‘Tonight?’ Stephen called, but Elisabetta had disappeared out the door.
As instructed, he phoned the contact at the Vatican Museums, who was angry at having to wait for Elisabetta to get there.
‘Why can’t it wait until tomorrow?’ he had asked.
‘Because it’s urgent police business,’ Stephen had replied, which had shut the man up. As he waited for Pasquale, Stephen felt his head spinning.
The security guard on the desk glanced up as a woman hurried through the staff entrance to the Vatican Museums, flashing her carabinieri badge at him. He looked at his watch. It was past 6.00 p.m.
‘I can’t stay here all night,’ he said, crossly.
‘Ten minutes is all I’ll need. Come with me if you want to make sure I’m out of here on time,’ Elisabetta said.
‘I wasn’t going to let you loose in there on your own.’ Elisabetta started to say something but he cut her off, speaking into his walkie-talkie. ‘Staff entrance, now.’ A second guard appeared. The first guard turned to Elisabetta. ’Let’s go.’
Their footsteps echoed as they walked through the deserted galleries.
When they reached the room with ancient Greek pottery on display, the security guard sat down on a bench seat in the middle of the gallery and started playing with his phone.
The krater was on a raised plinth in the centre of the room inside a glass case. Elisabetta photographed it from every angle, concentrating on the broken pieces of pottery and how they had been fused together.
The second security guard was monitoring the CCTV from the staff desk. He pulled out his burner phone from his pocket and made a call. ‘We’ve got an art cop in here.’
‘What does he want?’ The male voice on the other end of the phone sounded irritated.
‘She’s only interested in one thing. The big pot in the glass case in room 10. Sending you a photo now.’ The guard zoomed in on Elisabetta’s face, took a still photo of the monitor and pressed send.
It was gone seven and Stephen was surviving on adrenaline. There was a knock and Pasquale popped his head around the door. His lank hair and John Lennon glasses reminded Stephen of a student rather than a police officer.
‘We’re ordering in. Want something?’ He passed the menu over.
On the go since early morning, Stephen had managed to down numerous coffees with a few biscotti, but still hadn’t eaten anything substantial. ‘I’m starving. What’s good?’
‘They do a great pizza with potato and fontina cheese.’
‘I’ll try that. And thanks for blowing up the photo.’
‘Any luck?’
‘The man he’s with is wearing a suit and a tie. And if you look here, he’s wearing a distinct tie pin.’
Pasquale peered at it.
‘You can't see much of his face, just a reflection. I’ll try the Europol database to see if they can get anything from it. If Tie Pin Man has been arrested or has a criminal record there’ll be a mugshot. You never know.’
‘Thanks,’ Stephen said. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘I’ll give you a shout when the food arrives.’
Stephen had gone as far as he could on this one tonight. He’d see if Elisabetta could throw any light on it tomorrow.
‘What else have you got?’ Stephen asked.
‘The messages and call log on Sanzio’s mobile. Here, listen to this.’ Pasquale pressed the message button in the local memory.
‘We’re down here doing your dirty work, Tony, and we want our money. Don't give us any of your usual bullshit.’ Stephen struggled to understand the accent.
‘That was left half an hour before the crash. If I can track the caller, we’ll know where Sanzio was headed that day,’ Pasquale said.
‘You recognise the accent?’
‘Naples.’
‘Thanks Pasquale. Keep working on it.’
‘I’ll let you know,’ Pasquale said with a shrug. If he read his body language right, Stephen wasn’t high on his new colleague’s list of priorities. He’d have to earn his respect first.
He turned his attention to the police report of the fatal car accident. As he typed in the name Antonio Sanzio on the police database it brought up a string of convictions. There were bent cops, and there was Sanzio. From extortion to racketeering, he was in on it.
Stephen skimmed through the notes from the accident report:
“At 2.54 p.m. a grey Peugeot estate, heading in a southerly direction on the Rome to Naples autostrada just south of Monte Cassino hit the crash barrier. Traffic medium to heavy. No adverse road or weather conditions. Sole occupant of car pronounced dead at the scene. The attending officer noted the victim was so heavy it took four people to lift him onto the stretcher. The post-mortem and the vehicle test results will be available in 24 hours.”
He was interrupted by an incoming text from Elisabetta.
Back-up for Sanzio search sorted. Go and get settled in to your apartment. Take the morning off to buy whatever you need. I’ll see you after lunch.
Stephen grabbed the stack of papers Elisabetta had left him and his bags from reception and fell into the waiting taxi, exhausted.
Chapter 4
As he turned the key to his apartment, Stephen’s heart sank. It wasn’t so much the size—he’d expected it to be small, and at least this had a bedroom separate from the kitchen and living room. But it was the corporate beige carpet and walls that made him glum. This was never going to be home. He wished now he’d been bolder with Reynolds. Why didn’t he just come out with it and tell her he’d consider redundancy for the right offer? Her opinion of him couldn’t get much lower.
The next morning Stephen got up early and went for a run in the Borghese gardens. He grabbed a coffee and pastry on the way back and to kill time until Ikea opened, he took a walk to the nearest supermarket. Elisabetta had given him the morning off to settle in, but the truth was the less time he spent in his apartment the better. It just brought it home how alone he felt. Done by midday, he headed into the office.
He was due to meet Elisabetta in an hour and a half. She’d asked him to research upcoming antiquities auctions. Ginny planned her diary round them. And if the auction was on a Friday, would tack on a weekend away. Last year they’d gone to Liechtenstein. Another time it had been Brussels. Antiquities was a specialist area and there weren’t many auction houses left that dealt in them. He had no luck with Sotheby’s and Christie’s. As he searched Denham’s website, he couldn’t help but feel like it was an act of treachery.
The following Tuesday, Stephen walked alongside Elisabetta towards the departure gate.
‘What brought you to Italy?’ Stephen ventured. He hoped it didn’t sound like he was prying.
‘One parent wanted sun and surf. The other wanted pasta and ruins. I got caught in the middle,’ she shrugged, turning away from him to glance over her shoulder, abruptly ending the small talk.
‘We keep our suspicions about the Vatican krater between ourselves, right?’
What did she think he was going to do? Talk to his new colleagues about a hunch they had, with nothing for evidence except photographs?
‘Of course. We have to prove it first. No mean feat.’
‘Precisely.’ Elisabetta’s smile was open, even warm. They broke off their conversation when the boarding call was announced and they made their way to the plane. Once they’d sat down, Stephen glanced at the empty seat beside them, before pulling out an envelope and passing it to Elisabetta. It contained the enlarged photo of Sanzio and the reflection of the unidentified man he was with.
‘What do you think about that tie pin?’
‘Hard to say. He’s a member of an exclusive regiment or some religious order?’
Elisabetta looked as worn out as Stephen felt. She pulled out an eye mask and shrank down into her seat, leaving Stephen to read the notes he’d made ahead of the auction.
Once he’d found out that Denham’s in Geneva were offering ancient Greek vases for sale, he’d
worked quickly. The expensively produced auction catalogue showed off some remarkable pieces. He couldn’t even detect where the joins were in the pots. There were beautifully drawn figures around the base, depicting scenes from Greek mythology. But what had struck him most was their remarkable similarity to the restored vases in Antonio Sanzio’s amateur-looking photos.
When he’d told Elisabetta that the items were being sold by a company registered in the Cayman Islands, she’d mentioned that one of the reasons he’d been hired was to help them unravel these sorts of complex financial connections.
Either she’d been misinformed about his experience, or Reynolds had talked him up to the Italians. What they seemed to need was a forensic accountant and he certainly wasn’t that.
When they touched down at Geneva, Stephen still had his briefing notes on his lap, as well as the auction catalogue with the Denham’s logo. He was glad Elisabetta still had her eye mask on and couldn’t see his reaction, if the turmoil he felt inside was reflected on his face. He couldn’t help but associate the city with Ginny. He tried and failed to push away the memories of the birthday weekend they’d spent there last summer.
As they were taxiing, Elisabetta pulled off her mask and turned to him. ‘These are for you,’ she said, handing him a clutch of business cards.
His cover was Stephen Walsh, relationship manager for a boutique art insurer.
‘Sounds suitably vague,’ Stephen said.
‘No-one’s going to ask for a quote. But if they do, we’ve got it covered. Here’s your phone,’ she continued in a low voice. ‘There’s a messaging service should anyone call the company.’
Pulling up to the gate, Stephen switched his own mobile on. No message from Ginny, then. But Pasquale had sent a text:
The voicemail on Sanzio’s phone was left by a Geppo Corri, a small-time thief and petty criminal.
Stephen texted back: Can we track him?
I’ll see what I can do. No luck with a match for Tie Pin Man’s face by the way.
It would have been a stroke of luck if the technology had been able to identify the mystery man so early in the case, he thought as he shoved his phone back into his pocket. As they walked down the concourse he glanced back at the other passengers. A mixture of business types and tourists, he guessed from their attire. He noticed a middle-aged man, phone glued to his ear in one hand, dark blue overcoat slung over his other arm. The man glanced at Elisabetta. Stephen wondered if they knew each other.
As they walked up the elegant steps to the auction house, Stephen was overawed by the plush surroundings. He tried to push aside the feeling that he was a gauche outsider pretending to be at ease. This was Ginny’s world, not his. There would be people here who she would know, if not in person then by reputation.
Elisabetta, catalogue in hand, turned to Stephen. ‘The two lots we’re interested in are quite far down the list but we can view them first. I’ll meet you at the Greek pottery at quarter past, down on the next floor. You might want to check out the bronze figurines first while I look at the other artefacts.’ Stephen nodded. Elisabetta pointed to the items of interest, which she had circled in the catalogue. He remembered seeing similar figures in Sanzio’s photos.
Stephen studied his floor-plan. The place was packed. He could barely make his way through the crowd. Now that he was standing cheek-by-jowl he was able to get the measure of who was here: men in well-cut suits with expensive watches, accompanied by toned and tanned women, talking excitedly in a dozen languages. One or two stopped to admire the artworks, but many in the crowd who were milling around appeared to be art tourists, whiling away a couple of hours.
Moving along the exhibits, Stephen spotted Elisabetta’s admirer, still hanging on to his coat. Why hadn’t he checked it in? It was hot in the room. The space was so tightly packed it was hard to see, but it looked like he was quietly observing an older man, who looked as out of place among the moneyed types and the flunkeys as Stephen felt. He was early-seventies, he guessed, with a few strands of auburn left in his grey hair. He was understated, dressed in what looked like an ensemble from a smart department store: chinos, a sweater, and a jacket but no tie. On closer inspection Stephen saw that he was discreetly holding what looked like an asthma inhaler.
It was difficult to tell from this angle, whether they were being watched, but as the catalogue the scholarly looking man was perusing was in English, he decided to take his chance.
‘Are they bronze, the little figures there?’
The man turned to him, his face lighting up.
‘Yes, I believe they are.’ It was from the way he ran the “they” and the “are” together so it sounded to the untrained ear that he was saying a soft “d” where the “th” should be, that Stephen guessed West Cork. It was faint but still audible, despite being overlaid by a strong accent from the east coast of the United States. Stephen shook the man’s hand.
‘Stephen Walsh.’
‘Michael McCarthy.’
‘You can take the boy out of Cork…’ Stephen said.
‘But yours is a sophisticated city accent, whereas mine, well, it comes from the countryside, let’s put it like that.’
‘I’d recognise it anywhere,’ Stephen said.
‘When I’ve spent the best part of thirty years trying to lose it?’
‘It follows you round, doesn’t it?’ Both of them nodded. Stephen seized his chance. ‘Are you here to bid?’
‘Alas, my interest is purely academic. I’ve done a few art history courses, but I’m very much an amateur collector. Now and again I get lucky at car boot sales and markets. I love these little pieces. The Greeks used them as offerings. To thank the gods for granting them a wish.’
’What kind of a wish?’ Stephen said, trying his best to keep the conversation going.
‘The pragmatic kind. Healing a sick relative, that sort of thing. And you, do you have a particular interest?’
‘I’ve just started a new job. I’m trying to learn as much as I can before anyone finds out that I know so little.’ Stephen pulled out his business card. ‘You live locally?’ Stephen said.
‘No, Rome.’ Maybe he had time on his hands? Stephen tried not to look too curious, but that hadn’t worked.
‘I come to auctions for the chance to see rare works of art.’ McCarthy examined Stephen’s business card. ‘The burden of having a modest collection like mine is that it’s rarely worth insuring. Still, I know where you are,’ he said, before putting the card away in his pocket and fishing out his own.
Elisabetta had been astute in choosing his cover. Insurance wasn’t exactly a conversation starter.
Stephen turned his attention instead to McCarthy’s card. He’d guessed retired academic. But his title—Monsignor as well as the address in Rome made sense to him now. He struggled to remember the ecclesiastical hierarchy from his distant Catholic past. Monsignor was only one down from a cardinal. And a cardinal was a Prince of the Catholic Church, nominated by the Pope.
Without missing a beat, Stephen said, ‘I’ve recently relocated. It’s vast, Rome, isn’t it?’
‘I still get lost.’
‘Once I’ve done my crash course in the art history sites, I’ll be able to show you round,’ Stephen joked.
‘Interested in classical or Renaissance?’ McCarthy said.
‘Both.’
‘Then we must meet.’
Was Stephen meant to reply that he would like that, but then never follow through? He didn’t know anyone in Rome. What was the harm? And the man must have known something about art, more perhaps than he was letting on, if he was prepared to travel all the way from Rome to Geneva to attend an auction, when there was enough art on public display in Italy to satisfy the most ardent art enthusiast. What was it, he wondered that attracted someone to rare and beautiful objects that would most likely end up locked away in some rich person’s private collection?
‘And I can buy you lunch so that you can show me where to eat,’ Stephen said.
‘As long as you aren’t expecting gourmet food.’ McCarthy’s response had been warm enough.
‘Good, I’ll call you.’ Stephen’s phone vibrated in his pocket and he excused himself.
It was a text from Elisabetta:
They just announced our lots have been withdrawn. I had my suspicions—they weren’t on display.
Time to get out of here. Stephen texted back: I’ll be out the front.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and walked casually over to the Greek pottery. Elisabetta had been right. Instead of the advertised pots, there were two empty glass cases, photographs and a note where the items were meant to be. He stopped to look at the photos. In the reflection, there was a flash of dark blue—a raincoat slung over an arm. Him again. The way the man swept past him reminded Stephen of the time he’d gone to Fortnum & Mason looking scruffy, to buy Ginny a present and he’d been followed by a store detective.
He turned away to look at another display case containing pots. They were decorated with what looked like the letters from the Greek alphabet, a similar form and shape to the letters in the photograph of the tie-pin. He got out his phone and took a couple of photos before heading off to meet up with Elisabetta.
‘What happened?’
‘A delivery problem is all they would say.’
‘Someone’s keeping tabs on us. I just saw the same guy who was sitting two seats back from us on the plane.’
‘People have flown from all over Europe to come to this,’ Elisabetta said, shutting him down. Just then her phone rang. She pulled a face, and answered it, holding the phone close to her ear. When she finished her call she hailed the first available taxi. Stephen had to sprint to catch up with her.
‘That was the boss. He’s not happy,’ she explained as they jumped into the taxi. ‘He wants to see us. To the airport please, driver.’
Nighthawks Page 3
