Soderini, a powerful, striking man who didn’t mind who knew it, clearly relished the sound of his own voice and his position at the historic heart of Florence. Fratelli had predicted Julia would get five minutes of his time. He was wrong. At ten o’clock, as the former detective was marching towards his old Carabinieri stazione, muttering darkly with each step, she was still sitting on an ornate gilt chair opposite Sandro Soderini, listening to him talk history — that of his own line, mainly — and complain heatedly about the lack of funding that made the protection of the art of Florence — ‘the most precious in the world’ — from vandals, the elements, and the constant ravages of time, so difficult.
‘Everyone wants beauty,’ Soderini said. ‘Few realize it comes with a price. Does that help?’
‘It’s the psychology that interests me. Why people would wish to damage something wonderful. The attack in the Brancacci Chapel—’
‘That’s obvious, isn’t it? Envy. Ugliness hates its opposite. Wishes to damage it, if it can. In a way…’ He stroked his chin and stared at her across his desk. ‘It’s perfectly understandable. As for the Brancacci…’ He waved away this subject with the back of his hand, as if it were beneath him. ‘From what I understand, the damage is slight and easily rectified. They will redouble the security on that place, trawl the bars of Oltrarno for misfits and drunks, and pick a likely suspect from the dross they recover there.’
‘There may be more to the case than simple vandalism.’
‘I doubt it. I’m aware of your paper. I was merely trying to give you a little perspective on its subject.’
Julia smiled and said nothing.
Soderini broke the brief moment of discomfort.
‘I’ve arranged for you to meet Vanni Tornabuoni. He’s my arts commissioner. Another old name, though’ — he grinned at her — ‘one that has not prospered quite so much over the centuries.’
He passed over a note with a time, an address and a name on it.
‘On Thursday you will talk to my people in the Convent of San Marco. Savonarola’s old home. They are reworking much of the place and security is, I imagine, much on their mind.’
A thought came to Sandro Soderini. ‘So you want to see the Vasari Corridor?’
‘A friend suggested… It was just an idea.’
‘An excellent one, in the circumstances. The corridor begins a little way beyond that door. It reaches the Uffizi by a small bridge, then continues all the way along the riverfront, across the Arno, across the top of the shops on the Ponte Vecchio to the Pitti Palace.’
The smile turned into a broad, flashing beam.
‘Most people don’t know it’s there. Even if they did, they’d have no way of getting in.’ His tanned face broke into a vulpine smile. ‘We don’t show all our jewels to everyone.’
He reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a heavy set of very ancient keys.
‘But to a visiting English academic… In return for your being my guest for dinner, I will grant you access. Tornabuoni’s office is at the far end. In the Pitti. Faster than ploughing through sweaty tourists on the Ponte Vecchio.’
She couldn’t stop herself laughing. ‘I’m sorry…’
‘Dinner,’ he repeated. ‘The English do eat, don’t they?’
‘I don’t…’
Nothing more.
‘Ah,’ Soderini sighed. ‘You mistake my purpose. Or at least my invitation. We have a small supper club in Florence. Men, mainly. The first Thursday of each month. We ask along a select number of guests. It seemed to me you might be interested. A little light entertainment after the sterile gloom of San Marco.’
Julia was blushing. ‘I thought…’
‘I know what you thought. Perhaps another night for that. This is a select gathering. Twelve men and a few lady guests. A very private occasion. An old tradition that dates back to the thirteenth century. You can find it mentioned in Dante, in Boccaccio and Cavalcanti too.’
‘A tradition…?’
‘La Brigata Spendereccia. The Spendthrift Brigade, as you’d say in English. We eat what Dante might have eaten. We drink the rarest of Tuscan wines. We sing songs. We behave as if we are the most irresponsible, the richest, the most privileged men on earth — for one evening, anyway. And the next morning we trudge back to the office with aching heads. Childish, but for a single night only, and in something of a special place.’
‘Where?’ she asked immediately.
He held up the set of keys and chose one. It was long and old fashioned, the kind a jailer might use.
‘Later. If you wish. To walk down the Vasari Corridor is a privilege shown usually to statesmen and the most senior figures in the world of art. And the odd Florentine civil servant in the know who wishes to avoid the crowds.’ Soderini’s twinkling eye caught hers. ‘To pass an evening with La Brigata Spendereccia… That is something quite different. It’s also a secret society of a kind, so you must mention it to no one. That is an absolute condition. Agreed?’
He stood up and held out his hand. She nodded and took it.
Julia said. ‘Are you coming with me, Mr Mayor?’
‘Sandro. Please. For the Brigata I will be your guide. Be here on Thursday night at seven o’clock, please. Now…’ He frowned. ‘I have more boring work to do.’
He picked up the slim modern phone.
‘Fiorella will take you. I trust you’ll find Tornabuoni entertaining.’
‘Ambra Neri is adamant it would be good for my condition if I were involved in some kind of intellectual activity,’ Fratelli insisted. ‘I’m not asking for much, Walter. A desk even. Just the chance to see some files, knock on a few doors, stick my nose in where it’s not wanted…’
‘I rather thought you were doing that already.’
Marrone had eyed him suspiciously from the moment Fratelli walked through the door. The captain had the best office in the Carabinieri headquarters on the narrow Borgo Ognissanti, one with long windows looking out towards the church. This two-storey ochre building had been the focus of Fratelli’s life for two and a half decades, until he was dispatched to the exile of sick leave. He felt he knew every brick, each corner, every last noise, from the howl of frustrated officers struggling with a case to the complaints of the iron pipework that made up the ancient central heating system now groaning against the winter cold.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Rushing round to the Brancacci like that. Upsetting that pompous priest. With your pretty English girlfriend in tow…’
Fratelli threw up his hands. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. She’s young enough to be my daughter. A lodger sent by the Uffizi.’ He leaned across the desk and pointed at the man in the blue serge suit. ‘A very intelligent and perceptive young woman. She used to be a lawyer.’
Marrone frowned and said, ‘Who in God’s name gives up the law to be a student? Where’s the money in that?’
‘Not everything’s about money. I don’t pretend to understand her reasons.’ It occurred to him he should have asked. ‘All the same, I feel we may come to be grateful for her presence.’
‘We?’ Marrone cried. ‘There isn’t a “we” any more. You’re off the force.’
‘Strictly speaking I’m on sick leave—’
‘You’re off the force! And kindly don’t call me by my first name.’