She stopped and looked carefully at him. “You all right?” she asked. “You don’t seem your normal self at all this morning. Did they give you food poisoning or something yesterday?”
He grimaced, and hesitated, and then gave into the temptation. “Come back in and sit down. I need to tell you something,” he said with a sigh.
“Sounds bad,” she said as she settled back on the armchair.
“Maybe, maybe not. I haven’t figured it out yet. I’m being promoted. I think.”
Flavia blinked and looked at him as she tried to think of the right thing to say. “You sound uncertain. These things are normally clear. Am I meant to congratulate or commiserate?”
“I don’t know. But basically I was given the option of being promoted and taking over some useless new department which seems to have been set up solely to soak up more money from the European taxpayer, or being booted out. With all the consequences for pay and pension that entails. I’ve been making some phone calls and I don’t as yet see any way out.”
She leant back in her chair and bit her thumbnail as she thought this one through.
“But you stay here?”
He nodded. “Nominally. That brings me to you.”
“Oh, yes?” she said cautiously.
“Essentially, you have two choices. Stay here and take over the day-to-day running of the department, where you will have to spend much more time in administration. Or help me set up this new Euro-nonsense. Where you would have to be junior to some Englishman or Dutchman or something and still have to spend much more time in administration. The second option will be exceptionally well paid, of course. Riches beyond the dreams of avarice. Tax free, as well. And more regular hours.”
“Which do you recommend?”
He shrugged. “I hope I have your services either way. Apart from that, you’ll have to make up your own mind on the matter.”
“When do I have to make up my mind?”
He made an expansive, all-the-time-in-the-world gesture. “End of the week? I hate to rush you, but I have to lay my plans. You can get some practice in this week. I’m going to be busy writing memos. Consider yourself on your own. And the eyes of the ministry are on us at the moment. If you could fend off all raids on the national gallery and the Presidential art collection until this is sorted out, I’d be grateful. And it would be best if raids we’ve been told about in advance didn’t happen.”
“Looks bad, you think?”
“Not ideal. Not ideal.”
Dan Menzies was a painstaking, methodical worker, labouring in a fashion which was totally at odds with both his bulk and his reputation. Despite the flamboyant gestures and the frequent use in his speech of dramatic metaphors—always talking about expunging this or that part in his campaigns of restoration—when engaged on a job he went slowly and extraordinarily carefully. Normally, of course, he commanded small armies of people, and it was typical of him that he talked in military terms while his more subtle colleagues headed teams. But that was for large projects, with lots of money. Then he would behave like an artistic General Patton, rushing from one place to another, shouting encouragement and advice and orders. But in this church he was on his own. He found it all strangely restful; he was restoring, he felt, more than the pictures. It was many a year now since he had worked alone, just him and the paint, trying to feel his way with his scalpel and his chemicals back to an instinctive idea of what the artist had in mind. And as he crouched there, oblivious of the hours passing by, and not even feeling the strain as his back muscles began to protest about the unfair treatment they were receiving, he realized that he was entirely happy. He must, he decided when the light had become so bad that he could work no longer, do this more often. Once a year, he thought as he stretched and washed the grime off his hands, he should do a painting on his own, with no one around. Well, maybe once every two.
Any of his colleagues in the restoring business, had they known about this tranquil, introspective mood would probably have been stunned into silence, so little did it fit his reputation or normal means of behaving. Menzies was known as something of a showman, never missing an opportunity to thrust himself into the limelight, and had earned plaudits and criticism in equal measure through the dramatic, and some said vainglorious, way in which he went about bringing pictures back to life. This he knew and accepted; it was an inevitable part of a competitive business, as far as he could see. For his own part, he thought he did his best, however much he might dress it up dramatically to please the audience. He also wanted very much to be liked, for he considered himself a likeable fellow, and never understood why his colleagues and rivals were so unfair. Dissimulation was simply an unknown skill, that was all. He had opinions, lots of opinions, and when someone asked him, he could never resist the opportunity of giving full chapter and verse. Was it his fault some of his rivals were fools?
And that was why he was here. He did not believe the best man won without working for it. There was a big project dangling there, waiting to be plucked, and he was determined to get it. If it meant spending six months in Rome in advance, that was part of the price. Restoring this dubious Caravaggio was a way of keeping himself occupied. A work of charity, just the sort of thing to arouse favourable comment. And a perfect excuse to be in the right place, talking to the right people as they made up their minds. It would be the high-point of his career, if he could get it. No one was going to stand in his way.
Suddenly, he was aware of a presence standing behind him, watching what he was doing. Bloody tourists, he thought. He tried to ignore the unpleasant sensation that tickled at his concentration, and succeeded for a while. But he ended up trying so hard not to be bothered that eventually he made a small mistake. His patience snapped.
“Piss off,” he said furiously, turning round to face the man. His eyes narrowed when he saw the figure, standing meekly there, foolish look on his face. That look of bovine stupidity on his face. Jesus.
“I’m sorry …”
“I don’t care if you’re sorry or not. Just go away. How the hell did you get in here, anyway?”
“Well, I …”
“You have no right to be in here. It’s not a public monument. Aren’t there enough of those in this city without you having to come barging in here?”
“I’m not …”
“Go on. Go away.”
The little man stood his ground, so Menzies, who weighed maybe twice as much as he did, lost his temper. He rose from his knees, walked over and grabbed him by the arm, then frogmarched him to the main door that led on to the street, taking the vast old key from the hook as he went. Unlocked it, pulled it open a foot or so, then ushered the man out.
“So nice to have met you,” he said sarcastically as the pathetic fellow walked blinking into the sunlight. “Do drop in again sometime. Like next century. Goodbye.”
And as he waved, Giulia, sitting on the steps of the church as she had been all that day, furtively took a photograph of Menzies waving in what seemed to be a friendly fashion. No reason to do so, but she was bored beyond endurance. Apart from spending her hours wondering whether the police was the right career for her, this was the first moment of excitement for hours. Then she scribbled down some notes, very precisely and carefully, leaving nothing out.
For the second night in a row, Argyll got back in the evening in the fond hope that this time he was going to get his quiet evening with Flavia. They didn’t seem to have had time to speak about anything at all for weeks and he was concerned that unless they got in a bit of practice, they might lose the knack entirely. He was a bit late himself this time, and walked in expecting her to be there already. She wasn’t. The apartment was occupied nonetheless.