Free Death and Restoration by Iain Pears

him in the bureau was bursting out of its second folder. Smuggling, handling stolen goods, failure to report income, operating rings at auctions, excess zeal in authentication, fakery, the works. A lovely man he was, and a wholly delightful companion, full of entertaining anecdotes and worldly wisdom.
    Apart from the occasional fine, he had been left in peace; most of his victims were foreigners in any case and removing the money of strangers too stupid to know better was a centuries-old tradition which no mere police crackdown could ever prevent. Even getting the average Roman dealer to grasp that it was wrong was an uphill task. More importantly, he was a treasure trove of useful information and had never lied to Flavia once, as far as she knew.
    Which is why she had chosen today to go and check up on old clients, asking the same question of half a dozen dealers. Had they heard of any raids being planned?
    “Such as where?”’
    “A monastery called San Giovanni,” she said for the sixth time as they sat in the back room of Bartolo’s little gallery in the via dei Coronari, “We had a call, but it doesn’t add up. What we don’t know is whether it was a hoax or not. The one painting worth stealing is unstealable. A man called Menzies is restoring it.”
    Bartolo stiffened slightly, then nodded. “I understand. But I am afraid I can be of no help. I’ve heard of nothing being planned at all. Tell me what you know.”
    “That’s about all there is. Have you ever heard of a woman called Mary Verney?”’
    Bartolo frowned as he tried to figure out in advance the purpose of the question. Then he gave up and shook his head. “Who is she?”’
    “She’s a professional thief. A very good one.”
    “I see,” he said cautiously. Odd how dealers lost their joie de vivre when you asked them about thieves. “What’s she done?”’
    Flavia reeled off a list of thefts; Bartolo raised his eyebrow in unaffected astonishment. “Bless me,” he said. “Are you sure? I often wondered what happened to that Vermeer.”
    “Now you know. You’ve not heard of her?”’
    “Not by name. Obviously, I hear every now and then about professionals for hire, but as I have no inclinations in that direction myself, I never pursue the matter. Besides, these people are rarely as good as the legends claim.”
    “This one is. And she’s in Rome.”
    “I see. You think she might have Caravaggist inclinations?”’
    “Who knows?”’
    “Hmm. I will keep my ear to the ground, if you like. But I can’t help you much. I don’t remember ever hearing of this monastery before last week.”
    Flavia finished her meal and leant back for the waiter to take her plate away. “Last week? What happened last week?”’
    “This man Menzies.”
    “Ah, yes. I noticed that you turned a little pale when I mentioned him.”
    “Indeed. It’s fortunate you are here. You can help. He has to be stopped, you know.”
    “What are you talking about?”’
    “The Farnesina.”
    “What about it?”’
    Bartolo sighed. “You really don’t pay much attention to things, do you? The Farnesina project. Cleaning and restoring the Raphael frescoes. Galatea.”
    “Oh, yes. Now I’m with you.”
    “Good. A great masterpiece and one of the most important restoration projects for years. The ministry will be assigning the project in due course. There are two candidates—Dan Menzies and my friend Gianni d’Onofrio. Menzies has been lobbying hard to get it, saying that it should go to someone with an international profile, as he terms it. And he’s already lined up subsidies from rich Americans, which is the sort of thing poor Gianni can’t do. And Menzies is prepared to use methods which Gianni would never descend to.”
    “Who is this man of yours?”’
    “He works for the Borghese, and has a freelance business. He comes from a different tradition to Menzies. No university courses in restoration theory or any nonsense like that.”
    “I see.