Bitter Remedy (25 page)

On the morning of 19 June 1993, Marina Greco, née Loconsole, received an anguished-sounding call from her lover, Giuliano Di Cagno. In it, he asked her to meet him at the town of Molfetta that afternoon.

He checked on his phone’s diary, and added the fact that it was a Saturday.

She would have been surprised at this request, because Giuliano was not from the town, and the last time they had met, taking advantage of the absence of her husband, who was engaged in some of his usual shady deals in Foggia, he had made no mention of it. Giuliano, however, insisted, saying it was an emergency, and told her to take the train.

We may imagine that she wanted to know why, and Giuliano will have replied, ‘Just do as I say. Don’t use the car. I’ll explain when you get here. There is a train that leaves at 2:15 for Foggia. Take that, I’ll be waiting for you at the station.’

Or words to that effect.

Since we cannot by any means equate unfaithfulness to a husband with lack of maternal instinct, she will have raised the objection that she had to look after her child. It is interesting to speculate, of course, whether this child, Silvana, was her husband’s.

If not, it might explain why poor Silvana’s ‘father’ was so casual about her marrying that freak Niki.

This could be established beyond all doubt, though it might not be germane to the case and would certainly devastate the child, now a woman.

He had had to imagine Marina wondering what to do with the child. Mothers don’t often abandon their children. As Marina was ultimately Greco’s victim, Blume was disposed to think the best of her.

‘Leave her with your sister.’ There would have definitely been something wrong with Giuliano’s voice as he gave her these instructions, but that would only have served to heighten her sense of urgency. She went round to her sister’s with the child. We need to check if she had another car – probably not. Did the magistrate look into this?

Blume had stopped here. He imagined that the unmarried sister and she did not get on very well, but the baby had brought them closer. Marina would perhaps have been surprised at the reserves of tenderness in her elder sister, none of which had been apparent when they were growing up together. This did not stop her sister from asking her sharply enough what was so important that she had to abandon her child for the whole afternoon and evening. But he could not reasonably insert this depth of speculation in his report.

He double-checked the files. Yes, there had been a sister, and even the hint of a custody dispute, which is how he had found the name. He was deeply dissatisfied with his storytelling here. He took out his phone and called Caterina, suddenly appreciative of the power of technology. It seemed wonderful that he could hear her voice in this room. He was on the verge of saying so to her, but she answered with a weary sigh of impatience. Well, if that was her reaction to seeing his name on her phone, then what was the point of telling her he wished she were here with him now in this bare room at the top of an empty house at the top of a hostile town, overlooking a ruined villa and an overripe garden.

‘Hi, Caterina. Can you do me a quick favour?’ was all he said.

‘What else have I been put on earth to do?’

So sarcastic.

‘Marina Greco, née Loconsole, 1961, Bari. I forgot to background her family. What I need to know is did she have any brothers or sisters. Also, can you double-check that she absolutely vanished from sight. If she turns up alive and well in some other part of the world, then I have been wasting my time. I can’t believe how dull-witted I am being. Can you look that up for me?’

‘I am at home, Alec.’

‘Right. Call someone, get them to do it, then send me the details in a text. As soon as possible.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yeah, no, wait, Alessia’s OK?’

‘Do you want me to text you the answer to that, too?’ She hung up on him.

She’d come through. She always did. He sat back and dreamed up Bari in 1993.

‘Greco has sent for me,’ said Marina. ‘It is urgent. Silvana hates travelling. If you don’t want her, I can take her, but I thought I might be doing everyone a favour, including Silvana. She loves you.’

Here he left some blank space. He hoped there would not be too many brothers or sisters that might complicate his narrative. You never could tell with southern Italians. Suffice to say the baby was deposited somewhere safe.

He saw Marina. She was crossing the piazza in front of Bari central train station where she was picked up on CCTV – this fact is established in a police report from 1993. The cameras had just been installed owing to a high crime rate in the area. She was reportedly carrying two suitcases, which, like her, vanished from history.

Blume tried to picture Marina, making sure not to confound her in his mind’s eye with Alina. He made her heavier, not as pretty, thicker but perhaps a good deal sexier, standing on a platform waiting for the train to arrive and take her towards what the court decided was irresponsible freedom, but he knew was a bitter death. He put down his pen and left her standing there for a while. He needed to fill in some details about her unfortunate lover, Giuliano, and that brought him closer to making the fateful phone call he was putting off.

A droplet of sweat hit the page and smudged the ink: which was odd, because he was freezing cold. He wiped his brow with his arm, took the blanket from his bed, and wrapped it round himself. The drop of sweat had soaked through two pages, so rather than trying to write around it and risk tearing a hole he skipped two pages, but when confronted with pristine white, he lost track of what he was supposed to be saying. Among other things, this was supposed to be delivered as a persuasive speech. He could not afford to forget himself mid-sentence. Looking back would be cheating. He huddled closer into the blanket. It was almost ten in the evening. Now was the moment to call in his witness.

Outside the corridor, stairs, and house were creaking. If he allowed his imagination free rein, it sounded like people were walking up and down outside his door. He heard whispering, then whispered to himself to compare the sounds. He climbed back into his blanket, and dialled the number Caterina had sent him. It was answered on the third ring.

Chapter 24

‘I am looking for Davide Di Cagno.’

‘Speaking, who is this?’ The voice of a suspicious man.

‘Alec. That is to say, Police. I am a commissioner with the
squadra mobile
of Rome. My name is Blume.’

‘Are you sure you have the right person? I have no connections in Rome. And isn’t it a bit late to be calling?’

‘It’s about your brother, Giuliano.’

‘Really?’ For a moment the voice seemed hopeful. But the note of caution returned immediately. ‘How do you know it’s him?’

‘Do you think he’s alive?’ Blume regretted being so brutal with the question, but hope must have died a long time ago in that family.

‘No. I expect you are calling about his remains. Have you found them or not?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Blume.

‘Then what the fuck is this about?’

‘I was hoping to reopen the case of his disappearance.’

‘No point in that, unless something has changed. You have not found the body. What is this, some sort of cold case file you have been assigned?’

Not assigned, thought Blume. Not quite a cold case either. Alina made it current. The man was saying something else, and Blume realized he had allowed his mind to wander. He remembered he had some Provigil tablets in his suitcase. They were supposed to help with concentration, and stop daytime sleeping. To be on the safe side, he took two. He needed his wits about him.

‘Yes.’

‘Well?’ demanded the voice.

Blume found he could not swallow the pills. He ran into the bathroom and gulped down mouthfuls of freezing water directly from the tap. The pills went down and his throat felt better. ‘Sorry, I missed that.’

‘So you are not interested. Then I think that’s all we have to say on this. Goodbye.’

‘Wait!’ He needed to say something. ‘Domenico Greco is dead.’

‘No, he’s not.’

‘What?’

‘Greco’s not dead.’ The voice was certain and accusing. ‘What game are you playing here?’

‘It sounds to me that you would not be sorry to hear if he was,’ said Blume.

‘Someday it’ll be true, won’t it?’

‘How about we get him in prison from now until then?’

‘House arrest, you mean. He’s too old for prison. You’re supposed to be the cop. What difference would that make to him? He’s been happy not to leave his garden all these years.’

Davide had certainly not forgotten.

‘Do you mind me asking you how old you were when your brother, Giuliano, allegedly ran away with Signora Greco?’

‘I was fourteen.’

‘And do you agree with the finding that he left, of his own free will?’

‘Look, who did you say you were?’

‘I am someone interested in reopening the case.’

‘You said you were a policeman? Is that true?’

‘Yes, Davide,’ said Blume. ‘That part is true. Can I call you Davide?’

‘What part isn’t true then?’

‘I am writing out the story.’ He grabbed the pen again. ‘So, Davide, would Giuliano have done that?’

‘Why are you talking in that tone?’

‘What tone?’ asked Blume.

‘I don’t know. Like it is really urgent. It’s twenty years ago now.’

‘It is urgent. This is the last chance we are going to get. You are lucky to get this second chance. Almost no one is allowed to correct the past. You can. So, tell me now, would your brother have upped and left for Australia and never contacted anyone again?’

‘Of course not. Neither Australia nor anywhere else.’

‘So what do you think happened?’

‘None of it matters any more. Everyone who mattered is dead. My parents, too. As for Giuliano and Marina, they both died a long time ago, I am sure of it. My brother wouldn’t have left me like that. He wouldn’t have left our parents. He knew Dad was sick. Sure, he had some fights with Mamma, but he would never have done that. Even if he had decided to run away – people can do crazy things – he would not have tortured us by remaining silent. Someone killed him. Greco or, more likely, Greco had someone do it.’

‘Why did your family accept the disappearance? Why did you not make more of a fuss?’

‘Lots of reasons.’

‘Will you tell me some of them?’

‘It’s very painful to think back. It’s humiliating.’

‘I understand your father tried to get a proper inquiry opened, didn’t he? Then what happened?’

‘He was bullied, scorned, and then he died. That’s what happened. Greco had money, we were poor. He had the lawyers, political friends, and other sorts of friends, too. It was made clear to us that he could, if he wanted, get someone to visit and hurt us. The investigating magistrate was in his pocket. Dad was sick and had no energy. Mamma, well, she was so ashamed about the revelation my brother had been fooling around with a married woman that she didn’t even want to speak about him. She disowned him – at least at first, though she had more than forgiven him by the time she died.’

‘And you?’

‘I tried again in 1999. But nothing came of it. My parents were dead, the magistrates had all moved on, and the world had changed.’

‘What about now, are you doing something about it again?’

‘Is that some sort of accusation?’

‘No!’ Blume was taken aback.

‘It sounded like one. There is still a part of me that imagines him there, happy in Australia or South America or somewhere else in Italy.’

Blume wrapped the blanket around himself. Davide’s voice did not sound right to him, but he couldn’t say why.

‘Silvana,’ said Blume. He had nothing to follow it up with. He just threw out the name to see the reaction, and find out if Davide remembered the daughter. After all, he might even be her uncle.

The line went dead.

To keep warm, he dragged himself over to the bed and lay on it without taking off his clothes.

In his dreams, a healthier and fitter, younger and more alert version of himself was to be found walking up and down the corridors of the empty house, making creaking sounds on the floorboards that scared the feverish version of himself in bed. The healthy Alec Blume was able to vault over the box hedge of the garden, walk unscathed across the marshlands, and even ascend without any effort to the second and third floors of the Romanelli mansion, and fly around it, peering into its windows, watching the people inside, floating upwards to view it from above. Stretching out his arms, he found he could fly, back to Rome, even over the ocean, and all the way back home if he wanted. With exhilarating velocity, he pulled up into a rapid ascent as he reached the black cliff face overlooking the garden, but his angle of ascent was too steep and he could hear the stall alarm beeping at him now, warning of an imminent crash to earth. Three beeps, stall, stall.