Giotto's hand

by Iain Pears

  “Difficult. Especially as Forster thought that we were double-crossing him. I managed to persuade him that the best thing was to do the deal and destroy everything as fast as possible. Make sure there was nothing to investigate. So that wild allegations from a daft old woman and a confessed thief remained just that.

  “And, as the situation had arisen, I confess I used it. He didn’t have much time. He had to make up his mind. Did he accept or not? I put as much pressure on him as possible. I don’t mind saying, I was getting a little panicky myself by then. I like a quiet, tranquil life, and this isn’t.

  “Anyway, eventually Forster saw my reasoning. I was due to go round to his house at ten with my evidence and a check. We’d do a swap.”

  “And things went badly wrong?”

  “Disastrously. I found Geoffrey on the foot of the stairs, stone dead. I was absolutely petrified. God only knows how long I stood there. But eventually I decided I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, and stepped over him. I went up the stairs, took the packet of papers, and left the way I’d come.”

  “And destroyed them?”

  “Of course, yes. Immediately.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Until Jonathan started going through his papers and found the inventory and started fussing through the pictures. There was always a chance something else might be in there as well. So I persuaded Jessica that it was in her interest to incinerate the rest of his papers, just to be on the safe side.”

  “So who did kill Forster after all that?”

  She shrugged. “Did anybody?”

  “Yes,” said a disappointed Argyll. “You know that.”

  There was a long silence here, as Argyll gave her the opportunity to speak. He wasn’t entirely certain whether he should intervene or not, but knew that sooner or later it would come out. So he might as well get it over as fast as possible. As Mary still wasn’t saying anything, he did.

  “And so do I,” he went on. “I heard you. In the church.”

  “What do you mean, Jonathan?”

  “George Barton killed him. I heard him say so. In the vestry. He said he was pleased about it, didn’t feel bad about it at all and that Forster deserved it for the way he’d treated everybody.”

  Mary Verney was giving him the sort of look you reserve for house guests who have been caught out slipping spoons into their pockets, feeding the dog too many chocolates and making it throw up on the Persian rug. Argyll gave her an apologetic smile.

  “What could I say?” he asked plaintively.

  She softened her gaze a little, then relaxed. “I know. Duty, right?”

  “Before we get into the finer nuances of etiquette here, can I ask whether it is true or not?”

  She reluctantly nodded. “I decided I’d have a little chat with him after what Sally told me. I thought it fitted, and feared the worst. Alas, I was right. He has a violent temper when he’s got a drink in him. It was all a complete accident. Sweet as pie when sober. You heard about Forster wanting him out of his cottage?”

  “Yes. So?”

  She sighed a little, then explained. Simple enough. George had gone to Forster’s asking him to be reasonable. Forster had virtually thrown him out. George went off and drank too much, worked himself into a fury and came back for a second go.

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm, but apparently he just followed Forster up the stairs, pulled him by the arm, overdid it, and Forster went tumbling down and fell awkwardly.

  “Of course, this is all speculation on my part. George has never actually said to me that he did it. His daughter will swear blind he was there all evening—as I gather she already has. And if asked, I would say I would find it quite a ridiculous idea. Not a word from me.”

  “What about justice? Law and order?”

  She shrugged. “Who am I to talk about that in current circumstances? To hell with all of it. I like George. What good would sticking him in prison do?”

  “Isn’t that for a court to decide?”

  “I think that I will very arrogantly take the decision myself, and save everybody a lot of time and trouble.”

  “But…”

  “No,” she said firmly. “No buts. My mind is made up. Do as you wish about me. But I will not give evidence against poor George. And I have a feeling that, without my help, there won’t be nearly enough evidence to do anything.”

  “Poor George snapped someone’s neck. Then went off and left him,” Flavia said a little angrily. “And you’re not really concerned?”

  “Not hugely.”

  The room lapsed into silence after this pronouncement.

  “So what happens to me now?”

  “Obstruction of justice on innumerable occasions, at the very least, I imagine. Conspiracy as well.”

  “Told you inheriting this place was a mistake,” Mary said sadly. “Life was so easy and simple before. Bloody family. I am sorry for having caused you so much trouble. All I was trying to do was get out of a hole dug by other people.” Both her visitors looked at her sympathetically.

  “I imagine Winterton will no more admit having had anything to do with selling the pictures than George will admit to having been in Forster’s house,” Argyll said gloomily. “You only know the whereabouts of one picture taken by Giotto, and Forster stole all the evidence of where it came from. And Mary here has just destroyed it. You might find something eventually, but it would be looking for a needle in a haystack. You certainly won’t get anything useful in time for Bottando’s meeting tomorrow.”

  Another silence as Flavia contemplated how very correct he was.

  “Doesn’t look good, does it?” he went on remorselessly, vocalizing her own thoughts.

  “What do you mean?”

  “No pictures back out of thirty or more on the list. Nothing solid about Winterton except for the possibility that Sandano might agree to identify him, and who would believe Sandano, anyway? No murderer of Forster.

  “And, worst of all, you have to announce that the sublime master thief Giotto was in reality nothing but a loony old lady. Once Argan puts it around that Bottando’s been chasing a total nutter down every false trail set for him he’ll be the laughing stock of policedom. He won’t stand a chance, poor old soul.”

  “I know. But what do you expect me to do about it?”

  “Does Winterton know where all these pictures went?”

  “Must do,” Mary said. “That doesn’t mean he’ll tell you.”

  “He must know that something will turn up sooner or later, if people keep looking hard enough. Whereas, if he was offered a cast-iron guarantee that the case would be closed forever…?”

  “Jonathan,” Flavia said impatiently, “what is your point?”

  “You’re the one who keeps on telling me that it’s often perfectly justifiable to cut comers a little bit. And Bottando always goes on about how you’re in business to recover pictures, first and foremost,” he said diffidently.

  “He does say that, yes.”

  “So maybe that’s what you should do?”

  She knew perfectly well what he was getting at. He was thinking exactly the things she was trying to avoid considering. That was the trouble of living with someone. She could, with an effort, subdue her own efforts towards self-preservation. She couldn’t stop his as well.

  So he explained himself, in a hesitant fashion to start off with, then more forcibly as he grew increasingly convinced that it was the only sensible way of proceeding. By the time he’d won his case, another hour or so had gone past. Then Mary Verney quickly drove Flavia to Norwich to get the last train to London. They left in such a rush that Flavia left behind most of her clothes. Argyll promised to bring them back with him.

  At the station, she gave Argyll a quick kiss. “See you in a few days,” she said. “And thanks for the advice; I don’t think I could have done this without you. I take it back about your not being sufficiently ruthless. Between us, I think we’ve just cut enough comers to last
a lifetime.”

  The meeting took place in the conference room of the ministry, and a sombre affair it was. About fifteen people in all were there to witness the public goring of Bottando and his sacrifice on the altar of streamlined efficiency. Many attended with reluctance; several liked Bottando and thought well of him. Several more were merely glad it was him and not them. Far more disliked Argan and what he represented.

  But none of these could do much, and on the whole were unwilling to try. Standing up for a colleague was one thing. But enough of Argan’s complaints had been circulated to make them think that this time Bottando was in trouble. If you want to fight back, you have to choose the best possible battlefield. And the old guard had collectively decided to conserve its strength for a more auspicious occasion.

  The moment Bottando walked into the room, with a very nervous Flavia with him, he knew she was the only person on his side. And she wasn’t going to be much use. She was completely worn out, what with rushing down to London, and a long, hard bargaining session with Winterton which took three hours before he agreed to cooperate; then the flight back to Rome passing the time by anguishing about whether she was doing the right thing, and finally a rapid briefing of Bottando to give him some ammunition. She did all the talking; a remarkably calm Bottando did little but listen carefully, thank her, then bundle her into the car. The meeting, he explained, had been brought forward.

  It was opened by the minister, a drab, if inoffensive man who was much too frail of spirit to go against the advice of his civil servants once they made up their minds. At least he kept things vague, a vocal washing of the hands which indicated that, whatever happened, he hoped no one was going to think he was in any way responsible for it. Next, routine business was gone through, and as a sort of warm-up session, an extraordinary argument broke out over a trivial matter of accounting procedure which did little except indicate how keyed up everybody was.

  And then it was Argan’s turn, mild, quiet and all the more dangerous for it.

  He started off slowly, on structural matters, gradually drawing the attention of the meeting to the way decisions were taken in the department and how Bottando was ultimately responsible for them. He then went through the statistics on the number of crimes and the number of recoveries and arrests. Even Bottando could hardly put his hand on his heart and say they were good.

  “Numbing and meaningless figures,” Argan went on carelessly. “And I hope that I can make the problem clearer by referring to some particular incidents. In the past couple of weeks there have been several crimes of varying seriousness and not a single one has been cleared up or even investigated competently. General Bottando will no doubt tell you that they could not be cleared up in such a short time. That art crimes need to ripen before they are ready for harvest. For generations, if necessary.

  “I do not believe that. I believe that a properly organized and focused approach would have a much higher success rate. Strike while the iron is hot. That should be the watchword.

  “It is clearly not the motto of the department as it is currently run. When an Etruscan site of major importance is looted. General Bottando sends off one of his girls to talk to some old woman with a grudge about a thirty-year-old crime. When a gallery in the via Giulia is raided, is it investigated? No; the same girl hares off instead to talk to a convicted criminal about some cock and bull story. The crimes and the thefts mount up and off we go to England, where any nonsense is chased after.

  “And why? Because the General has a pet theory. For years now, despite all the evidence of how organized crime is responsible for much of art theft, and despite the fact that routine technology is demonstrably superior. General Bottando has been obsessed with an outmoded, romantic notion. In brief, he believes in the master criminal, the shadowy figure who roams free and undetected. Nobody else even suspects the existence of this person, of course. Not a single policeman throughout Europe agrees with him. All common sense screams it is complete nonsense. But, by using entirely spurious reasoning, you can prove anything—and as a former art historian, believe me I know.”

  A little jest, Bottando thought absently. He is confident. But then, of course, so he should be. He is using exactly the same techniques. He knows as well as I do that I never believed in Giotto. He knows that I hadn’t even thought about it for years. He knows that Flavia saw Sandano for only a few minutes. And he knows, above all, that it would never have gone any further if he hadn’t turned his attention on it and started manipulating. The slug.

  And Argan was still talking, referring to the dangers of applying spurious theories to inadequate evidence, of wasting police effort as a result. Discipline, he was saying. Rigorous, coordinated control to keep attention focused where it was most needed. Times of economic stringency. No room in the modern world for the hunch, the flying-by-the-seat-of-the-pants approach. Need to conserve police—should he say the taxpayers?— resources. Value for money. Cost-effectiveness. Productivity. Authority. Goal-oriented. Accountability.

  Not a single buzzword left unused, not a single soft spot unprodded. Argan finished by saying all the right things; the civil servants positively glowed as he trotted out all the watchwords of their trade. They were lost to Bottando’s cause anyway, probably. But even the policemen present looked uncomfortable. And they were the ones he was going to have to win back. Flavia, who deeply resented every word the man had said, especially the cracks about silly girls, glowered menacingly from her subordinate position at the end of the table, using up all her willpower to stop herself from going over and hitting him.

  “General?” said the minister with an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid you have had to listen to a fairly critical account of your department. I’m sure you would like to reply.”

  “I suppose so,” Bottando said, leaning forward in his chair, taking out his reading glasses and perching them on the end of his nose so he could peer round the table in a more magisterial fashion. “And I must say I am rather sad that Dottore Argan, after spending so much time in the department, appears to have formed such a low opinion of the way we go about things.

  “I have tried to tell him that the department was set up to defend the national heritage and recover it where possible. On several occasions where there has been a conflict between catching a criminal and recovering an important work, we have always been instructed to do the latter. The attention we give is directly related to this; in the case of the Etruscan site robbery, an assault was committed and the case was taken up by the Carabinieri: we offered assistance and were told it wasn’t necessary.”

  “Petty bureaucratic demarcation dispute. Surely we are beyond that sort of thing by now?” Argan muttered darkly.

  “Naturally,” Bottando went on, “we kept our ears open nonetheless, using the networks of information that have been built up over the years. The human element of detection which, if I may be so bold, no computer will ever supplant.”

  Argan snorted. “And what did it produce?”

  Bottando sighed as he thought about the comment. Then, not able to say anything which would answer the question adequately, he leant over and picked up a box stationed by his side. Slowly, piece by piece, he took out the contents and handed them around.

  “Thirty-nine Etruscan figurines,” he said, watching carefully as they circulated around the table. “Picked up this morning from underneath the bed of a little old lady in Viterbo.”

  There was a pause at this small piece of theatre before Argan recovered himself.

  “I hope they will be returned to their rightful owners quickly,” Argan said. “We all know about your tendency to decorate your office with stolen goods.”

  Bottando beamed at him. “They will be, when all the paperwork is done. But I would like to put it on record now that I do rather resent the waste of time this little case involved. I mean, had Dottore Argan’s brother-in-law paid the looters who stole the antiquities from the site for him in the first place, they would not have felt morally justified in
raiding his gallery to get them back. Honour among thieves, you know.”

  Bottando stole a quick glance around the room. A hit, he thought to himself, as he noticed the disapproving stares in Argan’s direction. Argan was not smiling.

  “Told you,” he said in a whisper to Flavia. “Never attack an old lion till you’re sure his teeth are gone.

  “Now, the more important matter of the case called Giotto,” he went on more loudly, brushing aside Flavia as she tapped him on the arm and whispered urgently that she needed a little word with him outside. Not now, Flavia, he thought. I’m enjoying myself.

  “As Dottore Argan has remarked, this was for a long time only a string of vague suppositions on my part. I— my department—followed routine procedure. Unsolved crimes are reviewed at periodic intervals to see if they can be matched with new and apparently unrelated evidence. This process is where, if I may say so, experience comes in once more. To spot the possibility and to interrogate it. To see the shape of a crime. May I point out that, although Dottore Argan had full access to the original file and I understand studied it carefully, he failed to see any possibilities to be exploited.

  “My experience,” he said loftily, “and the practical skill of Signorina di Stefano here, did see those possibilities.”

  For some reason Signorina di Stefano was looking more distraught than proud at this tribute. She did so much wish she could get him to shut up. He’d won. Did he really need to go for total victory?

  He did.

  “What Dottore Argan sneered at, we looked into. What he dismissed immediately as a tissue of nonsense, we followed up and pursued. And what Dottore Argan would have consigned to the wastepaper basket, we brought to a conclusion which, I do not mind saying, I am happy to count as the most considerable of my career. If my running of the department is to be judged, then I am more than content that it should be on this case.”

  This bold statement produced a nice effect; it is, after all, quite rare in the world of bureaucracy that people go so far out on a limb with such unconditional claims. Flavia, still nervous, examined the top of the table, and fiddled with her pen.