The Memory Key (35 page)

Now a woman’s voice, deep and sonorous, could be heard remonstrating and Blume distinctly heard the words, ‘Let the poor man in!’

The soft clunking sound of the key being turned in the lock told him that his tenants were cautious people, locking themselves in at night. The door swung open to reveal a man, with wispy fair hair and a thin blond beard. Blume made to step across the threshold and the man came forwards as if to block him.

Blume stood back and regarded his adversary. ‘You’re not called Mutungi,’ he accused.

‘No. I’m Walker. Peter Walker. Mutungi’s my wife’s name,’ said Walker in an annoying accent of some sort.

Blume stared at the insubstantial pale-skinned Englishman in front of him. ‘You’re the husband?’ He felt aggrieved. ‘I was told you were a Tanzanian couple.’

‘I am Tanzanian,’ said the Englishman.

A broad-hipped, broad-shouldered black African woman wearing a silk bathrobe bustled into the room, relegating Walker to the periphery of Blume’s mind.

‘Hello Mr
blume
!’ she said, emphasizing his surname in way that made him feel important, welcome, and appreciative of the beauty of his own name. She gave him a dazzling smile, ‘And what can we
do
for you so late in the day?’

Blume was lost in admiration for a few moments and failed to speak.

‘We really like this
apartment
. You have such good
taste
.’ The inflection she gave the word suggested that his good taste had come as a completely unexpected and delightful surprise to her. Seeing that Blume was evidently a slow-witted man, she asked him if he had come to welcome them.

He apologized for the intrusion. ‘I wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t an emergency. Of course, now that I
am
here, I am happy to welcome you and if there is anything you want, don’t hesitate to ask. If the kitchen radiator is cold, by the way, just bleed it by loosening the valve. Count to forty, then tighten it again.’

‘And you are most welcome here, Mr Blume.’

A weak sniff from behind his back reminded him of the thin Englishman. Apologizing again, he explained he needed to pick up a few things, and would take only two minutes.

‘Of
course
! Where are these things that you wish to pick up?’

‘In here,’ said Blume walking towards the study. ‘May I?’ He opened the door and switched on the light just as Mrs Mutungi came bustling up quickly behind him. ‘Mr Blume, that is where –’

It was like walking into a dream in which a familiar place suddenly turns into something else. The overcrowded study, full of posters and paintings, papers, and books, carpets, boxes, old clothes, and coats, which were what he had come for, was empty of everything except two new pine beds in which slept two children with perfect brown skin. He snapped off the light as one of them, a girl aged perhaps 6 or 7, began to stir in her sleep. The after-image of the empty shelves remained impressed on his retina and then floated upwards.

‘The removal men you sent arrived this morning. They took everything away to the warehouse. We very much appreciate how quick you were to send them. The children are
very
happy with the room. It is such a
nice
room. Big. They can play there, too.’

‘They took everything? I had all my clothes in here.’

‘Has it not all come to you, Mr Blume? Is something missing? That is it! Something is missing.’

‘No, no, nothing is missing. At least I don’t think so. It went into storage. I don’t even know where.’

Prisca Mutungi, who was almost as tall as him, put a comforting hand on his elbow and steered him back into the living room, where the Englishman was slouched on the couch watching rugby highlights on Sky Sports. ‘You can call me tomorrow, yes? You can tell me if anything is missing and I will look for it for you.’

‘Thank you very much for your hospitality,’ said Blume, stepping out the door.

‘You are most welcome, Mr Blume,’ she said. ‘I am
most
happy to have met you.’

Blume walked back downstairs. Now he needed a place to spend the night. Tomorrow, the first thing he would do upon waking would be to cancel his subscription to Sky.

Chapter 37

Another taxi got him to the station at Piazza Collegio Romano. After midnight, hours were always longer and journey times through the emptying streets compressed, so that he always felt he was ahead of himself at night, getting to where he needed to be slightly before he was ready for it.

As he walked up the steep marble staircase to the main hall, a four-strong
Celere
patrol preparing to go on to the graveyard shift was coming down. They saluted him with exaggerated cheer, and Blume had to remind himself not to wish them good luck. It was one thing being suspended, but wishing good luck to a patrolman who then got stabbed or shot would really end his career. Even if they got a flat tyre or someone scalded his tongue on hot coffee, Blume’s ill-advised good luck would be remembered in perpetuity.

‘Go kick someone’s head in,’ he recommended, to general laughter and profanity. They assured him they would do their best.

The duty officer dropped his eyes in embarrassment at seeing Blume, and mumbled a good evening, which Blume scorned. He would have preferred a direct challenge of his right to be there.

He went up to his office, and took a clean shirt and a round-necked sweater from a narrow locker in the corner of the room. He also took a disposable razor and washed himself in the toilet.

Sleeping in the office was out of the question. Or rather, it was an absolute last option, which he really did not want to take. The suspension was damaging enough in its way, but some colleagues might even give him kudos points. Sleeping in the office because homeless and without anyone who liked him enough to put him up for the night was guaranteed to undermine his remaining authority.

At half past midnight, carrying no gun, badge or bag, he left the station without a clear idea of where he was going. He passed the great silent hulk of the Pantheon and reached Piazza Rotonda, where some people were still out, huddled around gas heaters, having cocktails. With his new tourist’s eye, he saw the Albergo del Sole on the east side of the piazza. He shrugged. It was off season, and maybe he’d get a discount since he’d only be staying a few hours.

The concierge glanced up as he walked in, then down at a large guestbook on the counter. Blume wondered if he spent the entire night in a monastic vigil, standing and reading the names in the book.

Blume asked if they had a room. The man pursed his lips and shook his head in awe as the great Book revealed to him that there was, in fact, a room available. It was a double room. Would sir be interested?

Blume shrugged. He might as well be extravagant this once. He took out his wallet and was pleased to see he had brought his credit card, which he hardly ever used. He pulled it out, and asked how much.

Blume made the concierge repeat the amount twice, not because he hadn’t heard, but because he was hoping to see the man collapse in shame at the price he had just quoted. But if anything, the man’s spine stiffened and the tone became haughtier.

‘I did say a night, not a week. You understand?’

‘I’m afraid it’s evidently you who doesn’t understand, sir. That is the rate per night.’

Blume gave his best basilisk stare at the jumped-up night porter who, finally, flinched and then relented enough to offer help. ‘If sir wants, I can try to see if there are other places with more modest rates.’

‘Never mind. I’ll sleep in the doorway of the Pantheon with the drunks,’ said Blume.

He left the hotel and headed towards the Gelateria Giolitti, which stayed open until two. As a young man he used to consider this place expensive, but he calculated he could buy himself 400 ice-cream cones for the price of a night in that hotel.

He had a Torta al Caffé and, what the hell, an Amaro Marcono, and then another. He thought he might simply walk around the city all night, but he wanted a bed. He could only postpone sleep when working a fast case with a team of people.

He walked quickly past government buildings, nodding at the two listless cops standing by their Iveco van waiting for the night to pass. At the taxi rank at Largo Chigi, there was just one car. He climbed in.

‘Where?’

‘I need a hotel. Cheap.’

‘You didn’t book?’

‘No.’

The taxi driver nodded slowly, taking in the information. ‘Everyone books nowadays. You book from your smartphone, see? If you’re a walk-in, they’ll charge you more. Does it have to be central?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Clean, good food?’

‘I don’t care. I just need to lie down.’

‘There’s a place just outside the city on Via Aurelia, next to the station. It’s a massive hotel, and usually empty. It used to be luxury, back in the 1970s. It’s run by the priests, and they sometimes use it for conferences, Catholic scout jamborees, that sort of thing. But even then, I’ve never seen it even nearly full.’

‘Any idea how much it costs?’

‘A tourist mentioned it the other day. I think he said €55 a night.’

‘Then that,’ said Blume, ‘is where we’re going.’

Chapter 38

Caterina lay in her childhood bed listening to the rain. Her child, like a visiting adult guest, slept in the living room on the sofa bed. Her mother was next door, happy to have her hands and home full again.

It seemed Alec had behaved exactly as instructed, as she knew he would. Walking away came naturally to him. She would miss him, but she would manage better without. He never expected meals, his shirts ironed, or her to clean up after him, and if anything, he was fussier than her about tidiness and hygiene; but she found herself looking out for him, which had become indistinguishable from looking after him. He needed mothering, and she was not sure that is what she had in mind when she entered the relationship. The idea of looking after him and his child, as well as Elia, her failing mother, and her failed father was overwhelming.

Her phone buzzed silently. It was three o’clock in the morning, so she knew it would be him. Ever since her mother had come home with the news that he had left without even collecting his clothes, she had been waiting for this call. It was typical of him to put it off so long.

It was easier to speak to him at night. Blume listened in the dark. When he felt invisible, he dropped many of his defences. She dropped the phone on to the pillow, and laid her ear against it, closing her eyes and whispering as she spoke to him.

When he had got through his apologies, he said, ‘But, the thing is, I haven’t been able to think of anything else. We’re going to have a child!’

She felt the anger stir in her stomach again, and lifted her head for a moment while his voice, tiny from the middle of the pillow, continued speaking.

‘So you knew,’ she said. ‘And though you knew, you still managed not to visit.’

‘I did visit, Caterina. While you were asleep, and when you were away for tests. I discussed the situation with a doctor, he told me about the danger of an abruption, but that it would probably be OK. It
is
OK, right, Caterina?’

She said nothing.

‘When did you find out, Caterina? Were you planning to tell me soon? I wish we had had a better moment together. Caterina? Are you still there?’

‘I’m here, Alec.’

‘The baby. It’s OK, isn’t it? Do you have to go back for more tests?’

‘Alec, you know a habit of yours when you have a bad conscience?’

‘What?’

‘You ask multiple questions. You don’t give people time to reply between one and the next because you don’t really want to hear the answers.’

‘Sorry. I’ll ask just one question at a time. First of all, how are you feeling?’

‘Physically I’m fine.’

‘Good. The physical part. Sadness is something we can work at resolving.’

‘I said nothing about being sad.’

‘You didn’t need to. And the baby?’

‘Gone.’ Suddenly this seemed the easiest thing to say.

He made a swallowing sound, and then fell silent. Twice he cleared his throat to speak, and twice he said nothing. The silence stretched on. Then in a voice not quite his own, a voice streaked with mucus and tuned to the wrong pitch, he said, ‘Oh God, I am so sorry.’

She knew he was. She also knew he was not speaking to her only; he really was invoking the God he avowed not to believe in, and he was saying sorry to Him, too. He was accepting his culpability, but it would not survive the daylight. Tomorrow, he would be atheist again, and careless of her and others. Tomorrow he would be distracted when it suited him, and focused only on what interested him, which was not even police work, but rather, showing other people that he was good at police work.

The wind whipped the rain against the window, making a sudden rattling noise that drowned out his voice.

‘What? I missed that, Alec.’

‘I was saying that that accident . . . Look, can I do anything?’