Free Death and Restoration by Iain Pears Page B

Bartolo repeated. “If he gets his hands on the Farnesina it will be the biggest atrocity since the Sack of Rome.”
    “We?”’
    “Listen, Flavia, over the years I have never asked you for anything.”
    “No?”’
    “Not very much, anyway, and I’ve given you lots of information in return.”
    Flavia, who was now getting an uncomfortable feeling, nodded reluctantly.
    “Help us.”
    “How?”’
    “Oh, you know how. Is there anything on this man? Is there anything we can use to stop him?”’
    She gulped. “Not as far as I know. And I wouldn’t tell you anyway. It would only turn up in the papers tomorrow.”
    Bartolo looked distinctly displeased by this. “You expect me to dig up information for you …” he began.
    “I do. And you expect me to tip you the wink about certain things as well, and I do that. But this is asking too much. And you know it is, as well.”
    “I’m very disappointed.” And he sounded as though he meant it.
    “You don’t even know whether Menzies will get the job.”
    “No,” he conceded reluctantly.
    “I suppose there would be no harm in my asking my contacts how the candidates are running.”
    Bartolo smiled. “That is kind of you,” he said.
    “You’re welcome.” She paused for a moment. “Tell me, it wasn’t you who phoned us up to tell us about a burglary at San Giovanni, was it? To focus our attention on the place?”’ Bartolo looked shocked. “Certainly not,” he said robustly. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Menzies did it himself to generate some publicity. That’s just the sort of thing he does. I wonder, though …”
    Flavia held up her hands. “No,” she said.
    “No what?”’
    “No, I don’t want to hear.”
    “Very well,” he said, with the faintest flicker of glee in his eyes. “Thank you so much. I’m so glad you came.”
    “What for?”’
    “Wait and see.”
    The following morning, Flavia had not even managed to get out of the shower before the meaning of Bartolo’s words began to dawn on her. Bottando rang.
    “Could you go down to that monastery and see this Menzies man?”’ He sounded irritated.
    “Why?”’
    “He’ll meet you there. I’ve just had a load of abuse hurled at me down the telephone; he’s extremely annoyed and blaming us.”
    “But what for?”’
    “In between the shouting, I gather that some paper has published an article about him, saying the police are investigating his activities.”
    “What?”’
    “And that he’s been wasting police time by planting fake stories about thefts to generate publicity. Do you know anything about this?”’
    “Ah.”
    “You do. You haven’t been talking to journalists, have you?”’ He said it with a slightly incredulous inflection in his voice. In Bottando’s list of human sin, talking to journalists came somewhere between infanticide and arson.
    “No. But I probably know who has. Leave it to me. I’ll go and sort it all out.”
    “Don’t tell him who’s responsible,” Bottando said. “We don’t want a murder on our hands. And deal with it quickly, will you? I don’t have time for this sort of nonsense at the moment. And I don’t want complaints being made, either.”
    There was obviously no point in going to San Giovanni via the office; and no point in going too early and still less in trying to take a bus or taxi. So she and Argyll, in peaceful harmony for the first time in days after a successfully restful and uninterrupted evening together the previous night, had a quiet breakfast on their little terrace, watching the sun beginning to heat up the stones of the city, then walked off together in the direction of the Aventino just before eight. The gentle start successfully soothed Flavia’s irritation about Bartolo, who had obviously had the bright idea of using her to attack Menzies.
    Argyll accompanied her because he had nothing to do until a lecture on the early Borromini at noon, but had given up the guilty pleasure of sitting around