CHAPTER 5
On the whole I never like travelling much. It always seems to me a waste of all those places in between. No, for me a little distance goes a long, long way.
Absence is great therapy, but during the journey to Heathrow Maria kept coming to mind. Her rather weary acceptance of me as a lover, those occasional remote silences like that time in the Arcade with the Derbyshire pietra dura. And most of all those vivid flashes of apprehension—practically wild terror—so soon suppressed yet memorable as a gleam of gold in a lake. Twice I'd asked her outright if she knew Arcellano, describing him, and she said no. I believed her. Even though I can't fathom women I think I know them pretty well. At least, I think I think.
The previous night I'd tried contacting her, but realized I didn't even know her address.
She once told me she lodged somewhere down the estuary, but that was as far as I got. The phone people were unable to help. The school was closed.
By a fluke Joan Culpepper was in when I'd phoned, and was able to get away to meet me that evening. We went back to the cottage for a farewell chat, which helped me to forget my worries. A little sublimation does you a power of good. The silly bitch laughingly refused to sell me her tassie ring, though—'to keep you interested, Lovejoy'.
She asked with a great show of sweet innocence what I had done with Maria ('…
somewhere in the garden, I hope, Lovejoy…') but I put a stop to that. One war's enough.
The flight to Rome wasn't so bad, two hours ten minutes stuck in a reclining seat and fed to bursting by those girls who always look sterile. I may have missed Maria yesterday but would definitely see her once I got back. That notion pleased me so much I became quite eager to land and get on with the rip. It was bound to be dead simple. 'Easy as stealing from a church' is a saying in the antiques trade. As the plane banked in from the Mediterranean stack over Ostia I was even smiling. Maria would give me a hero's welcome. I knew that.
Then the Customs bit, and Rome.
* * *
Marcello was the least likely crook I'd ever seen, and, knowing as many dealers as I do, I must have notched up four figures by now. He was fairly tall, dark-haired, fairly well dressed and youngish. He took me aback somewhat because I suppose I must have been expecting to meet a mini-Arcellano. So when a voice said, 'Lovejoy?' as I hung around the exit concourse among mobs disgorging from the Customs, I was surprised to turn to see this pleasant bloke smiling a realish smile. 'Welcome to Roma. I'm Marcello.'
We shook hands, him quite keen to get on with the chat and me thinking Arcellano was playing a very mixed game.
'I've borrowed a friend's car to take you into the city.'
'That's very kind.'
'Good journey?'
'There's no such thing.'
He gave me an appraising glance and asked, 'Didn't you want to come?'
'Yes.' My own answer seemed to satisfy him but it shook me rigid. Surely I couldn't have meant that? All the way into the city I wondered, but stared politely at the novel scene.
Marcello's car turned out to be a microscopic gadget which had room only on its roof for my suitcase. I'd somehow had the idea everybody in Rome had enormous Ferraris.
It was dark outside. I'd never seen so many cars driven at such speed and with such noise. Marcello entered into the spirit of things, occasionally raising his hands heavenwards and parping the hooter angrily on any excuse. Later he told me quite calmly he enjoyed driving. He could have fooled me.
An hour later we were finishing a bottle of wine in a trattoria somewhere in the centre of Rome. I'd no precise idea where we were. The place was quiet, only two or three tables occupied and music covering everybody's conversation.
I couldn't get over how good the grub was. I told Marcello this. He was delighted and insisted that this particular trattoria was really below average and that he'd only chosen it on account of its central position and quietness.
Until then we had sparred around the main subject. We'd talked of all sorts. I'd mentioned the weather. Marcello had mentioned a shopkeepers' strike of the previous week. I said how pleasant Rome seemed. He praised my Italian, which was a bit effusive. I was relieved it worked with him as well as Maria. And Arcellano. There was very little wine left when I decided to open up.
'Did you book me into a hotel?'
Marcello was surprised. 'I'd instructions not to. I can tell you the names of some you could try.'
'Thanks.' I paused, weighing him up. 'Look, Marcello. How much help are you supposed to be giving me?'
'Whatever you ask, with two exceptions.' He ticked his fingers. 'Money.'
'Great,' I said bitterly. 'And women, I suppose?'
He grinned. 'I'm a married man with two young children. I can't give a bad example.'
He shook his head. 'No. Number two is the Vatican.'
'Jesus.'
'We're to be casual acquaintances, Lovejoy. I gave you a lift, a typical stranger at the airport confused on his first visit to the Big R. I showed you a good cheap trattoria.
You,' he explained with a flash of wry humour, 'are to express your gratitude by paying for the meal.'
'Grazie,' I said.
