Stephen hurried down the hallway.
The austerity of the rest of the apartment continued in the Hurst’s bedroom. There were white walls, white bedding and pale cabinetry. The bed, actually two beds side by side, appeared to tilt, with storage underneath. Stephen lifted the mattresses and peered in. He ran his hands in the gap and felt something hard and flat. He pulled out what appeared to be a bound manuscript. He stood there, rifling through the pages, stopping to skim read.
I began my collecting career after touring the archaeological sites of Turkey, Greece, and Italy. These cash-starved countries were displaying these once magnificent works in a pitiful state: exposed to the elements and at the mercy of uncontrolled looters. I began to wonder if there wasn’t a better way to restore these items to their original condition and at the same time to allow as many people as possible to see them. Of one thing I was entirely convinced—only the most dedicated art lovers would bother travelling all the way from America to visit these poor run-down regions to see this art. Finding good quality accommodation is impossible. I devised a plan that if Americans couldn’t come to Greece, then Greece would have to go to America.
‘I’ve found something,’ Stephen called out. He heard the sound of footsteps as Elisabetta poked her head around the door.
‘What is it?’
‘Hurst’s unpublished autobiography. Here, read this,’ he said, passing it to Elisabetta, who scanned the page.
‘Let’s see what he has to say about it when he comes back,’ she said.
‘You find anything?’
‘The bank statements and the accounts from the gallery are missing. There’s an old-fashioned Rolodex with names and numbers in it, which I’ve bagged.
Stephen was confronted by a vast walk-in wardrobe which he still had to search.
‘Here. Let me help. I’ll take this side, and you can concentrate on his stuff,’ Elisabetta said. She worked quickly, pulling all the clothes back from the rails, patting each item and checking each drawer.
‘I want to know about his network of companies, where they’re based and how they operated. Find out if they're holding companies or a nested series of shell companies, and whether any of them are based in safe havens like Lichtenstein, Monaco or the Cayman Islands.’
‘Where would Hurst be likely to store tie pins?’ Stephen asked.
‘That’s easy,’ Elisabetta said, looking round. ‘Somewhere handy, so he can boast to everyone he meets about his Princeton connections. They’re probably in one of those boxes,’ she said, pointing. Sure enough, there was Hurst’s fraternity tie pin, sitting in a display case. He picked it up with his gloves and put it into the evidence bag.
As soon as they were done, Stephen phoned the police officers who were with the Hursts.
‘You can fetch them from the coffee shop.’
When they re-appeared, Elisabetta took Robert Hurst aside.
‘Any chance we could talk to you about your autobiography, Mr Hurst?’
‘Autobiography? Dear, don’t take any notice of that, it’s fiction,’ Hurst said.
‘And there was me thinking I’d find it in non-fiction in the library,’ Stephen said. ‘You won’t mind if we take it away?’
‘Can you find me a publisher while you’re about it?’ Hurst seemed to be enjoying himself. Maybe he’d have something to say about the tie-pin, which Stephen retrieved from the evidence bag.
‘I couldn’t help noticing your distinct fraternity tie-pin. How many students belonged to your fraternity in your year, can you remember?’
Hurst stared at Stephen.
‘What has this got to do with your investigation?’ Hurst said.
Stephen pressed on. ‘I’m guessing around thirty for each year.’
‘That would be correct. It’s an elite club,’ Hurst said, puffing himself up.
‘No more than a few hundred living members left then?’
‘If you say so.’
‘There’s a photograph I’d like you to look at.’ Stephen grabbed his evidence file and pulled out the photograph of Tony Sanzio and the man with the tie-pin taken at the Vatican beside the Euphronios krater. ‘Do you recognise this man?’
Hurst shook his head and looked with disapproval.
‘You think that I’d mix with someone who looked like that?’
‘If you look here, reflected in the shine of the krater, is a tie pin. Identical to your Princeton fraternity one.’
‘We have the same tie pin. So what?’
Elisabetta and Stephen looked at each other.
‘You first,’ Stephen said in a low voice.
‘I’m not so sure the Vatican would agree with you, Mr Hurst,’ Elisabetta said. Before he had the chance to answer, she pushed on. ‘I take it you’re not denying you sold them the calyx krater you see in this photograph?’
‘Yes, and?’ Hurst said. ‘I can’t be expected to remember every single piece I’ve ever sold off the top of my head,’ he added. It was clearly a phrase he’d practised.
‘Here’s a photograph of that same storage vessel, only unrestored and with earth on it, Mr Hurst. All the proof the Vatican would need that it was looted. I haven’t got around to dropping that bombshell, yet by the way.’
‘You don’t have a shred of actual evidence, though do you Ms di Mascio? These are merely photographs of vases. I mean, this one with the dirt on it could be any one of a dozen kraters. There’s nothing that ties it to the one in the Vatican. Or indeed that I was involved. All you have is theory and coincidence. No judge is going to convict an innocent man on those grounds.’
Elisabetta shook her head and smiled. ‘No they’re not,’ she said, as an incoming text message buzzed on her phone. ‘Excuse me for a moment, Mr Hurst, will you.’ Elisabetta glanced down at the message.
‘Let’s just say our investigation is ongoing Mr Hurst. And I’d like you to answer further questions that I have, relating to the way you structure the companies you own. We could do this back in Rome this afternoon. You have a house there, don’t you?’
‘I hire someone else to look after that sort of thing,’ Hurst said. ‘And I don’t own any property in Rome,’ Hurst said.
‘No, but an off-shore company you control does. Your home there is currently being raided by my colleagues. But I think you already knew that, didn’t you?’ Elisabetta said, looking straight at Hurst.
Hurst ignored her.
‘Suit yourself. We can do it here, if you prefer. I’ve seen some transactions where one company sold a piece at auction, and then another purchased it. On paper, they appear to be independent entities, but when I traced these transactions they led back to one holding company, which you own.’
At this point, Hurst started singing.
‘My gallant crew, good morning.’
Stephen recognised the lyrics immediately. ‘H.M.S. Pinafore. My grandmother adored Gilbert and Sullivan.’
Elisabetta looked startled but pressed on.
‘That’s alright Mr Hurst, I’ll be speaking to your accountant if you would give me the details,’ Elisabetta said.
‘I hope you’re all quite well,’ Robert Hurst sang, in a rich baritone, which took Stephen by surprise.
‘I am in reasonable health, and happy
To meet you all once more.’
Elisabetta beckoned Stephen over and asked him to step outside with her.
‘Here, look.’ She showed him the text message from Renzo which had a succession of photographs attached.
Aniello di Lauro taken in for questioning. Seems to be running a massive factory, cleaning up old and broken pots in an underground swimming pool.
Stephen grinned. ‘Do you want to tell him or shall I?’
‘Let’s see how long he keeps up this pretending to be crazy routine when we tell him this,’ Elisabetta said, pushing back her hair in exasperation. As they walked back into the room, Hurst, who had obviously been saving up the chorus, bellowed,
‘I am the Captain of the Pinafore.�
��
He broke off, turning to the two bemused police officers.
‘And you two are meant to reply with, “And a right good captain, too!” The two officers stood as still as sentries.
‘Thank you, Mr Hurst. We’ve enjoyed the impromptu concert. We’ll be needing to speak to you again,’ Elisabetta said. ‘And as I said, it would be better if we did this in Italy.’
Maris Hurst who had been listening, angrily fidgeting beside her husband, burst in, ‘Leave him alone. He’s done nothing wrong.’
‘That’s not what my colleagues in Rome have said. Here’s the inventory of all the items they found on site. And that search warrant. We can provide your lawyers with all the paperwork. They can contact me at this address,’ Elisabetta said, handing over her contact details. ‘Now we’ve got to go,’ Elisabetta said.
Stephen watched Hurst’s face as the colour drained from it. He grabbed the back of a chair and sat down with as much grace and dignity as he could muster.
‘You’re free to travel anywhere within Switzerland and the Schengen area.’ Stephen waved their passports at the couple, before passing them to the two Swiss police officers. ‘But don’t try going further afield, you’ll be stopped at immigration control,’ he said as his parting shot.
Stephen and Elisabetta walked out of the apartment. As they got into the lift, they heard Maris Hurst’s parting shot. ‘It’s disgraceful.’
‘Those two are a piece of work, aren’t they?’ Stephen said.
Elisabetta rolled her eyes. ‘You said it. They tell so many lies, they don’t know what the truth is any more.’
Stephen turned to her. ‘It must be exhausting to keep up that routine. I can’t help feeling that Hurst is acting. Pretending to be someone he isn’t.’
‘You might be right, but I don’t see how that’s going to help us solve this case. Let’s see what Corri and his nephew have to say for themselves,’ Elisabetta said. She looked at her watch. ‘The Naples flight leaves at two.’
Naples, Italy
* * *
In an interview room, Paolo and Corri, with a court-appointed lawyer, were seated across from Stephen and Elisabetta.
‘For the purposes of the tape, interview with Geppo Corri and Paolo Giorgino resumed at 1800 hours,’ Stephen said.
‘Evidence sheet 167, transcript of the phone call with Robert Hurst. The section highlighted claims that the alleged middleman Antonio Sanzio, deceased, owed you money. Then over the page, here’s where you offer looted antiquities to Hurst,’ Elisabetta said.
Corri’s lawyer, an eager young woman in her first job, went to interrupt. Elisabetta carried on before she had a chance to do so. ‘168 a series of photographs, all date stamped, taken at your meeting with Robert Hurst. Here he’s handing over a large envelope and, in the others, you’re unloading the items you offered to sell him and putting them into the back of his vehicle.’
‘They’re home appliances. He asked us to get them and he paid cash. That’s a microwave box and that one’s for a slow cooker,’ Paolo said, smirking.
Elisabetta ignored him.
‘169, is a signed witness statement from the Somali asylum seekers, who Corri employed illegally. They were hired to dig tombs and retrieve artefacts. It’s all here.’ Corri looked uncomfortable but Paolo stared straight ahead.
‘Tell us everything you know about Hurst and we’ll keep you out of jail,’ Stephen said.
‘How it worked with Tony, all the tombs you raided, where and when,’ Elisabetta added.
‘What’s the difference between being killed in jail or outside of it. They’ll still come after us.’ Paolo said, shrugging.
‘Tell us who they are so we can help you,’ Stephen offered.
‘Give us a minute, will you,’ the lawyer said.
Stephen and Elisabetta stepped outside the interview room.
‘Do you think they’ll go for it?’
‘I don’t think they have a choice,’ Elisabetta said as the lawyer opened the door.
‘We’re ready to talk.’
Corri and Paolo looked at each other.
‘You first, Uncle.’
‘Hurst is mafia,’ Corri began.
‘Why do you say that?’ Elisabetta said.
Corri squirmed in his seat. He looked at Paolo who shook his head and rolled his eyes. Corri turned his back on his nephew.
‘At every tomb we found, we had the place to ourselves. Everyone else kept away.’
‘Why is that, do you think?’ Stephen asked.
‘Because someone didn’t want them there.’
‘How did they do that do you think?’ Stephen asked.
‘Threaten them or their families, beat them up, that kind of thing. It has to be someone powerful to do that,’ Corri said.
‘Have you ever been the victim of an intimidation campaign?’ Elisabetta asked.
Corri glanced around the room.
‘Don’t, Uncle.’ Paolo warned.
Corri hesitated before answering. ‘How did you know that?’
‘It’s my job. You spoke up when that bridge collapsed, correct?’
‘Look where it got me.’
‘The building inspectors who signed off on it knew about the cheap concrete. They were too afraid to report it. You, on the other hand…’
‘I did it for him,’ Corri said, indicating Paolo.
‘If you help us, we’ll help you get back on your feet,’ Elisabetta’s face softened as Corri wiped tears from his eyes.
‘Did Robert Hurst, who you have said is mafia, ever bring anyone to one of the sites you were looting.’
‘We weren’t looting. We were excavating,’ Paolo said.
‘Okay, my mistake,’ Elisabetta said tartly. ‘I’ll ask you again. Did Hurst bring anyone to the site that you hadn’t met before?’
‘Hurst didn’t. We’d never met him before we got in touch with him. Tony did,’ Corri said.
‘You mean Antonio Sanzio?’ Stephen said. ‘And for the tape can you tell us who he was?’
‘Fat Tony was the one who paid us, gave us our instructions, took our stuff and then sold it on,’ Paolo said.
‘He brought an elderly American man down once,’ Corri said.
‘Do you remember what he looked like?’
Corri nodded.
‘We’ll take a break while we get photos to show you.’ The others nodded.
‘Interview terminated at 18.42’ Stephen said.
Chapter 20
Rome, Italy
* * *
As Joe’s men burst into his apartment, McCarthy was glad about one thing. He’d got rid of much of his furniture and household items in case Joe decided he wanted the apartment and evicted him without warning. And at least his artworks were safe. He’d been so spooked by Joe’s last unannounced visit that he’d packed up all his antiquities and shipped them off to the retreat in Mexico, in the hope that he’d be able to follow them there soon. He’d told Sergio he was craving a simpler life and had donated all the remaining works to various galleries. Of course, he’d kept back the one votive he couldn’t bear to part with.
McCarthy stood back as Joe's goons pulled curtains from their rails, ripped up floorboards and turned his study upside down. It would take days to sift through the debris and put it right again.
One of Joe’s thugs was talking into his earpiece as though he was giving a running commentary. As soon as he pulled the earpiece out, Joe was caught mid-rant. ‘Find it,’ he said. McCarthy’s stomach tightened in a knot. He looked away, pretending he hadn’t heard, but Joe’s man must have been watching his every move, as he gave him a tight little smile.
‘Sorry boss,’ the thug said, turning his back on McCarthy. ‘We made a mess of your new apartment.’ He nodded, listening to the reply. ‘The boss wanted me to show you this,’ Joe’s henchman said, passing the phone over to McCarthy.
It was a set of photographs, each one more horrific than the other. Franco was tied to a chair, with a gag in hi
s mouth, in what was once his studio. There were pots of paint upturned on the floor, as well as brushes and all the specialised equipment he’d been hoping to sell before he retired, in a hundred pieces. In the second photo, Franco was hooded. And the third, his face was reduced to a pulp.
‘The boss wants to speak to you,’ he said.
‘When we came to see you I asked about the painting and you told me it was being restored. We paid the restorer a little visit,’ Joe said.
Where was Franco now? McCarthy wanted nothing more than to be done with this abject cruelty.
‘I’m going to ask you again. Where’s the painting Pop gave you?’
McCarthy had run out of options.
‘It was stolen by a thirteen-year-old drug addict.’
‘Where’s the kid now?’ Joe asked. ‘And don’t tell me he’s living on the streets, because I can round up every drugged-up teenager on every street corner in Rome and offer them money to tell me which of their mates is missing. So let’s get this over with now.’
‘He’s lying in ICU, in a coma. Half his brain is missing. If he ever does wake up, he won’t even know his own name,’ McCarthy said.
‘Which hospital?’
‘Gemelli.’
‘Good,’ Joe said. ‘We’re getting somewhere. Pass me back will you.’
McCarthy went to give the phone to Joe’s man, who snatched it from him, before talking to Joe. He was trying to have two conversations at the same time.
‘What’s the kid’s name?’ Joe’s man said to McCarthy.
‘Bruno.’
‘What do you want us to do?’ McCarthy didn’t hear Joe’s response. The two men left abruptly without a word. The irony didn’t escape him that they left him to tidy up one unholy mess.
Stephen had barely slept in the past forty-eight hours. Now it was the turn of the team of specialists to sift through the evidence. Their case against Hurst was a strong one. But even though he was the brains behind the looting, he couldn’t have been acting alone: their job was far from over.
Nighthawks Page 18
