The Memory Key: A Commissario Alec Blume Novel Read online

  ‘Different bullets, but the same weapon was used in both incidents?’ said Blume.

  ‘Absolutely. The weapon fingerprint on the bullet is the same. In the first case, the distance was probably 400 metres, and the shot came from the side. That the shot was not fatal is nothing short of miraculous.’

  ‘So a real marksman?’

  ‘The techs were non-committal on this. If you have a good sights and a laser, then it’s not all that hard, and both are easy to come by. Just ask a Russian in Ladispoli and he’ll sell you both at a decent price. Then you’d need a bit of practice, or just be able to handle a rifle, calibrate the sights to the laser. Also, a professional would have a more modern weapon. This is the sort of ancient army surplus you would expect an outmoded Fascist gang to have stashed away somewhere.’

  ‘Ignore the question of Sofia for a moment. Have you completely discounted the idea of a revenge attack on Manfellotto by one of the family members of her victims from the train station bombing?’

  ‘Yes. Apart from anything else, it’s a question of age. The angriest are those who lost children, but they are also the oldest, and much time has passed.’

  Blume could not fault the logic. Even if someone who had lost a family member more than 30 or so years ago had suddenly snapped at seeing Manfellotto walking around a university campus and consorting with a Fascist fellow traveller, that same person was not the sort to go out and murder an innocent girl who might have seen something.

  ‘By the way, what is it with the Russians up there? Why did they all decide to live by the sea near Ladispoli?’ asked Blume.

  ‘Caterina worked in immigration affairs,’ said Principe, a trace of irritation in his tone. ‘Ask her. Were you even listening to me?’

  ‘Yes. So the unstable bullet took the back of the girl’s head off, pretty much like what happened to Kennedy. Yet the same weapon was used for a cleaner shot that passed through the temporal lobe of Manfellotto, carving a neat and short canal through part of her brain and leaving the rest intact. God’s never been much good at choosing who to save.’

  ‘You have a funny idea of what “save” means. The bullet performed a lobotomy on Manfellotto. She can’t remember anything, suffers from incontinence, loss of hearing, and incapacity to taste food, or remember what or if she has eaten,’ said Principe.

  ‘Not remembering what she has done, if that’s actually the case, is another sign of God’s special mercy for the worst type of human. As for the lobotomy and the incontinence, I never said He lacked a sense of humour.’

  ‘Neither of them was lucky. If you do get shot in the head, pray it’s point-blank up through the chin with a Magnum 44.’

  ‘Lord, hear our prayer,’ said Blume.

  ‘Want to see for yourself what I mean?’ said Principe. ‘I’m going to the hospital to have a chat with Manfellotto in an hour. University Polyclinic, Ward 7, second floor, bed 33. Come along if you’re interested.’

  Blume put his phone down thoughtfully and left his office for the open-space area where Chief Inspector Caterina Mattiola, Chief Inspector Rosario Panebianco, and the new arrival in the office, transferred from Corviale, were crowded around the computer monitor on Panebianco’s desk. They appeared to be watching something on YouTube.

  ‘Busy, then, are we?’ said Blume.

  Caterina motioned him over and slipped her hand around his waist.

  ‘Have you seen this?’ asked Panebianco. ‘Do you think they trained the dog to do that? I mean how would you even think of training a dog?. . . wait, here’s the best bit.’

  Blume patiently watched a dog on waterskis. When the video was over, Panebianco leaned back in his chair and looked at Blume. ‘I suppose you want to know if we’ve made any progress with the road rage case.’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘You can ask Caterina. She’s been hard on it.’

  ‘I am asking you.’

  Panebianco tapped his teeth with his pen, as if considering whether to answer or not, then relented, ‘Well, it turns out the guy who got run over was not only a regular user of hash, coke, and alcohol, but he also used to sell them. All three. He had a pub, which was closed down five years ago when it turned out he was dealing from it. He blamed his staff, claimed he had nothing to do with it, and got a suspended sentence. He was also brought in twice on assault charges and was an active member of CasaPound, the Nazi group.’

  ‘Illiterate nazis who claim inspiration from an American poet,’ said Blume. ‘Only in Italy.’

  ‘They also like Tolkien, Irish hunger strikers, and World of Warcraft,’ said Panebianco. ‘And beating up schoolchildren, stabbing visiting fans from England, and starting riots in the stadium.’

  ‘They tend to be Lazio supporters, don’t they?’ said Blume. ‘That must increase their sense of alienation and loss.’

  ‘I think you’ll find they are mostly supporters of AS Roma, Commissioner. I would also point out that Lazio is second from the top of the league whereas Roma . . .’

  ‘Fifteenth, yes, but the season’s only begun. We always get off to a slow start.’

  Caterina intervened. ‘Let’s not talk football, guys, OK? We’re going off topic.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Panebianco. ‘So the victim, Valerio, is on his motor scooter at a traffic light beside a silver-grey Citroen C4 Picasso driven by the accused, and, according to an eyewitness who came out of his furniture repair shop to watch the fun when he heard the shouting and horns blaring, was seen kicking at the door of the car, being in an excess of rage caused by a mixture of alcohol, cocaine, and the very disappointing performance of Roma against Siena, who are hardly giants of football, but that’s what comes of trying to play like Barcelona without any of your players actually being any good at passing.’

  ‘Seriously,’ said Caterina.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Blume. ‘Shut up, Rosario.’

  ‘The argument continued at the next set of traffic lights, just after the Casaletto tram terminus, and we have a witness there, too. This time, Valerio got off his motorcycle the better to kick the Citroen.’

  ‘Nobody saw the accused in the car?’ asked Blume.

  Caterina gave him a funny look. ‘No, but we know who it was. The dents in the body work, the paint from the scooter, and of course, the blood.’

  ‘But no one saw what happened?’ he insisted.

  ‘We have reconstructed the scene, and the investigating magistrate has ordered the detention of the accused on the basis of our reconstruction,’ said Caterina. ‘The driver of the car, Adelgardo . . .’

  ‘Great name,’ said Blume. ‘He must be from Lombardy?’

  ‘No,’ said Caterina. ‘Adelgardo Lambertini. He was born in Bologna, but has been resident in Rome for 60 years. Adelgardo seems to have accelerated on the downhill stretch at the beginning of Via Silvestri and struck the scooter from behind. The victim was hurled into the opposite lane but there was no oncoming traffic. At this point Adelgardo, according to the forensic expert from the Municipal Police who examined the marks on the road, seems to have executed a handbrake turn of around 130 degrees.’

  ‘Not bad for a 72-year-old,’ said Blume.

  ‘He then realigned his vehicle, as witnessed by the barber in the shop who is the only one to have seen the whole thing from beginning to end. He accelerated back in the direction he had come, and drove over Valerio as he lay on the ground. The wheels crushed the victim’s windpipe. He then stopped and once again turned the car round.’

  ‘Another handbrake turn?’ asked Blume.

  ‘No, a slow and deliberate three-point turn, this time, clearly showing intentionality. He drove back over Valerio who was now thrashing about and trying to breathe. We should have dozens of witnesses for this, but none of the drivers on the road has responded to appeals to come forward, apart from one who arrived on the scene just after Adelgardo had passed over the body for a second time. Not that he deserves much praise, since he did not see fit to stop, but he did remember the first
two and last two letters of the number plate, which may be because they are the same. EF and EF. When questioned, Adelgardo Lambertini denied having been in the car that day. He even denied owning a Citroen, even though it was registered in his name.’

  ‘That was a bad move,’ agreed Blume. ‘He should have said it was stolen.’

  ‘He parked it outside his daughter’s house on the other side of Rome and got a taxi back. A patrol spotted the car a few hours later and we managed to track down the taxi driver, who has a clear memory of his fare. He remembers picking up an old man and being afraid that he might end up with a corpse in the back of his car, so white and feeble did he seem.’

  ‘Also,’ said Panebianco, ‘the last number dialled on his mobile phone was 063570, which is the taxi company, and the call places him outside his daughter’s house.’

  ‘She removed the car, and the magistrate issued an arrest warrant against her for aiding and abetting,’ added Caterina.

  ‘An arrest warrant, no less,’ said Blume.

  ‘Arrest is obligatory on this charge,’ said Caterina. ‘The magistrate can’t order custody only. Article 378 of the criminal code. He ordered the arrest to put pressure on Adelgardo. But either Adelgardo doesn’t care about his daughter and grandchildren . . .’

  ‘Or the magistrate’s bullying tactics have angered him. We know he has a temper.’

  ‘The magistrate’s actions are perfectly legitimate,’ said Caterina.

  Blume looked at Caterina. He had been living with her for nine months now, and as each day went by, he felt he knew her less and less. He looked over at the new sovrintendente from Corviale, who had remained silent throughout. ‘Am I the only one who thinks this Adelgardo is a fucking hero and we should be giving him a medal instead of arresting him and upsetting his grandchildren?’

  The sovrintendente’s look of serious concentration and deference was split in two by a smile of relief and agreement.

  Panebianco’s face showed no change, but he said, ‘Of course he is. But we are agents of the law. Take it up with the investigating magistrate.’

  ‘You know as well as I do the magistrate is not investigating anything. She’s got all the evidence she needs and is just keeping the old man and his daughter in custody until they crack.’

  ‘Commissioner,’ said Caterina, all formal and hostile now that Blume had appealed directly to the young sovrintendente. ‘This man has spent 72 of his God-given years on this earth. What do you think gives him the right to take the life of a man less than half his age? The right to drive over a helpless body lying in the middle of a road. Is that your idea of a hero?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ said Blume. ‘Maybe not a top-tier hero. A lesser hero, let’s say. The old guy has some anger management issues, but to do that after all those years without so much as a parking ticket is pretty impressive. Am I supposed to be sorry that an old man, instead of becoming a victim, pressed a drug-pushing thug into the asphalt?’

  ‘He was only 30 years old.’

  Panebianco intervened. ‘His parents claim social benefits, yet he opened a pub when he was 25. So where would you say his income came from?’

  Caterina’s neck went blotchy in that unattractive way it had when she was angry. ‘That’s irrelevant.’

  ‘From what I gather,’ said Blume, unhappy to see her like this but needing to press home the advantage, ‘his favourite pastime was beating up immigrants and spray painting walls with messages of hate.’

  The new sovrintendente nodded in enthusiastic confirmation of this.

  ‘His background is no longer relevant, since he is dead. And his killer was unaware of his past activities. He could have been a kid on his way home from school.’ Caterina’s lips had tightened to two thin lines. Her lips weren’t all that great, Blume thought. Maybe that is why they didn’t kiss so much any more.

  ‘Twenty-one years in prison for a 72-year-old. And possibly four years for the daughter unless she starts cooperating. That’s vindictive.’

  ‘So is driving your car over someone’s head,’ said Caterina, and crossed her arms and bit her bottom lip. ‘And you know he’ll get house arrest at that age.’

  She was right, but it was also a question of principle. The old man proved he was not a pushover for a thug. He had probably saved lives by taking out Valerio.

  Blume disliked talking in this room. The fluorescent tubes in the ceiling were always on, adding to, rather than countering the greyness of the November day. Even when the light outside was bright and the air crisp, the fluorescent lights were constantly goading his patience, encouraging bad-tempered exchanges like this.

  ‘OK, let’s not argue the point. Caterina, you’re still coordinating the evidence gathering.’

  He went up to the sovrintendente, put his arm around his shoulder, and steered him away from the other two. When they had arrived at the window, Blume released him, and said, ‘Claudio, how would you like to liaise with the magistrate in my place?’

  ‘I don’t think I could do that.’

  ‘Are you not familiar with the facts and developments of the case? As far as I can see, you’ve been doing a great job of keeping up.’

  The sovrintendente’s face was taut and flushed in the effort of trying not to look delighted to be praised, even if he knew a request always followed flattery.

  ‘I think you feel much the same as me about this case, and so I think you can represent me very well.’

  ‘Magistrate Martone sent for you, not me.’

  ‘Yes, so you’ll need to get good at lying. You arrive, telling her I was called away urgently on other business. Tell her I have delegated to you, which is true. If she doesn’t accept that, then she’ll have to send for me all over again. But it’s not likely. Like I said, there is not much more investigative work. And I don’t think we need to bend over backwards to strengthen the case against the old man and his daughter, do we?’

  Blume left the young policeman pleased and flustered in equal measure and went back to Panebianco and Caterina.

  ‘Can you two come into my office?’

  Blume had them sit down and dragged a chair across the room to join them. He told them about his visit to the crime scene at the university, his conversation with the questore, and his latest conversation with the investigating magistrate.

  When he had finished, Panebianco asked him, ‘What do you want us to say? It’s pretty clear that you should not get involved.’ He stood up. ‘And that’s all I have to say. If you choose to do otherwise, as you will, don’t tell me about it.’

  Caterina put her hand on his arm. ‘Alec, don’t even think of it. You don’t need the hassle.’

  Panebianco turned as he reached the door and added, ‘Just one thing, Commissioner.’ He paused till Blume was looking him in the eye. ‘You give too much credit to Magistrate Filippo Principe. I realize he is a friend, but he has not always acted impeccably. There was a time when political types sent investigations to him to die.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Blume. ‘But it’s been a while.’

  ‘Leopards don’t change their spots,’ said Panebianco. ‘If he has turned completely honest, it’s only because his political referents ceased to exist.’

  ‘He never tried to block a murder investigation, Rosario. Not even all that time ago when all his friends were Craxi Socialists.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  First Caterina, now Panebianco. Everyone was being uptight and righteous today. ‘Hey, sorry if being consulted upsets you. I’ll remember that next time.’

  Panebianco opened the door. ‘Good.’

  Blume smiled complicity at Caterina and rolled his eyes as Panebianco closed the door, but got nothing back.

  ‘He’s right, Alec.’

  So she was still on her high horse about Adelgardo and his road rage.

  ‘Some support I get here,’ said Blume bitterly.

  She stood up. ‘I think we’re done here.’

  ‘Yeah, go on, get out,’ said Blume
. ‘The questore said someone in this office reported me to him, and I scoffed, thinking it was probably just the Carabinieri unhappy to see me in their case. But now I am wondering.’

  Caterina looked at him in amazement. ‘You’re wondering if I reported you to the questore?’

  He had gone too far, but the best he could manage was a shrug.

  ‘You know who it most likely was?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Principe himself. He knows how pathetically predictable you are. If there is one thing bound to make you want to get involved in the case, it’s a direct order from the questore to stay away.’

  Chapter 7

  Blume arrived in the car park of the University Hospital, his headlamps already on to penetrate the brownish gloom of the afternoon. He immediately spotted Principe, a forlorn figure who looked like a man who had forgotten where he had parked. Principe was still glancing about absent-mindedly when Blume sauntered up.

  ‘Do you know what Caterina was saying about you, Filippo?’

  ‘And how is Caterina?’

  ‘Good. I told you that the other night. She wants me to rent out my apartment.’

  ‘That makes sense. It would almost double your income. We public servants could do with a bit extra these days. Let me guess: you don’t want strangers trampling all over your apartment, or that’s what you’re telling her. But she knows, you know, and even I know the real reason is you want to hold on to it to have a bolt-hole for when everything goes south.’

  ‘Don’t you want to hear what she says about you?’

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘She says you know me almost better than she does and that you are the one who made sure the questore found out about my moonlighting, if that’s the word.’

  ‘That’s obviously not true. It does not even make sense.’ Principe started moving in short hurried steps across the crumbling asphalt of the car park. ‘Come on, you’ve kept me waiting as it is. Let’s go and see Manfellotto.’