The Memory Key (22 page)

‘I don’t need to know this.’

‘You might find it is of interest to you. Will you visit again?’

Blume realized he was being dismissed and stood up and walked across the oak floor and past the polished mahogany and the dull shine of the solid gold mantel clock and the tarnished silver plates, the scrolls and coin display case, and reached the triple reinforced door.

‘I could drop in anytime. It’s a 45-second walk from the station.’

‘No need.’

‘I will anyhow. I want to clear up a few things with this Captain Zezza.’

‘Sure. Or I’ll leave a message.’

‘And your daughter?’

‘I’ll think about it.’

Chapter 23

As he left Principe’s apartment, Blume called Pitagora, and announced that he wanted to see him.

‘I am at home, and my invitation to you still stands, Commissioner. I hope you won’t bore me with too many questions. I am interested in you personally. You are a melancholic, with a strong impulse towards self-destruction. Sometimes you mix fact with fiction, and you sometimes find that you can’t quite distinguish between what you dreamed and what really happened. Am I right?’

As if he was going to answer that.

Pitagora continued: ‘This may seem a drawback for an investigator, but it is not. It gives you depth of vision, you see. You get the details wrong, but you can see into the heart of matters. Sometimes you know you are right without knowing why.’

‘Enough of the horoscopes, Professor.’

‘That was no horoscope. Still, if I had to guess I’d say you must be an Aquarius. It fits you to a T. Honest and loyal, independent and intellectual but also intractable and contrary, perverse and unpredictable, unemotional and detached.’

Blume felt a slight thrill of shock and then pleasure. Then, as his intellect reasserted itself, he suddenly felt foolish.

Pitagora giggled. A girlish sound. ‘That got you for a moment, didn’t it? I looked up your date of birth. Astrology is a false science. But the interesting thing is I managed to get through your defences just by recognizing some of your qualities. That’s what I’d like to talk you about.’

‘And I’d like to talk to you about the shooting of Stefania Manfellotto and now the murder of an innocent girl.’

‘I am not sure I want to talk about that any more, and you can’t make me. On whose authority are you acting?’

‘My own for now. Principe’s, too, if I ask.’

‘This is not in your best interests, commissioner. You risk reprimands, suspension, your career, all for what, a whim?’

‘It’s what I do.’

‘Your will to power, Commissioner.
Wille zur Macht
. Come round later, then: after three?
See you later, alligator
.’

Blume had to block an almost Pavlovian urge to reply, ‘
after a while a crocodile
’. How the hell had Pitagora picked up on that phrase?

Blume had turned away from the station with a vague idea of walking off the bad feeling he had got from Principe. As he marched purposefully with no destination in mind down Via del Gesù, dodging the puddles and scooters, he found he was now hitting the pavement rhythmically as the song expanded in his head. ‘
Well, I saw my baby walkin’ with another man today?.
. .’

The phone in his hand rang, and he looked down at the name. About time, he thought to himself as he answered.

‘Commissioner Blume?’

‘Captain Zezza?’

‘Correct. I think we should meet.’

‘How about now?’ said Blume.

‘I agree. Will you lift your left hand a moment?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Blume. He had reached the end of the street and was looking across the Piazza del Gesù.

‘Please just do as I say.’

Blume was reluctant to obey, but he understood the request. He lifted up his arm and waved. A tall man with a square chin like a comic book superhero, standing on the steps of the Jesuit church, raised a furled umbrella and waved back. They put their phones away at the same moment; Blume crossed the road and joined the captain in the middle of the square.

Captain Zezza was as tall as Blume, which was rare. Dressed in a charcoal suit and looking as much like a Carabiniere as was possible without actually wearing a uniform, he held out his hand. Blume took it, and Zezza crushed his fingers, while staring at him with intense blue eyes. His hair was so closely cropped it had no colour, but the overwhelming impression was of whiteness and hardness. His whole head seemed like a large molar.

‘How did you know I was coming here?’ asked Blume.

Zezza rubbed his broad chin. ‘Ah, a coincidence. I don’t much like coincidences. I was going to ask you the same question.’

‘I didn’t know you were here,’ said Blume.

‘Good, good. That answers that then,’ said Zezza, his brow unfurrowing. ‘You are here by chance. I called by to speak personally, and I found out you were at the magistrate’s. I thought I would let you and him talk for some time, and I came here to pray for him. As I came out of the church, I called you, and I saw a man answering your description bring a phone up to his ear. I am taking this to be a good omen.’

‘Pray for him?’

‘Yes, I pray. I don’t think it is very effective, but it is a healthy mental discipline. Have you had lunch?’

Zezza led the way to a place in the Jewish Ghetto. The food was not good, and the service was terrible. The owner was sulky and the decor was depressing, but none of this seemed to matter to Zezza who ordered a salad and a sports drink.

Blume decided a toasted sandwich would be fine. Well toasted, he specified. Almost burnt.

Zezza smiled and placed a square-shaped thumb into the dimple that appeared on his cheek and stroked his eyebrow with his index finger and stared intently at Blume.

‘Magistrate Filippo Principe is most unwell.’

‘I know.’

‘Anyone who meets him can tell he is ailing, poor man. Resolving the killing of this girl is very important to him. It’s his last case.’

‘Let’s not be too hasty.’

‘He says he has seen you grow up over the years. He’s proud of you, I think. He sees you as very worthy but very . . . well, it’s not for me to say.’ The captain turned the side of his smooth face towards Blume and looked away for a moment. ‘Principe is handing over the case to a colleague. It is all for the best.’

‘So I expect you want me to pass on everything I know to you?’ said Blume, with more than a hint of challenge in is voice.

‘Oh, I don’t expect you know anything, really,’ said Zezza. ‘Nothing that we don’t know already.’

A burnt cheese sandwich arrived. Blume ignored it. Zezza ate a lettuce leaf.

Blume tentatively suggested the attempted murder and murder were unconnected with the victims of the 1980 bomb, just to see if he drew any response from the captain. Nothing. He hinted the attack on Manfellotto might have something to do with the hidden politics, which, in fact, was something he had now stopped believing. To all that he said, the captain nodded in a matter-of-fact way, occasionally picking out pieces of carrot from his salad and inserting them between his square teeth. The reuse of the weapon, Blume observed, was unprofessional, as was the choice of weapon itself. The captain nodded slowly and chewed, but said nothing. He drank some of his bright orange drink.

‘And what about the convergence between Manfellotto and Sofia? Have you checked what she was doing in London, her colleagues at the Health Institute?’

‘Yes, we have.’

‘And?’

‘I do not think it is your concern. This is your handing back to me what you should never have touched to begin with.’

‘Speaking of things not being touched . . .’ Blume mentioned the plastic jumpsuits in the CNR offices, and was pleased to see a crack in the captain’s vexatious self-composure.

Zezza finished his salad and placed his fists on either side of the bowl. Blume could see the shape of his muscles through his jacket. ‘We made a mistake there,’ he admitted. ‘But the chances are slim that he wore one of the suits you found there. Which you should not have touched, of course.’

‘Little mistake by me. Big mistake by you guys.’

‘Oh no, not so big, really,’ said the captain. ‘Not compared to sending away a Carabinieri guard under false pretenses and breaking a seal.’

Blume pushed away his cheese sandwich. ‘This is a horrible place, by the way.’

Unexpectedly, Zezza grinned. ‘Yes. It is an awful place, and the owner’s a crook. But it is quiet. No customers, see. And the owner likes to stay as far away from me as possible. Now, I am sorry you got dragged into this without a proper briefing. I realize you are a friend of the magistrate, and you were doing him a favour.’

Blume nodded.

‘At the risk of angering you on behalf of your friend, it was apparent from the outset that magistrate was not up to the task. At the start, we presented him with our findings as we made them, but it was soon clear that he did not quite understand them, or was ignoring them. His orders were vague and contradictory, and if we had really followed them, we would have wasted a lot of time. So we did what you do when the magistrate theoretically in command is an incompetent . . .’

‘He has cancer,’ said Blume outraged. ‘Terminal.’

‘In my prayer earlier, I hypothesized cancer.’

‘If you get the prognosis wrong, does Jesus ignore you?’ asked Blume.

The captain leaned his bulk back into the chair, which squeaked in protest. ‘I see you are a non-believer. Where is the poor man’s cancer?’

‘Oesophagus, but the thing with cancer is it goes everywhere in the end.’

‘Drinking,’ said the Captain, shaking his large head in sad reflection. ‘I notice he drinks. Lead paint in old buildings, the dust from file folders, living in the centre of Rome as he does. These are all aggravating factors. I live in Casal Palocco. The air is better there.’

‘What about the long drive in every morning? All those cars and fumes in front of you?’

‘I get up early, miss the traffic. Does the magistrate smoke?’

‘Toscano cigars,’ said Blume.

‘Well, there you go, then,’ said the captain, completely satisfied.

‘So you started withholding evidence from him?’

‘Not withholding, Commissioner. You are deliberately taking the wrong attitude. And I am sure you have done the same thing yourself in the past when faced with incompetent or not entirely honest magistrates. We made sure the evidence was unequivocal and complete, then we presented it. I have sought to make the magistrate’s life simpler. The sniper on the top floor, we discussed that with him. He seems not to have grasped its significance.’

‘Which is?’

‘I don’t think you need to know.’

‘I think I do.’

‘No, I am afraid not, Commissioner. And now the case passes under the command of a new magistrate. Alice Saraceno. A very able woman. Please, do not interfere in this case any further. I can see you are a wise and cautious man from the fact you did not eat that cheese sandwich.’ The captain stood up and retrieved his furled umbrella.

‘Wait!’ said Blume. ‘The target was moving towards the shooter.’

The captain propped his umbrella against the wall again, and tilted his head inquisitively. ‘Explain.’

‘You know exactly what I mean,’ said Blume.

‘I re-enacted the shooting from that room. There is no reason for the shooter to have delayed until the last moment as Manfellotto crossed the courtyard below. The shot was fired just as she was about to leave the line of sight. At the very last moment, in other words. The hardest shot possible. I can’t think of a good reason for that, can you?’

‘Maybe the shooter was nervous, and had doubts.’

‘I thought about that, too,’ said Blume. ‘But that does not fit in with the idea that this was a political assassination of some sort. All right, it might be that. I am sure political assassins get nervous sometimes, and some assassins may have last-minute second thoughts, but it is simpler to assume that whoever pulled the trigger had made up his or her mind, and fired at the earliest opportunity, knowing that even if the first shot missed, it was unlikely the target would even notice, and would keep coming closer. Are you following me?’

‘The person moving towards the shooter was Sofia Fontana,’ said Zezza.

‘Precisely,’ said Blume.

‘You believe Sofia was the intended target?’

‘And you don’t?’ Blume didn’t hide his surprise. He had fully expected Zezza to be following the same line or logic. Now he was not sure.

‘Not Manfellotto?’ asked Zezza.

‘No! Manfellotto was the unintended victim. In a delicious twist of fate, she was the innocent bystander.’

Zezza wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked worried, which was gratifying.

‘Before the station bombing,’ continued Blume, ‘she murdered two young Carabinieri. So it’s easy for you people to imagine she is the victim in her turn of an assassination attempt. But I did not think this consideration would be blinding you. The person walking into the line of fire was the person the shooter was aiming at. Sofia. But surely you knew this? You were disappointed that Principe had not worked it out, which is why you were not cooperating fully with him.’