Giotto's Hand

Two things, he scribbled. Firstly, could you ring Florence and get them to pull Sandano in for me. I’ll be there by ten in the morning. Secondly, could you ring Argan. Apologies, but I’ve been called away. Urgent business. I’ll let him know when I’m back.

And, having taken the first step towards taking control of his universe, Bottando left.

Merely being on the road again made Bottando feel better. Driving around, talking to people, gripping life with both hands. That was the trouble really, he thought to himself as he parked his car in a carefree manner in a restricted zone in the centre of Florence and placed his “police” card in a prominent place on the dashboard, he had been deskbound for too long.

Even though the first visit, to Fancelli, had produced nothing except to demonstrate that Flavia had done a decent job, he was content. The ailing woman had repeated her story more or less word for word, and the indignation which the very idea of Forster produced in her seemed genuine enough to him. Also, the birth certificate of her son recovered from the municipal authorities and naming Geoffrey Forster as the guilty party, so to speak, was pretty convincing.

But no harm in checking. That was what real policing was all about, and what he was trying to defend. It wasn’t Argan at all, really. In a way, he continued philosophically as he walked to the Carabinieri station where Sandano was being held, the dreadful man was right. He was out of touch. But not for the reasons that Argan thought. Rather, he’d spent too many hours writing memoranda, sitting around while other people, like Flavia, did the interesting work.

He was still in this reflective mood when he was shown into the little cell in which a disgruntled Sandano sat cross-legged on a pull-out bed. Bottando sat heavily on the chair opposite and beamed affectionately at the man.

“Sandano.”

“General. I’m impressed. A visit from the big boss man himself. Just to torment me for no reason.”

“You know as well as I do that we don’t torment people for no reason,” Bottando replied levelly. “We always have a reason.”

“Oh,” said the crestfallen thief. “You found out. I suppose my grandmother told you.”

The statement left Bottando a little bemused. Found out about what, he thought? Hadn’t Flavia mentioned something about him looking unusually shifty?

“That’s right,” he replied knowingly, hoping that Sandano’s natural death wish would solve the problem. “A responsible citizen. And I want to hear all about it. Even though I know everything already. It’ll be easier for you in the long run, you know. Cooperation.”

Sandano scowled at him for a while, then puffed mightily, hesitated, and gave in.

“Oh, all right. But just you remember Flavia’s promise.”

“I remember.”

“It was nothing to do with me, you know. I steal things, OK. But hitting nightwatchmen. That wasn’t me. I just drove the truck.”

What the hell is he talking about? Bottando thought, trying to compose his features into a look of stem disapproval.

“He wouldn’t pay up, you see. We broke into the shed on the dig site, took all the statues, and delivered them as required. And when my brother went round to get paid, this guy tells him to get lost. The deal had fallen through and he didn’t have the money yet. It wasn’t me who went back and drove a car through the window and took them back either, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just want you to know that that’s not my son of thing. I was back in Florence by then.”

“Right,” said a faintly surprised Bottando.

“That man. He thinks he can do anything. Bastard. He’s got all of you lot in his pocket. That’s why he did it.”

“We’ll see about that.” Really, poor old Sandano was dim. Whoever heard of criminals confessing before even being asked? “And while you’re in a confessional mode. You might want to tell me a little about the Fra Angelico.”

“Fra Angelico?”

“Florentine painter. Renaissance. Back of your car. Remember?”

“Oh. That. I’ve told you the truth. I told that girl of yours…”

Bottando held up his hand. “A word of advice, dear boy. Not girl.”

“No?”

“No. Never.”

“OK. Anyway, I told Flavia the truth. I didn’t steal it.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“So what are you asking for?”

“I just want to hear your story again. For myself. Off you go.”

“Well, it’s all true, what I told Flavia. I never stole that picture. I just got unlucky at the border.”

“Yes?”

“And I said I’d done it because the Carabinieri offered a deal.”

“And then this man Forster turned up to talk about it?”

“Like I said. About three, four months back. Just after I got out for those candlesticks in the church.”

“Did he say he’d stolen it?”

“Not exactly. But he knew all about it, like I say. And I know it was all hushed up. I mean, it was never in the papers, was it?”

“I see. So he turns up. Then?”