The Bernini Bust by Iain Pears Page B

the image should come from a camera in the corridor leading to Thanet’s office. Still nothing. Careful checks revealed that it had stopped working at a little after 8:30 p.m. Subsequent investigation revealed that the cause of the problem was nothing more hi-tech than a pate sandwich stuck over the lens.
    Morelli, who had a deep-seated distrust of all gadgetry, was not in the slightest bit surprised. He would have been much more amazed - pleasantly, admittedly - had the video shown some miscreant trotting down the staircase wiping bloodstained hands on his handkerchief. Fifteen years in the police, however, had taught him that life is rarely so kind. Fortunately, there was always good old-fashioned police procedure to fall back on.
    “Who did it?” he asked Thanet, who looked taken aback by the question.
    “I’ve not the faintest idea,” the director said after a moment to gather his thoughts.
    “What happened, then?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Morelli paused, standard procedural techniques having proven less than immediately effective, and thought a moment.
    “Tell me what happened when the body was discovered,” he said, thinking this might be a good place to start.
    Thanet, with the occasional interruption from Streeter, gave his account. Moresby had arrived at the party, circulated awhile, then was approached by Hector di Souza, who insisted on talking to him.
    Streeter put in that di Souza seemed agitated and had insisted on privacy.
    “What were his exact words?”
    “Ah, now, there you’ve got me. Ah, he marched up to Mr. Moresby, and said something like “I understand you’ve got your Bernini.” Then Mr. Moresby nodded and said, “At last,” and di Souza said was he sure? And Moresby said he - di Souza, that is — was going to have to do a lot of explaining.”
    “Explaining about what?”
    Streeter shrugged, closely followed by Thanet. “No idea,” he said. “I’m just telling you what I heard.”
    “Time?”
    “I’m not entirely certain. Shortly after nine, I’d guess.”
    Morelli turned to Thanet. “Do you know what it might have been about?”
    Thanet shook his head. “No idea. I had words with di Souza earlier myself. He was upset about the bust, but wouldn’t tell me why. Just said he urgently wanted to talk privately to Moresby about it. Maybe there was some dispute over the price.”
    “An odd time to start having second thoughts.”
    Thanet shrugged. No accounting for art dealers.
    “You didn’t by any chance have a microphone in the director’s office, did you?” Morelli asked.
    Streeter looked thunderstruck for a moment, then switched to being outraged. “No,” he said shortly. “I did once suggest that office space be monitored more closely, but Mr. Thanet here said he’d take me to the Supreme Court if necessary to stop me.”
    “A monstrous, unconstitutional and illegal idea,” Thanet huffed. “How anyone can so lose sight of basic civilised…’
    “Oh, shut up, both of you,” Morelli said. “I’m not interested. Can’t you keep your minds on the fact that Arthur Moresby has been murdered?”
    As they clearly couldn’t, he told them he’d take statements properly later, and got a junior officer to usher them out. Then, taking several deep breaths to calm himself down, he ran his fingers through his hair and began to organise his investigation. Press to be talked to, names to be taken, statements to gather, bodies to be moved, someone to go round immediately and find di Souza. Hours of work stretched before him. And he couldn’t really face it. So, instead he settled down and watched the video of the party, to see if that produced any real leads.
    It didn’t help him, nor did it greatly illuminate more professional analysts who looked it over later. The multiple interaction patterning, as the experts termed it, concluded that Thanet was having an affair with his secretary; that no less than twenty-seven per cent of the guests departed with at least one