Giotto's Hand

“Good evening, miss. Welcome to England.” The man in charge was unusually youthful; no more than his late thirties and most unlike any other English policemen she’d ever come across. Generally, the need to plod the beat before going on to more intellectually challenging activities makes British policemen a bit dull; the more lively ones balk at the prospect of spending a few years breaking up pub brawls and do something else instead. Such, at least, is their European reputation.

Manstead was a bit different. He managed to project a level of intelligence and alertness that was rare. On the other hand, it quickly became clear that he knew almost nothing about his job at all. After the preliminaries were taken care of—the journey, the weather, the traffic—he expressed his pleasure at having the opportunity to meet a member of the continent’s longest-surviving Art Squad.

“We’re just getting going,” he explained with a sigh. “A policy change again. The old Art Squad was set up a long time ago; then it was shut down and merged with local forces, then the party line shifted and we were reborn—but only after all the contacts and expertise and files had been dispersed.”

“Do you all have a background in the art market?”

He snorted derisively. “Oh, no. Of course not. Put in people who know something about the job? What an idea. No. We were just assigned detectives who were interested, and told to get on with it.”

“So you rely heavily on outside advisers?”

“Would do, if we had the money. But we don’t have a big enough budget to pay people with any regularity. So we have to survive on people being willing to do us favours.”

“Sounds pretty dire.”

“It is. It’s all politics. If we had some resounding success that got splashed over the newspapers, we’d attract attention and be given more. To he who hath, shall be given. It should be our motto. Still,” he said, reluctantly abandoning a favourite topic, “you haven’t come here to listen to me complaining about the collapse of the British police.”

Flavia smiled apologetically. “I reckon we could match you, atrocity for atrocity. What I need to hear about is this man Forster.”

Manstead nodded. “Nothing to do with us. That is, we’ve looked through our files and there is no mention of him at all. Not even a whisper. We’re asking around for you, though.”

Flavia looked disappointed, even though she was not surprised. Bottando’s Giotto was not the sort of person whose proclivities would have been common knowledge. If he existed, he would be an absolutely, squeaky-clean, one hundred-percent good citizen. In some ways, the lack of a file on him in British hands made her more prepared to entertain the notion of him as bent. “Not even any gossip?” she asked.

Manstead thought carefully; he was a carefully-thinking sort of man. “Nobody seems to have liked him much; there is that to be said. But when I asked whether, now he was dead, they felt like saying what they thought of his business practices, everyone denied ever having heard a thing.”

“I see. So if someone, for example, suggested he’d ripped off every major collection in Europe over the past twenty-five years, you reckon they’d be surprised?”

“I think everyone would be astonished,” Manstead said. “Is that what your boss is on about? Is that what you think as well?”

She shook her head. “Not really,” she said regretfully.

“But your boss does?”

“Not exactly. Somebody in the administration doesn’t.”

Manstead eyed her with a faintly amused whisper of a smile. “I see,” he said slowly. “At least I think I do. One of those, eh?”

Flavia sniffed with a disapproval that came directly from a sense of embarrassment.

“So what’s your interest in his death?” Manstead asked, deciding that if she didn’t want to burden him with details that was fine by him.

“None whatsoever, which I imagine will make life a good deal easier for everyone. Except, of course, it would be much more interesting if he was murdered.”

“Of course. But unfortunately, the evidence is very ambiguous there. It’s really only the fact that this colleague of yours… What’s his name?”

“Colleague?” Flavia was a little puzzled for a moment. “Oh. Jonathan. Yes. What about him?”

“Well, it’s only really because he was on the scene, talking about theft and pointing out coincidences, that the police are taking it so seriously. Otherwise, I think they might well have concluded he drank a wee bit too much, and slipped on a loose stair. And they may well still do so.”

“And who knows, they may well be right,” Flavia added.

“Who knows indeed?” Manstead said easily.

“But I’m sure we will get to the bottom of it eventually. Now, would you care for a drink yourself?”