Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It would be cleverer to come back, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I’m not involved,’ insisted Charlie. Would the policeman already have made an identity check through the Interpol communications link? Charlie felt the sweat prick out on his back.

  ‘Convince me,’ said Moro.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Tell me how a security system as impregnable as this was so easily breached.’

  ‘I would have thought that was obvious.’

  ‘Perhaps it isn’t to me.’

  ‘It can’t possibly be an outside job,’ said Charlie. ‘There has to be inside knowledge of the alarms and the position of the safe.’

  ‘Which you knew.’

  ‘So did at least six other people, apart from the staff.’

  ‘Hardly impregnable, was it?’ said Moro.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Which could be expensive for you, either way.’

  ‘Either way?’

  ‘If you’ve got to pay out as a genuine insurer. Or if you’re involved. Because there’s no way you’re going to get out of Italy.’

  The nausea swept through Charlie, so that he actually belched. He hadn’t expected the confrontation to be easy, but he hadn’t expected this sort of hostility either.

  Moro made a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘I haven’t investigated a crime for a long time,’ he said. ‘Not even a crime of this size.’

  ‘So what are you doing here?’

  ‘My job!’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Diplomatic protection.’

  Which accounted for the perfect English, thought Charlie. ‘What’s diplomatic about this?’

  ‘By tomorrow the newspapers here and abroad will be saying we can’t protect foreign politicians and diplomats, any more than the government can do anything effective to stamp out terrorism. Our subversive groups are quick to see a trend. We can’t take the risk, with the Summit.’

  ‘What Summit?’ said Charlie. Uncertainty was piling upon uncertainty.

  ‘In two weeks’ time Italy is hosting a Common Market and NATO Summit,’ said Moro.

  The department wouldn’t be directly involved, calculated Charlie. But there would be a watching brief, with all the protection intelligence channelled for routine information. And that would extend to photographs. Charlie thrust his hands deeply into his pockets, clenching his fists until his fingers hurt, to stop the nervous shaking.

  ‘I understand your problem,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not sure that you do.’

  Supercilious bastard, thought Charlie. ‘I’m sure you’ll explain it,’ he said.

  The mockery got through to the Italian, his lip tightening against his teeth. ‘My orders from the Prime Minister’s office are to stop the trend, before it begins,’ he said. ‘And that means an arrest. So I’m going to get one.’

  ‘Which should save my company a lot of money.’

  ‘I’m not interested in saving your money.’

  ‘What are you interested in?’

  ‘Catching who did it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You want to recover what was stolen, to minimize your liability.’

  ‘Isn’t that the same?’

  ‘Don’t be smart,’ said Moro. ‘I know how these robberies are usually settled with insurance companies. Some black-car meeting in an alley with a ransom exchange. But that isn’t going to happen here. If there’s any contact for a percentage settlement I want to know about it. I want to know the time it’s made, when the meeting is arranged and I don’t care how much of the jewellery is lost in the process.’

  Bollocks, thought Charlie.

  ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘You speak the language well enough,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Try it any other way and there’ll still be an arrest. It’ll be yours, for impeding inquiries. And, if I find you’ve paid over any money, the charge will be complicity to rob.’

  ‘Loud and clear,’ said Charlie.

  Moro smiled unexpectedly. It had the effect of puddling the fat on his cheeks. ‘I’m not intending it to be one-sided,’ said the detective, as a sudden concession. ‘For cooperation from you, there’ll be cooperation from me. I’ll show you the safe first.’

  Moro had an odd rolling gait, as if his weight needed constant balancing, but he moved through the house with an immediate familiarity. There were police on guard outside both bedrooms leading to the dressing area. Moro entered through Billington’s door. There were more men inside, heads bent in the hunt for clues like those in the garden. The bed was unmade and Billington’s pyjamas were draped over a pillow. The examination of the dressing room had been completed and it was empty of forensic scientists. The area around the safe was white from fingerprint powder.

  ‘Absolutely clean,’ said the Italian.

  Charlie raised his eyebrows. Stooping he saw they had even tested the securing bolt at the rear of the sideways-moving pedestal. ‘I’ve never known an installation like this,’ he said.

  ‘Neither have I.’

  ‘So it wouldn’t be an obvious place to look.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about entry?’ said Charlie.

  ‘Downstairs sitting room,’ said Moro.

  There was more fingerprint powder around the French windows and sticky tape acted as hinges on two cleanly cut panes, one near the lock and another low, adjacent to the breaker alarm nipples. There were bypass clips still linking them.

  ‘What about them?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘Two thousand lire in any electrical shop in the city,’ said Moro.

  Wind was gusting in from the sea, dissipating the oppressive midday heat. Moro’s hair lifted in the breeze, tousling untidily around his perspiring face. The two men walked out onto the verandah, and looked out towards the men suspended over the cliff in the window cleaner’s hoist.

  ‘It can’t have been easy,’ said Charlie.

  ‘It wasn’t,’ said Moro. ‘One of them must be quite badly hurt. It happened on the way out, otherwise there would have been bloodstains inside the house. There’s a lot of blood on the metalwork and smeared against the grass on the other side. We’ll be able to get a grouping and at least part if not all of a palm print.’

  ‘It’s a hand injury?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Moro. He pointed to one of the spear-shaped points. ‘We think he caught himself, trying to get around that. Clothes were torn, too. We’ve got a lot of fibres for comparison.’

  Moro turned away from the forensic examination to look directly at Charlie. ‘What’s your insured value?’

  ‘One and a half million sterling,’ said Charlie.

  Impassive, Moro made an entry into a notebook with a surprisingly small gold pen. The writing was neat and precise. ‘I’m going to limit all the information,’ said Moro. ‘I don’t want you making any press releases.’

  Publicity was the last thing Charlie wanted. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said.

  ‘At the moment you know as much as I do,’ said Moro.

  ‘Which isn’t much,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Remember what I said.’

  ‘How could I forget?’

  ‘You’d better not,’ said Moro.

  Emilio Fantani’s hand had been stitched and then strapped across his body so that the damaged palm was practically upright against his left shoulder. There had been an injection against both the pain and infection but the Italian was still whey-faced, wincing at occasional spasms.

  ‘The police will check hospitals and doctors,’ warned Solomatin. The injury was unforeseen and Solomatin was unsettled by it: the plan had been perfect and now it was flawed.

  ‘The doctor’s a queer,’ said Fantani, tight-lipped in his discomfort. ‘I’ve got photographs that could ruin him.’

  Solomatin felt the anxiety lessen slightly. ‘What about fingerprints?’

  ‘The fingers of the gloves remained intact
,’ said Fantani.

  Solomatin smiled briefly. ‘You did well,’ he said.

  ‘What have you done with it?’

  ‘All safe,’ assured Solomatin. In the deposit box with the other material that was going to switch suspicion. Hiding it in the box hadn’t been part of Kalenin’s plan and Solomatin was uneasy at the improvisation.

  Fantani looked at his bandaged hand. ‘The tendons could be affected,’ he said. ‘The doctor made me try to move my fingers and I couldn’t.’

  ‘Bruising,’ said Solomatin. ‘It’ll be all right.’ The man would be dead before he had the chance.

  ‘You know where the insurance man is?’

  Solomatin nodded. ‘It won’t be long now.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Two days; three at the most.’

  Fantani tried to flex his injured hand. ‘Hurts like hell,’ he said.

  ‘All you have to do is arrange one meeting,’ said Solomatin. ‘I’ll do the rest; I’ll even carry the stuff to the exchange spot.’

  ‘Where?’ demanded Fantani.

  ‘An apartment on the Via Salaria.’

  ‘Apartment?’

  ‘I’m going to move people in,’ said Solomatin. ‘To cover the exchange.’

  Fantani felt reassured by the promise of protection. ‘We’re going to work together now, aren’t we?’ he said, anxious for the commitment.

  ‘Hand in glove,’ smiled the Russian. It was a bad joke, but Fantani smiled.

  In the censored society of Moscow, ambiguous phrases and expressions have evolved to convey happenings which are never officially announced. Criticism on Tass or in Pravda or Isvestia of the failure of a programme or an announced development plan is usually the first hint of a purge against the man in charge. Sometimes, though not often, the victim is named, so as to remove any vestige of doubt. If there isn’t identification in the first instance, it usually comes from the disclosure of some illness or other to account for an absence during any public event. With Boris Kastanazy the procedure was different. His secret position with the KGB prevented any criticism of work failure, so the suggestion of ill health was unexpected and initially confused the Western embassies who monitor and attempt to interpret such statements.

  Valery Kalenin wasn’t confused. He put the newspaper aside and lit one of his tubed cigarettes. The place was vacant on the Politburo. He intended it to be his.

  16

  It was an irrational impression, standing on a clifftop overlooking hundreds of miles of open sea, but Charlie was gripped by a feeling of constriction, of being enclosed. And he was enclosed, as securely as if he had been inside the four walls of a jail. His name would be on file now, the description fed into the computers, ready to be spewed out at the touch of a button. Charlie tried to breathe out against the surge of panic. There’d been moments of danger in the past seven years, but he’d never come under this degree of official scrutiny. Moro had started out treating him as a suspect and Charlie knew the detective wasn’t completely satisfied, despite the apparent willingness to cooperate. It would only need one computer print-out punched into another and the lights would go on like Christmas decorations.

  Charlie walked back through the cypress grove, the sickness bunched in his stomach. ‘Shit!’ he said vehemently. ‘Shit!’

  The search squads had worked up through the gardens and were milling around in the driveway with nothing to do. Some lounged against cars and others squatted at the grass edge, smoking and talking. A police vehicle had been driven in behind his car and the radio was on like those near the gate lodge, so the stutter of conversation was overlaid by bursts of static-strained talk between controllers and radio operators. Robbery or no robbery, Charlie didn’t think it would take long for the ambassador to become annoyed at his property being trampled over by half the police feet in Italy.

  Charlie entered through the side door. Police crowded the corridor, using the fish-mouthed fountain as a gathering point. Lady Billington was at the foot of the staircase, looking around her in bemusement at the activity. Her face relaxed when she recognized Charlie. ‘Would you believe all these people!’

  She was carrying one of the cats and Charlie got the impression it arched its back towards him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Charlie.

  ‘They’re not with you, are they?’

  ‘I meant about the robbery.’

  She put her head to one side. ‘I wondered what it would be like not having them, didn’t I?’ she said. ‘Now I know.’

  ‘What’s it feel like?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Actually it’s you I feel sorry for; you’ve got to pay.’

  One way or another, thought Charlie. He said, ‘What happened exactly?’

  ‘I was dressing when Hector came in to put away last night’s jewellery. He opened the safe and said, “Oh my God!” Every case we opened was empty.’

  ‘You heard nothing during the night?’

  ‘Not a thing.’ She shuddered. ‘Don’t like the idea of some awful man going through my things. They will be caught, won’t they?’

  ‘The police seem very determined.’

  ‘You thought the security was adequate.’

  ‘Everyone did.’

  ‘Hector’s dreadfully upset.’

  ‘He’s waiting for me now,’ said Charlie, excusing himself.

  There was someone else in Billington’s study.

  ‘Wanted to talk your idea through with Henry Walsingham,’ said Billington. ‘Security.’

  Momentarily Charlie was shielded by the ambassador. It lasted seconds but there was a bizarre, slow-motion surrealism about Walsingham’s approach. Charlie was confronted by a pale-faced man, with blond, near-white hair, a matching, drooped moustache and a stridently checked three-piece suit. Walsingham shook hands with a stiff, hinge-in-the-neck sort of movement that reminded Charlie of the national service subalterns who’d made him scrub coalhouses with a toothbrush. A stranger, decided Charlie, relieved: he was sure they’d never met before. But his stomach was still moving, loose-bowelled.

  ‘The more I think about it, the unhappier I become,’ declared Billington, returning to his desk after the formalities were over.

  ‘A sell-back was Inspector Moro’s first thought,’ said Charlie, taking the chair to the left of the desk. Walsingham sat in front, back upright, one leg crossed over the other. The trouser creases were sharp-edged and the brogues glimmered. Charlie recognized a hot-spoon job.

  ‘Is he happy about it?’ said the ambassador.

  ‘Hardly,’ said Charlie. ‘But he didn’t oppose it.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘He knows it’s the most likely way the thieves will choose and wants us to work together.’ An idea began to form in Charlie’s mind; it had a conceited desperation about it, but it was feasible.

  ‘Are there any clues?’ The security man had a thin, weak voice.

  ‘A lot on the cliff,’ said Charlie. ‘One of them was injured getting around the metal protection. There’s sufficient blood for grouping. There are some clothes fibres, trapped on the spikes and at least one palm print.’

  ‘I think we can leave it to the police,’ said Billington.

  ‘The police want me to negotiate,’ said Charlie. ‘They’ve got enough for a conviction, not an arrest. That will come from the insurance arrangement.’

  ‘It would be unseemly for an ambassador of the Crown to deal with thugs.’ Billington retreated to his basic objection.

  ‘You don’t have to be involved,’ repeated Charlie. ‘All you have to do is wait for the contact. And tell me.’ As quickly as possible, so I can get the hell out of it.

  ‘You will liaise with the police?’

  ‘I’ve given Inspector Moro that undertaking.’ That was an exaggeration too, but Billington was on the hook again and this time Charlie couldn’t afford to lose him.

  ‘What do you think?’ the ambassador asked Walsingham.

  ‘I think official approval from th
e police is essential,’ the man replied guardedly.

  ‘Which I have,’ said Charlie. There wasn’t any point in buggering about with half-truths any more. Speed was what mattered.

  ‘Then I suppose it would be all right.’ Walsingham was still doubtful.

  ‘I’ll pass on any initial contact,’ agreed Billington suddenly. ‘But that’s all.’

  ‘That’s all I want.’

  ‘From that moment I don’t want any part of what follows. You’ll liaise entirely through Walsingham here. And, if there’s a return or whatever, you’re to handle it; nothing more to do with me.’

  Typical bloody commander, thought Charlie, back at base camp out of the firing while everyone else gets their asses shot off. Beside him Walsingham uncrossed his legs and placed his bright shoes at attention. ‘What would you want me to do?’ he said to Charlie.

  And you’re the sort of silly sod who marches off to the front whistling ‘Colonel Bogey’, thought Charlie; he decided the man’s moustache would make soup hazardous. ‘Contact numbers would be useful,’ he said.

  The security man took a worn leather wallet from inside his jacket and Charlie half saw a faded regimental crest. Walsingham handed him a card with his private number as well as an embassy telephone listing.

  ‘Is that all?’ Walsingham was clearly disappointed.

  ‘Until there is any approach, there can’t be anything else, can there?’ said Charlie. Through the perpetual apprehension came the feeling of satisfaction he always got at winning.

  ‘I don’t want this to become embarrassing,’ insisted Billington.

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Charlie. All Billington had to lose was one and a half million pounds’ worth of shiny stones. Charlie had much more.

  There was a Lancia interchanging with a Fiat behind him on the return drive from Ostia. It would be the police, Charlie knew. It would be wrong to overreact to Moro. If he let his nerves respond to every development like a bell-striker on a fairground ring-your-strength machine, he was going to create precisely the suspicion he was attempting to avoid. He was at the sharp end of a difficult situation. But he’d been in worse and got out….

  Clarissa wasn’t at the hotel when he returned and Charlie was relieved. She was another problem that had to be solved. When he was working, properly working, Charlie didn’t like distractions. The robbery could be the excuse he had been looking for in bed that morning.