Brian Freemantle - Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

‘It can’t have been easy,’ said Charlie.

‘It wasn’t,’ said Moro. ‘One of them must be quite badly hurt. It happened on the way out, otherwise there would have been bloodstains inside the house. There’s a lot of blood on the metalwork and smeared against the grass on the other side. We’ll be able to get a grouping and at least part if not all of a palm print.’

‘It’s a hand injury?’

‘Looks like it,’ said Moro. He pointed to one of the spear-shaped points. ‘We think he caught himself, trying to get around that. Clothes were torn, too. We’ve got a lot of fibres for comparison.’

Moro turned away from the forensic examination to look directly at Charlie. ‘What’s your insured value?’

‘One and a half million sterling,’ said Charlie.

Impassive, Moro made an entry into a notebook with a surprisingly small gold pen. The writing was neat and precise. ‘I’m going to limit all the information,’ said Moro. ‘I don’t want you making any press releases.’

Publicity was the last thing Charlie wanted. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said.

‘At the moment you know as much as I do,’ said Moro.

‘Which isn’t much,’ said Charlie.

‘Remember what I said.’

‘How could I forget?’

‘You’d better not,’ said Moro.

Emilio Fantani’s hand had been stitched and then strapped across his body so that the damaged palm was practically upright against his left shoulder. There had been an injection against both the pain and infection but the Italian was still whey-faced, wincing at occasional spasms.

‘The police will check hospitals and doctors,’ warned Solomatin. The injury was unforeseen and Solomatin was unsettled by it: the plan had been perfect and now it was flawed.

‘The doctor’s a queer,’ said Fantani, tight-lipped in his discomfort. ‘I’ve got photographs that could ruin him.’

Solomatin felt the anxiety lessen slightly. ‘What about fingerprints?’

‘The fingers of the gloves remained intact,’ said Fantani.

Solomatin smiled briefly. ‘You did well,’ he said.

‘What have you done with it?’

‘All safe,’ assured Solomatin. In the deposit box with the other material that was going to switch suspicion. Hiding it in the box hadn’t been part of Kalenin’s plan and Solomatin was uneasy at the improvisation.

Fantani looked at his bandaged hand. ‘The tendons could be affected,’ he said. ‘The doctor made me try to move my fingers and I couldn’t.’

‘Bruising,’ said Solomatin. ‘It’ll be all right.’ The man would be dead before he had the chance.

‘You know where the insurance man is?’

Solomatin nodded. ‘It won’t be long now.’

‘How long?’

‘Two days; three at the most.’

Fantani tried to flex his injured hand. ‘Hurts like hell,’ he said.

‘All you have to do is arrange one meeting,’ said Solomatin. ‘I’ll do the rest; I’ll even carry the stuff to the exchange spot.’

‘Where?’ demanded Fantani.

‘An apartment on the Via Salaria.’

‘Apartment?’

‘I’m going to move people in,’ said Solomatin. ‘To cover the exchange.’

Fantani felt reassured by the promise of protection. ‘We’re going to work together now, aren’t we?’ he said, anxious for the commitment.

‘Hand in glove,’ smiled the Russian. It was a bad joke, but Fantani smiled.

In the censored society of Moscow, ambiguous phrases and expressions have evolved to convey happenings which are never officially announced. Criticism on Tass or in Pravda or Isvestia of the failure of a programme or an announced development plan is usually the first hint of a purge against the man in charge. Sometimes, though not often, the victim is named, so as to remove any vestige of doubt. If there isn’t identification in the first instance, it usually comes from the disclosure of some illness or other to account for an absence during any public event. With Boris Kastanazy the procedure was different. His secret position with the KGB prevented any criticism of work failure, so the suggestion of ill health was unexpected and initially confused the Western embassies who monitor and attempt to interpret such statements.

Valery Kalenin wasn’t confused. He put the newspaper aside and lit one of his tubed cigarettes. The place was vacant on the Politburo. He intended it to be his.

It was an irrational impression, standing on a clifftop overlooking hundreds of miles of open sea, but Charlie was gripped by a feeling of constriction, of being enclosed. And he was enclosed, as securely as if he had been inside the four walls of a jail. His name would be on file now, the description fed into the computers, ready to be spewed out at the touch of a button. Charlie tried to breathe out against the surge of panic. There’d been moments of danger in the past seven years, but he’d never come under this degree of official scrutiny. Moro had started out treating him as a suspect and Charlie knew the detective wasn’t completely satisfied, despite the apparent willingness to cooperate. It would only need one computer print-out punched into another and the lights would go on like Christmas decorations.

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.