The Memory Key (4 page)

‘And where will you be?’

‘I’ll be here. You’ll report to me . . . differently from the Carabinieri. As a friend. This is a request, Alec. I really liked that girl Sofia.’

‘I get that. You said you questioned Sofia over the past few months about the shooting of Stefania Manfellotto. So the obvious question is whether Sofia saw anyone or anything she shouldn’t have.’

‘She said she didn’t. But it seems clear she did and never realized it. I think someone was taking no chances. If I had questioned her better, I’d have been able to work out what she saw, and maybe she would not be dead now.’

‘Unless the two cases are not, in fact, related,’ said Blume.

‘That would be one hell of a coincidence,’ said Principe.

‘Maybe. You should talk to my nephew about that. He doesn’t believe in coincidences.’

‘Your nephew?’

‘Elia.’

‘Caterina’s child? He’s not your nephew, Alec.’

‘What am I supposed to call him, my heir?’

‘A normal person would say “adopted son”.’

‘I didn’t adopt him. He was already there when I arrived. Part of the Caterina package. Besides, if anyone in that place is adopted, it’s me.’

‘Don’t mess up that relationship, Alec. It’s all you’ve got.’

‘You said I should visit Manfellotto?’

‘Avoiding the subject, Alec?’

‘On the contrary, I am focusing on it. You are the one out of line. Isn’t Manfellotto in a coma?’

‘If you had been following anything, newspapers, the TV – Jesus, even the radio – you’d know she came out of her coma weeks ago. A month, by now. Everyone knows that.’

‘Except me,’ said Blume, finally sipping his Chinotto. ‘I was out of the country.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘We haven’t seen each other in almost a year. And you’re not my father. I was in Seattle, then down to Los Angeles, Nevada.’

‘Las Vegas?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you have fun?’

‘I don’t gamble,’ said Blume. ‘So Vegas was not much fun. I got to eat a lot of junk food, though. And drink root beer.’

‘I thought . . .’

‘Non-alcoholic. It’s a bit like this stuff I’m drinking now, but with sassafras. Far better.’

‘If you say so. But it sounds to me like you were looking for something other than root beer over there.’

‘Do you want to investigate me, or do you want me to investigate the killing of Sofia?’

‘
Tranquillo
. I was only asking as a friend. If you have people in the United States, good, because I remember your telling me you didn’t. You’re sort of the quintessential orphan. Not only no parents but no family anywhere. I am glad you went looking, and a little hurt you didn’t tell me.’

‘My mother’s sister lives there. I thought you knew. But I never met her, or her kids, who aren’t kids any more, I guess.’

‘I hope it works out for you.’

‘It won’t. But thanks. Listen, Filippo, the last time I went off on a semi-official case without bringing my colleagues with me, I ended up buried in a hole in Calabria and a German Federal agent I was working with got killed. I blew my chances of upwards or sideways promotion, put myself in debt to Caterina, and gave the questore a large stick to beat me with.’

‘Yes, and how is Caterina? Well, I trust?’

‘She’s good,’ said Blume. ‘Did you hear the rest of what I just told you?’

‘Yes. But I am interested in you and Caterina.’

‘It’s all good. I needed some ballast in my life.’

‘Ballast,’ said Principe. ‘They don’t use that word in love songs as much as they should.’

‘Can we get back to what you’re asking of me here? You need to appoint me officially, but even that will run into problems from the questore unless you can demonstrate that I have a particular skill the Carabinieri don’t.’

‘No. If I officially appoint you, the next magistrate can officially dismiss you.’

‘So, don’t let there be a next magistrate. What’s all this talk about a next magistrate?’

They lapsed into silence. Principe took off his round spectacles and started polishing them with a soft cloth he had extracted from his breast pocket. He had managed to lose weight and gain flab. His eyes seemed to have lost colour in the dark light of the pub. Liver spots covered the back of his hands, and the same ugly hair that had sprouted from his ears coated the backs of his fingers. On their way from the car to the pub, Principe had walked with the stiff gait of an old man. He still had thin strands of hair on his head, but outside, when the wind had been blowing, he had seemed bald.

‘I am not saying I will do this,’ said Blume. ‘But, if we assume the same person or persons who killed Sofia also shot Stefania Manfellotto, who would you say it was?’

‘Neo-Fascist terrorists. Forza Nuova, or some such group. Definitely an internal feud.’

‘Shouldn’t they make sure Stefania Manfellotto is dead, too? In case she starts talking?’

‘She is brain damaged. She’s no danger to them.’

‘Is she under guard?’

‘She personally killed two young Carabinieri recruits in 1978, but was never brought to trial for it. We appointed the Carabinieri to guard her hospital room. They probably take long breaks.’

‘Something doesn’t fit. What sort of people kill a possible witness to an attempted murder, who seems to be no witness at all, but don’t make a second attempt on the original target?’

‘I told you, Manfellotto is harmless now. Total amnesia,’ said Principe.

The barman came over and pointedly began to wipe down the table next to them. Blume pulled out his police badge, showed it to the barman, and said, ‘If you need to lock up, go ahead. You can let us out later.’

‘I’m closing the bar.’

‘That’s fine. We’re not having any more are we, Filippo?’

‘And I am taking a final reading on the cash register.’

Principe pulled out a €20 note and gave it to the barman. ‘Keep the change.’

‘Two beers and a Chinotto makes 22 euros.’

Principe added a fiver, and said, ‘Bring me the change.’

When the barman had left, Blume said, ‘Amnesia? Lots of ex-terrorists suffer from that prior to entering democratic politics.’

‘You need to see her to understand. She’s not acting.’

‘So she can’t remember, or says she can’t remember the events leading up to her shooting?’

‘She can’t remember anything that’s happened since 1979.’

‘How convenient. The bomb she put in that train station was in 1980. An injury that turns out to be a moral cure.’

‘Except she doesn’t need to pretend, does she?’ said Principe. ‘She has served her term. Paid the price.’

‘For all those lives?’

‘She paid the tariff determined by the Italian state,’ said Principe.

The barman came and stood by their table.

‘All right,’ said Blume. ‘We’re leaving.’

As they left the warmth, Principe buttoned up his overcoat against his skinny frame and seemed to shrink inside it. ‘Sofia was so young.’

‘A lot of victims are.’

They turned on to Via Merulana. The white marble façade of Santa Maria Maggiore, a church built in memory of a miraculous snowfall, stood out clearly above the large empty piazza in front. Principe buried his head deeper into his coat to protect himself against the corridor of cold air rushing up the street.

‘I need to get back to the crime scene first thing in the morning,’ said Principe. ‘But it’s best if you’re not there. I’ll send you all the details.’

‘I still haven’t agreed to this.’

‘That’s because you’re disagreeable. But you’ll do as I say.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because I am one of the few people who’s your friend.’

‘You must think I am desperate, Filippo.’

‘Yes, I do.’ He gave a loud hoarse cough that sounded like it had ripped his throat. ‘We’ll catch our death out here.’

Chapter 5

Questore De R
ossi
was a tightly packed and compact man who carried within him vast reserves of destructive power. He wielded his small stature like a bully stick, and preferred to be standing up when he met people the better to display his shortness, for he enjoyed the tension this created, and enormously relished the challenge of cutting down those who gazed down on him from a height. Women whose eyes shone with pity, or whose impassive faces concealed their feelings of contempt, were brutally treated, and often left his office effectively demoted in function if not in rank. Tall men were his particular enemies, and Blume was a tall man.

‘I hear you are moonlighting, Commissioner. Turning up without colleagues at crime scenes being adequately handled by the Carabinieri, not mentioning it to anyone.’

Blume was staring out the fifth-floor window of the Questura, across an empty space at the opposite wing of the building. He could see the dark figure of someone standing in a distant office staring blindly at Blume as Blume was staring blindly at him, like lonely travellers in passing cruise ships. Perhaps that man, too, was being upbraided by a small official with power. He half lifted his hand to give his doppelgänger a sympathetic wave.

‘Commissioner, look at me when I am talking to you, and for God’s sake sit down.’

Blume settled down in a chair, crossed his legs, and stretched his arms back to relieve a pressure in his chest.

The questore licked his finger and polished a lapel pin in the colours of the Italian flag. He watched Blume watching him.

‘Not enough members of the force are proud to be Italian. Some members are not even Italian.’

‘I got my citizenship papers a long time ago,’ said Blume.

‘Hah. You kept your American passport, though, didn’t you?’

‘Sure. If you give up your passport,’ said Blume, ‘they won’t even give you a visa to visit the country. The US authorities can be very small-minded.’

‘Really?’ The questore was momentarily mollified by Blume’s criticism of America, but, like a dog rediscovering a scent, he snapped his head up and said, ‘I say they’re right to take that attitude. People should be proud of their country.’

Blume inhaled deeply, expanding his chest, bulking himself out to three times the questore’s size, and then exhaled slowly and wearily to give some idea of the fathomless boredom of his soul.

‘You’re not fish nor flesh nor fowl, Blume. You’re not honest, and you’re not corrupt; you’re a commissioner but not a team player; your politics are undefined, as are your loyalties. I would be generous and say you’re not a complete failure, but you’re definitely not a success . . .’

‘Sometimes it’s just hard to measure up to your high expectations, sir. I frequently fall short,’ said Blume, shaking his head in a mockery of penitence. ‘Sometimes I feel pretty low about it.’

‘Do you want a suspension right now?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Then shut up. I can’t have my commissioners wasting valuable police time doing secret favours for their friends. Is he paying you?’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t play stupid. Principe.’

‘No! He’s a magistrate.’

‘That’s all the more reason to be suspicious.’

‘Why would he pay me?’

De Rossi shrugged. ‘One out of three policemen in this country moonlights. At €1,300 a month, they have no choice. It’s fucked up.’

‘I agree. Too much money to the politicians – and to senior civil servants,’ said Blume, looking levelly at De Rossi. In two years at most, this man would be recycled out of his life. Being short of stature and vile of personality was no impediment to prospering in Italian politics.

‘I don’t want your agreement, Blume. I want your obedience. Someone in your office informed me about your meeting with that magistrate last night.’

Now this was not necessarily true. The questore was probably trying to give the impression that he had eyes and ears in Blume’s office, or perhaps that Blume had internal enemies. The obvious explanation was that the Carabinieri who had seen him at the crime scene had taken note and complained.

‘My co-workers are all very conscientious,’ said Blume. ‘If they see an issue, no matter how small it seems, they will raise it. We are all slaves to the whims of magistrates, sir. I responded as I should, telling Magistrate Filippo Principe to go through the proper channels.’

The questore narrowed his eyes into what he probably thought were sly slits and struggled to keep a knowing smirk from his face. ‘So you and he did not repair to the “Druid’s Den” later on in the evening?’

‘You said, “Repair to the . . .” Can you repeat that?’

‘
Druid’s Den
,’ said the questore, struggling with the strange vowel sounds.

‘I beg your pardon?’

The questore now tried swapping the
i
and the
u
around in ‘Druid’ and lengthening the
e
in ‘Den’. The ‘r’ travelled over to the end of the second word.