Nighthawks

by Lambert Nagle

  Ginny reached around, felt for the briefcase and lifted it carefully. ‘You brought it with you?’

  ‘Safer to have it with me than leaving it at home.’

  ‘You’re the cop.’

  ‘It wouldn’t look good if someone broke into the apartment and stole it. The combination is 4273.’ Out of the corner of his eye, Stephen saw Ginny tap in the numbers on the padlock and pull out the photos. He could see she was studying each one intently.

  ‘Where are they from?’

  Stephen hesitated.

  ‘Okay, I get it, you can’t tell me that. What do you need from me?’

  ‘I could do with knowing how they get from being covered in dirt, some in pieces, to fully restored?’

  ‘I only ever see the end product, so I can’t answer that. What’s your theory?’

  ‘I’m not an expert, like you or Elisabetta. And she’s a stickler. She’d be furious if she found out I’d shown you them.’ Why oh why had he said something so tactless? He braced himself for Ginny’s retort.

  ‘I guess I would be too if I were in her position.’

  ‘Thought you’d like to meet her. You might hit it off. She’s coming round later this afternoon.’

  Stephen had parked up, and they were walking into Ristorante Pagnanelli.

  ‘If that’s what you’d like to do, that’s fine.’

  Why did she turn the words round like that? He was getting tetchy and could hear the sarcasm in his voice.

  ‘I would like to do that, yes.’

  Stephen picked up his menu and hid behind it. Ginny did the same. As soon as they ordered, Ginny excused herself. She seemed to take ages, and when she did return, she seemed flustered. As she slipped back into her seat, she barely glanced at the lake and instead fixed him with her eyes, those beautiful green eyes that had made Stephen’s heart melt when they’d first met.

  ‘That thing I wanted to tell you,’ Ginny said.

  You’re not good enough. I’ve found someone else.

  ‘I’ve been headhunted. For a new gallery.’

  Stephen felt an overwhelming sense of relief. If it was ambition that was coming between them, he could take it. He wished he could find the words to articulate that.

  ‘It’s an opportunity that happens once in a lifetime. If you’re lucky.’

  ‘Where will you be based?’ It had sounded like a lame question.

  ‘I know I gave you a hard time about coming here.’

  At least she admitted it.

  She looked towards the lake as she said this. Why couldn’t she look at him while she was saying her piece?

  ‘And I’m going to sound like a complete hypocrite.’

  Stephen braced himself for what was coming next.

  She looked away and started fiddling with her napkin.

  ‘The suspense is killing me,’ Stephen blurted out.

  ‘Denver. Before you say anything, I know. It sounds like a million miles away. But at least it’s not West Coast. I’ll be travelling most of the time so we’ll get to see each other.’

  Stephen knew he should be supportive, tell her what she needed to hear, yet deep down, all he wanted to ask was what about you and me?

  ‘They won’t ask again.’

  No, he didn’t expect they would. He watched her body language as she talked. He could tell by the way she was leaning forward that she was drunk on flattery and living on adrenaline. He put himself in her place. And yes, he couldn’t help but feel a tad envious. His boss at the Met couldn’t wait to get rid of him.

  ‘What will you be doing?’

  ‘Head of Acquisitions. They’ve got a massive budget and an ambitious director who told me that if there’s anything out there I want to buy for the gallery I should pursue it. And he’ll do everything in his powers to make it happen.’

  ‘You’ve had the interview?’

  Ginny did have the grace to blush.

  ‘Not exactly. We met informally in London, where he sounded me out. Asked me if I was interested. I said I needed to talk it through.’

  So that was the real reason she’d chosen this weekend. She was working to a deadline—to ask for his blessing, not his advice.

  ‘Of course, you must go for it. I won’t stand in your way. We can put our plans on hold. It’s not like we’ve sent out the invitations yet.’ The bit about the invitations was true. Everything else he’d told her was just to make her feel better.

  ‘I hoped you’d say that. I’ve already given the venue the heads-up. They came back to say two other couples wanted the same date. And we can have the deposit back.’

  That was a relief. At least he wouldn’t have to listen to Ginny’s father complaining about how much it had cost him.

  She twisted her hands together, opened her mouth to say something, then thought better of it. She mouthed, ‘I’m sorry,’ and stared down at the table. She pushed her food away, got up and leaned over the balcony. From where he was sitting, it seemed like she was looking beyond the view, at something that wasn’t even there. He decided to leave her be.

  When she turned towards Stephen and made her way back to the table, tears were rolling down her cheeks. ‘I’ve booked an open return. There’s a flight late tonight. Might be best if I was on it, don’t you think?’

  Stephen wanted desperately to take her in his arms and tell her that what they had was worth saving, but at that moment he felt completely numb. Lost for words, he found himself meekly agreeing with her. Why was she doing this, he wondered. What had happened in the past four weeks? At least when he left she was angry with him. Now she was only distant, distracted. It didn’t seem to be another man—she would have said so outright. He trusted her that much.

  Chapter 14

  Stephen and Ginny pulled up outside Stephen’s flat. The drive back from the restaurant had been difficult and awkward. Neither of them had felt like talking. Stephen spotted Elisabetta’s scooter parked outside.

  Damn.

  He’d invited her around as a thank you for suggesting the lakeside restaurant. With all the emotional fallout, he’d forgotten to message her that the trip had been an unmitigated disaster and that it was probably best they cancel.

  She was staring at her phone and hadn’t spotted them.

  ‘That’s Elisabetta. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay by me,’ Ginny said, her tone softening. As they got out of the car, Elisabetta looked up, shoved the phone into her pocket and came towards them.

  ‘You must be Ginny.’ She kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Shall we walk?’

  ‘Why not?’ Ginny’s tone was friendly.

  As they strolled along, exchanging pleasantries, Stephen spotted a gelateria. He needed a moment to collect his thoughts after the afternoon they’d had.

  ‘Fancy an ice-cream?’

  ‘Of course,’ Ginny said. ‘When in Rome.’

  ‘Hazelnut is good, but the pistachio is the best,’ Elisabetta chipped in.

  ‘Pistachio it is then,’ Ginny said.

  ‘Coming right up,’ Stephen said, glad to have a few moments to himself.

  He’d been gone barely five minutes, balancing three ice-creams and was about to hand them over when he caught the tail end of their conversation.

  ‘It’s my job to try to stem the tide of art crime. And see the works restored to their rightful home,’ Elisabetta said.

  This was meant to be a casual meet and greet. He suspected it had been Ginny who had started on about work.

  ‘Weren’t the best part of the Romans’ treasures made in Greece by Greek potters and vase painters? Their rightful home is there, surely?’ Ginny said.

  ‘The craftsmen were Greek, yes. But they were working on commissions for Roman patrons. And Greek vase-painters came to work here. They’re Italian works of art which belong here. And we’re trying to stop them being stolen and illegally exported.’

  ‘Are you involved in protecting the cultural heritage of works disturbed by the extension of the Rome metro, too?’ />
  What the hell’s got into you?

  ‘Not unless an actual crime has been committed. The archaeological team onsite do what they can to protect any works that get disturbed.’

  ‘Isn’t the act of putting a metro right next to the Colosseum an art crime?’

  ‘I know what you’re getting at, and I agree with you, but my job is to stop looting and theft. And we can’t do that alone.’

  Oh, oh, Stephen wondered what was coming next.

  ‘We need the co-operation of auction houses, which at the moment we’re not getting. There’s still far too much work of disputed provenance being sold. We need people like you to look out for suspect artworks.’

  Stephen didn’t want to take sides, but it was Ginny who had gone on the attack. She deserved Elisabetta’s icy response.

  ‘Denham’s isn’t some dodgy, fly-by-night operation. We don’t trade in suspect artworks, as you appear to suggest. Sorry, I have to go now, before I say anything I’ll regret.’

  Bit late for that now.

  Ginny got up, picked up her gelato container and spoon, threw them into the nearest bin with more force than they needed, and walked off towards the apartment.

  Mouthing ‘sorry,’ to Elisabetta, Stephen dashed off in pursuit. As he caught up, he could barely contain his fury.

  ‘What was that about?’

  ‘She practically accused me of trafficking in looted art.’

  ‘Because you told her that the art she’s spent her life’s work trying to protect doesn’t even belong here.’

  ‘Couldn’t you see when you took this damn job that this might happen? That your world and mine might get too close for comfort?’

  ‘Of course I did. I even talked about it in my meeting with Reynolds. But as I was going to be in Italy and you were in London I thought that it might just work.’

  Ginny twisted her fingers together.

  Stephen sighed. ‘This is about so much more than art, isn’t it?’ There was a long silence. ‘What is it, do you think that’s gone wrong between us?’ There. He’d finally said it.

  Ginny walked up to him, looking into his eyes.

  ‘Nothing that wasn’t there already,’ she said, one fat tear rolling down her right cheek. ‘You only saw what you wanted to see.’

  As they got back to the apartment, she said, ‘I’m sorry, I have to go. I need to pack.’ She disappeared into the bedroom and started to fling clothes into a suitcase.

  ‘At least let me drive you.’

  ‘No, I’ll get a taxi. We can say goodbye here. Why drag yourself out to the airport? You’ll only have to come back to an empty flat.’

  ‘We’re not leaving things like this. What if I come over next weekend?’

  Ginny shook her head, whispering, ‘No, I don’t think so,’ before quietly turning away and closing the door.

  Maybe she’d seen through him—another promise he would have to break. There was practically no chance he’d get the time off.

  ‘Your phone’s here if you’re looking for it,’ he called out, in a clumsy attempt at civility. She’d left it plugged into one of the broken sockets. The battery had less than ten percent charge. Stephen unplugged it and moved it to the working socket. Just as he was about to put Ginny’s mobile down, it buzzed. He couldn’t help himself. He looked at the text.

  Compliance are asking questions about provenance. We need a paper trail that looks like we tried, even if it is a work of fiction. Call me.

  Ginny’s phone was in his hand. Once a cop, always a cop. He heard the shower running.

  The phone was locked.

  What the hell was her PIN? She’d told him that if he couldn’t be trusted to know it then nobody could. If he’d guessed it correctly, she’d used her date of birth in the first two numbers. With trembling fingers and a feeling of foreboding, he keyed in 91 and came to an abrupt stop.

  What had she said about symmetry? He added a 1 as the third digit. The last he would have to guess. It can’t have been another 1. A 9 would make the number symmetrical. It was worth a shot.

  Bingo. He was in.

  He scrolled through her contacts. He didn’t know the names, but most of them seemed to work for leading international galleries and museums. He had got as far as the letter L and was now at M. Under Mc, was none other than McCarthy, Michael. He was still listed as the contact at the Vatican Museums. Maybe his departure had been recent and the Vatican had kept it quiet.

  Stephen heard the shower running as he reached up into a cupboard and started to rifle through a box he hadn’t had time to unpack. He started to pull out wires and cables and spare flash drives. There it was. The card writer terminal. Next to it, the blank SIMs. He grabbed everything he needed and headed back to the sitting room.

  Damn. She’d turned the water off already. He reckoned he had ten more minutes. Longer, if she needed to dry her hair.

  He opened up the back of her phone, pulled out the SIM and placed it into the card writer terminal and plugged it in. He pressed copy.

  Estimated time, fifteen minutes. She must have had a ton of data on there.

  The door opened softly, and Ginny, wrapped in a towel came up behind him.

  ‘You haven’t seen my phone, have you?’

  Shit.

  ‘The socket you plugged it into wasn’t working so I moved it. It’s still charging. I won’t let you leave it behind.’ His tone was relaxed.

  What am I doing?

  ‘I just wanted to book an Uber, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ll call a regular cab on mine. Uber isn’t any cheaper here.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said and turned to go back into the bedroom. She closed the door behind her and Stephen heard the sound of the hairdryer.

  He got up and checked the download time left. Another ten minutes. He grabbed his phone and texted the cab company and booked it for twenty minutes. He needed to find a way to fill in time. He remembered the bottle of fizz in the fridge that he’d been planning to open the night Ginny arrived. He pulled it out and grabbed the wine glasses, hoping Ginny wouldn’t mind that they weren’t fancy champagne flutes.

  The hairdryer had stopped now. Ginny would be putting on her make-up. He figured that would take five minutes. Then she’d need to get dressed. He popped the cork and poured two glasses.

  Ginny, alerted by the sound walked into the kitchen. She looked at Stephen in surprise. Inside, he was quaking. He handed her a glass.

  ‘Peace offering.’ He avoided her gaze. She smiled back at him awkwardly. There was no going back.

  ‘Cheers, I can drink it while I’m changing,’ she said, with no enthusiasm. Turning her back on him, she took the glass back into the bedroom.

  Stephen grabbed the phone. The data had fully downloaded. He wrenched the SIM chip out of the reader and was putting it back into Ginny’s phone, when she opened the door of the bedroom again, case in hand.

  ‘Your phone’s charged,’ Stephen said, passing it and the charger back to her. The back of the phone wasn’t clicked shut properly and to Stephen’s alarm, the SIM fell out. ‘Sorry,’ he said, passing it to her. ‘I must have knocked it.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll fix it in the cab.’

  They hugged briefly and that was it. As the taxi pulled up, the old Stephen would have grasped her hands in his, looked her in the eyes and told her that he wasn’t giving up on her. He went in for another hug so that he didn’t have to look at her and berated himself for being such a coward. Ginny gently released herself from his grasp and without turning to look back, walked out the door. As she got into the cab, he waved forlornly. After everything they’d been through, it had come to this. He turned sorrowfully and made his way slowly back to his empty, silent flat.

  Naples, Italy

  * * *

  Geppo and Paolo were shooting pool in a sleazy bar late at night, the last two punters left. The barman was busy cleaning down the countertop, the ash from his cigarette about to fall at any moment. With a flick of a switch he stopped
the pumping rock music dead. His cigarette ash fell onto the floor.

  ‘We’re closing in ten minutes. Hurry up and finish your game. I need to wash those glasses.’

  Paolo downed his drink and called out to the barman.

  ‘We’re nearly done.’

  The barman nodded. ‘Make it quick,’ he said, turning the music back up to full blast.

  Paolo grabbed his cue, but stopped, just as he was about to take a shot.

  ‘Hey Uncle.’

  ‘Not again. You already told me Bill Gates wants to inject everyone with a microchip.’ Geppo stifled a yawn.

  ‘No. But you’ll be sorry when the deep state takes over and you didn’t listen to me,’ Paolo said.

  ‘Go on then, I’m all ears,’ Geppo replied mechanically.

  ‘Tony screwed us over. He died owing us money. And we act like losers. What if there is no new Tony and we never get paid?’

  ‘That shit you read on the internet…doesn’t tell you how the world works. Someone up the chain puts in an order. They need a Tony to get it delivered.’

  Paolo leant over the green baize table, shooting the red ball into the pocket. He stood up, grinning.

  ‘Why do we even need another Tony?’

  ‘Because the only place we get to call the shots is here,’ Geppo said, potting the wrong ball.

  ‘If we were smart we could go straight to the top.’

  ‘I was smart when I was your age. I even stuck my neck out. All I did was screw it up for the rest of the family, as you keep telling me. From now on I’ll do what I’m told. You’ll get yourself into all sorts of shit if you’re not careful.’

  ‘You think everyone’s mafia,’ Uncle.

  ‘Tony protected us from all that.’

  ‘Only so he could take his cut for doing bugger all.’ Paolo slammed his cue down on the table so fiercely it bounced.

  ‘Quit that will you. Or he’ll definitely throw us out,’ Geppo said, glancing at the barman who seemed to be in a world of his own, singing along tunelessly to Nirvana. Luckily he didn’t notice. ‘You ever thought about how come its always just us that gets to go digging at night? They’ve warned off the others, that’s why.’