Giotto's Hand

“I didn’t know who it was at the time. Like I say, it was done on the phone. I never saw anyone. Just a simple commission, and the less I knew the better, as far as I was concerned. It went wrong, as you know, and I got pinched, and did my time. Fair enough.

“But three months ago, I had a visit. This man turned up and asked me about the Fra Angelico. What had gone wrong. He was very smooth, and knew all about it. He wanted to be sure I hadn’t told anyone anything. I told him I’d hardly have gone to jail if I had, and he seemed satisfied. He gave me some money, and said that he was impressed by my discretion.”

“And?”

“And nothing. That was it.”

“How much did he give you?”

“Three million lire.”

“And now the big question. Do you know who he was?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“An Englishman.”

“Name?”

“Forster.”

5

Constable Frank Hanson was a methodical, cautious man well suited to the routine of being a policeman in the English countryside. He had rounds that he made pretty much every day in his car, driving regularly through village after village, stopping periodically to talk to people to show that he was interested in community policing, occasionally turning a blind eye to the little infringements of law that went on all around him, and generally being a good, conscientious sort of person who was appreciated by those who actually noticed his existence.

Personally, he thought he was rather overworked; his beat had been devised in the far-off halcyon days when country life was safe, with virtually nothing but the occasional pub brawl or bit of domestic to occupy his time. Now he reckoned there was not much difference between the small patch of Norfolk that was in his care and the worst parts of London, or even Norwich, in which towns he was convinced sudden death was a way of life and sin the dominant occupation of the inhabitants.

Urban evil had now come to afflict him here. In the past few years, burglaries, rapes, arson, car theft and all manner of city blights had swept across the local villages, rendering his life miserable as he drove perpetually from one hamlet to another, jotting down details and reassuring people, quite untruthfully, that there was some chance that those responsible would be punished.

He was on his way to such a monstrosity now. Jack Thompson, a large and successful farmer, had just rung up, spluttering with indignation, to report that his dairy herd was three cows smaller than it had been the previous evening. It seemed that the Norfolk constabulary was now going to have to add cattle rustling to the various unnatural crimes it had to cope with.

Cattle rustling, he thought gloomily as he drove at several miles an hour above the speed limit through the village of Weller. What next? Piracy? He snorted with disgust. Gangs of yobs from Norwich boarding canal boats in the smoke and sinking them with cannon fire? Wouldn’t surprise him at all, he muttered to himself as he sped along.

No discipline any more, he continued, reverting to one of his favourite themes. Not just thieves, either. The whole country was crumbling. Just selfishness; that’s all that was left. He blamed the government for setting a bad example. And not paying public servants like himself enough.

I mean, he thought, look at that idiot there. Country road with lots of traffic and with a perfectly decent side path for pedestrians to walk on. And what does he do? Does he think of the danger he’s putting himself and others into? No. Instead, he goes prancing around in the middle of the road as though he owned it. Eleven o’clock in the morning and probably drunk already.

It was too much. The man was leaping up and down like someone who’d been returned to the community — another one of PC Hanson’s grumbles—completely regardless of all danger. Hanson slammed his foot on the brakes, and slowed down to give the man a good talking to.

“You saw me,” the man said as the car stopped. He spoke clearly, although with an agitated tone, and was tolerably well dressed with fair hair and slender hands that he was wringing together nervously.

“Could hardly avoid that, could I, sir?” said Hanson drily, in the best traditions of constabulary repartee. “Don’t you think you might be safer on the pavement?”

“But I wanted to attract your attention. It’s urgent.”

“Oh, yes, sir? And why’s that?”

The man gestured vaguely in the direction of a pathway a hundred yards or so further on. “There’s a man in there,” he babbled.

Constable Hanson, offered such an opportunity for wit, could hardly decline it. “Well, that’s not so surprising, is it, sir? It’s a house. People live in houses, sir. Now, had it been a chicken coop…”

“Yes, I know that,” the man said impatiently. “I mean that he’s dead. That’s why I was trying to wave you down.”

“Is he now? Well, we’d better have a look at that, then.”