One of those deep, drugged sleeps as well, where you are aware of being all but dead, know you should wake up but can’t do anything about it. And where you wake up sluggish and disoriented, especially if it is sudden and unexpected. Such as when you are brought round by someone shouting loudly and furiously in your ear.
“Go away,” she murmured, wanting nothing in the entire world except to be left alone to sleep some more.
“I will not,” she heard. “I want some answers and I want them damn fast. And as there’s no real policeman here, you’ll have to do.”
She forced open an eye, focused vaguely and after her brain had clanked ineffectually for a few seconds not only recognized Dan Menzies, but even recalled something about him.
Waking herself and pulling herself upright was one of the bravest things she had ever done.
“Now listen …” Menzies said, pointing aggressively at her. She couldn’t even feel annoyed yet. Instead, she waved her hand vaguely and staggered out into the corridor and to the coffee machine where she downed an espresso in a gulp. Then she went and stole one of the strong cigarettes Paolo habitually smoked, lit it, hacked away at the sudden shock to her throat, and felt human again.
“Now,” she said when she got back to her office. “What can I do for you, Mr Menzies?”
Oddly, she had behaved perfectly. Menzies had worked himself into a fit of indignation before he arrived, but being treated so dismissively by someone who seemed not at all alarmed by his rage threw him off his stride. In truth, Flavia would, in other circumstances, have been a little more sympathetic. She took it for granted that Alberto had found him. It is not pleasant, if you are quietly restoring away, to be hauled off for questioning about a murder. A less volatile person than Menzies might well be annoyed.
He thrust a copy of the latest paper at her, and waggled it under her nose. She dutifully took it and read. It was another attack, containing details of the robbery in San Giovanni and vaguely suggesting that if you let American restorers into your house then naturally you’d expect to find bits of cutlery missing from the cabinet. Bartolo at it again. She’d phoned him to complain about what he was doing, but he had denied all knowledge of it. Lying through his teeth. She half considered dusting off his file to dig out one or two little matters to confront him with. A warning shot to indicate her displeasure. But she didn’t have time. He would have to wait until this was cleared up.
She did wish Bottando was around. He’d been spending his time on the phone and sloping around embassies seeing what, if any, real support there was for this project he’d been put in charge of. Normally he would have dealt with someone like Menzies. One of the aspects of his job she didn’t welcome taking on. Perhaps she should go with him after all. There are advantages to being subordinate.
“Hmm,” she said usefully. What else was she meant to say?
“And what do you imagine will be in there tomorrow, eh? Once you’ve rung them up? They’ll accuse me of murder next. I know it.”
“Well …”
They wouldn’t, of course. All they’d do was link the various bits together. Menzies has a reputation for assaulting people. Menzies sees Burckhardt two days before the murder. Burckhardt dies. No other suspects. Leave it to the reader to decide. Bartolo would make sure all the right people at the Beni Artistici saw it.
Menzies was not impressed. “I’ve spent the last three hours being asked stupid questions. Did I shoot Peter Burckhardt? Good God, it’s disgraceful. What are you going to do about it?”
She blinked a couple of times and yawned. “What am I meant to do?”
“Stop it, of course. I tell you, if you don’t …”
“Free press, Mr Menzies,” she said wearily. “I can’t stop anything. You should see what they say about us on occasion.”
“You can stop feeding them the information.”
“Oh, not again …”
“Look,” he said, jabbing his finger at the article. ““Police sources say …” That’s you, isn’t it? How else could they know all these details? They must have come from you.”
“I’m sorry, but …”
“They didn’t come from me, and Father Jean assures me no one in San Giovanni has talked to the press. That leaves you. And I’m telling you to stop.”
“I can assure you as well, if you like. I have not said a word to any journalist, about this or anything else. And I’d be very surprised if anyone else has either.”
“You think they got all this detail by inspired guesswork?” he shouted, getting redder in the face and beginning to work himself into his old frenzy again. “Don’t give me that. I’m not a complete fool. I’m going to complain—”
“To your old friend the ambassador. I know. If you must, you must. I can’t stop you. But it won’t do any good. We never give details of a case to the press if we can help it. And we haven’t in this case either.”
“Who did, then?”
“I’ve no idea, and frankly, at the moment, I couldn’t care less. I would suggest someone from the carabinieri; they’re talkative, but …”
“There you are then.”
“But,” she continued. “If I remember rightly the first story appeared before the carabinieri had anything to do with the place. So it can’t be them.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Nothing,” she said. “You’re on your own, I’m afraid.”
“Thank you very much.”
“What do you expect? The only thing I can do is find out what’s been going on. And to help with that I might as well ask you a few questions, as you’re here. Sit down.”
“I’ll do no such thing …”
“Sit down!” she shouted suddenly, her patience snapping. Menzies, completely taken by surprise, did as he was told.
“Thank you,” she said. Then summoned Giulia from next door.
“What’s she here for?”
“To take notes. Now, let’s go through this stage by stage, shall we? Why didn’t you mention Burckhardt when we interviewed you the day before.”
He squirmed a little. “Why should I have done?”
“Icon dealer in a church the day before an icon is stolen? That didn’t strike you as being important?”
“At the time, no.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t know who he was.”
Flavia looked scornful. “You beat him up in Toronto.”
“I did not. I simply threw a little water at him.”
“It was still in the glass.”
“I didn’t mean to. I got carried away.”
“Exactly my point. And, no doubt, the point the papers will be making.”
“I saw him for five minutes. And I didn’t remember who he was until later.”
“Come now.”
“It’s true. I don’t know anything about icons or icon dealers. I didn’t know who Burckhardt was. In Toronto, all I knew was that some little squirt in the audience dared to criticize me from a standpoint of total ignorance, and renewed his attack afterwards. Maybe I had had a little too much to drink. But it was such a minor incident, I forgot all about it. I vaguely recognized him in the church. But I only remembered when the carabinieri told me he was dead and showed me a photograph.”
Flavia grunted. There was such a combination of injury, anger and embarrassment coming from the man she doubted anyone could fake such a cocktail. She didn’t necessarily believe him, but there was nothing to be done about it at the moment.
“When Burckhardt appeared in the church, did he walk straight up to you?”
“I don’t know. I was concentrating. I only noticed him when I heard him behind me.”