The Namesake Read online

  ‘Working in insurance doesn’t mean I can get my hands on money. I don’t have access to funds . . . I’m only middle management. I’m not very good at my job. I can’t keep up with the latest computer algorithms. I have no knowledge or privileges.’

  ‘Is that what you do, insurance?’ said the man.

  The man had opened his legs a little and bent his head down, like an adult watching a child at play on the floor. Forties, tracksuit, overweight. He smelled of cigarettes, cologne, and something rubbery.

  ‘You don’t know what I do?’ said Matteo, hope rushing into him like the air had a minute before.

  ‘The Romanians said you worked in an office. They didn’t go any deeper than that. No need.’

  ‘Ah, you must have the wrong person, then,’ he tried to sound professional and politely apologetic, like the indemnification guys did when rejecting a claim.

  The man held out Matteo’s wallet, pulled out his frayed identity card. ‘You are the person I want. Matteo Arconti, a Calabrian name?’

  ‘My grandfather came from there,’ said Matteo.

  Like a conjurer, his captor produced the book on trees from behind his back. ‘This was in your pocket. You like trees?’

  ‘No – yes. I don’t know.’

  The man opened the book, looked through a few pages in the middle, and neatly pulled one out, then crumpled it up in his hand. He stepped over, and slipped the book back into Matteo’s jacket pocket. As he did so, Matteo caught sight of a black pistol tucked into the man’s elasticized waistband. The absence of a holster caused him despair. It meant his captor did not generally carry a weapon. So, if he had a weapon now, it had to be for a specific and immediate purpose. At the back of his mind, a version of himself was marvelling at the clarity of his thinking, promising to save the memory for later telling once this was over.

  But how would it end? Matteo bent his head down, muffling his voice against his chest in the hope that a lack of clarity in the question would elicit a lack of clarity in the response. ‘Are you going to kill me?’

  The man pulled up his tracksuit, scratched his stomach, and picked absently at the thick black hairs around his belly button, then pulled down his tracksuit again, slipping the gun into his hand as he did so.

  Matteo tucked his thumb deeper into his palm and rebalanced the ring. If he launched it behind him and his captor never noticed, it might serve as a posthumous message for the people who came looking for him when it was too late, and it would tell his wife he was thinking of her. At least he hoped she’d take it that way. But throwing away the ring was also throwing away hope.

  ‘Why me? I have no connections to anything. I have never harmed anyone, or stolen anything.’

  ‘We have to bow before the hand of fate.’

  Matteo flipped his thumb upwards and sent his wedding ring spinning away into the darkness behind him, for anyone who was looking for him. He began speaking to hide any clinking sound of the gold hitting the floor. ‘I have . . . I have done nothing all my life. And I’m not ready. I’m still learning things, you saw that. Trees.’

  ‘I don’t want to explain it. Basically, from your point of view, there’s no explanation,’ said the man, standing up and raising the pistol, which had a short fat barrel. He pointed it at him.

  ‘I have a family! Two children!’ Matteo’s fear was tinged with outrage. ‘And I am so obviously not the person you want. There must be another person with the same name! No one is making you do this, you understand that, right? Listen, like me, you probably have children, don’t you?’

  The man shot him in the heart, then the head.

  Minchia che rumore! The noise in the concrete chamber had assaulted his ears and made him angry. He called in the two Romanians. ‘Take this heap of shit down to Rome tomorrow. Do it at night. Dump it at Piazzale Clodio. There are some wide-open spaces there without buildings overlooking. Stay away from restricted traffic zones, cameras, and police, and drive so as not to be noticed. Right, who took his wallet and watch? Come on. Keep the watch, if you want to wear a dead man’s watch . . . but I need the wallet.’

  He held out his hand, not bothering to see which of the Romanians returned it to him. ‘Keep whatever money you found, but leave everything else, especially his ID card. Leave the book in his pocket. It’s a nice touch.’

  4

  Rome

  Chief Inspector Caterina Mattiola walked into Commissioner Alec Blume’s office and dropped an envelope on his desk.

  ‘The results of the blood test,’ she said.

  ‘Good,’ said Blume, looking up from the newspaper he was reading. ‘Leave them there.’ He folded over a page. As always, he was reading the local news. The watch she had given him sat beside him on the desk. He glanced up, and made a show of surprise at seeing her still there. ‘I don’t suppose you’d close the door when you come in here?’

  Caterina went back and closed the door.

  Blume waited till he heard the click, then said, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t make it over last night.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  Blume returned to his newspaper. ‘So, you’re investigating that robbery on Via Giulia,’ he said as if reading out a mildly interesting headline.

  ‘Attempted robbery,’ she corrected. ‘They ran off without getting anything.’

  ‘Sure. No shots were fired. You told me the attempted robbers were probably two middle-class kids out for kicks. So, whose blood are we talking about?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  Blume pushed the paper to one side with a sigh.

  ‘I picked up your test results on my way in this morning,’ she said.

  ‘The pointless test you forced me to do.’

  ‘For your own good, Alec. It’s not normal for a man to wake up in the morning and eat aspirin.’

  ‘It is if you have a headache.’

  ‘That’s the not normal part,’ said Caterina.

  ‘I see you’re having difficulty adjusting to my morning routines,’ said Blume.

  ‘No, I think it’s working out pretty well. I am adjusting.’

  ‘Still, I imagine it’s nice to have a break from me now and again. I certainly would like to take a break from myself now and then.’

  ‘We both need to compromise if we’re going to be living together,’ said Caterina.

  ‘What about my big American breakfasts at the weekend? They seem to disturb you, too. I need to know they can continue.’

  ‘That’s a cultural thing. I can accept that. I like the pancakes too. But I don’t know how you can bear to eat all that meat and eggs first thing. It’ll kill you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Blume. ‘Fat and protein are beneficial.’

  ‘No one will convince me that those fried sausages do you any good. They put all sorts of disgusting stuff in them.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Blume. ‘You know what’s a big ingredient in supermarket pork?’

  ‘No,’ said Caterina.

  ‘Aspirin.’ He picked up the envelope, gave it an appreciative flick with the back of his hand, and dropped it into the top drawer of his desk, which he kicked shut as he leaned back in his chair. ‘Still, thanks for this.’

  ‘You need to take the results to your doctor.’

  ‘Sure thing. Like I said, thanks.’ He returned to his newspaper.

  ‘Now.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I took the liberty of checking your schedule and making an appointment for you. We have no urgent cases . . .’

  ‘You did what? I’ll make my own appointments, thank you. Also, I have one with the magistrate this morning.’ He picked his watch up off the desk and reluctantly started attaching it to his wrist.

  ‘I saw that. But it’s not until eleven,’ she said. ‘Also, I thought he’d finished with you.’

  ‘More or less. He probably wants to explain where the case is going. A courtesy thing. There’s a certain irony in this, isn’t there?’

  ‘If there is, I don’t get it,’
said Caterina.

  ‘Not with the courtesy. Magistrate Arconti is a courteous man. I meant the case itself. It involved Nimesulide, remember? Which is just the analgesic I want for my headaches, so that makes it ironic. Or is it the opposite of ironic? Apt?’

  ‘If I knew what you were talking about I might be able to help you choose your words.’

  ‘The case involved Nimesulide. The drug they make Aulin pills from. Chief Inspector Panebianco tells me it’s the only thing that works for migraines like mine.’

  ‘So now it’s a migraine.’

  ‘It always was a migraine,’ said Blume. ‘I just don’t like to make a big deal of it, so I call it a simple headache.’

  Caterina rolled her eyes. ‘Maybe you should have taken a few handfuls of the Nimesulide when you made the raid.’

  ‘The thought did occur to me,’ said Blume. ‘But stealing drugs, even if they’re not illegal in themselves, and interrupting the chain of evidence in an Ndrangheta investigation . . .’

  ‘I was kidding, you know.’

  ‘I know. Taking you literally is my way of kidding you back. I expect Arconti just wants to sign off on the investigation. There’s not much we can do from here anyhow since the person he’s investigating operates in Germany, Switzerland and Milan. And Calabria of course.’

  ‘So the case is being transferred to the DIA?’

  ‘Probably. The DIA isn’t what it used to be. Twenty years ago, with Law 41(a) and the Mafia on the run, those guys saw themselves like a cross between the Marines and the FBI, poised for victory and revenge. Now . . . Just another mistreated police force. So the investigation goes to them, or it gets kicked into the undergrowth and left to fester. I suppose the investigating magistrate’s been taken off it, too. He probably wants to explain all that to me today.’

  ‘Meanwhile, your original investigation into the “suicide” of the hospital consultant from Naples . . .’

  ‘Stops here. For now. Foul play was not established, but at least the case opened an interesting avenue.’

  ‘That avenue was wide open if anyone cared to look,’ said Caterina. ‘The consultant had never even practised. For ten years he had been issuing prescriptions for vast quantities of Nimesulide, using hospital procurement contracts to cover his tracks. It was clear he was supplying the drug to someone who was using it to cut cocaine on an industrial scale. All people had to do was open their eyes. His colleagues, the hospital accountants, the Finance Police . . . he was acting in broad daylight, driving a Lamborghini on a state salary.’

  ‘Disgusting,’ said Blume. ‘But, eventually overcome with remorse, the consultant beat himself around the face, head, groin and chest before hanging himself from his balcony in what was unquestionably suicide.’

  ‘Are you really happy to leave it at that?’

  ‘It’s not up to me. It’s Arconti’s call. But it’s hard to care about the consultant or the verdict on his death. The consultant was a door into a more interesting inquiry. Arconti had retroactive traces put on the calls made by the consultant, which worked just fine, because it led to the arrest of two gallant gentlemen from Calabria.’

  ‘Your appointment with the doctor is for 9:15.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘So you should get moving now. The clinic is on the way. If you want, you can get painkillers prescribed by him. OK?’

  Blume shook his head. ‘You’re kidding, right? You expect me to stand up and go to the doctor, just like that?’

  ‘Yes. You wanted something for your headaches. Go to the doctor, talk to him. I went to the trouble of making the appointment, it’s the least you could do.’

  ‘If I don’t?’

  ‘If you don’t go, I’m going to leave this office, wait for you outside, and then make a scene here in the station, in front of everyone. Maybe in the corridor, you know, with voices raised and all the trappings.’

  ‘You don’t scare me. Anyhow everyone’s on holiday.’

  ‘I can embarrass you though. All it takes is for me to announce we are half-living together.’

  ‘Everyone knows that.’

  ‘But it’s not acknowledged,’ she said. ‘If I make it official, you’ll have to write up a report on conflicts of interest, and one of us will have to be moved to a different department. Or else we’ll just have to marry and present it as a done deal.’

  ‘So what time did you say the appointment was?’ said Blume.

  Half an hour later, Blume sat in the waiting room in the company of a desiccated old woman who avoided his eyes and fluttered her hand nervously across her throat every time he looked in her direction. He raised his arm and looked at his watch, and was about to ask her what the hell was the point of doctors setting appointment times for patients if they didn’t respect . . .

  The doctor appeared in person at the door of the waiting room and motioned him in. Too cheap to hire a receptionist. In the office, the doctor unfolded Blume’s test results, read them, and burst out laughing.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘What on earth do you eat?’

  ‘Food, normal stuff.’

  ‘I’ve never seen a cholesterol reading like that. Bad LDL cholesterol, I mean. I’m putting you on statins. Zocor, one a day for the rest of your life.’

  ‘I am pretty sure you have seen a cholesterol level like that in the past,’ said Blume.

  ‘No, no. I’d have remembered a reading like this.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t,’ said Blume. ‘Because I was here five years ago and we had pretty much the same conversation.’

  The doctor frowned, ‘I thought I knew your face.’ He tapped at the computer on his desk. ‘There you are. I prescribed statins for you then, too. Why did you tell me this was your first visit?’

  ‘I didn’t want to have an argument about statins again.’

  ‘Obviously you’re not taking them.’

  ‘No,’ said Blume. ‘My cholesterol is inherited. Northern ancestors. Sweden, Norway, Minnesota. Places like that.’

  ‘Why bother with the blood test then?’

  ‘My partner insisted. Besides, I might have something else.’

  ‘Well, you do. Poor liver function. What’s your beef with statins?’

  ‘I don’t believe in taking medicine preventatively. I think it’s a scam by the drug companies. Scare people to sell them stuff.’

  ‘I remember you now,’ said the doctor.

  ‘But I do believe in prescriptions for real pain. I’d like you to write me one for Aulin, please.’

  ‘So you have headaches?’

  ‘Migraines, for which I need Aulin or something even stronger.’

  ‘If I said yes, you’d need repeat prescriptions. You’d have to come back here.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘But I’m not going to prescribe it anyway.’

  Blume pulled a notebook from his jacket and flicked it open. ‘What about Migraless?’

  ‘Same stuff, same answer,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Let me see . . . he also mentioned Minerol and Edemax.’

  ‘No and no. Still versions of Nimesulide.’

  ‘Hydrocodone?’

  ‘Who is this maniac advising you? Take the statins, come back to me in a month, and then we can talk.’

  ‘I’m not taking statins.’

  ‘And I’m not prescribing Nimesulide to patients I don’t know. Try over-the-counter paracetamol, less coffee and a more relaxed attitude.’

  Blume slammed the door on his way out, startling the little woman in the waiting room. ‘That man,’ Blume told her, ‘is fucking useless.’

  5

  Rome

  Blume drove fast and aggressively through the streets to his appointment in Piazzale Clodio with Magistrate Matteo Arconti. He did not have a headache yet, but he had the intimations of one. It promised to be brutal, and it would be the fault of Caterina and that idiot doctor.

  When they first met, the magistrate, whose unsteady vibrato voice gave all his utterances a plaintive edge, ha
d asked Blume about his personal life. Blume had simply and automatically lied as he did to everyone who asked questions in that area. No partner, woman, girlfriend or emotional attachment to anyone, he had said.

  The magistrate seemed so pleased at this information that Blume suddenly had a lurching sensation that this was the prelude to some sort of gay demand. It would fit in with the wavering voice, the ready smile. Jesus, the thought. The guy was white haired and had to be about sixty-five. Not that that was the issue. Even if he had been thirty-five or twenty-five.

  ‘I was hoping you would say that,’ said the magistrate.

  ‘You were?’

  ‘Yes. You see, if the criminals want to get at you, they have to get you, Commissioner. The same applies to me. They would need to kill me in person, since it’s going to be hard to find any family. My parents are dead; I have no idea who my cousins are. My wife divorced me and moved abroad ten years ago, and even under torture, I could not say where she is. We had no children. I can be sure that no one innocent is at risk because I refuse to let go of an investigation. We might die, but no one has to die on our behalf. That is important. It gives us freedom.’

  Blume, relieved to discover his magistrate had suicidal rather than homosexual inclinations, agreed, even going so far as to add: ‘I don’t really understand how a policeman can have a wife and family and still be effective.’

  Caterina was not a wife, or even a proper partner yet. Propped up at his front door, ready to be taken round to her place, was a suitcase of belongings, mostly mementos of his parents, including their wedding rings. He had carefully buried the objects under a layer of his own clothes so that she could not see quite how sentimental he was. The suitcase had been there for five or six weeks now. Once he carried it into Caterina’s apartment, the die would be cast. Apparently, her coming to his larger and nicer apartment was out of the question, because of her son, Elia, who was not to be traumatized by a change of house and school. Also, her parents lived up the road. His dead parents and lack of children gave him no counterarguments. Saying he did not like her apartment much, which was true, was not an option. She seemed to think they could rent his out, but Blume did not want strangers pawing their way around what had been his parents’ home.