Giotto's Hand

“Just trying,” she said. “A joke. Thought I’d buy you a drink. I was passing through, and I thought, “I haven’t seen my old friend Giacomo recently. Must look him up. How are you?”

He shook his head and recovered himself as much as possible. “Fine,” he said cautiously. “What do you want?”

Flavia looked sad. “Conviction rates are really down,” she said. “So we—Bottando and I—thought. What better than arresting old Giacomo? we thought. He’s bound to have been up to something.”

Sandano twitched. “I’m going straight,” he said. “Those days are over for me. You know that.”

“Nonsense,” Flavia said. “And I’m sure you’ll realize it’s nonsense after a night in the cells.”

“Look, what do you want?” Sandano said plaintively. “Why don’t you leave me alone?”

“Because I don’t want to. I want to lock someone up. And you’re as good a candidate as any. Better than most, in fact. Those candlesticks. How long had you been out of jail before you tried that one? Go on. Be honest.”

“A week,” he said sullenly. “But I was short of money.”

“What had you been in for? Now, what was it? A picture, wasn’t it? Fra Angelico, if I remember. We were quite surprised. A bit out of your league, that sort of thing. Got off very lightly, as well. How long was it? Six months?”

“Nine,” he said.

“Tell me about it. You were caught on the border, weren’t you? So near and yet so far. How did you steal the thing in the first place without getting caught?”

Sandano fiddled with his drink and lit a cigarette. Then, very reluctantly, he said: “I didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Didn’t steal it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Come now. You admitted it. And you were caught with it in the back of your car.”

“I still didn’t steal it.”

“So why plead guilty?”

“ ’Cos I was offered a deal. I’d help the local Carabinieri to clean that one up without the need to call you lot in from Rome, and they agreed to forget one or two other little matters as well.”

“Was this the Meissen?” she asked, referring to a highly valuable eighteenth-century porcelain dinner service he’d stolen from a house by dropping it from a third-floor window into the arms of a waiting accomplice. As usual, his planning had slipped up.

“Yes,” he said sorrowfully. “My own silly fault, that one. No doubt about it. Still haven’t figured out why my brother was waiting round the other side of the building. But otherwise it was a good idea. It was only the noise of the stuff smashing that alerted the police, you know.”

“Yes. Tough luck, that. So you just confessed to stealing a picture when you hadn’t? That’s a bit stupid, isn’t it?”

“No need to get personal. They told me that they knew I’d done it, and wouldn’t budge no matter how much I said I was only the courier. They said that if I’d confess, they’d get a light sentence for me and forget the Meissen.”

“They kept their word, didn’t they?”

“Oh, yes. I’m not complaining about that. But the fact remains that I didn’t do it.”

“Ah, poor you,” she said sympathetically. “Don’t tell me. You really found the picture in a dustbin, and thought it would make a nice present for your mum. So you put it in the car and before you could gift-wrap it and hand it over, these horrible suspicious police jumped you.”

“Close.”

Flavia gave him the sort of look appropriate for a person who is becoming extremely tiresome.

“Look, I’m telling you the truth,” he said indignantly. “I was rung up and asked if I wanted a job. As a runner, to take a package over the border. Five million lire for a day’s work. Two and a half million in advance. So I asked what it was, and this man said a package…”

“Which man?”

Sandano looked scornful. “A friend of a friend of a friend. Someone who occasionally puts a bit of work my way. None of my business who’s behind it all. I was to pick it up from the left luggage at the railway station, and deposit it in the left luggage at Zurich. Then I was to send the key to a post office box number in Berne. When it arrived safely, then I’d be sent the rest of my money.

“Before you ask, I had no idea then who it was. At the time. That was why my story didn’t convince the Carabinieri.”

“At the time,” Flavia repeated. “What does that mean?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because I can make your life hell if I want to. And because I will look favourably on your case the next time you get pinched for something. Which is only a matter of time. Think of it as an insurance policy. Who did steal it?”

Sandano twiddled his fingers and looked furtive, cunning and then sly as well. An ugly combination.

“You won’t mention my name?”

“Heaven forfend.”

“And you remember people who do you favours?”

“Giacomo. Do I look like someone who forgets her friends? Or her enemies? Tell me what you know.”

Sandano paused and took a deep breath. “OK. But I’m trusting you, mind.”

“Get on with it.”