The Memory Man

by Steven Savile

  ‘How can you not remember what he looked like? It was seconds ago.’

  The man shrugged and suddenly looked vulnerable. ‘You know what it’s like, everyone’s a face, but you’re not really looking at any of them. You’re talking to them, sure, but you’re scanning the room looking for something better. You looked a little lost, so I thought, why not?’

  ‘Lost? Yeah maybe,’ Ash said, thinking that was pretty much the perfect word to describe him on all levels right now. ‘Anything you remember about him? Anything at all? Maybe his clothes? Anything?’

  The guy shook his head. ‘I feel like an idiot. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m the idiot,’ Ash said, and was already heading for the door before the eye candy could apologize again.

  He scanned the faces, looking for Danilo, but knew he wasn’t there. He kicked himself. He’d convinced the old guy to trust him, and all it had taken was a guy with a bottle of beer to get him to take his eye off the ball. Ash pushed his way to the stairs, working against the press of the flesh as more revellers came down to enjoy the sins of the Emperor. There was smiles and laughter, and enough cologne to sear away the fine hairs lining his nostrils.

  He made it to the door and stepped out into the night.

  In the time he’d been down there it had grown cold.

  He felt someone grab at his arm and he spun around, ready to let fly with a clenched fist, and only just managed to stop himself when he realized that it was the eye candy. The man had followed him outside.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. But there’s no need to run away.’

  Ash didn’t have time to explain. He scanned the street, left and right, looking for any sign of Danilo. ‘I’m not running away. I fucked up. Now I’m putting it right.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Did you see the older man who came in maybe ten minutes ago? Skinny guy, losing his hair?’

  ‘Pietro? Sure, he’s a regular. He likes the younger boys. Got a thing for the innocent look. But he’s OK.’

  ‘Younger guys?’ The way he said it, despite the fact he was maybe mid-twenties at the most, sent a shiver down the ladder of Ash’s spine that had nothing to do with the cold night air. ‘How young are we talking?’

  ‘I should go back inside. I’ve got to help Trixie out behind the bar.’ The fact he wouldn’t answer the question answered the question.

  ‘Did you see him leave?’

  There were dozens of people out now, tourists and club-goers. A group had gathered around a street performer who seemed to be doing some weird kind of puppet show in the middle of the square. Delighted laughter rippled out. A moment later another entertainer appeared, this time on stilts and making a show of breathing fire. Even if they kept this up all night they’d be lucky to pocket minimum wage from the most generous tourist crowd.

  He couldn’t see Danilo anywhere.

  It couldn’t have been more than two minutes since he left.

  Two fucking minutes.

  ‘Not me,’ the man said then spoke rapidly with the current doorman who pointed down the street. ‘He’s already gone. That way.’ He pointed in the direction of the performers. ‘Left with a guy, maybe in his late forties, early fifties.’

  ‘Cheers,’ Ash said, and started running in the direction the bouncer had pointed. He was forced into the road to avoid another group of girls walking arm in arm and taking up the entirety of the pavement. They were singing. Drunk already, or at least buzzed. They moved into the road to try and block him, laughing as they did so. Ash, forced out wide, didn’t slow down.

  There was no sign of Danilo, either alone or with another man.

  Even as he crossed the street to where the crowds were thinner, there was nothing.

  He stopped running and cursed himself.

  He’d fucked it up.

  He’d fucked it up and now Danilo was going to die.

  This was all his fault.

  He shouldn’t have encouraged the old man to act as bait. He should have told him to run, as far away and as fast as he could. But oh no, he’d convinced a frightened man the only way he was getting out of this was by playing along the Peter Ash way.

  There were any number of doorways in the couple of hundred metres he’d covered since leaving the club, huge oak doors, small unassuming painted ones, iron-banded relics and modern uPVC security ones. None of them looked alike. The street spiralled away from him, feeling vast. A thousand windows looked out onto the world – or at least that was how it felt as he turned and turned and turned, faster and faster, praying to a god he didn’t believe in for a glance of Pietro Danilo’s scruffy mop of thinning hair being ushered into one of the doors.

  Patterns of behaviour. The other guys had gone with the killer willingly. Had Danilo done the same thing? Or had he tried to catch Ash’s eye while he had been distracted by the eye candy and panicked that he couldn’t?

  Maybe he’d run?

  He’d parked his Renault around here. Maybe he’d managed to give the killer the slip in the tide of people and made it to the car?

  Any hope of that died almost as soon as the thought occurred to him, as Ash spotted the racing-green Renault parked on the other side of the road.

  He had a choice to make now. He could call Division, get them to reach out via the Italian office to the Carabinieri and get them on board, go door to door and hope they rattled the guy’s cage. Or he could start asking people, like a crazy man, up in their faces, ‘Have you seen this old guy, skinny, losing his hair, he’s with a fortysomething-year-old guy?’ Someone would have seen them. But in a numbers game he was dealing with shit numbers; there were too many people milling around, too many bodies to work through, too many doors to knock on and buildings to check. It was an impossible task, because in the minutes it would take to convince the Carabinieri to get on board with the murder hunt the killer was going to walk.

  And even if he asked everyone, that didn’t mean he’d get the answer he was looking for. Maybe Frankie was wrong. Maybe that local bolthole was only something he’d done in Stockholm. There was no guarantee he’d repeated the pattern here, or even if he had tried, what was the likelihood he’d found a place that met his needs so close to the city centre? Maybe this time he’d got a car waiting?

  Patterns of behaviour.

  Comfort.

  Habit.

  Ash stood in the middle of the street, hands on his hips, knowing he’d blown it. All he could do now was go back to Caligula’s and try and get a proper description of the killer from the doorman and anyone else in there who might have seen him.

  He started to walk back the way he’d come.

  He crossed under a streetlight, and glanced back towards Danilo’s abandoned car.

  Too late, he realized that there was someone sitting in the front seat. He hadn’t seen them before because of the shadows and the distance, and because he hadn’t really been looking for them. Now a security light had come on, casting the interior of the car into stark relief. He couldn’t see who was in there. It was just a dark shape behind the wheel.

  The engine roared into life and pulled away from the roadside.

  At this time of night the traffic was non-existent. The biggest problem was pedestrians in the street, and they got out of the way fast as the engine roared and the Renault raced towards them.

  Ash felt a surge of relief.

  One shadow.

  There was only one shadow.

  Danilo was running.

  The car hurtled past him, and in that moment all hope was lost. Danilo was not alone in the car. There was a second man, in the back seat.

  Without thinking, he ran into the road, stopping the first car in a screech of brakes as it tried to avoid mowing him down. He didn’t so much as flinch. He ran along the line of windows to the fourth car, a taxi, and pressed his ID up against the window even as the other drivers blared their horns at him. He ignored them. And the taxi driver ignored him, giving Ash the finger and pulling away.<
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  Danilo’s car was already starting to gain speed and would be out of sight soon and away into the labyrinthine Roman streets.

  He had no choice but to run.

  The racing-green Renault was three hundred metres ahead of him. There was no way he could possibly close the gap, even if traffic lights intervened, but that didn’t stop him from summoning a burst of speed and running furiously, arms and legs pumping as he tried to force every ounce of energy out of his body, but it was futile. The Renault disappeared.

  Ash fell to his knees in the middle of the road, trying to suck in air while drivers queueing up behind him leaned on their horns and gesticulated wildly through their open windows.

  One of the Vestal Virgins stepped into the road and helped him to his feet. ‘You OK?’ she asked, in English. Her friends at the side of the road were very pointedly telling her to leave the mad man alone and not to get involved.

  Ash brushed her concern away. ‘Just out of shape,’ he said, angry with himself.

  ‘Did he steal your wallet?’

  He heard what she was saying, but the words didn’t seem to be making a lot of sense. He stood there, in a landscape of confusion.

  ‘The man in the car? Did he steal your wallet? There’s usually a couple of motorcycle cops down by the fountain at this time of night. You should tell them.’

  More horns blared. Ash nodded and stumbled out of the way, allowing the cars to move past him. The drivers stared at him like he was the scum of the earth. One yelled a stream of obscenities in his direction. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Ash said, ‘but thanks.’

  ‘I hope you manage to enjoy the rest of your holiday,’ the girl said. ‘Rome really isn’t that bad, I promise.’

  She returned to her impatient friends. Maybe in the morning they’d hear about the killer’s arrest and realize they were in the middle of it. Or maybe not.

  He walked towards the quieter end of the street and made a call to Division, explaining he wasn’t going to need that vehicular backup after all. He gave them the Renault’s plate and they promised to put a trace on it. It wasn’t much, neither help or hindrance really. They were all supposed to be working together, but it always felt like they were pulling in different directions these days. He’d lost count of how many times he’d been told not to get in the way by local agencies objecting to his presence on their patch.

  The only person he could think of to turn to was Ernesto Donatti, and right now he trusted the Vatican fixer about as far as he could throw him.

  FIFTY

  ‘Remember me?’ Two words to send a chill into Danilo’s soul. They were all the man had needed to say when he approached him at the bar.

  The man hadn’t even looked at him, he’d simply leaned forward on the bar and ordered a dozen bottles of beer from Trixie and told her to line them up on the bar. He paid cash, then proceeded to share the bottles out around the coterie of young men who swarmed around him.

  Danilo didn’t recognize him, but there was an undeniable familiarity about the man.

  He glanced across at Peter Ash, only to see that his so-called protector was deep in conversation with Luca, the good-looking door bait paid to lure the horny suckers in.

  ‘I thought your friend would appreciate a refill, given his bottle has been empty quite a while now,’ he said.

  ‘How …’ Danilo started to ask but the rest of the question would not form in his mouth. The man took him by the arm and gently steered him away from the young men and their free drinks. It was too loud for conversation. Words were replaced by subtle gestures and little touches. They were deep in that kind of conversation with each other.

  ‘How did I get you alone? Ask yourself, Pietro, what, really, do you know about this hero of yours? What proof did he give you of who he was? How do you know I didn’t tell him to get you here? In fact, ask yourself this, how can you believe anything he has told you? I know what you are thinking. You are thinking you should have run when you had the chance.’

  His head started to spin, the flashing lights, the heat and the noise suddenly becoming too much for him. He reached out a hand to steady himself, knowing that something was wrong.

  ‘I need some air,’ he said and tried to stand.

  The man caught him under the elbow and stopped him from slumping down before he’d even half-stood.

  He shouldn’t have come here.

  The man was right, he should have run.

  And he should never have stopped running.

  If he had done that he could have disappeared. He could have been out of the country by now, on his way to a new life where no one knew him.

  He struggled to think straight; there would be people outside, people who could help, groups he could hide in. Outside was better than in.

  ‘I just want to talk,’ the man said.

  Which was a lie. It had to be. All the evidence in the world said it wasn’t about talking.

  ‘Don’t insult my intelligence. I’m not like the others. I know what’s going to happen to me.’

  ‘The others?’

  ‘Anglemark for a start.’

  ‘He was different, and you know it.’

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ Danilo said. But he did. He knew plenty. He knew that the worst lies were the ones you told yourself. He might not have done what the rest of them did, but he was complicit. He was part of it.

  ‘You really don’t remember me, do you?’

  Danilo shook his head. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m sure you are. Now. But it hardly matters. It was a long time ago. A very long time ago. But believe me, all I want to do is talk. You can spare me a few minutes, can’t you?’

  ‘Just talk?’

  ‘If you help me we can get justice. And maybe, if there is a god, some peace.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Tell me what you can remember. Everything you can remember about that place. In case I have missed anyone. Then I will leave you to your own conscience. I won’t force you to do anything. You decide what happens to you. Will you help me?’

  Danilo hesitated.

  He wanted to believe the man.

  And what harm could there be in talking?

  ‘Confession is good for the soul,’ the man said.

  ‘Do you want the truth? Is that it?’

  ‘I already know the truth,’ the man said. Perhaps that was it, he wanted to hear his confession in his own words, then expose him and the rest of them. Most of the others were already dead. What did they have to lose if the truth came out now? No one would remember who they were in a month. But he was still alive and being implicated would ruin him. And that was a different kind of torture, wasn’t it? Leaving your victim alive, stripping him of his dignity and his pride, stripping him of his name and undoing all the good things he’d done with his life and leaving a naked abuser there to face the lacerations of public opinion.

  Sometimes dead was better.

  Even as the thought entered his head Danilo saw his car. It was parked across the street, ready for the escape he’d never make now. ‘You want me to drive us somewhere?’ He indicated the car. His mind was working overtime. He was older than the man, and he kept himself in decent shape. Nobody liked an old queen who had let himself go to seed. The other man wasn’t big, but size wasn’t important. In this case it was all about power. And he had the power in the dynamic. But Danilo was older and kept a wheel brace in the boot of the car. That, around the side of the head, could be a great leveller.

  The only thing Pietro Danilo knew for sure and certain as he walked across the road towards the Renault was that he had far too much to lose to let this man destroy him.

  He needed to take control of the situation.

  That meant he couldn’t allow himself to be afraid.

  The man followed him across the street and slid into the rear passenger-side seat without another word.

  ‘There’s a cafe not too far from here,’ Danilo said. ‘It’s open all night. We
can talk there. They have some of the best pastries in Rome.’

  The man didn’t say no, so he took that as being as good as a yes.

  As he pulled away from the kerbside Danilo saw Ash walking towards them. He didn’t think about it. He put his foot down and accelerated smoothly. The old Renault had a big engine. They gained speed quickly.

  He made it three hundred metres before the traffic ground to a halt, red lights blocking the way. He glanced back in the rear-view mirror and saw Ash running like a madman down the middle of the road, fast. He was actually closing the gap. His eyes darted from Ash to the red light back to Ash back to the red light, willing it to change. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. The man in the back seat simply stared eyes front, utterly uninterested in Ash’s futile chase.

  Danilo cursed under his breath, unleashing a stream of invective that would have made the Pope blush, and then smiled as the divine chose to intervene and turned red to green, leaving Ash on his knees in the middle of the road.

  ‘How far is it?’ the man asked.

  ‘Not far,’ Danilo promised.

  In truth he had no idea where he was taking the other man. He was still trying to think of a quiet place, somewhere he could pull over and retrieve the brace from the boot without his passenger being any the wiser.

  He had mentioned a cafe because it was the first thing that had popped into his head.

  ‘Up front, there’s one open over there,’ the man said, pointing towards a lit window. ‘Park here.’

  It was hard to think of a reason to refuse, especially when he saw a couple of spaces kerbside.

  It was at least public. There were other guests inside. He was safe as long as he was around people.

  The man did not move to open his door until Danilo was already climbing out.

  Danilo took a deep breath, promising himself he was master of his own fate here.

  Turn about. Go from prey to predator. Kill the man, carve away a body part to make it appear he was the intended victim all along. It wasn’t brilliant, but it would lead them to the conclusion he needed them to make. And that was all that mattered.