Giotto's Hand

For the past month. Bottando’s counter-offensive had run into the sand. Argan had taken full possession of all the right words, like efficiency and results and cost-effectiveness, and Bottando had not worked out a way of opposing the man without seeming old. fusty and hidebound. He was reduced, therefore, to grumbling ferociously and hoping Argan would make a mistake. So far, patience had not been rewarded, mainly because Argan didn’t actually do anything except watch other people and say, with the benefit of hindsight, how it should have been done better.

“And how are we this morning?” said this walking insult to all the traditions of good policing. “Still solving those crimes, I hear. I couldn’t help overhearing your fascinating discourse on criminal detection.”

Bottando scowled at him. “I hope you found it instructive.”

“Very helpful, yes. An important Etruscan site robbed overnight, I see?”

That was the other trouble with him. He always had a quick look through the overnight reports so that he had this vague patina of being on top of things. Bottando had been diverted by Giotto and hadn’t got around to it yet.

“I know,” he replied steadily nonetheless. “But there’s not much we can do until we have a full report on what was stolen.” Always a safe remark, that.

“Oh, I think we should get involved a bit earlier than that. Nice case like this, looks very good. We have to keep up the department profile, after all. And the destruction of our heritage through the spoliation of sites of immense historical significance…”

And off he went, talking away as though he were instructing a class of five-year-olds. That was another problem with him, Bottando had once explained gloomily to a sympathetic colleague in Corruption one evening. Quite apart from the fact that he could never resist an opportunity to be didactic, Argan was more of a marketing executive than a policeman. He didn’t care how effective the department was as long as it looked good.

“Not our case yet,” Bottando repeated firmly as Argan was getting into his stride. “Unless you want to get a reputation for poaching. If you like I could telephone the Carabinieri and say you personally want to take over…”

“Oh, no. Of course, I bow to your experience in these matters,” Argan said. Much too smart to be caught out by an obvious ploy like that.

“So,” he went on, “what’s this conference with the lovely signorina about, then?”

The lovely signorina ground her teeth, and Bottando smiled. Argan was trying to charm his staff over on to his side. He was not really adopting the right approach with Flavia. Some of the others, however…

“The lovely signorina and I were planning our day,” said Bottando.

“This?” Argan said, picking up the letter disdainfully.

“I really must ask you not to read my mail without my permission.”

“Sorry,” Argan said, putting it down with an unapologetic smile and sitting beside Flavia on the sofa. She got up. “I imagine you won’t be doing anything with it. A thirty-year-old crime is hardly a high priority.”

“All crimes are a high priority,” Bottando said pompously.

“But some are more so than others, surely? And to concern yourself with an ancient affair and turn a blind eye to a robbery only last night…”

It was like talking to a brick wall, Bottando thought.

“How often do I have to explain that our main brief is to recover works of art?” he said testily. “Criminals are secondary. If a painting can be recovered, it doesn’t matter whether it vanished last night or thirty years or a century ago. And to miss an opportunity because we don’t make elementary checks would be a gross dereliction of our duty.”

“Of course,” Argan purred, giving way with suspicious grace. “You’re in charge. General. You’re in charge.”

And on that ambiguous note he left. Only afterwards did Bottando calm down enough to realize that much of the Giotto file had vanished with him.

“No,” said Jonathan Argyll with suitable concern that evening, as they sat companionably on the balcony of their apartment and felt the sun go down at long last. “It doesn’t sound good. You’ll have to nobble him.”

Flavia had spent much of their meal talking about the iniquities of Corrado Argan. It’s difficult to avoid a degree of obsession if you’ve spent the better part of the morning calming your boss down and persuading him that sober reason would be a better response than foot-stamping fury.

“What was this picture, anyway?” Argyll asked, considering then postponing a decision about doing the washing up. “Is it really worth going to investigate?”

She shook her head. “Not a clue. It’s meant to be by Uccello, a Madonna and child. Whether it is or not I couldn’t tell you. There’s no photograph of it and the descriptions aren’t very good.”

“It’s very diligent of you to take all this trouble.”