‘You are at a fucking crime scene?’ Panebianco was not usually an easy man to fluster.
‘Natural death or suicide,’ said Blume. ‘I can’t tell yet. In fact, I haven’t even seen the body yet.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Filippo,’ Blume murmured.
‘What?’
Blume cleared his voice. ‘Magistrate Filippo Principe.’ He raised his knees and pressed his back against the wall. ‘You know, Rosario, it’s so close you would make it here faster on foot.’
‘We need the cars. Equipment bags, markers, seal off the area.’
‘I wasn’t thinking.’
‘Just to be sure, you haven’t seen a body?’
‘I don’t need to.’
‘Are you in the apartment?’
‘No.’
‘Well, that’s something.’
‘You know it really is quicker to walk here.’
‘We won’t be long.’
Blume hooked his arms around the outside of his knees, bent his head, and waited for reinforcements.
Forty-five minutes later, Rosario walked out of the apartment glancing briefly at the distorted lips of metal where the edge of the door had been forced by five strikes of a fire axe, and said to Blume, ‘Do you want to come in?’
‘No,’ said Blume. ‘That might complicate matters.’
‘Good,’ said Rosario with evident relief. ‘That solves a lot of potential problems, what with your personal friendship with the deceased and the fact you are suspended.’ He looked at Blume’s face and added, ‘The death is not suspicious. The ME is tending towards accidental overdose. The only thing that is a little out of place is that you called it in. Now, as it happens, we have since found out that he missed two medical appointments, one meeting with Captain Zezza of the Carabinieri, and a meeting with Magistrate Saraceno to whom he was surrendering the Fontana and Manfellotto investigations. She’s on her way over.’
‘Saraceno’s coming here? Will she be investigating this case, too?’
Panebianco was still finishing his earlier line of reasoning. ‘The way I see it, you had solid grounds for a search of his apartment. He was not responding.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘I need to know what made you suspect he might be dead.’
‘I just felt it. It was in the air. They are going to find lots of painkillers and alcohol in him.’
‘I would love to be clear here, Commissioner. In what role did you come here?’
‘As a friend, Rosario. I came here because I am his friend, or was his friend.’
Panebianco puffed out his cheeks and blew on his fingernails, and looked miserable. ‘You kept phoning him, he did not answer, so you came here, is that it?’
‘Right.’
‘Do you always phone him that often? You see what I am getting at here?’
‘I do, and you’re right: months could go by without my calling him or seeing him.’
‘So all these calls were connected with the murder case at the university. In other words, you were calling him in your role as an investigator. Even though you are not really supposed to be investigating. That’s what I mean by role. You can’t just explain this away as a question of friendship without it touching on disciplinary matters. That’s going to be a problem for you.’
Blume sat still, thinking how much he was going to miss having someone to talk to, anger beginning to well up in him at the way Principe had just left him like that. He had walked casually and sadly out of life, and left it to Blume to get on with it all, until it would be his turn.
‘I get it, Rosario.’
‘Very messy. And of course Saraceno, who called me while I was in there, says she is very anxious to talk to you.’
‘Fine. I’m here, aren’t I?’
At that moment, the lift doors opened and out stepped a woman who, now that he saw her, Blume recognized from the Tribunal. She was wearing wooden beads and a colourful wide patchwork silk shirt. Her hair, perfect silver, was long but firmly tied back. She was wearing Converse trainers, skinny jeans, and small round steel-framed glasses.
He stood up and tried to make his expression as pleasant as possible as he shook hands with the magistrate, but the culture of the 1960s was one of his least favourite things. Apart from fucking up western education systems, popularizing massive drug abuse, and securing pensions and healthcare for themselves, while leaving a devastated economy and environment for the generations that came after them, a sizeable section of them insisted on wearing their hair long into their old age, as if framing their furrowed faces and wrinkly little mouths with long strands of grey hair preserved their youth. He immediately judged Alice Saraceno as guilty of not accepting the passing of the years. He also firmly believed in the principle that all public prosecutors should be bourgeois conservatives. It went with the job description. Trying to look leftist or, worse, trying to act leftist while prosecuting people for upsetting the status quo was hypocritical. The woman had no business jailing people while looking like some ditzy failed artist who believed in bare feet and candles.
‘We have a lot to talk about, Commissioner. I believe you are the person who called this in?’
Blume nodded. She had a Tuscan accent, which softened him a little. He was a sucker for a woman with a Tuscan accent, all those aspirated words. Hommissario, she had called him.
‘I am very sorry about Filippo. I knew him for a long time. He mentioned you a few times, often in glowing terms. I would like to go in there and take a look around. Will you be here for me afterwards?’
An order framed as a polite question. That was nice.
‘Of course, Magistrate,’ said Blume.
‘We shall not talk about the Sofia Fontana case. That can wait for another time.’
She went in, and Blume remained standing, pacing the small corridor, suddenly more nervous than before.
Ten minutes later, she was back, her feet now hidden in blue plastic bags, blue latex gloves on her hands.
‘You really were close to the magistrate, weren’t you?’
Blume stopped pacing and looked at her carefully. She had found something.
She caught the look of comprehension in his eye, and shook her head firmly. ‘Chill. I want to keep this as relaxed and informal as possible. Call me Alice.’
She made a subtle signal with her hand, and Panebianco, looking suitably contrite, appeared at the doorway.
‘Aha, a witness to the interview,’ said Blume, ‘so it is a formal questioning.’
‘This is completely informal, Commissioner.’
‘What have you found?’
‘In a moment. Just let me ask you, have you ever been in the apartment?’
‘Yes, Giudice.’
‘Alice, please. Recently?’
‘Yes.’
‘So the forensic team are going to find your fingerprints and DNA if they look around.’
‘Forensic team?’
‘They’re below. Actually, maybe we could go downstairs, get out of their way?’
Blume started down the stairs, ignoring the magistrate’s surprise that he was foregoing the lift. He walked out of the building, greeted the head of the forensic team on his way in.
‘What have you got for us, Alec?’
He stood back, put up his hands. ‘No. This is not my case. Nothing to do with me.’
He watched as the magistrate spoke to the team leader, who was now stealing a few glances in his direction. The sky had darkened again. Eventually, Alice Saraceno detached herself from the group and came up to him.
‘You look like a man who could do with a drink. You work round the corner, where’s a good place?’
Blume took her to the meanest, most miserable bar he knew, where they served nothing hip or healthy. He expected her to order a mineral water and to get served a dead Ferrarelle in a warm plastic bottle, but she surveyed the place quickly, and then him, and ordered two beers.
‘I think that’s the saf
est option here,’ she said, settling down next to him, allowing her knee to knock against his. She poured her beer and drank.
‘Principe was a magistrate, investigating a case in which a woman in care was apparently killed. That’s the only reason a scientific team is in there now. But his death was accidental, or perhaps he wanted it?’
Blume gulped back half his glass, and relaxed a little. This Alice was not so bad.
‘I think he wanted it.’
‘Do you know the family. Is there family?’
He explained about the estranged daughter and Alice shook her head sorrowfully. ‘You work with someone, you never imagine the things they are going through.’
She pulled out an iPhone whose case was decorated with coloured butterflies, and Blume felt a resurgence of hostility. She turned the phone round, and there was a picture of a desk, with a drawer open on it. The next picture showed a blue-gloved hand holding an envelope, and the third showed a letter.
‘Suicide note?’ asked Blume.
‘No. Well . . . It foresees his death. It says that in the event of his death, he wanted it to be known that Alec Blume had absolutely no idea of the existence of any will or legacy, and was not to be inconvenienced by “misguided and busybody public prosecutors”. He may have meant me, but I can think of others.’
Blume knew she was watching him closely as she spoke. He did not have to feign surprise at what he was hearing.
‘The note also says that you will be inheriting a substantial amount and may want to reconsider your career.’
‘It says that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does he use the third person, or is it addressed to me?’
‘Good question. It is in the third person. It seems written for investigators,’ she finished her beer. ‘I had better get back now.’
Blume waited. She was going to add a lot more before she really did leave. The casual aside technique. Even if you knew it was coming, it was still somehow effective.
‘Another thing . . .’
Here we go.
‘His note says that you are welcome to speak to his daughter and explain why he left half his fortune to you and the other half to his grandson. He also apologizes in advance for any legal hassles this may cause you, and mentions that his daughter will have a strong case if she contests the will. He then gives the address of his lawyer. You knew nothing of this?’
‘No.’
‘Good job it is a natural death or, at worst, death by misadventure. Otherwise, it would be a real hassle for you.’
‘Well, aren’t I just so lucky,’ said Blume.
‘Well, you’re rich. Or very well off. Principe had powerful connections in his day, I remember. He used them against me a few times. He has a nice apartment, too.’
‘The entire top floor is his,’ said Blume.
Alice whistled.
‘I’ll get this,’ said Blume, pointing to the beers. ‘After all, I can afford it.’
‘Let’s hope that daughter is a reasonable woman. All right, Alec. Bye for now. We also need to talk about the murder of Sofia, but con tutta serenità. That can wait until . . . tomorrow? Say 10 a.m. at my office? Oh, and maybe if you wrote down your actions from when you last saw Filippo Principe until you made that call to Panebianco, including the people you were with, at what time that sort of thing.’
‘OK.’
‘You saw the note. It won’t be a problem, Alec. I know you better than you think. Principe would talk about you sometimes.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. There is a coda to the note. A postscript. It is intended for you, and it’s pretty personal. I think you should read it without anyone here, especially not an investigating magistrate.’
‘When it’s released from the custody chain, I’ll read it.’
‘We don’t have to wait that long, Alec. I photographed it with my iPhone, and sent it to your email address. As a favour. Can you pick up your email on your phone?’
‘Apparently it can be done.’
‘But not by you? Well, read it the first chance you get.’ She gathered her Tolfa bag and swung it over her shoulder and left the bar.
Blume walked the few hundred metres back to the station. The staff room was empty, save for Rospo, whom he ignored. He went into his office, shut the door, fired up the computer, and pulled down the email with the attached JPEG file. The words were clear and easy to read on the computer screen, and the scrawled message was short.
Dear Alec,
Stop mistaking solitude for peace. If you find people who love you, hold them close, even if they are noisy and full of faults. If people you love die, try to find new people. You might not succeed, but do not invite loneliness into your life. Once it’s there, it pretends to be its exact opposite, a companion that you are reluctant to leave.
Loneliness is not your friend. Keep an eye open for when it approaches, disguised as privacy, peace, independence, or freedom. I know you. I knew you.
Filippo.
Chapter 42
She had answered the door thinking it was Elia, back from football.
‘I need my clothes.’
She didn’t like the way he said it. He was full of the sort of aggression he usually reserved for work. His eyes were moving all over her, appraising, judgmental, and analytical, perhaps even lustful – anything but loving. His eyes, which changed colour according to what he wore, sometimes green flecked with shards of blue, sometimes blue flecked with green, were flat grey. She looked down to avoid them, and saw his big scuffed shoes, which caused an unexpected ripple of affection in her chest until he killed it completely by saying, ‘As you can see, I have not put a toe over the threshold.’
She did not want him in, nor did she want to shut the door in his face, so she simply turned and walked into the living room without saying a word.
‘I’m coming in then, all right. Tell me to stop if you want me to stop.’
She was too tired to say anything and remained in silence on the sofa.
His footsteps had a familiar rhythm. He brought with him his familiar smell, too, but it was tinged with something else, as if he had washed his hands or his clothes in a volatile liquid. Alcohol. That was it: a faint taint of alcohol and something else. Something truly unpleasant.
‘I am going into the bedroom, and I am going to fill a case, OK? It will take me no more than two minutes. All my stuff is in two drawers.’ He was speaking to her as if she were immensely stupid, which is how she felt. She had to put his words together one by one and then nod to indicate that she understood what he was saying. But even if she understood the words, she did not quite recognize the person who was speaking them. He disappeared into the bedroom, and true to his word, was back within a matter of minutes, holding a bulging suitcase and, once again, scanning her body rather than looking at her. She took a cushion off the sofa and covered her belly and groin with it.
‘You’re looking well, considering,’ he said.
‘Considering.’
‘The bruise on your face looks like a tan. It almost suits you.’
‘That’s a scary sort of thing to say, Alec.’
‘What is?’
‘That my beat-up face suits me.’
‘But it does, sort of. You look . . .’
Again, he gave her a long appraising look. When he was suspicious, he was capable of looking into her with his gaze, when he was in his ordinary self-obsessed mode, she was invisible. Penetrated or invisible, depending on his mood: the definition of an abusive relationship.
‘Anyhow, I’ve found a place. Well, I think I have.’
She didn’t understand.
‘I mentioned it? I rented out my old place, like you asked. So I can’t go back there.’
‘No, that is one of the forty-three thousand things you have forgotten to mention.’
Blume nodded his head slightly and glanced sideways, which he seemed to think was a more subtle way of expressing exasperation at her distraction than
plain eye-rolling. Clearly, she had no right to forget salient events in his life.
‘An African woman,’ he said. ‘I am sure I told you this. Maybe the bang on your head made you forget? Fine woman. Pale little English husband. Like a white grub. You’d wonder what makes two such mismatched people come together.’
‘Utter mystery. So where are you staying?’
‘In a hotel for a while. Nice place. Run by invisible priests.’
The irony in his tone was a relief because it marked a momentary passing of the barely repressed rage that he had brought in with him. She felt the muscles in her arms and neck relax a little, as his voice returned to its normal timbre.
‘You are a fucking bully,’ she told him, stealing some of his rage. ‘You were frightening me. You still are.’
‘Sorry. I don’t mean to.’
‘Men, they do that. They do it all the time. I thought you might be different.’
‘Can I sit?’ asked Blume.
She nodded.
‘I don’t suppose anyone has phoned you, to tell you about Principe.’
‘No, what about him?’
He told her. When he heard her gasp in sympathy, he went on, and in the end, he had told her just about everything that had happened since they last met.
‘I am going to make some tea,’ she said after a while. ‘Do you want some?’
‘Tea?’ Blume had never seen the point in the beverage. ‘Wait!’ He was overcome with a generous impulse. ‘I’ll make it.’
He boiled some water and made a passable attempt at keeping the contempt from his voice, as he kept returning to the living room to read out the names of her teas. ‘Lady Grey, Melissa, Mountain Flower, Darjeeling, English Breakfast, Irish Breakfast . . .’
He did not even harrumph when she asked for honey instead of sugar.
‘Look, I am sorry about Principe,’ she said, taking the cup from him.
‘So am I.’
‘You’re angry, too.’
‘He did it on purpose, basically, but without quite doing it on purpose. I bet when they do the autopsy, they’ll find that his overdose was minimal.’
‘And so now you are rich,’ said Caterina.
‘I would prefer not to talk about it.’
The Memory Key: A Commissario Alec Blume Novel Page 28
