“Good.” Blume pictured her as she lifted the copper pot, looked into it, and threw the contents into the blazing doorway. He could see her face as she lifted the pot, the look in her eyes, the same as the look she had when she started the fire.
“I don’t think she has much to answer for,” he said.
“Some good news, too,” said Caterina. “The Maresciallo has developed septicemia from the dog bites.”
“Fatal?”
“No. But he seems to have slipped into a state of stupor. But we’re not getting that many details. The Carabinieri are dealing with him.”
“He’s probably putting it on,” said Blume. “It’s the beginning of his defense.”
Caterina’s phone rang. She answered and Blume noticed the slight tremor of subordination in her voice, and knew who she was talking to . . . She handed him the phone. “The Questore. He wants to speak to you.”
That was quick, thought Blume. The Questore had probably asked to be informed as soon as Blume was out of hospital. Someone in the office had wasted no time in telling him.
He took it, and, with an extra layer of gruffness for her benefit, said, “Blume here.”
“What the fuck was that, Blume?”
“It’s a long story, sir.”
“A long story can be told in a long report, and with four weeks’ sick leave, to be reviewed at the end of the period and probably converted into a three-month suspension, you will have plenty of time to give me all the details.”
“No need for the suspension, sir,” said Blume.
“This morning I got news that the dead British national, John Nightingale, was shot point-blank with
your
pistol, also found at the scene. That has rather overshadowed our little propaganda success at capturing the tourist mugger. A Carabiniere colonel with an impossibly dense web of important contacts was burned to death while an internal investigation into his activities was being conducted. A former policeman, recently removed from duty under highly suspicious circumstances, was killed hours before that, and, in a minor development, I hear a search warrant was issued by a magistrate for your apartment which, it turns out, was also the scene of a burglary that was not properly reported. Did I say three months: how about thirty-three years?”
“One investigation fused into another, and things . . . I lost control for a while.”
“And another thing. Where was the investigating magistrate overseeing all this? Did we even have one?”
“Not as such. Buoncompagno and the Colonel . . .”
“Buoncompagno has been hauled before the disciplinary section of the Magistrates’ Council for his handling of this and other cases. Basically, his immunity disappeared along with the Colonel and a garden villa owned, it turns out, by a branch of the Pamphili family.”
“I could come up with a summary version. One in which any unregulated actions are seen to be natural developments of a rolling, highly complex investigation in which, perhaps, there was insufficient liaison with the judicial authorities, but, in compensation, in which the police and Carabinieri worked closely together,” said Blume.
“I see the knock on the head left you pretty much the same devious bastard as before, Blume. If you write that report, I want you to write a longer version, too. Just in case, God forbid, your version is viewed as not fully credible.”
“I also think the American Embassy might put in a word on our behalf with the Ministry,” said Blume.
“You think so? Well, that would be unaccountably nice of them.”
“I have a favor I can do them. All I shall ask in return is that the Ministry recognizes the skill with which the Questore of Rome has handled a very difficult and complex case. I think what’s-his-name the ugly little Minister from the Northern League would be chuffed to receive a pat on the head and a tickle under the chin from the Americans.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Blume.”
He handed the phone back to Caterina.
“I think it was probably Rospo who told the Questore to use my number to contact you,” said Caterina. “In case you were wondering.”
When they arrived outside his building, she opened her bag, took out a set of keys, and handed them to him.
“These are yours,” she said. “Your apartment has a new door, remember? I picked them up for you.”
“Right. Thanks.” He fingered the three long new keys. “I don’t suppose . . .”
“I need to get back to Elia,” said Caterina.
“Right.”
“But call me.”
When he reached his apartment, he was shocked, then overcome with emotion, to see it pristine clean. She had picked everything up. The slashed cushions sat in a corner waiting to be stitched back up. The sink gleamed. On the kitchen table sat the three notebooks, looking a little dusty and tired now. He took them into the study, filed them away.
He passed across the hallway into his bedroom. The bed was freshly made, his clothes were folded in a pile on the polished dresser.
The following morning he called the American Embassy and asked to be connected to Kristin Holmquist.
“Alec! Lovely to hear you. I'll phone you back.”
She kept her word, but leisurely. Three hours passed before she finally rang his cell phone.
“I hear you were in the hospital again.”
“Just a checkup, really. Home now.”
“Great, I was beginning to feel really bad about not visiting.”
“I picked up the anguish in your voice right away,” said Blume.
“Yeah, well, you sound fine to me,” said Kristin. “Were you making a personal call or is this business?”
“Business. I can talk on this line, right?”
“Sure. Not that I would vouch for your phone but shoot. Maybe be a bit oblique if you're going to supply me with more of that vital intelligence info you've been feeding us.”
“Actually, I do have something you might be interested in.” He paused, waiting for her response. “Kristin? Are you still there?”
“Don't you know the sound of bated breath when you hear it? Give me what you got, Alec. I'm busy.”
“It's old stuff, not current or all that sensitive any more, but of some diplomatic value. The relationship between the US Embassy and the Christian Democrats back in the day. The hostage negotiator flown inâthe guy who writes the books? We spoke about it after a pleasant Mexican chili in my house?”
“Got you,” said Kristin.
“I'm pretty sure the manuscript won't go into the public domain unless I allow it.”
“It would be nice if you didn't allow it. Can you do that?”
“Well,” said Blume, “getting rid of it would be one way, giving it to you would be another.”
“I prefer the second option,” said Kristin. “Mainly because I am curious. You'll really hand it over this time?”
“Yes. The thing is, I have a very complicated police report to prepare, and I am going to find it hard not to refer to Treacy's memoirs to explain certain actions. That could kick-start an inquiry, get a magistrate interested, and then it gets all messy and public. See the problem?”
“You can't keep Treacy's memoirs out of your report?”
“I could write a report with minimal references, but to do that I would need the Questore to be backing me.”
“I know your Questore,” said Kristin. “He's a good guy.”
“Adorable though he is,” said Blume, “he answers to other people.”
“I see,” said Kristin. “Well, it is possible that at the next scheduled meetingâthat's in about three weeksâone of my colleagues might be able to bring his sterling efforts to the direct attention of the Minister. Would that help, do you think?”
“Almost certainly,” said Blume.
“It would be nice if we could meet,” said Kristin. “Rather than you coming to the embassy or me sending someone over to pick up a copy of the manuscript. Are you planning on keeping a copy, by the way?”
“No,” said Blume.
“How about we meet in the next few days? I'll call you.”
“Great,” said Blume.
Â
He watched daytime TV incredulously. He had not done so in twenty years. He was scandalized. Nobody seemed to want to have any personal secrets any more. He switched over to a station called K2 and watched cartoons instead. He watched one called
The Fairly Odd Parents
, and thought it was great.
His landline rang, and he answered to a woman whose voice was very slightly familiar.
“Alec, it's Filomena,” she said.
Such a horrible name, he had heard it recently . . .
“Remember? Beppe's wife. Widow.”
“I'm sorry,” said Blume.
“I am cremating him.”
“He'd have liked that,” said Blume.
“He'd have enjoyed being cremated?”
“As long as he was dead first, obviously.”
“Jesus. I can see why he considered you his friend.”
“I'm sorry,” said Blume. “It's how we used to talk to each other.”
“Will you be there? It's tomorrow morning. In Viterbo.”
“Of course I'll be there,” said Blume.
“Some people think I'm wrong to cremate him,” she said. “It's not popular.”
“People,” said Blume.
“Yeah. Listen . . . the thing that got him killedâit was his own fault as usual, wasn't it?”
“It was the fault of the person who killed him,” said Blume.
“But he put himself in harm's way, didn't he?”
She seemed to want to think this, but he did not want to exonerate himself.
“No. I put him in harm's way.”
“If you think that, then I bet you want to make things right, don't you?”
“I can't do that.”
“No, you can't. You were his best friend. He always said that. He was a violent man, too. It's what lost him his job.”
“He was a good man.”
She continued as if she had not heard him. “Our son, Fabio, is going the same way. He has the same vengeful mindset as his father. Now I have to pick up the pieces, all over again.”
“If I can help . . . ” said Blume.
“You can,” she said. “You know who killed Beppe, don't you?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to leave him alone. I do not want you or anyone else to do him physical harm.”
“But . . . ”
“You said you would help. Promise me.”
Blume stayed silent.
“Promise me. I know you don't know me that well, but I knew Beppe and underneath it all . . . to save his son he would have renounced all vengeance. He wanted Fabio to be better than him. He always said so.”
“OK.”
“And promise no one else under your orders will harm the bastard?”
“That, too.”
“There is one more thing you have to do. Not immediately, but soon. You have to talk to Fabio.”
“I'll try,” said Blume. “But I don't have kids, so I'm not going to be much good.”
“You'll do fine. And I want you to explain why you decided not to revenge his father's murder with violence, and why he should not either.”
“He won't listen. If I was him, I wouldn't listen.”
“He might. He might not. Maybe he'll get it in a few years. But you can try. It's your duty.”
“I haven't a clue what to tell him. The justice system in this country . . . it doesn't work. Nothing fucking works. That Carabiniere will walk. Maybe he'll lose his job, if they decide to be harsh. There's no comfort for your son.”
“I didn't ask you to comfort him. That's my job. Talk, stay honest. Can you do that?”
“I don't know,” said Blume.
“Good. Like that,” she said. “You don't know, but you'll try. The crematorium is at Via dei Monti Cimini, number 36. Ten o'clock tomorrow morning. There won't be many of us there.”
Shortly before dinner, he phoned Caterina.
“Who paid for my door?”
“I did. You owe me
â¬
2,600.”
“Can I come around to pay? I've got a checkbook.”
“There's no rush.”
“Not to pay, maybe. But can I come around?”
“It’s just pesto from a jar, I’m afraid,” said Caterina.
“Pesto’s fine,” said Blume. He meant to be more gracious, but he was feeling uncomfortable at the kitchen table, Elia’s big brown eyes on him, then off him every time he turned around to smile.
After dinner, Blume sat in the living room watching TV while Caterina did whatever it was mothers did to get children to bed. It took a long time, and Blume was beginning to get into a Bruce Willis film when Caterina finally came in. To the side of the television was a pile of bedcovers and a sheet.