Madrigal for Charlie Muffin (16 page)

‘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.

‘No.’

‘I didn’t think gambling and insurance went hand in hand,’ said Charlie.

‘I needed liquidity,’ said Willoughby. ‘Whoever would have thought Billington’s stuff could be stolen?’

‘Whoever took it,’ said Charlie unhelpfully.

‘What about obviation of policy if there isn’t a sell-back?’ said Willoughby.

‘Not a chance.’ Charlie would not give the man false hope. ‘I confirmed every item on the list twenty-four hours before it was taken. And there hadn’t been the slightest alteration to the protection as it’s described. You’re one hundred and one per cent liable.’

‘Thanks a million.’

‘Two million,’ corrected Charlie.

‘Is there any point in my coming out?’

Charlie glanced towards the closet where Clarissa’s clothes were tight-packed. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’

‘You’ve managed difficult things before.’

‘Not like this,’ said Charlie. He needed all the luck he could get.

In London Willoughby looked across the room towards the safe in which the observation reports were locked. He wouldn’t use them, he decided. He’d wait for another occasion to trap Clarissa. And knowing her it wouldn’t take long.

Henry Jackson was already waiting when Wilson and Naire-Hamilton entered the suite that had been established as a communal briefing room.

‘An up-to-date summary,’ demanded Wilson crisply.

‘We let Walsingham go out to the villa as instructed,’ said Jackson. ‘He got back to the embassy about an hour ago. We’ve spoken by telephone. He says the police believe there was inside help. From our own observation we identified police being moved in to watch the villa staff and put a cover on all embassy personnel with frequent access.’

‘What about the embassy?’

‘Not the panic that I’d hoped for. And I’ve had our people making a bloody nuisance of themselves to Walsingham and Semingford.’

‘What’s the security like?’ asked Naire-Hamilton.

‘Walsingham gave me a tour,’ said Jackson. ‘Seemed tight enough.’

‘You advised the embassy of my arrival?’ said Wilson.

‘Half an hour ago.’

‘Let’s see if I can shake the trees,’ said Wilson.

17

Clarissa sensed Charlie’s mood. She didn’t speak in the lift, but outside the hotel on the Via Sistina she looped both hands through his arm and hugged against him. Charlie glanced towards the Spanish Steps and isolated the unmarked police car with its boot-mounted aerial. He moved off in the opposite direction.

‘Why are we walking?’ she said.

‘Good for us,’ said Charlie. When the moment had come in the hotel room he’d ducked it, like a bloody fool. It wasn’t going to get any easier.

She pulled closer to him but didn’t say anything.

The Via Sistina is a street of small shops, none very fashionable, but Charlie went through the charade of stopping and staring and quickly identified the man following them in the reflection of a boutique window. He was small, in a double-breasted suit and a wide-brimmed hat, which was identifiable and made him an amateur at surveillance.

For positive confirmation Charlie crossed suddenly near the road junction by the theatre, as if he wanted to check the programme. The man darted after them. Clarissa was curious but said nothing.

With all the determination of the committed sightseer, which is what he wanted to appear in the subsequent reports to Moro, Charlie set a course for the Trevi fountain, the nearest landmark he could think of. There was the usual throng of tourists around the base of the monument when they arrived in the square. Clarissa immediately demanded a coin.

‘To make a wish work you’ve got to stand with your back to the fountain,’ Charlie said.

She did as she was instructed, closed her eyes and tossed the coin awkwardly over her head. Quickly glancing sideways Charlie saw the blue-suited man at the side parapet where the horse-drawn carriages were parked waiting for tourist fares.

‘Now you,’ said Clarissa.

‘Can’t afford it,’ said Charlie. Irritated with himself, he took her arm, guiding her through the crowd up to the higher balustrade. As they walked, Charlie saw one of the carriage horses start to urinate in a sudden, steaming burst, and from the way the policeman jumped Charlie guessed he hadn’t been able to get his feet out of the way in time.

There was a small café, with three tables wedged onto the pavement, but they were all occupied. It was cramped in the dark interior and smelled of yesterday’s garlic. Charlie ordered cognac with his coffee but predictably Clarissa refused alcohol. They sat unspeaking until the drinks were served and then Clarissa said, ‘Why not say it?’

‘I don’t want you to stay.’

‘I know.’

‘You could be in Menton by tonight.’

‘I don’t want to go to Menton.’

‘I’m working.’

‘And I’m in the way.’

Charlie swirled the liquor around the tiny balloon glass. ‘Something isn’t right,’ he said.

‘What do you mean.’

‘The robbery isn’t right. I don’t know what it is….’

‘You aren’t making sense.’

‘Nothing makes sense at the moment.’

‘I still don’t see why I can’t stay with you.’

‘I don’t think it’s safe.’

‘That sounds dramatic’

‘We were followed here. By the police.’

Clarissa stared wildly around the café. ‘Good Lord!’

‘What happens if they check with Rupert in London?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Of course you bloody know.’

‘Don’t shout.’

‘I’m sorry. Just go. Please.’

‘Slam, bam, thank you, ma’am?’

‘Your rules.’

‘You played.’

‘And now the game is over?’

‘It isn’t just that, is it?’ She put her hand on his arm.

Charlie could not hold the stare from the clear blue eyes.

‘Unless we’re sensible this is going to end up a real mess,’ he said.

‘So what?’

‘I don’t want it. For Rupert. Or for you.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You ran away after America.’

‘Yes.’ There was no doubt he had a talent for it.

‘Don’t run away this time.’

‘I’d like you to leave,’ he said doggedly.

Clarissa sighed. ‘I’m disappointed, Charlie.’

‘I didn’t make any promises.’

‘It wasn’t promises I wanted.’

‘What then?’

She considered an answer and then appeared to change her mind. ‘Don’t come back to the hotel with me,’ she said.

‘All right.’

‘See you in London,’ she said and Charlie knew she meant it. He said nothing.

He followed her as far as the café door. As she walked away, Charlie watched men’s heads turn and he felt pride, not jealousy. The blue-suited detective shifted and then relaxed again against the balustrade overlooking the fountain. Charlie saw someone else move away from the crowd. It could have been coincidence, because there was a constant flow of people along the approach roads, but he didn’t think it was. The man was wearing a grey suit and Charlie had the feeling he had seen him before.

The meal began in frigid silence, like all the others. After a few moments Semingford pushed his plate away, food untouched.

‘Something wrong?’

‘No.’

‘What then?’ Ann Semingford was an angular, sharp-featured woman who had responded to her husband’s neglect by neglecting herself. The smock dress was the one she had been wearing for most of the week and her hair hung lankly around a face that was shiny without make-up.

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Love!’

‘I want to talk.’

‘That’ll make a change.’

‘I want a divorce, Ann.’

She stopped eating. ‘The moment of truth!’ she said, striking a pose.

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘Isn’t it you who’s being stupid?’

‘What’s the point of either of us bothering?’

‘You know how I feel about divorce.’

‘That’s hypocritical, in the circumstances. Do you want me just to walk out?’

‘I don’t think you’d do that, Richard. It would hardly help your career, would it?’

‘Bugger my career.’

‘Since when?’

‘It isn’t important any more.’

‘What is?’

‘Finding a way to be with Jane.’

18

Sir Alistair Wilson entered the embassy through the main entrance off the Via Settembre, identified himself at the reception area and signed in. Walsingham appeared within minutes, hurrying across the marble vestibule. He was heavier jowled than he appeared in the personnel photographs, with the beginning of a paunch corseted by the waistcoat of a brown-checked suit.

‘Sir Alistair Wilson?’ said Walsingham tentatively.

Wilson extended his hand. Walsingham’s response was wet-palmed.

‘I’ve told the ambassador you were coming,’ he said eagerly.

‘Thank you,’ said Wilson. The security officer appeared more nervous than Wilson would have expected.

‘He said to let him know if you wanted to see him.’ Walsingham hesitated and added, ‘Actually he was surprised you hadn’t approached him.’

‘Is there an office we can go to?’ said Wilson.

The abruptness seemed to unsettle Walsingham even further. He hesitated and then said, ‘Certainly.’

Wilson walked in silence along the echoing corridor, conscious of the occasional look of curiosity from people they passed. It had clearly been a minor palace in the past and Wilson admired the gracious marble and panelling. Walsingham’s office was on the second floor, at the rear of the building, overlooking the Via Cernaia. Wilson noted the soldierly tidiness about everything.

‘I was in the middle of preparing the report when I heard you were coming,’ said Walsingham.

‘About what?’

‘The robbery, of course. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

The man was very much on edge. Wilson didn’t think Walsingham would have made a good interrogator: which was probably why he’d been passed over twice for promotion. ‘No,’ he said.

‘I thought Mr Jackson was supervising the Summit arrangements?’

‘He is.’

Walsingham smiled feebly. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

‘Did you know your wife was a member of the Communist party in Australia?’ said Wilson sharply.

Walsingham made an indeterminate sound, somewhere between a laugh and a grunt of disbelief. ‘Of course I knew.’

‘It’s not on the antecedent records. Or in the personnel file.’

‘It was when she was at school, for God’s sake! Imagined herself in love with some student and joined because he did, to be in the same place. The membership ended when the romance did. She thought they were a lot of bloody fools, rushing about with banners protesting about the Vietnam war.’

‘It wasn’t recorded.’

‘Because neither of us thought anything about it. I belonged to the Scouts but I didn’t record that.’

‘You were an officer cadet, too. You put that down.’

‘Because it was relevant to my going into the army and not directly joining the diplomatic service.’

‘Who decided to leave it out, you or she?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘Try.’

Walsingham’s hand was at his face, as if the skin irritated. ‘I really can’t remember. It was not a conscious decision, something we discussed.’

‘But it was,’ said Wilson. ‘She told you about it in the first place.’

‘Not about belonging to some daft organization. It was one of those honesty things; admitting all the previous romances, so we would start married life without any secrets. It was the student she told me about: the party membership was incidental. Didn’t you do that sort of thing with your wife?’

‘No,’ said Wilson coldly.

‘Surely you haven’t come all the way from London to ask me about something as unimportant as that!’ said Walsingham. The nervousness had melted into outrage.

‘Perhaps it isn’t unimportant.’

‘Ask my wife.’

‘Why don’t we?’

Walsingham’s fifth-floor apartment was situated near the river, in an old building without a lift. The staircase spiralled around the walls, creating an open central tunnel down which it was possible to look from the top to the bottom. They climbed in hostile silence. Walsingham had asked to telephone, but Wilson forbade it, not wanting to permit the woman any preparation.

‘Here we are.’ There was the sound of a radio playing inside the apartment.