Charlie walked back through the cypress grove, the sickness bunched in his stomach. ‘Shit!’ he said vehemently. ‘Shit!’
The search squads had worked up through the gardens and were milling around in the driveway with nothing to do. Some lounged against cars and others squatted at the grass edge, smoking and talking. A police vehicle had been driven in behind his car and the radio was on like those near the gate lodge, so the stutter of conversation was overlaid by bursts of static-strained talk between controllers and radio operators. Robbery or no robbery, Charlie didn’t think it would take long for the ambassador to become annoyed at his property being trampled over by half the police feet in Italy.
Charlie entered through the side door. Police crowded the corridor, using the fish-mouthed fountain as a gathering point. Lady Billington was at the foot of the staircase, looking around her in bemusement at the activity. Her face relaxed when she recognized Charlie. ‘Would you believe all these people!’
She was carrying one of the cats and Charlie got the impression it arched its back towards him.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Charlie.
‘They’re not with you, are they?’
‘I meant about the robbery.’
She put her head to one side. ‘I wondered what it would be like not having them, didn’t I?’ she said. ‘Now I know.’
‘What’s it feel like?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Actually it’s you I feel sorry for; you’ve got to pay.’
One way or another, thought Charlie. He said, ‘What happened exactly?’
‘I was dressing when Hector came in to put away last night’s jewellery. He opened the safe and said, “Oh my God!” Every case we opened was empty.’
‘You heard nothing during the night?’
‘Not a thing.’ She shuddered. ‘Don’t like the idea of some awful man going through my things. They will be caught, won’t they?’
‘The police seem very determined.’
‘You thought the security was adequate.’
‘Everyone did.’
‘Hector’s dreadfully upset.’
‘He’s waiting for me now,’ said Charlie, excusing himself.
There was someone else in Billington’s study.
‘Wanted to talk your idea through with Henry Walsingham,’ said Billington. ‘Security.’
Momentarily Charlie was shielded by the ambassador. It lasted seconds but there was a bizarre, slow-motion surrealism about Walsingham’s approach. Charlie was confronted by a pale-faced man, with blond, near-white hair, a matching, drooped moustache and a stridently checked three-piece suit. Walsingham shook hands with a stiff, hinge-in-the-neck sort of movement that reminded Charlie of the national service subalterns who’d made him scrub coalhouses with a toothbrush. A stranger, decided Charlie, relieved: he was sure they’d never met before. But his stomach was still moving, loose-bowelled.
‘The more I think about it, the unhappier I become,’ declared Billington, returning to his desk after the formalities were over.
‘A sell-back was Inspector Moro’s first thought,’ said Charlie, taking the chair to the left of the desk. Walsingham sat in front, back upright, one leg crossed over the other. The trouser creases were sharp-edged and the brogues glimmered. Charlie recognized a hot-spoon job.
‘Is he happy about it?’ said the ambassador.
‘Hardly,’ said Charlie. ‘But he didn’t oppose it.’
‘What then?’
‘He knows it’s the most likely way the thieves will choose and wants us to work together.’ An idea began to form in Charlie’s mind; it had a conceited desperation about it, but it was feasible.
‘Are there any clues?’ The security man had a thin, weak voice.
‘A lot on the cliff,’ said Charlie. ‘One of them was injured getting around the metal protection. There’s sufficient blood for grouping. There are some clothes fibres, trapped on the spikes and at least one palm print.’
‘I think we can leave it to the police,’ said Billington.
‘The police want me to negotiate,’ said Charlie. ‘They’ve got enough for a conviction, not an arrest. That will come from the insurance arrangement.’
‘It would be unseemly for an ambassador of the Crown to deal with thugs.’ Billington retreated to his basic objection.
‘You don’t have to be involved,’ repeated Charlie. ‘All you have to do is wait for the contact. And tell me.’ As quickly as possible, so I can get the hell out of it.
‘You will liaise with the police?’
‘I’ve given Inspector Moro that undertaking.’ That was an exaggeration too, but Billington was on the hook again and this time Charlie couldn’t afford to lose him.
‘What do you think?’ the ambassador asked Walsingham.
‘I think official approval from the police is essential,’ the man replied guardedly.
‘Which I have,’ said Charlie. There wasn’t any point in buggering about with half-truths any more. Speed was what mattered.
‘Then I suppose it would be all right.’ Walsingham was still doubtful.
‘I’ll pass on any initial contact,’ agreed Billington suddenly. ‘But that’s all.’
‘That’s all I want.’
‘From that moment I don’t want any part of what follows. You’ll liaise entirely through Walsingham here. And, if there’s a return or whatever, you’re to handle it; nothing more to do with me.’
Typical bloody commander, thought Charlie, back at base camp out of the firing while everyone else gets their asses shot off. Beside him Walsingham uncrossed his legs and placed his bright shoes at attention. ‘What would you want me to do?’ he said to Charlie.
And you’re the sort of silly sod who marches off to the front whistling ‘Colonel Bogey’, thought Charlie; he decided the man’s moustache would make soup hazardous. ‘Contact numbers would be useful,’ he said.
The security man took a worn leather wallet from inside his jacket and Charlie half saw a faded regimental crest. Walsingham handed him a card with his private number as well as an embassy telephone listing.
‘Is that all?’ Walsingham was clearly disappointed.
‘Until there is any approach, there can’t be anything else, can there?’ said Charlie. Through the perpetual apprehension came the feeling of satisfaction he always got at winning.
‘I don’t want this to become embarrassing,’ insisted Billington.
‘Neither do I,’ said Charlie. All Billington had to lose was one and a half million pounds’ worth of shiny stones. Charlie had much more.
There was a Lancia interchanging with a Fiat behind him on the return drive from Ostia. It would be the police, Charlie knew. It would be wrong to overreact to Moro. If he let his nerves respond to every development like a bell-striker on a fairground ring-your-strength machine, he was going to create precisely the suspicion he was attempting to avoid. He was at the sharp end of a difficult situation. But he’d been in worse and got out…
Clarissa wasn’t at the hotel when he returned and Charlie was relieved. She was another problem that had to be solved. When he was working, properly working, Charlie didn’t like distractions. The robbery could be the excuse he had been looking for in bed that morning.
Charlie listened to Willoughby’s London number being dialled and was conscious of the concern in the underwriter’s voice when he came on the line. The embarrassment that Charlie felt at their earlier contact wasn’t there any more.
‘How bad is it?’ demanded Willoughby.
‘Bad,’ said Charlie. He gave a swift but complete account and when he finished Willoughby said, ‘There’s obviously a thief on the ambassador’s staff.’
‘Not obviously,’ said Charlie. ‘But possibly.’
‘You warned Billington of an approach?’
‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘He’s not keen.’
‘On recovering everything intact!’
‘He’s worried that any personal involvement would compromise him,’ said Charlie. ‘He’s talking about a settlement.’
‘That wouldn’t be easy,’ said Willoughby.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean two million pounds.’
He was going with Alice through the looking-glass and the room was getting smaller again. ‘Didn’t you spread the cover?’ said Charlie wearily. Just like Hong Kong and the liner fire.