The Memory Key (43 page)

‘I don’t follow.’

‘You can leave the police.’

‘To do what?’ asked Blume.

‘You wouldn’t have to respond to commands. I think you’d enjoy that freedom, Commissioner.’

‘Were you going to ask me about Pitagora this morning?’

‘That and other things,’ said Saraceno. ‘We can reschedule.’

‘Have you opened any other lines of inquiry?’

‘Such as?’ He voice was wary.

‘Sofia’s co-workers,’ said Blume. ‘Interview them.’

‘You suspect one of them?’

‘I think you need to talk to them,’ said Blume. ‘Interview them, not as suspects. Get the pulse of the place where they work. Another thing I suggest you do . . .’

‘Go on.’

‘Can you look up Sofia’s predecessors? Permanent senior research and lab assistants. Just tell me how many there have been over, say, the past five or six years.’

‘What’s this about?’

‘A permanent research job in an Italian educational establishment? That’s golden, and it’s for life. And yet I get the distinct impression that Sofia had several recent predecessors. Why would that be?’

‘What made them quit, you mean?’

‘Exactly. Or who. Why did they quit?’

‘No one looked into this before?’ asked Saraceno.

‘No,’ said Blume. ‘Too many men running the show. No one ever thought to ask Sofia about what was happening in her life. No one thought she was important enough.’

‘That’s very sensitive of you.’

‘The fuck it is. Just run a quick check on Sofia’s predecessors, will you? Names, how long they were there. Phone me when you do that.’

‘Do you feel you have the prerogative to give me orders, Commissioner? Do you feel threatened as a man that I give the orders and you follow them?’

‘I thought I was Alec and you were Alice. Back to Commissioner again? Just check. Then call me back. As a favour. Oh, one more thing, take all the names of Sofia’s bosses and colleagues and cross reference them with gun club memberships in Latium and Rome.’

Ten minutes later, he was climbing into the backseat of a Carabinieri squad car. They used the siren and show-off driving to get him to Pitagora’s villa in less than 15 minutes.

When they arrived, the gates were wide open, as were the doors of the house. Parked haphazardly on the gravel and the crabgrass were two Carabinieri cars, lights flashing. Nearer the door was an Isuzu D-Max SUV belonging to RaCIS, the scientific unit. The Carabiniere driver and partner saluted him with deference, using the
Voi
form of address, turned their car around, and left.

There was none of the tension and excitement, the coming and going, the crackling of radios and efficiency of movement that were so much a part of a moving investigation. There were no ambulances or mortuary vans, no sealing off of the area, no white-faced recruits and grim-faced unit commanders.

He walked through the ‘weeds of forgetting’, as Pitagora had called them, towards the house, so rustic and remote despite being surrounded by the city.

‘Blume!’ Captain Zezza came up and slapped him on the shoulder. He looked at him closely. ‘You do not seem well. Have you been eating badly?’

Blume ignored the question and nodded at the RaCIS vehicle. ‘Still looking for stuff, are they?’

‘Just a few more checks.’

‘Where’s Pitagora?’

Zezza pointed to a door at the end of the hallway. ‘In there. He’s in what he calls his memory theatre. It’s a room in the centre of the house. There are two Carabinieri with him. Not that he will flee. A man his age, with his connections, has nothing to fear from the courts. He’ll get house arrest, and then that will be extended to allow him to continue working in the university and it will be as if none of this ever happened – though maybe it didn’t?’

‘Still fishing for help, Zezza? Where was the weapon found?’

‘In the overgrown weeds outside.’

‘No one thought to look until now?’

Zezza looked uncomfortable. ‘As a matter of fact, we did.’

‘But you didn’t see the rifle?’

‘Look, can we talk frankly to each other, now?’

‘Sure. We’re friends and allies now: you, me, the hippy magistrate.’

‘The rifle wasn’t there,’ said Zezza.

‘No,’ said Blume. ‘That figures. But it can be made to look like your mistake.’

‘I personally logged them in the company of an
appuntato
. We drew up a report but forgot to present it to Principe.’

‘Because you were holding back on him.’

‘Also because there was nothing to report. The rifle wasn’t there.’

‘This corridor has weapons in it,’ said Blume, pointing to the paltry collection of rusting old weapons hanging haphazardly here and there on the walls, just above head height.

‘They are decorative. Anyone can see that. We took down the weapons from the wall, and examined them. They were all decommissioned collector’s pieces. Old weapons. The ones you see there now. The only nearly modern weapon was an Enfield .22, but its barrel was filled with lead. That ancient-looking revolver is a replica. Those swords are irrelevant. It may as well be a butterfly collection.’

‘The suspect had a weapons collection, the murder weapon was found in his garden, but you missed all this. It’s going to look like you are an incompetent, Zezza. I’ll be doing my best to reinforce the idea, by the way.’

‘That rifle was put there by someone.’

‘Why did you conduct another search? It was an anonymous tip-off, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. Do you have any idea who might have put it there?’

‘Someone making a desperate attempt to distract us,’ said Blume.

‘You’re going to make me wait.’

‘Yes,’ said Blume, with a large smile. ‘I am. A career-damaging long wait for you, Captain.’

They walked in silence to the end of the corridor. Zezza opened the door and held it open with ironic courtesy as Blume passed through. The space they entered was almost large enough to be a gym. The walls were lined with tall bookcases and at the far end was an arched fireplace, over which hung a collection, slightly more impressive this time, of swords, spears, and other white weapons. But the central feature was a large, brightly painted scale model of an ancient Greek theatre, as large as a baby’s playpen, set on top of a purpose-built dais raised about half a metre from the floor. Two Carabinieri were standing next to it, pulling out sections of the theatre. One had hunkered down and was peering from behind the stage, like a giant behind the scenes. The other had discovered to his delight that the semicircle of stepped seats surrounding the stage was made up of seven separate wedges that could be lifted out.

‘No little men inside there?’ asked Blume as he reached them.

The Carabiniere who had been peering through the back of the model stood to attention, and Blume turned round to see Zezza had been silently tracking his footsteps.

‘At ease,’ said Zezza.

‘The professor was just explaining this Colosseum to us . . .’

‘It’s so obviously not the Colosseum,’ said his partner. ‘He explained that.’

‘Whatever. It should have little people in it, and maybe some animals, too.’

‘And lighting,’ suggested his partner. He looked at Blume and Zezza, as if for permission. ‘These segments come out. The central one is largest, then three on either side. You peer through the seven arches like my colleague was doing and imagine the rising tiers, the seats in front of you, peopled with things you need to remember. The professor gave us a list of Roman emperors to picture sitting in the first few rows.’

‘Yeah, but first he taught us a great trick for remembering anything just using the Roma football team. What you do is you take the last match and beside each player you associate an emperor . . .’

‘. . . or a number or anything,’ added his colleague.

‘And if you know the numbers the players wear, or remember the scores of the matches, then you can use that.’

‘Where is the professor,
appuntato
?’ demanded Zezza.

The young man straightened up. ‘There he is.’ He pointed to an empty chair. ‘He was looking up a book, he must have . . .’

Blume went over to the bookshelves. A sliding wooden ladder was attached to a brass rail running along the ceiling, but the shelves did not go that high. He climbed up and found there was a narrow walkway, a ledge running along a gable from when the villa was extended. It ran behind the last two rows of bookshelves and was invisible from below. At the end was a narrow door. He walked to it, glancing down to see the two Carabinieri staring up at him as he floated majestically above the leather volumes, while Zezza stared daggers at then. The door opened to a short flight of stone steps that led into an internal courtyard, which, unlike the front garden, was carefully tended. A white pebble path marked out a square of very green lawn, in the middle of which was a small fountain. He crossed the path, went through an arched doorway and down a few more steps, and found himself at the rear of the villa. He walked round again just in time to meet Zezza, whose jaw was clenched so tight he was unable to open it wide enough to respond to Blume’s cheerful greeting.

Chapter 47

Zezza was off checking whether Pitagora had taken his car, when Blume’s phone rang. He answered without looking, expecting Magistrate Saraceno to be calling back.

‘I was wondering if you’d like to chat?’ said Pitagora’s voice.

‘Are you hiding in a bush or something, or are you on the run?’

‘Of course not. I simply became bored, and I don’t like being kept at another’s convenience. I shall present myself before the Communist magistrate later today, with my solicitors.’

‘Where do you want to meet? I could ask why, but I suppose you’ll tell me when I arrive.’

‘I’d prefer not to say where, in case someone is listening to your line. Someone following the orders of Magistrate Alice Saraceno,’ he said placing exaggerated emphasis on the name.

‘I can assure you, even if this conversation is being recorded, it’ll take weeks before she hears it.’

‘Unless she’s standing there, listening. Are you there, Magistrate Saraceno?’

‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Professor. Just tell me where you are.’

‘No.’

‘Well, that’s going to make it kind of hard for us to meet, isn’t it?’

‘Have you seen my memory theatre?’

‘Nice, but I thought you would have gone full scale, a whole room, perhaps.’

‘I am in another memory theatre. Across the field of forgetting. Figure it out, Blume.’ He hung up.

Blume thought about it for a few moments, and then walked through the crabgrass and weeds, unnoticed. It was easy to move around the villa undetected. He reached the gate, and slipped out in what he guessed was simply the inverse of the movements of the man who had come to plant the murder weapon.

He stepped gingerly across the slippery wet cobbles of the Appia Antica, checking carefully for speeding drivers, entered a gateway in a wall opposite, and made his way down a footpath towards the San Callisto Catacombs. He drew in deep breaths, filling his mouth with wet air and the faint camphor of the cypresses that lined the walk. He spat on to the cindery path to clear out some nicotine, then filled his mouth with saliva and his throat with mucus, and spat again. Better, but he could still feel the yellow tar sticking to the back of his throat, dangling on his tonsils, disgusting now but threatening to become enticing later. At the end of the lane stood a priest watching.

‘Afternoon, Father.’

The priest closed one eye and peered at him. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I have taken up smoking again after 10 years,’ confessed Blume.

‘Ah, now that’s a pity. Make the next one your last for another 10.’

‘I will. Is the back gate open?’

‘To get to Via delle Sette Chiese? Yes.’ The priest pointed towards the church. ‘Just go straight on, past the church, unless you want to go inside, of course.’

‘No thanks, I’ve seen the catacombs.’

‘I am sure it was a very long time ago, probably on a school trip.’

‘Yeah, well they won’t have changed much, will they? I mean that’s basically the big thing about the catacombs. They don’t change.’

‘My, my. Not the catacombs, I meant the church. Visit the church just for a moment.’

‘Another time, perhaps.’

Blume hurried away, walking at a brisk pace towards and past the church on a dead straight avenue towards another gate set into a wall, this time skirting Via delle Sette Chiese. He made his way across the road on to Via Ardeatine and headed towards the entrance to the Cave Ardeatine memorial.

Yellow signs warned that the area was under video surveillance and a guard was present at the entrance, but otherwise it was deserted. He walked in and headed towards the innermost area, where he found the professor standing head bowed.

‘I didn’t know if you would understand my message or if you would come,’ said Pitagora. ‘Did you walk?’