Iain Pears - The Raphael Affair

Then he deployed his forces to interview the partygoers, and himself went over to the National Museum to brief the director, as well as to talk to the man’s principal enemies. Not all of them. There weren’t enough hours in the day.

The briefing was tense, with Tommaso feigning concerned affability and Bottando pretending he hadn’t noticed anything, so it was with considerable relief that he turned to the miscellaneous witnesses and suspects, whom he suspected would be more agreeable company. He started with Manzoni, summoning him to Ferraro’s office, which he’d taken over for the duration. The restorer came in, moving uneasily and looking like a wreck. Bottando wasn’t certain whether it was from emotional distress about the picture or the after-effects of his drinking the night before. He didn’t ask.

The questioning, on the whole, was routine. Where was he, who did he talk to, and so on. All accounted for up to the moment when he had wandered away from Bottando. ‘And then?’

‘To be perfectly frank, I can’t remember. I haven’t the faintest idea who I talked to. I remember lecturing someone about the restoration of prints. I know that, because I thought to myself that, if I’d been sober, I’d realise I was being extraordinarily dull.’

Bottando considered this and then, with apparent indifference, started off on another tack. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘were you one of the people who did the tests on that picture? I looked through the report the other day. You signed it, didn’t you?’

Manzoni nodded. ‘I did. I was in charge of the operation. The actual tests were carried out by the English experts called in by Byrnes who were more familiar with the machinery.’

‘I see. So Byrnes’s people actually had their hands on the painting?’ The man nodded.

‘And you were entirely satisfied?’

‘Of course,’ he said a little primly. The question had evidently pricked at his pride. ‘If I hadn’t been I would have said so. They were men of the highest reputation. The picture passed every test with room to spare. I didn’t have a shred of doubt.’ He stopped and bit his thumbnail thoughtfully, then looked up. ‘At least I didn’t until about thirty seconds ago.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bottando uncomfortably, conscious of a certain lack of subtlety in his interviewing technique.

‘Not all technicians are idiots, you know,’ the man continued, the slightly priggish air growing, rather than fading in strength as he spoke.

‘Tommaso’s reputation rested on that Raphael. But if there’s something wrong with it, Tommaso’s credit-rating falls and Spello will get the job. It was burnt either as a way of getting at him or for some other motive. You, for no apparent reason, are spending some time reading the technical reports when presumably you have more urgent things to worry about. Which leads me to suspect...’

‘Which leads you to suspect nothing whatsoever. But you’ve got a good imagination.’ Bottando hurriedly got up to end the interview, feeling slightly alarmed at the way the conversation had run away from him. Hung over or not, that young man had forged connections far too fast. He didn’t like it.

He accompanied the restorer to the door, showing him out into the small anteroom that was normally occupied by the secretary. His next candidate sat there, placidly waiting.

‘I see you’re going to have a busy day,’ Manzoni said by way of farewell, ‘but I’d like to talk to you again, if you don’t mind. If you want I’ll go through the report again and see if there were any holes.’

‘Could there be any?’

‘I’d rather read it again first, to make sure of my facts. And give it a bit of quiet thought. Besides, I don’t want to disrupt your schedule. Maybe I could come round to your office after work to give you my impressions? About seven this evening?’

Bottando agreed, watched him go, then turned to ask Spello to come in. One down, eighty to go, he thought. Maybe Flavia can help out this afternoon. He watched the Etruscan specialist sit himself cautiously into the chair, and considered how best to start the questioning.

He needn’t have bothered. Spello began on his own, with a forthright statement of fact. ‘You’re talking to me because I’m one of your more promising arsonists,’ he stated. ‘Jilted out of my rightful job as the next director by Tommaso’s machinations.’

‘So, burned up inside, you took your revenge by burning up his prize picture?’

Spello smiled. ‘And thus, at a stroke, creating a scandal, wrecking Tommaso’s power to recommend anyone and assuring myself of the job. Easily done, especially as you’d already told me it was a fake, so there was no harm done. No. I did nothing of the sort, but I admit it’s a convincing hypothesis.’

‘Except, of course, that our main evidence of faking has been considerably weakened. The painting may well have been genuine.’

The man blanched visibly at the statement. Why was that? Simple objective distress at the loss? Bottando felt intensely awkward. Spello seemed positively eager to explain why he should be arrested immediately.

‘Were you ever alone yesterday evening? Could you have slipped off without anyone noticing?’

‘Nothing simpler. I hate those gatherings. I have to turn up, but I find the heat, the conversation and the company oppressive. I normally sneak off and go and read a book or something to recover myself, then go back again. I was up here for about an hour yesterday evening. All on my own. No one saw me come, no one saw me go.’

How distressingly honest. If he’d wanted to make life easy for the police, he should either have come up with a cast-iron alibi, or with one that could be undermined. Candidly admitting he had none at all made everything very much more difficult.

‘When I told you about the possible forgery, you kept it to yourself,’ Bottando began, swinging on to a new line. He was not happy. So far his performance at these interviews, where he was meant to be so masterfully in charge, was not at all good. He had lost the upper hand with the restorer, and seemed to be repeating the process with Spello. Perhaps the pressure was beginning to tell on him. ‘If you’d really been after the directorship you would have started spreading rumours, surely?’

Spello shook his head. ‘Not necessarily,’ he said in a reasonable and distant tone. ‘Firstly, it could have been traced back to me. Secondly, without proof, Tommaso could brazen it out and put the rumours down to a smear campaign by the discontented — which it would have been. I’m still very doubtful. No matter what Manzoni thinks, I doubt he’ll be able to punch a hole in those tests.’

Bottando grunted, and tried again. ‘The fire alarm,’ he pointed out. ‘How did you do that?’ He noticed that he’d stopped using the hypothetical language of conditional clauses. Spello noticed it as well, and for the first time the policeman saw a flicker of unease on the old man’s face.

‘If I did,’ he replied with emphasis, ‘I did what was actually done. Removed the perfectly good fuse, and replaced it with one that was burnt out. Thus, it would seem as though the fuse blew at random.’

Bottando sat up in his seat. ‘How do you know that’s what happened?’ he asked.

‘I talked to the electrician. He’s an old fogey like me. Been here for years, like me. We’ve always got on well. He was a bit upset when he saw the fuse. Said he was sure he’d changed it over and put a new one in. Not at all like the well-used one found in the slot. I thought it was obvious; they’d been swapped. Chances were that no one would notice, or draw any conclusions if they did.’

Bottando sat silently, thinking it over. Spello’s account made perfectly good sense, and at least solved one problem of how it was done. It also tended to swing suspicion more firmly on Spello. Who realised it.