by Iain Pears
Flavia sniffed.
"In some ways, meeting Balesto changed my life, in a small way. He was a good man. Brave in his soul. Do you know what I mean?”
"I think so.”
"Unlike me, he believed in justice, and was determined to live up to it, however foolish it was. He took great risks, and they destroyed him for it. Even seeing me was brave; several magistrates had been killed already, and he knew, I think, that he would win no friends in high places by what he was doing.
"He was a very unheroic figure. Short and fat, but he had a sense of himself. A clarity about what he was doing. He was an honest man. I'd never met one before. Have you?”
Flavia nodded. "Maybe one. I used to work for him. As you say, they are rare creatures.”
"Anyway, I told him everything, and he nodded and said that he knew most of it already.”
"How?”
"He didn't say. Just that it was in his report. Which was almost finished. A week or so later, he was arrested, disgraced, and his papers confiscated.”
"So you can't prove any of this.”
"Yes. I can. That's the whole point. After Balesto died, Maurizio got a package from him, and in it was a letter, posted by Balesto's lawyer. The letter said that he had done nothing since his arrest, as he was frightened for his family should he speak out. There had been clear threats, which he knew were serious. All his papers had been confiscated when he was arrested, but he had taken the precaution of making and hiding a copy of his investigation and the proof he would need.”
"What proof?”
"I don't know. The letter finished by saying that he didn't dare do anything with it himself but, since he knew he was about to die, there was nothing now to lose. If Maurizio wanted the report, he could have it.”
"What did it say?”
"I didn't see it. All I saw was the letter; Maurizio came and showed it to me.”
"Why?”
"Just to prepare me. He said he was going to have his revenge and he wanted me to have some sleepless nights.”
"All this was just to punish you?" Flavia asked incredulously.
"To punish everybody. I was just a minor detail. Anyway, then he vanished. I tried to contact him, but he never answered the phone or returned calls. He just went to earth, and the next I heard was that he was dead. I don't even know if he managed to get the proof.”
"It didn't come with the report from the lawyer?”
"No. Balesto said he'd left it long ago with a man called Bottando, who was the one person in the world he knew he could trust to look after it. What's the matter? Have you heard of him?”
Flavia nodded. There wasn't much point in being surprised at anything anymore.
"He's my boss. Was, anyway. Go on. What do you mean? That you were just a minor detail?”
Elena looked scornful. "Don't you realize? Don't you know what this is about?”
"It seems not.”
"You don't realize that the man who ordered Maria shot was Antonio Sabauda? The man who is now the prime minister? That what Maurizio was going to do was bring down the government?”
Flavia sucked in her breath and stared at her. She had not, in fact, realized that this was what Elena was leading up to. "But you don't know that. You didn't see the report,"
she protested. She was willing to believe many things of politicians. This was going too far.
"Oh, come on," Elena said angrily. "Sabauda got his big break being tough on terrorists and for his handling of the Di Lanna kidnapping case. He blamed the weak laws, the refusal of parliament to give him stronger powers, and he got everything he wanted. He got the patronage of the Di Lanna family in gratitude for his efforts, and that saw him through all the crises of the next couple of decades. He was also in charge of the security services at the time. Maria's death and the quiet, forceful way Sabauda handled it made his career. He was waiting for something like that to happen, and when it didn't, he made it happen. Dammit, she was taken away by the security services. And the next day she was found dead. Who else do you think killed her?”
"Is that what Maurizio thought?”
"Oh yes. And so did I. When I came out of prison, after Balesto was disgraced, I was visited by the security services. And was told that they had read his report, and knew full well of my role in the Di Lanna case. That I should consider myself lucky to be alive, but that I wouldn't be if ever I told anyone about it.”
"So why didn't they kill you? If everybody is as ruthless and murderous as you seem to think?”
She shrugged. "Because you never know when my testimony would come in useful.
Sabauda was the friend of the security services, but what if times changed? What if they wanted to bring him down? Then I'd be useful.”
"You never thought of leaving the country?”
"Of course. But why bother? They'd find me. But now I am going. That report is out there somewhere, and the security services evidently know it. It's time to pack my bags.”
Flavia shook her head. "So what about this picture that Maurizio stole? What was that all about?”
"If this Bottando is your boss, then I think it's fairly obvious. Maurizio wanted a bargaining chip to get this proof. Something to make Bottando give the proof up.
Threatening to burn the picture would have been what he had in mind. The report wasn't enough, however damning it might have been.”
She shook her head. "No," she said. "That doesn't make sense. If he was going to hand the picture back in exchange for the proof, then what about this business he was planning for Friday?”
Elena shrugged. "There I can't help. As I say, I couldn't get hold of him. I'm only guessing. You're on your own now. And so am I. Don't bother trying to find me. You won't.”
18
Argyll may have disliked mobile phones sufficiently to avoid having one himself, but he had fewer scruples about making other people use them. Before he left the cooing turtledoves in their rustic retreat and went back into the village, he borrowed Mary Verney's phone and telephoned Flavia. She, by this time, was also in a bar and also in as much of a reverie as her new teetotal state permitted.
As Argyll knew little of her current paranoid frame of mind, her reluctance to say where she was made him a little irritable. But eventually it dawned on him that, when she said she would meet him in the truffle place, she meant a small restaurant halfway between Florence and Siena where they had spent a blissful few hours a couple of years previously. Why she couldn't have just said so he wasn't entirely certain, nor did he understand why she couldn't have chosen somewhere a little bit closer, but he was, by and large, used to her little ways and drove there as quickly as possible. She said she had important news. He said the same. Each doubted that the other's news could possibly be more important than his or her own.
In the end, when they'd met, begged a table even though the restaurant was closed, and talked for a good hour, Argyll reckoned Flavia was ahead by a length. Being pregnant, watched by the security services, and on the track of evidence that the prime minister of Italy was a murderer were marginally more surprising items, in his opinion, than discovering the lovers' tryst at Mary Verney's Tuscan hideaway, especially as he omitted some of his imaginary extrapolations. At least Argyll could answer one of her questions. Why Bottando?
"When Bottando was in Florence, back in the sixties, this magistrate took a shine to him. Thought he was very able. Wrote letters of commendation. It was in the police report at Buonaterra I told you about. It probably helped his career quite a lot. Bottando owed him. Shall we go and ask?”
"I suppose." She looked out of the window and smiled. "If these people would leave me aone, I think I'd happily forget the whole thing. Do you know, at the moment, I couldn't give two hoots about the prime minister, or long past murders, or whether Claudes disappear or not? Do you know what I want to do?”
"No.”
"I want to paint the apartment. I've been thinking about it all day.”
"What?”
"Extremely. Wouldn't it be better to sort out one or two other things first? Like being able to get back into the apartment safely?”
"Maybe. But I've been working for years without a serious break, and I want to do nothing but water the plants. The shopping. And what I am doing instead is fighting off an attempt to oust me from my job so that I won't be able to do any of these things.”
"So why bother? Why not quit?”
"Are you serious?”
"Of course I am.”
"What would I do? I mean, bringing up baby is one thing, but I wouldn't want to spend my life doing it. Besides, even generous payoffs don't last forever. Then what?”
Argyll considered. The idea of Flavia applying her considerable energies and intelligence to nothing more demanding than finding the most absorbent diapers did frighten him somewhat. "We could set up together. Finding pictures. You know. The stuff you never heard of because people avoid the police. We could have Bottando as a consultant ...”
"And Mary Verney?" she added, a touch sarcastically.
"You must admit she'd be an asset. And charge clients a fortune for a discreet and effective service.”
"Assuming we could find the clients and provide the service.”
"Would that be so difficult?”
"Yes. You don't just run around asking questions and producing pictures out of a hat, you know. Without files, background material, colleagues, you'd never get anywhere.”
"None of those have been much use in this case.”
"This case is an oddity. And don't think that I or Bottando could play on our contacts for long to get official information. The moment you're out, that's it. All I—or Bottando—would be able to get would be crumbs.”
"Just an idea. I was briefly entertaining notions of moving, you see.”
"What do you mean? Why should we move?”
"Babies. Diapers. Do you have any idea how much space these things take up? Our apartment is scarcely big enough for us as it is without trying to add truckloads of brightly colored plastic toys and things.”
"We can't afford a bigger one.”
"Not if we stay in Rome," he said thoughtfully.
"You wouldn't want to leave Rome, would you? Not seriously?" She couldn't have been more astonished if he'd suggested joining the army.
He looked at her sadly. "I don't know," he said mournfully. "Just feeling itchy, I suppose.”
"Shall we go?" she prompted, when she decided the dreamy look had been on his face quite long enough.
"Where?”
"To go and ask Bottando about all this.”
"Eh? Oh, that. Yes. I suppose.”
"You haven't said anything about my news.”
"No. I'm still in shock.”
"Are you pleased? Or not?”
"I'm pleased," he said carefully, then threw caution to the winds. "I'm delighted," he added. "Absolutely delighted. I'm so pleased that ...”
"All right, all right," she said quickly. She wasn't used to him getting emotional and it made her feel slightly uncomfortable. "Don't get carried away. I was just checking.
Come on.”
So back they went again. A quiet journey. Flavia was half asleep, and Argyll was busy thinking about the implications of what Flavia called her news. He would, no doubt, get the hang of it eventually, but it was a bit of a shock.
Sensible people would, no doubt, have gone straight to sleep the moment they arrived and begun business the next morning, but only Flavia felt tired and she was determined to stay awake as long as possible. So Mary Verney lit the lamps on the terrace, got out the bottles of water for Flavia and the grappa for everyone else, and they all sat around in the quiet night air, talking softly.
Flavia began, listing her trials, tribulations, and her news. For some reason, the news took pride of place; the trials and tribulations seemed minor in comparison. Then she got down to the serious business.
And it was all so terribly simple. Once she'd finished, Bottando smiled.
"Well done." I should have guessed you'd figure it all out. Stupid of me not to tell you beforehand, really.”
"Why didn't you? I find it all a little hurtful.”
"I didn't for the same reason most people being blackmailed keep quiet. Sabbatini made it clear that if there was any outside involvement he'd burn the picture. I read the file on him, and decided he was quite loopy enough to do it. So I thought I'd play safe until I got it back.”
"So? What happened?”
"About twenty minutes after you came to tell me about your meeting with the prime minister, I got a phone call from Sabbatini. Saying he wanted this piece of paper the magistrate Balesto had given me, and would swap the picture for it. No deals, negotiations, concessions. Simple as that. Or else.
"I was astonished. I hadn't even thought about it for nearly twenty years. After all, this investigation of Balesto's was more or less unofficial; he never told me he was working on it. All I knew was that he asked me to look after an envelope for him. He was an old friend by then. He'd been good to me when I was young and we kept up contact; I went to see him every time I went to Florence, and he came to see me when he came to Rome. It was only about once a year, sometimes even less.
"When he handed it over, he didn't tell me what was in it, nor did I ask. I just put it in a file, and forgot about it. And if that sounds strange, it wasn't; he was a friend, and I was happy to do him a service without any quibbles or curiosity. It could have been anything, a copy of his will, for all I knew.
"I never saw him again, although I tried to. When he was bounced out of the magistracy I wrote to him expressing my sympathies, and saying that I didn't believe a word of the complaints against him, but got no reply. I even went to his house once, but was turned away. He went into private practice and spent the rest of his life defending petty criminals and speeding drivers. He saw no one, dropped all his friends, including me. I was very hurt by it, but eventually I gave up. If he didn't want to see me, there was not much I could do about it.”
"His letter to Sabbatini suggested his family had been threatened.”
"Really? Maybe so. Perhaps he wasn't prepared even to risk being seen with me.
Whatever, I forgot about his envelope and would never have remembered it if that idiot Sabbatini hadn't started threatening me. In the circumstances, I couldn't really do much except agree to what he wanted. I opened the envelope, of course; but it meant nothing to me. It was a bank statement.”
"Whose?”
"I have no idea. An anonymous account in Belgium, detailing payments to another in Milan. Just numbers, no names. Quite a lot of money, especially for 1981. Five payments of twenty-five thousand dollars, between June and September. As I say, it meant nothing to me, and I didn't know why Sabbatini wanted it. But if that was the price of a Claude, so be it. I photocopied it and went to the agreed meeting place on a country lane about twenty miles south of Rome. I was to stop in a lay-by and wait outside the car, and he would come along later.
"Sabbatini, of course, tried to be clever about it. He arrived in a white van, stopped, and opened the door to let me see the picture inside. I showed him the bank statement, and the look of triumph on his face suggested it was just what he was expecting and what he wanted. When I asked what it was all about, he pulled a gun on me, and said I would find out on Friday. Then he drove off with the envelope, the picture, and the keys to my car.”
Flavia nodded. "Fine, if embarrassing. But . . .”
"I was a little annoyed, as you can imagine," Bottando went on gravely. "Not least because I was faced with the possibility of having to come to you and confess how stupid I'd been. So before I did, I thought I'd see if I could repair the damage. I hardly expected to find him in his flat or his studio, of course, but thoroughness and a lack of anywhere else to look meant I had to start there. When I got to his apartment, the lights were on, so I waited outside for nearly four hours. And in the end, it wasn't Sabbatini
at all who came out, but a short fat little man carrying a bundle under his arm who got into a black Alfa Romeo and was driven off. The dark hand of the state, I thought, so I decided that things were probably back under control. My panic subsided a little and I went to his studio.
"Not there either. I knew he was supposedly doing an exhibition so I went as a last resort to the gallery where he was showing, or performing, or whatever he called it.
Back door was open, and there he was in the vat of plaster, which wasn't set. He was perfectly dead. Now, if you think about it, is it likely that someone who had just pulled off a stunt like that would go back and start rehearsing some damn fool art thing? My suspicion was that the people in the apartment and his presence in the tub were connected, and that he'd been pushed under and held there until he drowned.
"I talked it over with Mary—I would have talked it over with you by that stage, my dear, but I thought that the less you knew the better—and decided that it might be best to keep well out of it. I wasn't joking when I said I wanted nothing to jeopardize my retirement, and this was nasty. Then the whole business of the ransom demand began.
I didn't understand it—still don't, in fact— but at least it was simple. I was merely concerned that you should not be there at the handover. It was potentially very dangerous indeed, so I bullied you into staying in the car. If anyone was going to get shot because I was stupid, then it really would better be me. The rest was as you imagine, except that the person who collected the money didn't really resemble Sabbatini. But don't ask me what he did look like, as I didn't see him very well.”
Flavia digested all of this, although what was at the forefront of her mind really was the desire for a whiskey and a cigarette. "Not your finest hour," she said dryly after a while.
Bottando looked suitably mortified.
"Elena Fortini thinks that Maria di Lanna was murdered on the orders of Sabauda, and that Maurizio was going after him.”
