The Memory Key (3 page)

‘The victim’s mother is on her way,’ said Principe with stiff emphasis on the word ‘victim’. ‘She had no father.’ He turned away and resumed his contemplation of the scene in front of him.

Blume was happy enough to get into a white suit, since he had forgotten to bring a coat and was getting wet. He fitted plastic covers over his shoes and crisscrossed a pair of elastic bands beneath, so any footprints he left would be recognizable. He pulled up his hood, and listened to the rain ticking noisily on the plastic, and waited to get the nod from the head of the Carabinieri SIS team, which was not a given, since Blume was from the wrong enforcement agency. If the Carabinieri decided not to cooperate, he could shrug and go back to Caterina, and tell Principe he had done his best.

But the magistrate must have primed them, because the SIS chief eventually gave a curt nod in his direction and Blume walked into the scene, at the centre of which lay the dead woman. She was young, but had crossed the fateful threshold that separated children, whose deaths no one ever got used to, from adults whose deaths people could even make jokes about.

The wound, a tiny hole, smaller even than the bullet thanks to the contraction of the skin, showed no signs of stippling, so the shooter had been some distance away. The abrasion ring was symmetrical and concentric. It could have been a long-distance shot. Blume turned round and looked at the two buildings opposite, flinching a little as he imagined himself to be still in the theoretical trajectory. As he did so, he saw two Carabinieri come out of the National Research building opposite followed by a technician in a white suit. Another technician was already preparing a set of bullet trajectory rods.

Blume looked at the girl, Sofia, slumped there, her coat shining with rain, her knee-high boots looking brand new, the cheap bead bracelet, pearl earrings, a small neck tattoo, small white teeth, perfect but now disturbing to see in the mouth which was open, in what was almost certainly a cry of pain. It looked as if a giant beast had picked her up and swung the back of her head against the wall, then dumped her on the ground like a pile of dirty laundry. Yet this was the work of a single bullet no bigger than half a thumb.

Blume did not really want to look at the devastation at the back of the skull. The explosive nature of exit wounds aggrieved him. He went over to the head of the crime scene team, who regarded him levelly. Blume was aware of his undefined status as an unaccompanied member of the Polizia di Stato in the middle of a crime scene being run by the Carabinieri.

‘A high-velocity bullet?’

‘Possibly. Fired from that building over there.’

Blume was gratified to find the SIS officer so helpful.

‘One shot only?’

‘Yes . . . Well, you can never be completely sure. Maybe they’ll cut off her clothes for the autopsy and find a tiny entrance wound that we missed. But it looks like one shot.’

‘Thanks,’ said Blume.

‘No problem,’ said the man. ‘Now that I’ve answered your questions, do you mind leaving the area again? You’re standing where I’d like to set up my Leica.’

‘Sure. In a minute.’ Blume went back to have another look at Sofia. He had no information on her, nothing at all, but he felt confident that she was a student or recent graduate. Generally speaking, students are not victims of sniper fire. Not only was there a mismatch between the victim and the mode of her murder, but the very idea of a sniper was unlikely. The shooter, probably a jilted lover, could have been standing a few metres away. He could have called her name, pointed a pistol, then fired. Maybe it was another case of femicide: around 150 women a year, many of whom saw it coming and had asked for help. One thing about femicide, it made the case-resolved statistics look good.

A SIS agent came over and, glancing resentfully at Blume, inserted a trajectory rod into the chipped brick at the centre of the mess of blood and matter on the wall. After a few tweaks he had it attached and pointing upwards at an angle of around 30 degrees in the direction of the building opposite. Blume looked up and saw two men in white plastic overalls leaning out of the fifth-floor window.

He was just ducking under the crime scene tape on his way back to the magistrate when the girl’s mother arrived. Unmistakable in her grief, she was calling her daughter’s name, howling like an injured dog and, typically enough for this sort of situation, was pushing and shoving at two Carabinieri trying to keep her out of the crime scene. She had to see, or thought she did. They had to persuade her that her actions threatened to help the perpetrator. She would have time enough to see her daughter in the morgue, after which she would spend her life trying to erase from her mind the image that she now so badly wanted to impress upon it.

Chapter 4

It was past midnight and Blume and Principe were sitting in an Irish pub not far from the crime scene.

Principe drained his glass of Kilkenny ale and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘A few years ago, you wouldn’t have been able to hear yourself think in here,’ he said, ‘but then they opened too many of these places all over the city, and it lost its cachet.’

Blume looked with disfavour at a sodden beer mat.

‘I thought you’d like it here.’

‘I don’t drink,’ said Blume.

‘I am pretty sure we shared a drink in the past.’

‘If we did I’ve stopped since then. It’s not a big deal. I could probably have a beer.’

‘Great. Want me to order you one?’

‘No.’

Principe ordered himself a second drink, and Blume asked for a can of Chinotto. The barman told them he would be closing in half an hour.

‘It’s a role reversal: me the southern Italian enjoying beer in a pub, you the American giving me disapproving looks.’

‘I am not disapproving.’ He changed the subject. ‘There is something familiar in the name, Sofia Fontana. Why is that?’

‘She was a witness,’ said Principe taking a long draught of beer. He put the glass down, his eyes watery, and suppressed some upsurge in this chest before continuing. ‘She was a witness to a shooting. That’s the direction your investigation should take.’

Blume clicked his fingers as the name slotted into place. ‘She’s the one who witnessed the assassination attempt on the terrorist Stefania Manfellotto.’

‘Yes, that’s her. I have been interviewing her off and on for months now. I found out almost nothing new about the Manfellotto case, but I got to know Sofia well. She was a beautiful, sweet, and generous girl.’

Blume deliberately ignored Principe’s sentimental cue. ‘It looks like someone was afraid you were making progress. That bitch Manfellotto isn’t dead yet, is she?’

‘Not yet.’ Principe took another gulp of his drink. He looked terrible. ‘We know where the shot was fired from inside the university – I am talking about Manfellotto now.’

‘I get that, Filippo. I have just seen Sofia lying dead
outside
the university.’

‘Yes, Alec. I am just sorting out my thoughts aloud.’ Principe bent his head forward and massaged his forehead with finger and thumb. When he looked up again, there was less water in his eyes. ‘Whoever shot Manfellotto almost certainly shot this poor girl. I called you in because I am afraid . . .’

Blume waited, but the magistrate seemed to have finished. Eventually he said, ‘Afraid of what?’

The magistrate waved a hand at an annoying idea that seemed to be hovering in front of him. ‘Nothing. It’s just the absence of progress in the first case makes me fear an absence also in this one, which I would like to resolve. But we do have a lead, of a sort: Professor Pitagora.’

‘Pitagora?’ said Blume. ‘Cool name. Like the actress . . .’

‘Paola Pitagora? You’re too young for her. She’s more my generation.’

‘I don’t mean to intrude on the sexual fantasies of an old man.’

‘Very funny. In both cases, it’s a made-up name. A
nome d’arte
. I think the professor had it first.’

‘Oh, that makes it a bit less interesting,’ said Blume. ‘So what’s his real name?’

‘Pinto. Pasquale Pinto.’

‘Pasquale Pinto. Professor Pitagora. So he stuck with the letter P. Pitagora
is
better. Pasquale Pitagora?’

‘Nope,’ Principe shook his head. ‘Just Pitagora. No first name unless you count Professor.’

‘I have heard of him,’ said Blume. ‘He is one of those old-school Fascists. Monarchists, coup-plotters, mates with Cossiga, Gelli . . .’

‘The Professor and Manfellotto were heard shouting at each other,’ said the magistrate with another grimace. He stretched his hand out to his glass, then slumped back in an attitude of disappointment to find it empty. ‘At the time Manfellotto was shot, he was giving a lecture on Ariosto to a class of over 50 students. The idea that he had taken a sniper’s rifle and run up to the top floor and shot at her was never taken seriously. Cast-iron alibi and, above all, cast-iron friends. He put a lot of pressure on me for merely daring to question him.’

‘But you didn’t yield an inch.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Principe. ‘Of course I did. I backed off at once. I know how it works. Except in this case, my conscience was clear.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Blume. ‘Given who the first victim was, you didn’t care all that much, but now you do because they have just murdered an innocent young woman.’

‘Almost right, except I had already changed my mind.’

‘About what?’

‘Manfellotto. Not caring enough about her may have made me careless in my investigation. And maybe that is why Sofia was killed. My conscience no longer feels so clear.’

‘Manfellotto deserved it,’ said Blume. ‘It was natural . . .’

‘No, you’re wrong,’ interrupted Principe. ‘You should meet her.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ll see,’ said Principe. ‘So, back to that day. About two hours after Manfellotto was shot, a group calling itself the “Justice and Order” party called up the offices of
La Repubblica
and claimed responsibility with the words “Justice is done. Order restored.” There were a few other calls of that sort, but this was the one we took seriously.’

‘Sounds cranky to me.’

‘The caller, a man, was using Pitagora’s phone.’

‘Ah.’

‘Which he says was stolen from his office.’

‘If he was behind it, using his own phone seems pretty dumb.’

‘I agree,’ said Principe. ‘He has a good case. He was still giving his lecture when news of the shooting came through. The lecture was interrupted and Pitagora went back to his office with a few students. He said he did not notice his phone was missing until later. The call from his number was made about two hours later, from a point just outside the university walls on Viale Margherita. So our reading is that some student took it. It could just have been a prank in bad taste. Or someone trying to stir up trouble. I am assuming the phone was taken to embarrass him, but I am also convinced Pitagora knows which particular neo-Nazi splinter group is most likely to be behind the hoax, if that is what it was. And behind the shooting, too. He knows. That’s his job, as you’ll see when you meet him. But I can’t keep calling him in for questioning, not with the clout he has. I say professor. He’s a professor emeritus now, well past retirement age, but somehow still sitting there in his office.’

‘An old man in power refusing to give up his seat? I think I may have seen that happen before in this country,’ said Blume. ‘What did Sofia do for a living?’

‘She was not a student. If she had been, it would be easier. Public outrage would give me a freer hand, including with Pitagora. But poor Sofia was just a lab assistant at the Health Institute on Viale Margherita. She explained to me once that she used the university as a short cut.’ Principe shook his head. ‘This case has sapped the last of my energy. I might get the office to assign it to a different magistrate.’

‘I see,’ said Blume, annoyed at the self-pitying tone. ‘Remind me why you called me out on a freezing cold November night for a case you say you can’t be bothered investigating?’

‘Don’t take it the wrong way. If I do give up, I want you to make sure things are done right. That’s why I asked you to help. You might see things that I would miss.’

‘That’s what the Carabinieri are for. Don’t you trust them?’

Principe sat forward, causing a dip in the signal strength to a radio playing in the background that Blume was only noticing now. ‘I trust the Carabinieri more than you bastards in the police, if you must know.’ He sat back and the radio fuzz stopped.

Blume stayed silent, absently wondering how much of the nasal singing voice in the radio he had been unconsciously enduring.

‘Have I annoyed you?’

‘Not as much as Eros Ramazzotti.’

‘What?’

‘On the radio,’ said Blume.

‘You do not have a stable mind, Alec.’

‘Yet you want me.’

‘Your thoughts hop around. It makes you hard to bear but good at working cases. Look, all I meant was that the Carabinieri will follow orders. So if another magistrate takes over from me, they’ll follow his or her orders, no matter what. The Carabinieri are a very reliable force, up to a point. And I would like you to be there, watching from a distance up to that point where they stop being reliable.’