The Immaculate Deception. Iain Pears

had noticed. Damn. Flavia felt genuinely, truly remorseful.

      ‘You once told me prime ministers can ruin your life,’ she said.

      ‘So they can. Especially if you get in their way. What have you got to do with prime ministers?’

      With a brief preface about injunctions placed on her for silence, she told him.

      Bottando listened intently, scratched his chin, stared at the ceiling and grunted as the tale progressed, just as he always did when they had talked over a problem in the old days. And as the story continued, Flavia saw the slightest gleam come into his eyes, like an old and battered flashlight given a new battery.

      ‘Aaah,’ he said with satisfaction as she finished, leaning back in his chair, gorged on the tale. ‘I can quite see why you want a second opinion. Most interesting.’

      ‘Exactly. The first question that strikes me, of course, is why such interest from on high? I mean, urgent meetings with the prime minister because of a picture?’

      ‘I suppose you have to take the explanation about the EU presidency at face value,’ Bottando said thoughtfully. ‘If I remember, they want to make law and order their top priority. Old Sabauda will have a hard time pontificating about security if everybody is sniggering at him behind their memoranda all the while. No politician likes to look silly. They’re very touchy on the subject; that’s why they confuse their egos with the national interest so often.’

      ‘Maybe. Nevertheless, it strikes me that should anything go wrong, and there is a good chance that it will, then I am in a somewhat exposed position.’

      ‘Nothing on paper, I take it?’

      Flavia shook her head. Bottando nodded appreciatively.

      ‘I thought not. And the only other person to hear what was said was old Macchioli. Who is as malleable as a piece of lead sheeting.’

      More thought. ‘Let’s say it goes wrong. Everything appears in the paper, big scandal. Indignant prime minister says that he gave you instructions personally to drop everything and recover the painting, yet you did nothing about it. Hmm?’

      Flavia nodded.

      ‘Even worse, news takes some time to get out. Same indignant prime minister expressing shock that a policewoman should go around raising cash from unnamed sources to pay a ransom.’

      Another nod. ‘I could go to prison for that.’

      ‘So you could, my dear. Two years, not counting anything that might be tagged on for corruption and conspiracy.’

      ‘And if everything goes well …’

      ‘If everything goes well, and you get the picture back, you will have performed a sterling service, which no one will know about. But you will know that the prime minister – a man who has many enemies and who has been around so long his skills as a survivor should never be underestimated – connived to get around the law so he could look good strutting the international stage. Knowledge, sometimes, can be a dangerous thing. Were you more ruthless, you could perhaps apply a little pressure on him, but he is more likely to see you as an ever-present threat and take the appropriate action. Something subtle, so that if you ever said anything, the response could be along the lines of “poor embittered woman, trying to create a fuss because she was dismissed for incompetence". Or corruption, or gross indecency, or something like that. Enough to make sure no one took you seriously. As I say, prime ministers can ruin your life.’

      Flavia felt her heart sinking as he spoke. Everything he said she had known, of course; having it spelled out in quite such a bald fashion did not raise her morale.

      ‘Recommendations?’

      Bottando grunted. ‘More difficult. What are your options, now? A strategic but untraceable leak to the press, followed by a public promise on your part to leave no stone unturned, etcetera? It would eliminate the prospect of going to gaol at some future date, but pretty much ensure that prime ministerial wrath would descend on you with full force. End of a promising career. Do as you are told? Bad idea, for obvious reasons, especially as Macchioli would say on oath that you had been specifically instructed not to pay a penny.’

      ‘Doesn’t leave much, does it?’

      ‘Not at the moment, no. Tell me, this ransom money, where is it to come from?’

      ‘I have no idea. Maybe an extremely wealthy patriot will suddenly wander through the door with a chequebook.’

      ‘Stranger things have happened. Let us assume that the money turns up. What then?’

      ‘Get the picture back. Then go after whoever was responsible. They might do it again, after all.’

      Bottando shook his head. ‘Bad idea. What you must do is keep your head down. Do as you are told, and nothing else.’

      ‘But I’m not sure what I have been told to do. That’s the trouble.’

      ‘I am merely trying to indicate that, when faced with deviousness, you must be devious yourself. You might also consider the wisdom of putting everything down on paper in front of a lawyer, so that, if necessary, your understanding of the meeting is clear.’

      Flavia grunted, in exactly the same manner as Bottando used to do himself when she had proposed a distasteful idea and he had acted the part of cautious superior. The general noticed the sound, and all it implied, and smiled gently. For he also, in his way, felt slightly sorry for Flavia. Position and authority were not without their disadvantages, and having to be careful and responsible were among the biggest.

      ‘I don’t suppose you would like to help …’

      ‘Me?’ Bottando chuckled. ‘Dear me no. I most certainly would not. I am too old, my dear, to be running around with suitcases full of money under my arm. Besides, I must plead self-interest.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘I am bored, Flavia,’ he said mournfully. ‘Bored out of my head. I have been sitting here pushing little bits of paper around for a year. I give orders to people who give orders to people who do some policing occasionally but spend most of their time constructing international directives. So I have decided that enough is enough. I am going to retire. My pension will be very much less than I had anticipated but quite sufficient. And I do not want to risk it at the moment. I will willingly give you any advice you want. And when I am finally retired any assistance you want as well. But at the moment, I must keep my head down as much as you.’

      ‘I’m really sorry you’re going,’ she said, suddenly afflicted by an enormous sense of panic and loss.

      ‘You’ll survive without me, I dare say. And my mind is quite made up. Even the most fascinating job palls after a while and, as you may have noticed, what I’m doing at the moment is not especially fascinating. By the way, those chocolates. Did you say Belgian?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Ah.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘No reason. Merely a detail. Always thought them overrated, myself.’

      She stood up, looking at her watch. Late, late, late. Was it always to be like this now? Constant meetings, constant rush? Never time to sit and talk any more? After several decades of it, she’d be ready to give it all up as well. She gave Bottando a brief embrace, told him to keep himself ready to give more advice, and headed back to her car. The driver was sound asleep on the back seat, waiting for her. Lucky man, she thought as she prodded him awake.

       3

      She was home early, even before Jonathan, and drank a glass of wine on the terrace – her promotion, their marriage and the fact that even Jonathan now had a regular salary of a sort meant that, finally, they could afford an apartment they