The Last Judgement. Iain Pears

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       4

      ‘In that case I suggest you get him to trot down to the Carabinieri and make a statement. Do it now, in fact,’ Bottando said, drumming his fingers on the desk. A definite irritant. More than many, his department had to work closely with the trade; today’s witness was frequently tomorrow’s defendant. It was a fine business, not to get too close to people who were, at least, liable to come under suspicion. And in the world of Italian crime and politics, accusations of corruption were easily made. The connection of Argyll and Flavia, when allied to a murder and the wrath of Fabriano, had considerable potential for trouble. What was more, Flavia knew that very well. It was perfectly understandable that she should want to keep her private life away from Fabriano’s baleful gaze, but she should have known better.

      ‘I know. I should have come clean. But you know what he’s like. Jonathan would be locked up and emerge with bruises, just to teach me a lesson. Anyway, I’ve tried to get hold of him. He’s out. But I’ll see him and take a statement myself, not that there can be any connection of importance. I’ll send it to Fabriano tomorrow.’

      Bottando grunted. Not perfect, but it would do. ‘Apart from that, is there anything for you to do on this case? Anything that concerns us?’

      ‘Not obviously so, no. At least, not yet. Fabriano’s going to do all the legwork. Talk to the people at Muller’s office, find out his movements, and so on. Apparently he has a sister in Montreal who may come over. If anything turns up which might concern us, I have no doubt he’ll let us know.’

      ‘Still as obnoxious, is he?’

      ‘Even worse. Getting into homicide seems to have turned his head.’

      ‘I see. Good. In that case, until you talk to Mr Argyll, you may as well amuse yourself with daily routine. Now, how do you fancy doing something with that computer?’

      Flavia’s face fell. ‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘Not the computer.’

      He’d expected that. This awful machine was supposed, by the designers, to be the last word in detection techniques. The idea behind it was to be the Delphic oracle of art police around the world. Each force in each country could enter details of paintings and things into it, and even photographs of missing pieces. Other forces could then access this information, look through it, recognize objects that were on sale at dealers, go round, arrest, prosecute and return the stolen goods to their real owners. The committee behind it had fondly expected that art theft would dwindle away to almost nothing overnight when the forces of law and order were provided with such an awesomely sophisticated weapon.

      But.

      The trouble with the thing was that it was a bit too Delphic. Call up a picture of a lake by Monet, and you were likely to get a photograph of a Renaissance silver chalice. Other times it would produce rows of gibberish or, worst of all, the dreaded phrase in eight languages, ‘Service temporarily suspended. Please try again.’

      According to a technician who had been called in to look at it, it was a marvellous product of European co-operation. A perfect symbol of the continent, he said in abstract philosophic vein as the machine had, yet again, insisted that a Futurist sculpture was a long-lost masterpiece by Masaccio. Specification by the Germans; hardware by the Italians; software by the British; telecommunication links by the French. Put it all together and naturally it didn’t work. Did anyone really expect it to? He left eventually, recommending the postal system. More reliable, he said gloomily.

      ‘Please, Flavia. We have to use it.’

      ‘But it’s useless.’

      ‘I know it’s useless. That’s not the point. This is an international venture which cost a fortune. If we don’t use it periodically we’ll be asked why not. Good heavens, woman, last time I went into the room the monitor was being used as a plant-stand. How would that look if anyone from the budget committee came around?’

      ‘No.’

      Bottando sighed. Somehow or other he seemed to have trouble projecting his authority, despite holding the rank of general. Think of Napoleon, for example. If he issued an order, did his subordinates snort derisively and refuse to pay a blind bit of attention? If Caesar ordered an immediate flanking movement, did his lieutenants look up from their newspapers and say they were a bit tired at the moment, how about next Wednesday? They did not. Of course, the fact that Flavia was perfectly correct weakened his case a little. But that was not the point. It was time to exert control. Discipline.

      ‘Please?’ he said appealingly.

      ‘Oh, all right,’ she said eventually. ‘I’ll switch it on. Tell you what, I’ll leave it on all night. How about that?’

      ‘Splendid, my dear. I’m so grateful.’