“A week,” he said sullenly. “But I was short of money.”
“What had you been in for? Now, what was it? A picture, wasn’t it? Fra Angelico, if I remember. We were quite surprised. A bit out of your league, that sort of thing. Got off very lightly, as well. How long was it? Six months?”
“Nine,” he said.
“Tell me about it. You were caught on the border, weren’t you? So near and yet so far. How did you steal the thing in the first place without getting caught?”
Sandano fiddled with his drink and lit a cigarette. Then, very reluctantly, he said: “I didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?”
“Didn’t steal it.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Come now. You admitted it. And you were caught with it in the back of your car.”
“I still didn’t steal it.”
“So why plead guilty?”
“ ’Cos I was offered a deal. I’d help the local Carabinieri to clean that one up without the need to call you lot in from Rome, and they agreed to forget one or two other little matters as well.”
“Was this the Meissen?” she asked, referring to a highly valuable eighteenth-century porcelain dinner service he’d stolen from a house by dropping it from a third-floor window into the arms of a waiting accomplice. As usual, his planning had slipped up.
“Yes,” he said sorrowfully. “My own silly fault, that one. No doubt about it. Still haven’t figured out why my brother was waiting round the other side of the building. But otherwise it was a good idea. It was only the noise of the stuff smashing that alerted the police, you know.”
“Yes. Tough luck, that. So you just confessed to stealing a picture when you hadn’t? That’s a bit stupid, isn’t it?”
“No need to get personal. They told me that they knew I’d done it, and wouldn’t budge no matter how much I said I was only the courier. They said that if I’d confess, they’d get a light sentence for me and forget the Meissen.”
“They kept their word, didn’t they?”
“Oh, yes. I’m not complaining about that. But the fact remains that I didn’t do it.”
“Ah, poor you,” she said sympathetically. “Don’t tell me. You really found the picture in a dustbin, and thought it would make a nice present for your mum. So you put it in the car and before you could gift-wrap it and hand it over, these horrible suspicious police jumped you.”
“Close.”
Flavia gave him the sort of look appropriate for a person who is becoming extremely tiresome.
“Look, I’m telling you the truth,” he said indignantly. “I was rung up and asked if I wanted a job. As a runner, to take a package over the border. Five million lire for a day’s work. Two and a half million in advance. So I asked what it was, and this man said a package…”
“Which man?”
Sandano looked scornful. “A friend of a friend of a friend. Someone who occasionally puts a bit of work my way. None of my business who’s behind it all. I was to pick it up from the left luggage at the railway station, and deposit it in the left luggage at Zurich. Then I was to send the key to a post office box number in Berne. When it arrived safely, then I’d be sent the rest of my money.
“Before you ask, I had no idea then who it was. At the time. That was why my story didn’t convince the Carabinieri.”
“At the time,” Flavia repeated. “What does that mean?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because I can make your life hell if I want to. And because I will look favourably on your case the next time you get pinched for something. Which is only a matter of time. Think of it as an insurance policy. Who did steal it?”
Sandano twiddled his fingers and looked furtive, cunning and then sly as well. An ugly combination.
“You won’t mention my name?”
“Heaven forfend.”
“And you remember people who do you favours?”
“Giacomo. Do I look like someone who forgets her friends? Or her enemies? Tell me what you know.”
Sandano paused and took a deep breath. “OK. But I’m trusting you, mind.”
“Get on with it.”
“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.