwise.”
She put the phone down and frowned, murderous thoughts on her mind. It was only a matter of time before Dossoni amended his questions and got the story right. She wasn't responsible for it, but she sensed stormy waters ahead. In the circumstances, she thought it a good idea to forewarn the prime minister. And to shout at Macchioli for his inability to control his staff.
Then she went home and found a disconsolate Argyll, who promptly confessed to her that he was, to all intents and purposes, a murderer.
'I gave him the whiskey. For heaven's sake! How could I have been so stupid?”
She was not sympathetic.
'I feel terrible about it,' he went on.
'Because you killed him or because he didn't tell you what that picture is,' she asked dryly.
'Mainly the first. But the second doesn't help. What do you think about Bottando? His knowing Mary Verney. He never mentioned it the last time when you wanted to arrest her, did he?”
'No. But it may be that he didn't make the connection. After all, it doesn't seem as though she was suspected of anything back in 1962. She was never questioned, or anything. Just a witness. And I can't remember the names of witnesses I talked to forty days ago, let alone forty years.”
'Hmph.' Argyll was unconvinced. Anything and everything to do with Mary Verney made him quiver a little. Her mere existence, in his opinion, was a nightmare. He had not yet forgiven her for the fact that she was so very good at seeming a sweet, harmless, and slightly eccentric lady of a certain age, most concerned with blackfly on roses and the current state of the village church restoration appeal. As a result, he tended to overestimate her capacity to cause him grief. If the angel of the lord came down to blow a mighty trump and announce the end of the world, Argyll would easily have believed Mary Verney was, somehow, responsible for the event for obscure reasons of her own. And his opinion of her was high enough to think that even at a distance of nearly forty years, her deeds could cause mayhem.
'The trouble is that she was there. Now Bulovius's dead, she's my only hope.
Bottando at least seems genuinely to have no notion that the picture was anything in particular.”
'Which it might not be.”
'True.' He thought, then shook off the feeling of glum foreboding that had descended on him ever since he heard of Mary's presence at the Villa Buonaterra in 1962. 'Go on, then. What's on your mind?”
'Nothing of importance in comparison to you,' she replied, with a mild hint of acid in her voice. 'Just journalists and paintings and ransoms. I'm beginning to feel vulnerable.”
Argyll nodded when she had summarized her day. 'You might have mentioned it before I went rabbitting on, you know,' he said reproachfully. 'What are you going to do about it?”
She shrugged. 'Nothing. What can I do? Either the paper publishes its story, or it doesn't. I've done my best, and can at least point to the fact that I did say it was inevitable. Smash and grab raids on museums are hard to keep quiet forever. However, that doesn't mean I won't take the blame.”
'What for?”
'They'll think of something. Allowing the robbery to happen. Paying a ransom against the express orders of the prime minister. Failing to keep those stupid guards quiet. Not arresting the robber while he was still alive. Something like that. Or maybe nothing.
Maybe they'll just ease me out; there are plenty of people who want my job, after all.
This gives them a perfect opportunity.”
She stood up and stretched. 'And there really is nothing I can do. Except try and find the money. In which case I might be able to count on Di Lanna to put in a good word.
Or, then again, maybe not. He seems to want the whole thing dropped as well.”
'Sounds like good advice to me.”
'You won't say that when this Dossoni character runs his story.”
'You don't seem too concerned.”
'I'm not, oddly enough. I don't know why. Maybe it's Bottando's going. He was always the great inspiration. Dedication, you know. I worked for him more than the department. Even when he went, I always thought he was still in charge really.”
'So he was, in theory.”
'But he packed his bags and walked away, without a moment's regret, it seems. And if he can do it after so many years, why am I so enthusiastic? What does it matter, anyway, running round chasing after pictures?”
'Not a positive attitude.”
'No. But there must be something more worthwhile to do.”
'What?”
She thought. 'I don't know.”
She nibbled at a piece of cheese, then sat down again. 'Meanwhile, I'll fill in the hours by going to Siena tomorrow. Records has produced the address of an old comrade-in-arms of Sabbatini. It's probably a waste of time, but you never know.”
13
The drive to Siena was uneventful, even pleasant. It is very hard to be preoccupied and worried when you have the distractions of Italian traffic constantly threatening to force you off the road if your attention wanders too much. The address she had was for a small village about twenty kilometers to the northeast, but she stopped in the town anyway to have some lunch and also to look at the language school where Elena Fortini, Sabbatini's former colleague, now worked. Her file said she was half American and half Italian and spoke English fluently. This skill now gained her a living, and a very quiet living it must be, Flavia thought to herself. Anybody who buried herself here must be looking for a quiet life.
This woman had been an artist of a sort back in the 1970s as well, although then she had produced the sort of art which rarely engaged Flavia's official attention. She had been an ideological soul mate for Sabbatini and reading between the lines of the file Corrado had found for her, Flavia guessed that she had been the brains behind his politics. While she sensed that Sabbatini had been a radical because it was fashionable, this woman had been more serious, her opinions and actions more carefully thought through, even reasonable. Sabbatini had followed her lead and acted as he did to draw attention to himself.
As with many of the people who had been in revolutionary movements in the 1970s, Elena had realized, perhaps earlier than most, that the battle would never be won.
Consequently, she had taken up an offer of a pardon in return for a brief prison sentence, a full confession, and information about her erstwhile colleagues. A notice attached to the file expressed irritation that the amount of information she gave was minimal, and completely unhelpful. Even when saving her own skin, she was unprepared to give up her friends.
Finding her had been remarkably easy; once a political criminal, always a political criminal, and Fortini was required to register her address every six months even though it hadn't changed for years. The latest address was
