The Titian Committee. Iain Pears
paying for. A meal designed to conclude an amicable deal was becoming an expensive waste of time. Initially, he had felt a certain sympathy for the woman, who had an unenviable position as companion to the sharp-tongued Marchesa. It was now evaporating fast.
‘I’m very sorry,’ she said, not meaning it at all. ‘But those were my instructions. And as we have now had more interest in the pictures…’
Argyll was bewildered by this last comment. Who on earth could be interested? Was he about to become involved in a bidding war for these things? If so, it certainly wasn’t worth it. If he wasn’t required occasionally to provide Edward Byrnes in London with some pictures as an exchange for his salary, he would pull out now and go back to Rome.
‘Oh, very well, then,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I’ll think about it and call you tomorrow.’
Cool and professional, he thought. Don’t allow yourself to be stampeded. Keep them guessing. Probably useless, mind you.
From there until the end of the meal he did his best to remain calmly polite. He did all the right things; paid the bill with much silent gnashing of teeth, helped her on with her coat, escorted her out of the restaurant and was kissing her hand – this always seemed to go down well, even when it wasn’t deserved – when he heard a slight cough from someone standing just behind him in the Campo.
He turned round, his bad mood dissipating as he recognised the woman standing there, resting with her weight on her left leg, arms crossed and a look of amused disdain on her face.
‘What are you doing in Venice?’
‘Not having as much fun as you, it seems,’ Flavia replied.
Argyll, thrown into confusion as he was so easily by almost anything unexpected, performed a flustered and not very competent set of introductions. ‘Flavia di Stefano of the Polizia Art Squad in Rome,’ he concluded.
Pianta was not impressed. Indeed, she nodded coldly in the way of someone who did not consider the police respectable members of society, looked disapprovingly at her somewhat scruffy clothes – with particular emphasis on the unpolished brown boots – and then ignored her entirely. She thanked Argyll for the meal in a chilly sort of fashion, which bore no relation to how much it had cost, and walked off.
‘Now there’s a real charmer,’ Flavia remarked calmly as she went.
Argyll rubbed his nose in irritation and frustration. ‘Didn’t seem to like you, did she? Don’t take it personally. It may be because she’s just been asking me to break the law. Besides, she doesn’t like me either, and I’ve just paid for her dinner.’
There was a long silence as he regarded her with a look of affection, which she always interpreted as one of discomfort. It was. He never really quite knew what to do with someone who was both emotionally turbo-charged and also so calm and detached. Somehow the bits never seemed to fit together, or, to put it another way, they obviously did but he couldn’t quite figure out where the joins were.
‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ he asked eventually. ‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you. A friendly face, you know.’
‘Thank you,’ she said formally, deciding that he had not been changed by his period of living in Rome. If he didn’t understand her, at least it was mutual. His distant, if obvious, affection tended to confuse her. To her mind, he should either forget her or fling his arms round her. Either would do; but to manage neither seemed merely indecisive. ‘I’m here for a couple of days on a case. Of sorts. Not so interesting.’
‘Oh.’
‘What about you?’
‘Wasting my time, it seems.’
‘Oh.’
Another silence intervened. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ she said finally. ‘You look as though you need to ventilate a bit.’
He glanced sideways at her gratefully. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’d like that. You’re starving, I imagine?’
She nodded fervently. ‘Yes. How do you know?’
‘Lucky guess. Come on. I’ll sit with you and have a coffee. I love to watch a professional at work.’
They walked into the restaurant again and sat down at the same table he’d occupied before. ‘Same place, better company,’ he said with an attempt at a charming smile that was slightly more successful than the last.
While Flavia ploughed her methodical and diligent way through much of the menu, Argyll gave a potted history of his trials and tribulations. There was not much she could say. The deal, it seemed to her, was off and the only sensible thing to do was to go back to Rome. But she tried to be optimistic. He should, she counselled, hang around for a few days yet. You never knew, after all. He could always go in for a bit of smuggling.
Argyll was properly shocked. ‘And you in the police as well. I’m ashamed of you.’
‘Just an idea.’
‘No thanks. I will persevere for a few days by legal means, then give up. What I’ll do,’ he said with renewed enthusiasm, ‘is try to get hold of the Marchesa direct tomorrow. Go to the top. That might work.’
He yawned, leant back in his chair and stretched. ‘Enough of that. I’m sick of hearing about the damn things. Distract me. How’s life in Rome these days?’
It was a pointed reminder that, though they lived in the same city, they hadn’t seen much of each other recently. Argyll considered this distressing and Flavia also missed his company. But, as she explained, he’d been away, and she’d been busy. Times were tough, and the pressure was on while Bottando battled to save his department.
‘In fact,’ she concluded, ‘the only reason I’m here is that everyone in Rome is all excited and Bottando is plotting.’
‘As usual, eh?’
They had different opinions on this; for the Englishman, Bottando’s constant manoeuvrings revealed him as a consummate manipulator. Although he had enormous regard for the amiable Italian, he vaguely thought his time might more properly be spent catching criminals. Flavia, on the other hand, was of Bottando’s view that efficiency was no use at all if the entire department was politicked into oblivion. She just wished he didn’t involve her quite so often.
‘It’s serious this time,’ she said with a frown. ‘We’ve got a fight on our hands. I just hope he can get us out of trouble.’
‘I’m sure he will. He’s extraordinarily well practised, after all. I suppose you’re here on the Masterson affair that I’ve been reading about in the papers?’
Flavia nodded absently.
‘Who done her in, then?’
‘How should I know? The local police think she was mugged. Maybe she was. Not my business, anyway. I’m here simply to lend respectability, follow up anything arty and secure some tactical credit for the department at a difficult moment. You don’t, by any chance, know anything about the’ – she paused to get out the letter and check the name – ‘the Agenzia Fotografica Rossi, do you?’ she asked, switching the subject to something less distressing.
‘Eminently respectable, small business in Bologna that keeps files of photographs. Often used by art historians gathering illustrations for books. Why?’
‘No reason. Just that a letter from them for Masterson arrived this morning. I thought I’d be diligent and check it out. Something to put in the report,’ she said as Argyll plucked it from her hand and read it.
It is not often that you can definitely say that you have seen someone rock backwards in surprise, especially when they are sitting in a chair. Nor do most people have the opportunity of actually seeing someone change colour. Argyll, therefore, gave Flavia two new experiences in a matter of seconds. She thought for a moment he was about to fall off his seat. His pink complexion turned pale, and then a mottled shade of green,