The Memory Key: A Commissario Alec Blume Novel

by Conor Fitzgerald

  ‘Thank you very much for your hospitality,’ said Blume, stepping out the door.

  ‘You are most welcome, Mr Blume,’ she said. ‘I am most happy to have met you.’

  Blume walked back downstairs. Now he needed a place to spend the night. Tomorrow, the first thing he would do upon waking would be to cancel his subscription to Sky.

  Chapter 37

  Another taxi got him to the station at Piazza Collegio Romano. After midnight, hours were always longer and journey times through the emptying streets compressed, so that he always felt he was ahead of himself at night, getting to where he needed to be slightly before he was ready for it.

  As he walked up the steep marble staircase to the main hall, a four-strong Celere patrol preparing to go on to the graveyard shift was coming down. They saluted him with exaggerated cheer, and Blume had to remind himself not to wish them good luck. It was one thing being suspended, but wishing good luck to a patrolman who then got stabbed or shot would really end his career. Even if they got a flat tyre or someone scalded his tongue on hot coffee, Blume’s ill-advised good luck would be remembered in perpetuity.

  ‘Go kick someone’s head in,’ he recommended, to general laughter and profanity. They assured him they would do their best.

  The duty officer dropped his eyes in embarrassment at seeing Blume, and mumbled a good evening, which Blume scorned. He would have preferred a direct challenge of his right to be there.

  He went up to his office, and took a clean shirt and a round-necked sweater from a narrow locker in the corner of the room. He also took a disposable razor and washed himself in the toilet.

  Sleeping in the office was out of the question. Or rather, it was an absolute last option, which he really did not want to take. The suspension was damaging enough in its way, but some colleagues might even give him kudos points. Sleeping in the office because homeless and without anyone who liked him enough to put him up for the night was guaranteed to undermine his remaining authority.

  At half past midnight, carrying no gun, badge or bag, he left the station without a clear idea of where he was going. He passed the great silent hulk of the Pantheon and reached Piazza Rotonda, where some people were still out, huddled around gas heaters, having cocktails. With his new tourist’s eye, he saw the Albergo del Sole on the east side of the piazza. He shrugged. It was off season, and maybe he’d get a discount since he’d only be staying a few hours.

  The concierge glanced up as he walked in, then down at a large guestbook on the counter. Blume wondered if he spent the entire night in a monastic vigil, standing and reading the names in the book.

  Blume asked if they had a room. The man pursed his lips and shook his head in awe as the great Book revealed to him that there was, in fact, a room available. It was a double room. Would sir be interested?

  Blume shrugged. He might as well be extravagant this once. He took out his wallet and was pleased to see he had brought his credit card, which he hardly ever used. He pulled it out, and asked how much.

  Blume made the concierge repeat the amount twice, not because he hadn’t heard, but because he was hoping to see the man collapse in shame at the price he had just quoted. But if anything, the man’s spine stiffened and the tone became haughtier.

  ‘I did say a night, not a week. You understand?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s evidently you who doesn’t understand, sir. That is the rate per night.’

  Blume gave his best basilisk stare at the jumped-up night porter who, finally, flinched and then relented enough to offer help. ‘If sir wants, I can try to see if there are other places with more modest rates.’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll sleep in the doorway of the Pantheon with the drunks,’ said Blume.

  He left the hotel and headed towards the Gelateria Giolitti, which stayed open until two. As a young man he used to consider this place expensive, but he calculated he could buy himself 400 ice-cream cones for the price of a night in that hotel.

  He had a Torta al Caffé and, what the hell, an Amaro Marcono, and then another. He thought he might simply walk around the city all night, but he wanted a bed. He could only postpone sleep when working a fast case with a team of people.

  He walked quickly past government buildings, nodding at the two listless cops standing by their Iveco van waiting for the night to pass. At the taxi rank at Largo Chigi, there was just one car. He climbed in.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I need a hotel. Cheap.’

  ‘You didn’t book?’

  ‘No.’

  The taxi driver nodded slowly, taking in the information. ‘Everyone books nowadays. You book from your smartphone, see? If you’re a walk-in, they’ll charge you more. Does it have to be central?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Clean, good food?’

  ‘I don’t care. I just need to lie down.’

  ‘There’s a place just outside the city on Via Aurelia, next to the station. It’s a massive hotel, and usually empty. It used to be luxury, back in the 1970s. It’s run by the priests, and they sometimes use it for conferences, Catholic scout jamborees, that sort of thing. But even then, I’ve never seen it even nearly full.’

  ‘Any idea how much it costs?’

  ‘A tourist mentioned it the other day. I think he said €55 a night.’

  ‘Then that,’ said Blume, ‘is where we’re going.’

  Chapter 38

  Caterina lay in her childhood bed listening to the rain. Her child, like a visiting adult guest, slept in the living room on the sofa bed. Her mother was next door, happy to have her hands and home full again.

  It seemed Alec had behaved exactly as instructed, as she knew he would. Walking away came naturally to him. She would miss him, but she would manage better without. He never expected meals, his shirts ironed, or her to clean up after him, and if anything, he was fussier than her about tidiness and hygiene; but she found herself looking out for him, which had become indistinguishable from looking after him. He needed mothering, and she was not sure that is what she had in mind when she entered the relationship. The idea of looking after him and his child, as well as Elia, her failing mother, and her failed father was overwhelming.

  Her phone buzzed silently. It was three o’clock in the morning, so she knew it would be him. Ever since her mother had come home with the news that he had left without even collecting his clothes, she had been waiting for this call. It was typical of him to put it off so long.

  It was easier to speak to him at night. Blume listened in the dark. When he felt invisible, he dropped many of his defences. She dropped the phone on to the pillow, and laid her ear against it, closing her eyes and whispering as she spoke to him.

  When he had got through his apologies, he said, ‘But, the thing is, I haven’t been able to think of anything else. We’re going to have a child!’

  She felt the anger stir in her stomach again, and lifted her head for a moment while his voice, tiny from the middle of the pillow, continued speaking.

  ‘So you knew,’ she said. ‘And though you knew, you still managed not to visit.’

  ‘I did visit, Caterina. While you were asleep, and when you were away for tests. I discussed the situation with a doctor, he told me about the danger of an abruption, but that it would probably be OK. It is OK, right, Caterina?’

  She said nothing.

  ‘When did you find out, Caterina? Were you planning to tell me soon? I wish we had had a better moment together. Caterina? Are you still there?’

  ‘I’m here, Alec.’

  ‘The baby. It’s OK, isn’t it? Do you have to go back for more tests?’

  ‘Alec, you know a habit of yours when you have a bad conscience?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You ask multiple questions. You don’t give people time to reply between one and the next because you don’t really want to hear the answers.’

  ‘Sorry. I’ll ask just one question at a time. First of all, how are you feeling?’

  ‘Ph
ysically I’m fine.’

  ‘Good. The physical part. Sadness is something we can work at resolving.’

  ‘I said nothing about being sad.’

  ‘You didn’t need to. And the baby?’

  ‘Gone.’ Suddenly this seemed the easiest thing to say.

  He made a swallowing sound, and then fell silent. Twice he cleared his throat to speak, and twice he said nothing. The silence stretched on. Then in a voice not quite his own, a voice streaked with mucus and tuned to the wrong pitch, he said, ‘Oh God, I am so sorry.’

  She knew he was. She also knew he was not speaking to her only; he really was invoking the God he avowed not to believe in, and he was saying sorry to Him, too. He was accepting his culpability, but it would not survive the daylight. Tomorrow, he would be atheist again, and careless of her and others. Tomorrow he would be distracted when it suited him, and focused only on what interested him, which was not even police work, but rather, showing other people that he was good at police work.

  The wind whipped the rain against the window, making a sudden rattling noise that drowned out his voice.

  ‘What? I missed that, Alec.’

  ‘I was saying that that accident . . . Look, can I do anything?’

  ‘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.