The Memory Key (6 page)

The sovrintendente’s look of serious concentration and deference was split in two by a smile of relief and agreement.

Panebianco’s face showed no change, but he said, ‘Of course he is. But we are agents of the law. Take it up with the investigating magistrate.’

‘You know as well as I do the magistrate is not investigating anything. She’s got all the evidence she needs and is just keeping the old man and his daughter in custody until they crack.’

‘Commissioner,’ said Caterina, all formal and hostile now that Blume had appealed directly to the young sovrintendente. ‘This man has spent 72 of his God-given years on this earth. What do you think gives him the right to take the life of a man less than half his age? The right to drive over a helpless body lying in the middle of a road. Is that your idea of a hero?’

‘Pretty much,’ said Blume. ‘Maybe not a top-tier hero. A lesser hero, let’s say. The old guy has some anger management issues, but to do that after all those years without so much as a parking ticket is pretty impressive. Am I supposed to be sorry that an old man, instead of becoming a victim, pressed a drug-pushing thug into the asphalt?’

‘He was only 30 years old.’

Panebianco intervened. ‘His parents claim social benefits, yet he opened a pub when he was 25. So where would you say his income came from?’

Caterina’s neck went blotchy in that unattractive way it had when she was angry. ‘That’s irrelevant.’

‘From what I gather,’ said Blume, unhappy to see her like this but needing to press home the advantage, ‘his favourite pastime was beating up immigrants and spray painting walls with messages of hate.’

The new sovrintendente nodded in enthusiastic confirmation of this.

‘His background is no longer relevant, since he is dead. And his killer was unaware of his past activities. He could have been a kid on his way home from school.’ Caterina’s lips had tightened to two thin lines. Her lips weren’t all that great, Blume thought. Maybe that is why they didn’t kiss so much any more.

‘Twenty-one years in prison for a 72-year-old. And possibly four years for the daughter unless she starts cooperating. That’s vindictive.’

‘So is driving your car over someone’s head,’ said Caterina, and crossed her arms and bit her bottom lip. ‘And you know he’ll get house arrest at that age.’

She was right, but it was also a question of principle. The old man proved he was not a pushover for a thug. He had probably saved lives by taking out Valerio.

Blume disliked talking in this room. The fluorescent tubes in the ceiling were always on, adding to, rather than countering the greyness of the November day. Even when the light outside was bright and the air crisp, the fluorescent lights were constantly goading his patience, encouraging bad-tempered exchanges like this.

‘OK, let’s not argue the point. Caterina, you’re still coordinating the evidence gathering.’

He went up to the sovrintendente, put his arm around his shoulder, and steered him away from the other two. When they had arrived at the window, Blume released him, and said, ‘Claudio, how would you like to liaise with the magistrate in my place?’

‘I don’t think I could do that.’

‘Are you not familiar with the facts and developments of the case? As far as I can see, you’ve been doing a great job of keeping up.’

The sovrintendente’s face was taut and flushed in the effort of trying not to look delighted to be praised, even if he knew a request always followed flattery.

‘I think you feel much the same as me about this case, and so I think you can represent me very well.’

‘Magistrate Martone sent for you, not me.’

‘Yes, so you’ll need to get good at lying. You arrive, telling her I was called away urgently on other business. Tell her I have delegated to you, which is true. If she doesn’t accept that, then she’ll have to send for me all over again. But it’s not likely. Like I said, there is not much more investigative work. And I don’t think we need to bend over backwards to strengthen the case against the old man and his daughter, do we?’

Blume left the young policeman pleased and flustered in equal measure and went back to Panebianco and Caterina.

‘Can you two come into my office?’

Blume had them sit down and dragged a chair across the room to join them. He told them about his visit to the crime scene at the university, his conversation with the questore, and his latest conversation with the investigating magistrate.

When he had finished, Panebianco asked him, ‘What do you want us to say? It’s pretty clear that you should not get involved.’ He stood up. ‘And that’s all I have to say. If you choose to do otherwise, as you will, don’t tell me about it.’

Caterina put her hand on his arm. ‘Alec, don’t even think of it. You don’t need the hassle.’

Panebianco turned as he reached the door and added, ‘Just one thing, Commissioner.’ He paused till Blume was looking him in the eye. ‘You give too much credit to Magistrate Filippo Principe. I realize he is a friend, but he has not always acted impeccably. There was a time when political types sent investigations to him to die.’

‘I know that,’ said Blume. ‘But it’s been a while.’

‘Leopards don’t change their spots,’ said Panebianco. ‘If he has turned completely honest, it’s only because his political referents ceased to exist.’

‘He never tried to block a murder investigation, Rosario. Not even all that time ago when all his friends were Craxi Socialists.’

‘If you say so.’

First Caterina, now Panebianco. Everyone was being uptight and righteous today. ‘Hey, sorry if being consulted upsets you. I’ll remember that next time.’

Panebianco opened the door. ‘Good.’

Blume smiled complicity at Caterina and rolled his eyes as Panebianco closed the door, but got nothing back.

‘He’s right, Alec.’

So she was still on her high horse about Adelgardo and his road rage.

‘Some support I get here,’ said Blume bitterly.

She stood up. ‘I think we’re done here.’

‘Yeah, go on, get out,’ said Blume. ‘The questore said someone in this office reported me to him, and I scoffed, thinking it was probably just the Carabinieri unhappy to see me in their case. But now I am wondering.’

Caterina looked at him in amazement. ‘You’re wondering if
I
reported you to the questore?’

He had gone too far, but the best he could manage was a shrug.

‘You know who it most likely was?’

‘Who?’

‘Principe himself. He knows how pathetically predictable you are. If there is one thing bound to make you want to get involved in the case, it’s a direct order from the questore to stay away.’

Chapter 7

Blume arrived in the car park of the University Hospital, his headlamps already on to penetrate the brownish gloom of the afternoon. He immediately spotted Principe, a forlorn figure who looked like a man who had forgotten where he had parked. Principe was still glancing about absent-mindedly when Blume sauntered up.

‘Do you know what Caterina was saying about you, Filippo?’

‘And how
is
Caterina?’

‘Good. I told you that the other night. She wants me to rent out my apartment.’

‘That makes sense. It would almost double your income. We public servants could do with a bit extra these days. Let me guess: you don’t want strangers trampling all over your apartment, or that’s what you’re telling her. But she knows, you know, and even I know the real reason is you want to hold on to it to have a bolt-hole for when everything goes south.’

‘Don’t you want to hear what she says about you?’

‘Well, what?’

‘She says you know me almost better than she does and that you are the one who made sure the questore found out about my moonlighting, if that’s the word.’

‘That’s obviously not true. It does not even make sense.’ Principe started moving in short hurried steps across the crumbling asphalt of the car park. ‘Come on, you’ve kept me waiting as it is. Let’s go and see Manfellotto.’

Blume couldn’t be bothered relaunching the accusation. Maybe Principe had second-guessed him. Why not? He had guessed right about this hospital visit.

‘You knew I couldn’t resist coming here, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, Alec. I was pretty certain. You need to see, touch, and verify for yourself. But, really, it’s fascinating stuff. The bullet went right through a section of skull and came out the front, without expanding. It cut a clean tube through her frontal lobe.
Mannaggia
,’ he said as a sudden swishing and drumming sound came racing towards them through the trees. ‘Is it meant to rain this much in Rome?’

Principe opened a huge yellow golf umbrella, just as the rush of rain hit so hard that he had to raise his voice to be heard. ‘Get under here. I knew you’d forget an umbrella, so I took the biggest I could find.’

‘I didn’t forget an umbrella,’ said Blume, alarmed at the feebleness of the magistrate’s arms. ‘I always have one in the car.’

‘Always there because you never take it out!’ Principe had to raise his voice against the rain, which was coming down so hard now that the backsplash from the ground had already soaked the lower half of his trousers. Blume, as casually as he could, took the umbrella from Principe and lowered it to use as a shield against the wind and horizontal rain.

They climbed the flight of steps outside the hospital and pushed their way into a steaming mass of weather-watchers and smokers.

‘Come on, there’s a hot air dryer in the toilets,’ said Principe who was beginning to shiver. He led Blume down a ramp and through a door marked ‘Authorized Personnel Only’. Blume demurred, but Principe said, ‘It’s cleaner than the public ones, and the hot air dryer works. Besides, who more authorized than a magistrate?’

As they were drying themselves off, two doctors in white lab coats came in, gave them dirty looks, pissed, washed their hands, and left without drying them. Blume managed to get the front of his shirt around his stomach dry, but that was about it. Principe, too, gave up, and the quiet that followed the noise of the dryers was so pleasant that they stood in silence for a few moments savouring it.

‘Just tell me,’ said Blume. ‘You made sure the questore found out that I had visited the crime scene, didn’t you?’

Principe was looking at himself in the mirror and fingering the damp strands of hair on his head as if he was only now discovering how bald he had become.‘Why would I do such a thing?’

‘Well, Caterina thinks because I am pathetically predictable, and that as soon as I was warned off the case by the questore I’d commit myself to it with zeal.’

‘That’s one cynical little woman you got yourself there,’ said Principe.

‘You don’t seem surprised that the questore knows about it.’

‘Oh, I am. I just used up all my shocked expressions after seeing my face in the mirror.’ Principe turned round, his face grave. ‘The Questura is a huge place, especially here in Rome. It’s awash with rumour and backstabbing and spying. I used to know my way round it pretty well, and I am sure it hasn’t improved over the years. Worse than ever, probably.’

It was not an explanation or an admission, but Blume did not really care. They left the toilets and turned into a corridor, at the end of which stood a ward sister who put her hands on her hips.

‘I hope you’re quick on the draw, Alec,’ muttered Principe as they approached. Then, slipping off his round glasses and polishing them while looking at the nurse with his watery eyes, he said, ‘Yes, Sister, I realize we are very wet, but this is official business.’

She merely tossed them a look of contempt and pointed to a waste bin that had been turned into a stand for wet umbrellas, then walked away. Blume was not sure whether she had been protecting the room or had happened to be standing there surveying her dominion, which reached all the way down the blue corridor.

‘In here,’ said Principe. He pointed to an empty plastic chair by the door. ‘See, no Carabinieri on guard. Out for an endless cigarette break, if they even remembered to put someone on duty.’

‘Does she get visitors?’

‘That is what the guard is supposed to tell us. But it doesn’t seem like it.’

‘Will she be awake?’

‘I don’t know. We can wake her up if not. Awake or asleep, she lives in the past.’

The room had two beds in it, one empty. On the windowsill sat a spotted pink orchid plant, incongruous and defiant of the sheets of freezing water racing down the other side of the pane. Blume felt the claustrophobia of the room at once, and caught himself stooping as he approached the bed, as if his head might bump against the ceiling.

A woman was sitting propped up on pillows. The front part of her shaved head was bound in white bandages, and she was regarding them with frank interest and a pleasant smile. She looked far younger than she should, more late forties than early sixties. The folds of skin around her throat and the pronounced line of the tendons in her neck gave some indication of her real age, but the smile was splendid, and inviting.

‘This is Stefania. Not bad for a 62-year-old figure of hate who has just been shot through the head, huh?’ said Principe, without bothering to modulate his voice.