The sister reddened. ‘Well, they all have the same floor plan. They are based on the one model. Mussolini built them.’
‘Mussolini had other people build them,’ corrected Mirella suddenly, with more life – and venom – than she had shown when he asked his routine questions. ‘She always puts it like that: as if Mussolini was down here in person breaking ground with a pickaxe, hero of the working class.’
Her sister gave a tight little smile of indulgence, and looked meaningfully at Blume, as if to say that unreasonable outbursts like this were to be expected from a grieving mother.
‘And what do you do?’ Blume asked her.
‘I am an artist.’
‘Really?’ said Blume. ‘An artist. You paint?’
‘Yes, I paint. I also write.’
‘Poetry or prose?’ asked Blume.
‘It’s hard to tell,’ interrupted Mirella, whose seething anger at the attribution of building prowess to Mussolini seemed to have momentarily seared through her cloud of grief.
‘You’ve always hated my artistic side,’ said her sister, her veneer of compassion cracking. ‘The artistic genes were passed on to me, not to you, and you’ve always resented it.’
‘I don’t resent it, Silvia,’ said Sofia’s mother in what seemed like a gentle tone, but she followed it up with the less than tender observation: ‘It’s just you’re no good. No one wants your paintings, no one will publish your poetry.’
‘No one that you know, but you don’t anyone worth knowing, do you?’
‘So have you been making millions selling your paintings to cultured folk? People who understand. People who don’t think your paintings look like dogshit from a distance, and dogshit from close-up, too.’
Blume had been forgotten, but that suited him fine. Family dynamics were always interesting, even amusing, unless you were inside them.
‘We at least tried to do something meaningful.’
‘We?’
‘Olivia and I.’
The breath came out of Sofia’s mother as if she had been punched in the stomach. Her head fell forward and, for a moment, she reminded him forcefully of the image of her daughter slumped against the wall. A similar sound now broke from Silvia, who went over and hugged her sister. Blume was caught off balance by the sudden shift in emotions. He expected a fight to last longer than that.
‘I loved her, too. I love you,’ Silvia was now saying. ‘I don’t know why I say these things.’
Mirella stroked her sister’s face. ‘It’s all right. I know you loved her, and I love your Olivia. That’s what will keep us going.’
When they had composed themselves, Blume said, ‘The main reason I am here is for you to tell me anything that you think might be relevant.’
‘What sort of things?’ asked Mirella, gently pushing her weeping sister away.
‘Anything.’
‘Well . . . no. You’ll just think I am being stupid.’
‘No, tell me. I will think nothing of the sort.’
‘It’s almost as if she knew, you know what I mean?’
Blume nodded and made a sound that could be interpreted as assent, but he had no idea what the mother meant. He hoped she would continue.
‘I thought it was London, but she was down a lot of the time. She was even short with me. Then she would make up for it. But it’s like she saw something was going to go wrong.’
‘This is after she witnessed the shooting of Stefania Manfellotto?’
‘No! Before. That’s what I mean. It’s as if she knew.’
‘But she said nothing,’ prompted Blume. ‘Did she mention any problems at work, anything along those lines?’
‘No.’
‘Was she involved with some group, some cult, a former boyfriend perhaps? Someone else?’
‘Like a married man, you mean?’
‘Anything,’ said Blume, aiming for a tone halfway between reassuring and pleading. ‘Nothing can harm her now. But any knowledge you have might help us get whoever killed her.’
Silvia now took it upon herself to praise her niece to make up for the fight a minute before. ‘Sofia did not have much time for boyfriends . . .’
‘She had some boyfriends,’ interjected Mirella.
‘All I meant to tell the policeman was that Sofia was a serious-minded, lovely girl. She was always ready to help my daughter Olivia with homework when they were in school. If it hadn’t been for Sofia, I don’t think Olivia would even have done her maturità and gone to university. Olivia, you see, has an artistic temperament like me, which means she is not so good with certain subjects like Maths and Science.’
‘Or History, Geography, Languages, Music, Philosophy,’ added Mirella.
The emotional swings in the small room were making him dizzy, and he blurted out his next question more to stop a resumption of hostilities and weeping between the two sisters than because he had any clear intention. ‘Where is Olivia now?’
‘Olivia?’ said Silvia, flashing her sister a dirty look. ‘She’s at home.’
‘Just wondering. Anyone there with her. Your husband, perhaps?’
‘No, he went out. Olivia is there with her boyfriend Marco, as it happens.’
‘Ah, now that’s very handy,’ said Blume getting out of his chair. ‘Because I was hoping to talk to him. I thought we would meet tomorrow, but if I can talk now, that would be great.’
Silvia looked doubtful. ‘These are young people. They need their privacy.’
‘I am sure you can ring the bell rather than use the front door keys. Or phone ahead,’ said Blume.
‘Yes, but we promised them privacy.’
‘I see,’ said Blume. ‘Is that why you’re here and your husband is out?’
Silvia glared at him. ‘I would have been here anyhow to help my sister.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Blume. ‘And your husband, where does he go when Olivia needs a free house?’
She looked at him trying to see if there was a trick to his question, then, seeing none, said, ‘He has a regular place, a bar across the street. It’s closed now, so he’ll go to the multi-screen at Parco de’ Medici. Sometimes he drives down to Ostia afterwards.’
‘What’s your husband’s job, Mrs Visco?’
‘He’s a manager.’
‘Really. Our records must be out of date, then, because when I looked him up his occupation was given as hospital porter on sick leave for the past eight years, poor man.’
‘Why do you ask questions if you know the answers?’
‘Because I didn’t have the correct information, as you see. That’s why it’s always a good idea to double-check. So where is he a manager?’
‘In the hospital. He manages the shifts. You’ll have to ask him.’
‘Tell you what,’ said Blume clapping his hands loudly. ‘Let’s give the kids a surprise.’
It took a bit of persuasion, with an undertone of threat but, with the encouragement of Mirella who did not seem sorry at the prospect of her sister’s departure, Blume manages to get her out of the house. From an investigative point of view, Silvia, Olivia, and Marco seemed more interesting than poor Mirella, to whom he had taken a liking. As he was on his way out, she clasped his hands in hers.
‘Catch the right person, please.’ Her hands were warm and dry and, despite her job, soft. ‘Commissioner, your hands are freezing. Your fingers!’
‘It’s cold,’ said Blume.
‘You must wear gloves.’
‘I don’t have any gloves,’ he said.
‘You must learn to look after yourself.’ She released his hands, and he was sorry to lose the warmth.
Chapter 17
Caterina ate eggs resentfully at breakfast, battling down the nausea. Scrambled, boiled, boiled, and scrambled, sometimes mixed with spinach and always with a dose of what Blume referred to as ‘Dukan dust’, she sighed and chewed and looked weepy and angry morning after morning. She had even started snarling at Elia. It was a deep and lasting nausea that w
ent beyond eggs.
When she had mentioned that the diet recommended meat, he had had visions of sirloin steak fried in butter and onions every night. Instead, it was boiled chicken, strips of Bresaola so thin they wouldn’t offend a vegan, and, a recent and ghastly addition, tofu. He had started finding reasons to stay out for dinner. Once, he had even sneaked back into his old apartment and made himself a big beautiful lasagna.
A week earlier, Blume had made the mistake of speaking his mind.
‘I think you should give up this diet. A million eggs a month can’t be good for you and you hate them anyway, almost as much as you hate the fish you have to eat. It’s only making you miserable. Besides . . .’
‘Besides what?’ she snapped.
Shocked at the sudden aggression in her voice, Blume lowered his chocolate muffin and spread his hands in a what-the-hell? sort of gesture.
‘No, you started this conversation,’ she said. ‘Say what you were going to say.’
Blume played for time by thickly buttering a piece of toast with exaggerated care. ‘I don’t trust that French guru you’re following. I mean, have you seen the smug little face he has? Reminds me of a three-toed sloth.’
‘Of course I’ve seen his face. It’s on the front of the book.’
‘That’s another thing. What sort of person puts his own face on his book?’
‘Maybe a successful person who has done something in his life? I don’t see your face on too many best-sellers.’
‘I was trying to say something that I find hard to say,’ said Blume. ‘But now . . .’ he shook his head sadly.
‘Tell me what, Alec?’ She relented, and softened her reproach. ‘I appreciate you are making an effort here. If you have something that you think needs saying, say it.’
He swallowed the rest of the muffin and pointed his finger at her plate. ‘I think all those eggs are making you fat.’
Since that conversation, Blume had been inventing appointments to get him out of the house earlier in the morning so as not to meet her at breakfast. She knew what he was doing, of course. By the time they met in the office or in the field, she seemed to be in a better mood, at least until dinner time.
Over the past few months, Caterina had taken charge of his scheduling, and he was coming to depend a little too much on her. He was also beginning to resent the way she double-checked that he had understood, as if he were an idiot. At her suggestion, he had also taken to using a computer bag to carry his stuff around in. It was padded, had compartments that kept papers separate and uncreased, sat nicely on his shoulder, and could accommodate anything from a pistol, though he had never used it for that, to a packed lunch and a few paperbacks. He still pretended he resented having to give up on his old leather briefcase just to please her, but the truth was he would never go back to it.
She had warned him several days ago that a mid-morning conference in the Giulio Cesare Hall of the Campidoglio, originally scheduled for 10:30, had been put forward an hour.
The coming conference was on the theme of racism and the police. It promised to be a pleasant affair. The right-wing government of Rome was not convinced that the police had much to answer for in respect of racism, and, by happy coincidence, all the delegates from the Police and Carabinieri were of the identical opinion. The only irritant was that they all had to turn up at the conference and pretend to be concerned about a problem that they didn’t believe to exist.
There was one point of contention. The City had recently announced that the police would no longer travel free on the metro and buses. The questore was proud of his smooth delivery of hard political truths, and he thoroughly enjoyed having a captive audience. He would have a few telling words to say about bus privileges.
Blume got up quietly, but Caterina was a light sleeper, especially recently, and immediately mumbled, ‘Don’t forget the conference’, before rolling over.
He was tiptoeing out when she sat bolt upright. ‘Where were you last night?’
‘Hmm?’
‘OK, don’t answer then,’ she lay down again.
Blume put his socks on in the hallway, away from Caterina. Did she suspect him of an affair? Where would he find the time? And who? He thought about the meeting last night with Olivia, who was wearing a short kimono robe and a scowl when she opened the door to him and her mother.
Stupidly, he had followed Olivia into her bedroom, a place so full of clothes – piled on chairs, on the bed, hanging over the closet door, strewn on the floor – that sounds were muffled. The remaining surfaces were filled with bijoux jewels and white electronic items. The walls were covered in photos of Olivia at every age from birth and in every pose imaginable. A 6-year-old version of her as a fairy had been blown up to poster size and stood innocently next to a stylized monochrome photo of her face in half shadow.
In the middle of this Bower of Bliss had been a young man with full lips, smooth bronzed skin, and long legs. He had black silky hair, a thin nose, and long delicate hands. He was wearing socks and jeans, but was bare chested. If he had not looked so trapped and uncomfortable sitting in the squalid, overcrowded room, he could have stepped out of a Cinzano or Armani advertisement.
‘Marco,’ Blume had said. Marco nodded, which seemed to be all he had in his repertoire. To any question Blume asked, he received a slow nod in reply. It was either gross insolence or gross stupidity.
Olivia had intervened and steered the conversation wherever she wanted. In the end, Blume had ordered the young man out, telling him it was a ten-minute walk now or a full day in the police station tomorrow. He expected Olivia to make a scene, but she merely crossed her smooth legs and smiled her gracious permission at them.
Marco was handsome as possible, and well-built, but not someone you would want to rely on in a fight. The first few paces as they left the house suggested he wanted to infuse a dash of unconcerned swagger into his walk, but as they turned the corner and the icy tramontana wind hit them, he had to stop, zip up, and huddle down defensively. Even his physique was unreliable. By the time they had walked around the block, Marco was stooped over in the attitude of a prayerful penitent, silent, with his chin buried deep in his chest.
In hard facts, he learned nothing new from Marco that he did not already know.
‘My father is a retired Carabinieri captain,’ he told Blume. ‘Parachute regiment. I’ve got an elder brother who’s in the force.’
‘Have they met Olivia?’
‘Sure. First thing my brother did was make a move on her.’
‘At least it wasn’t your father.’
‘No, that came after. But Olivia is a match for them.’
‘Sounds like she earned you a bit of respect, then. Are you sure she doesn’t play you?’ asked Blume.
‘Are you saying she sleeps around or something? She’s free to do what she wants.’
‘And you? Does she give you the same freedom?’
Marco laughed. It was a real laugh, as if Blume had just said something funny. ‘No, she doesn’t. No way. You get a girl like Olivia, though, you do as she says. I’m lucky to have her.’
For one so lucky, he didn’t seem all that happy.
‘What about Sofia?’
‘I knew her, that’s all.’
‘Anything between you?’
Marco hunched down deeper into himself, and it was not the cold wind’s fault.
‘Tell me, Marco.’
‘No, nothing. But I think . . .’
‘Come on.’ Blume was getting impatient with this weak young man.
‘Nothing . . . I didn’t. I think she was worried about something.’
‘Sofia. When?’
‘Nothing. That’s just the impression I got.’
Blume got nothing more out of him, despite walking him round the block once more, listening to him complain about the cold. When they finally came round to Olivia’s again, Blume left him. As he reached his car, he turned round to see Marco still standing there, shivering, and he thought Olivia mi
ght have refused to let him back in, but as he watched, Marco raised his hand and pressed the buzzer. Seconds later, the door buzzed and he was in.
Blume left the house at seven when Caterina was still in the shower. He climbed into the car and dropped the bag beside him, and steeled his nerves for the traffic through town. The morning sky was flat and white, as if the sun had been replaced with a fluorescent tube, and everything around him seemed dirty and broken. Dirtiest of all was his own windscreen. He flicked the lever to squirt water on it, and the rubber blades moaned their way with the window three times, evenly distributing a thin patina of sperm-coloured ice that completely blocked his view. This was Rome, not Seattle. Global weirding, they called it. He switched on the demisters.
From his bag, he extracted his new Kindle. He had bought it for himself several months ago, charged it, turned it on, and been very disappointed to find himself looking at what seemed to be a glorified Etch A Sketch pad. But he did not want to start filling Caterina’s apartment with real books. He still did not know what to do with all the books he had left behind in his own place.
He switched it on. It was simple, and he keyed in Pitagora’s name. Amazon had never heard of him. He conjured up Pitagora’s memory test from the other day: OK, there had been Zezza, a group of Roman emperors, Tiberius and Titus the Jew killer, and some others, details he had wiped away, since he didn’t need them. A whole string of names, ‘string’ was one of the words, or ‘wire’? Both? A string of emperors, string, wire, a can of worms, a tin of worms, used as bait on the end of the string . . . someone fishing . . . a Fisherman – Aaron Fisher.
He keyed in the name into his Kindle. There it was: The Memory Key by Aaron Fisher, with the inevitable self-help subtitle: Expand your mental capacity by 27. He hesitated a second, then pressed ‘buy’, then went back to the main menu, and, sure enough, there, sitting above a line of dots, was the title on his home menu.
Amazing. And he had not even noticed the price. He clicked through the first few pages, then noticed the windscreen had demisted. He checked his wing mirror and, after making it clear to the uninterrupted line of angry drivers on Viale delle Province that he was pulling out no matter what, he edged his way into the traffic flow that would bring him in fits and starts into the centre of town, multiplying twos in his head. Two times 2 is 4, which is 2 squared, cubed is 8, 16, 32 . . . Aaron Fisher promised to improve his mental capacity 128 times over.
The Memory Key: A Commissario Alec Blume Novel Page 12
