The Memory Key (36 page)

‘No,’ she said.

‘This is all my fault.’

It probably was, but the statement still sounded self-aggrandizing. He still saw everything as related to what he did or did not do.

‘It’s weird,’ said Blume. ‘Everything is going along just fine then . . .’

‘The Skoda.’ She needed to change the direction of the conversation.

‘What?’

‘You asked me to look out for a stolen Skoda Octavia. Before I left to see that barber.’ She stopped. Every conversational turn was an exercise in excruciating tact and half-truths. She could not live like this. ‘No Octavia Skoda was reported stolen.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Blume. ‘I had forgotten about it.’

‘Shut up, and listen. When I drew a blank, I did what I often end up doing, which is trying to second-guess you. I ran a cross-check of Skoda ownership on the various people involved in your case. But that, too, produced no results. In my research, I did find that the father of a certain Olivia Fontana, cousin of the girl who was killed, has a criminal record. His last arrest dates back to 15 years ago, but he was involved with some bad people back then. Did you know that about him?’

‘No,’ admitted Blume.

‘Well, once I discovered that, I cross-checked Skoda ownership with the names of some of Visco’s brothers-in-arms, so to speak. Nothing. So I branched out even further, and drew blanks all round. Finally I got a sort of near-hit. A Skoda Octavia is registered to a Paolo Aquilone, brother of Olivia’s boyfriend, Marco. But this Paolo lives in Naples. And he’s a Carabiniere.’

‘That’s interesting,’ said Blume, his voice suddenly stronger and less contrite as he forgot about lost fetuses and her. ‘Very.’

‘Could this Paolo be involved?’ asked Caterina, getting drawn in despite herself. ‘I don’t see how he fits.’

‘Have you been following the case, Caterina?’

‘Yes. The cases, as I prefer to think of them. I would separate Sofia Fontana from Stefania Manfellotto.’

‘Really? I think you’re right.’

‘I think if a woman was investigating you might have got further. There is too much emphasis on men.’

‘I don’t follow,’ said Blume.

‘Of course you don’t,’ she said.

‘No, I really don’t get your meaning. It’s all to do with women. The two victims are women. Are you saying the perpetrator is a woman, too?’

‘That’s not what I meant. You suspect Olivia, don’t you?’

This was met with silence. He hated to be second-guessed. Eventually he said, ‘She has a financial motive.’

‘It’s your case.’

‘I still don’t get what you said about men.’

‘I meant nothing by it. Try to see things from a woman’s perspective every now and then.’

‘Which woman?’

‘Women in general, Jesus, Alec. Sofia. The poor girl has been interpreted by a bunch of men since the start of all this, then probably killed by one, too.’

More silence.

‘Alec, are you going to say something?’

‘Can I see you?’

‘No. I don’t think so. Not for a while at least. I need to rest.’

‘Goodnight, then. I really am so very sorry.’

‘I know you are.’

‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’

She closed the phone cover slowly, and slipped it under her pillow. He would not call back, but if he did, if he became desperate, she would answer. Up to a point, she would be there for him.

Chapter 39

Blume dropped his phone on to the floor, and peeled the top sheet off his legs, then detached the back of his legs from the lower sheet and contemplated the quilted bedcover. It was the colour of dark jam and the seams were lined with thin strings that looked like they might have dropped off the ceiling where black pieces of cobweb floated. Some previous occupant appeared to have been playing in the bed with a fingerprint kit to judge from the smudges and marks around the headboard and wall behind. Convinced he would never sleep, he got up, turned off the light, and lay down. He knew he was not going to get much rest in this filthy, hot bed, whose presence in a room so small was a mystery in itself, unless they had taken the door off, or hauled it in the window, or maybe it came in pieces. That must be it.

No one could possibly sleep in a room like this.

He was therefore very surprised to wake up to the sound of birds and rain against his window. He took his phone off the floor and it confirmed that he had not just dozed off but slept seven hours.

He decided to forgo breakfast, not that he saw any sign of it anywhere in the hotel, which, in the morning light, turned out to be far larger than it had seemed late at night. He traversed the vast empty lobby to the reception desk, where an incongruously cheerful receptionist stood waiting for him with a smile. He asked her to call a taxi. She did so, and as he sat waiting she looked at him appraisingly. Blume considered the curve of her breasts and imagined her without her frumpy uniform on. He wished he cleaned himself up a bit better. She gave him another smile – nice fleshy lips, too – and said, ‘Somascan, am I right?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Somascan father, I can tell.’

‘What the hell is a Somascan?’

‘Oh. I’m sorry, you’re not a priest?’

‘No.’

The young woman blushed, then disappeared into the back room and emerged with leaflets, which she pressed into his hand. ‘I am so sorry. I didn’t realize you were an ordinary person. A tourist, I mean.’

Blume shuffled through the pamphlets on the Colosseum, the Trevi Fountain, Piazza Navona, the Bocca della Verità, and the Vatican.

She pointed to a blue brochure. ‘That one has a good map of the city centre in it.’ She smiled at him, seeking secular forgiveness.

‘Thanks,’ he said. Trying to squeeze them into his pocket, but finding they were too bulky.

‘Don’t mention it. Do you need any bus tickets?’

Why not, he thought. Four seemed a good number to buy, but he made it five when she could not find change.

‘What about sightseeing coaches? There is a double-decker bus with an open top. The ticket costs €12 if you get it at the stop, but just €8 if you get it here.’

‘I think I’ll give that a miss,’ said Blume. ‘It’s a bit wet to sit on the open top of a bus.’

‘You can sit inside downstairs.’

‘I may as well get an ordinary ATAC bus then.’ Still free for policemen thanks to the efforts of the questore.

She glanced at him with the beginnings of suspicion. ‘You sound Roman.’

‘No, no.’ He had to stop her from looking too foolish.

‘Where are you from, then?’

He thought about it. ‘All over the place, really. Nowhere and everywhere.’ He saw her eyes narrow again, and he grabbed a random town from his mind. ‘Chieti. That’s where I’m from originally.’

She seemed to accept this, but was now determined to be disappointed. ‘So you’ll have seen Rome already?’

‘Not as a tourist,’ he assured her. There, thank Christ, was his taxi pulling into the turning circle in front of the hotel.

He had the taxi let him out on the Via del Corso, and headed up Via dell’Arancio where he slipped inside a café frequented by shopkeepers rather than policemen. There he had two cornettos and three cappuccinos until his feet felt grounded in reality. Dropping the pamphlets into an overflowing white dumpster, he began his walk back towards Piazza Collegio Romano.

Panebianco was in the office, and made no secret of his displeasure at seeing Blume walk in.

‘You shouldn’t be here. It’s bad for you, bad for us.’

‘It’s a courtesy visit,’ said Blume. ‘Nothing wrong with a courtesy visit, is there? I need to check the database.’

‘I’ll do it. What do you need to know?’

‘There is a kid called Marco Aquilone. His father was in the army. His brother’s in the Carabinieri, too. Look them up.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Check out what the inheritance situation is for Mrs Fontana,’ he said at last.

‘Who?’

‘Sofia’s mother. I think she stands to gain an inheritance.’

‘And?’ Panebianco was being awkward. He could follow the logic if he wanted.

‘And seeing as she has no children any more, who will she pass it on to, do you think?’

‘Her niece, Olivia?’ Panebianco scratched below his lip as he considered this. ‘That works, just. Assassination now for an inheritance much later when suspicions will not arise. That would take a cold bitch. Is this your idea?’

‘It’s a hypothesis. I’d prefer no one knew about it yet. I am particularly minded not to tell the Carabinieri,’ said Blume.

Panebianco looked at Blume and nodded slowly in acknowledgement of the trust Blume was placing in him. ‘I need a magistrate if I am going to look in any detail.’

‘Start working on it. Pretend I am not suspended. And prep the magistrate. It’ll make you look good.’

‘As if this were my idea?’

‘You can have it if you want. It might not be right.’

Panebianco shook his head. ‘She was the shooter? Or . . .’

‘Her boyfriend, Marco. He seems weak. He seems like the type who would do anything for her. Now, seeing as I was followed by a man in a Skoda, and Marco’s brother drives a Skoda, and may be inclined to look after his baby brother, or may even stand to gain some inheritance, I’d like you to look into it.’

Panebianco was already tapping at his keyboard. ‘Meanwhile the Carabinieri and the investigating magistrate are following the political angle.’

‘Yes. With reason,’ said Blume. ‘After all, Manfellotto was almost certainly killed by some rogue elements of the service or on the orders of someone with things to hide. What they don’t realize, is that she was killed much as a nomad tribe might first try to help, but then finally kill an injured companion.’

‘Nomads do that?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Blume. ‘It’s just a metaphor. Elephants, then. I’m sure some animals do that.’

‘Not elephants, I think . . .’ A photograph of a young man in a Carabiniere uniform appeared on Panebianco’s screen. ‘Not the world’s handsomest, is he?’ remarked Panebianco.

‘That’s Paolo Aquilone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wow,’ said Blume. ‘His younger brother got all the looks. Check him out, Rosario. Marco Aquilone.’

‘Why would I want to “check him out”?’

‘The sheer contrast.’ Blume was peering hard at the screen and ignoring Panebianco’s touchiness. ‘Hey, do you think he has curly hair underneath that cap?’

Panebianco glanced at the screen. ‘It’s under a cap. You can’t tell.’

‘Pity,’ said Blume. ‘But the way the cap sits sort of high on his head, isn’t that the sign of curly hair?’

‘Just accept that you can’t tell from this picture. There will be others. I’ll get them for you.’

‘Thanks, Rosario.’

‘Don’t mention it. By the way, Principe has been replaced. Alice Saraceno has taken over.’

This was not news to Blume, but he did not appreciate being one of the last to know officially. The least Principe could have done was a courtesy phone call.

He resolved to pay Principe a visit later that day.

Twenty minutes later, with printouts, his notebook, razor, phone charger, and another shirt in his bag, Blume headed towards the exit.

‘Wait!’ Panebianco called him over, and pointed to a picture of a young man with curly black hair in civvies. ‘Paolo Aquilone as he presents himself on Facebook. You were right about his hair.’

It was him. The person who had followed him the other day. Blume gave Panebianco a slap on the back.

‘I get the feeling you’re making progress,’ said Panebianco.

‘With the case yes; with my life, not so much. The thing now is to get the case to work in my favour so I can get back in here to boss you around.’

‘I look forward to it. How’s Caterina?’

‘She’s fine. Better. Better off without me.’

‘You’ve split up?’

‘I’ve said too much.’

‘Well, if there is anything I can do.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Blume, ‘I no longer have access to my service car.’

I was hoping you wouldn’t take me literally.’

‘Too late,’ said Blume, giving him a second slap on the back.

Chapter 40

Blume went thundering up the Via Nazionale bus lane in Panebianco’s Volkswagen Polo on his way to see, and hopefully surprise, his estate agent.

When he walked in and demanded to see the ‘manager’, since he still could not remember Valentino’s real name, a young woman, whose fine features were ruined by pockmarked skin that she had tried to cover with too much makeup, told him that it was unreasonable for him to demand to see the manager if he did not remember his name. And anyhow, he was not a manager. He was an area director, if – she underscored the ‘if’, even making a little mark in the air with her finger –
if
they were talking about the same person.