The Memory Key (28 page)

‘Remember me?’ he said. The music was in a loop in her head now. It was impeding her thinking.

She looked at him. He was not police. He was the type that chose bodyguards and organized security details, calmly set aside political and moral scruples, and engaged in straightforward and brutal negotiations. She knew the family and genus, but not this particular species.

‘I don’t think we’ve ever met,’ she said.

‘You know something, if you’re faking this, you’re doing one hell of a good job. Except it’s just too weird. You really don’t remember me?’

The music stopped dead, and her mind went silent. She felt cold and frightened, and was sorry she couldn’t remember. She shook her head and smiled apologetically.

‘Allow me to present myself.’ He stretched out his hand, and she took it, mistrusting but shy. His hand was so warm she felt like putting her other hand into it.

‘You didn’t give me your name,’ he said.

‘Stefania Manfellotto,’ she said, looking into his calm grey eyes.

‘Thank you for the confirmation, Stefania, I’d hate to go to all this trouble just for some random mad old bitch.’

He grabbed her other hand and pulled her towards him, allowing her to feel his warmth, then, with an almost casual nod he smashed her nasal septum with the side of his forehead and as she gasped and fell deeper into his embrace, he spun her around, placed his hand on the back of her neck while effortlessly locking her arms behind her back with his other free hand. With two steps he brought her to the edge and flung her into cold space.

Chapter 29

By rough-handling Pitagora and pushing him down his own painted corridor, Blume released a lot of the anger that had welled up in him, which enabled him to think a little more clearly. The problem with the clear thinking, however, was that he realized he was making a career-ending mistake, so as his rage subsided, his tension rose. An unexpected movement at the end of the hall caused him to push Pitagora against a wall showing a grinning winged lion standing on its hind legs with a sewing needle piercing its knee, and Blume found himself pointing his pistol towards the startled face of a young woman, and he realized the vastness of his error. He put away his weapon as quickly as he could, but even this sudden movement caused her to whiten and he saw her knees beginning to give way. She steadied herself, and he tried to make as many reassuring gestures as he could. He was afraid she might lose control of her bladder, and the last thing he wanted was for her to lose her dignity simply because he had lost his temper. Finally, without a word, she ran silently down the corridor and disappeared.

He turned to the professor, who was leaning against the wall in an attitude of studied indifference that was belied by the whiteness of his face.

‘This is assault, you realize that? I am still prepared to forgive you for this,’ said Pitagora. ‘I heard about your wife through perfectly legitimate channels, and no threat was intended. All I was saying is that some equilibrium has been upset. No one ever knows what’s going on, but I used to know a bit more than most. Now I realize I am out of the loop. I have no idea who wanted to harm Manfellotto. No, that’s not right. I had no idea that they would do this. Now that they have, I think I know who it is.’

Pitagora brushed himself down, and waited for Blume to show some more interest.

‘Lousy wall painting,’ said Blume. ‘Looks like it was done by a 5-year-old.’

‘It’s an allegory. It doesn’t have to be well done,’ said Pitagora. ‘Gospel of St Mark, in case you’re interested.’ He nodded at the phone in Blume’s hand, ‘Good, you’re holding a phone instead of your service pistol, but it won’t work in here.’

Blume looked at the display and saw flashing empty bars.

‘I have a mobile phone jammer operating here. It’s in the hallway and covers the entire house. Silence is golden, Commissioner.’

‘That’s illegal,’ said Blume.

‘Well, you can add that to my charge sheet. Remind me again what the other charges are.’

‘Shut up,’ said Blume. ‘Let me think.’

‘I did not threaten your wife.’

‘We’re not married.’

‘That’s what we philosophers call an
ignoratio elenchi
. The point is I did not threaten her, and I am not responsible for what happened her. I was simply suggesting that it might not have been an accident, and so you need to be careful. It was meant as a goodwill gesture. A friendly warning.’

Blume had had threats couched in careful language in the past. It was all a question of the tone in which they were delivered. He realized, too late, that Pitagora was not threatening him. He was already over the hurtling sensation of fear that the mention of Caterina by the professor had caused, though he could not quite shake the sensation that something awful had happened. He needed to talk to Caterina now.

‘How did you know about Caterina’s accident?’

‘Zezza told me. Apparently, someone in your office told him when he phoned looking for you.’

Blume felt a soft thud on the inside of his forehead, followed by a fuzzy sensation that was not entirely unpleasant, but was the harbinger of a migraine. He reckoned he had about half an hour before he would be almost incapable of thought or speech.

‘Are you all right, Commissioner?’ Pitagora’s voice seemed to come from too far away for him to be able to tell if the tone was solicitous or mocking.

‘I am fine. If my phone doesn’t work in the front garden, I’m going to shoot you in the head,’ said Blume.

‘You are in a state of rage, Commissioner. You are about to do yourself enormous harm.’

But he was not in a rage now. He felt strangely at ease in his pre-migraine world.

‘It’s raining,’ said Pitagora as they emerged from the villa.

‘So?’

‘I can’t go out in the rain just like that.’

‘What are you, a sugar cube?’ Blume gave him a push, but kept it gentle.

Like that damned memory book and Pitagora himself had said, images are very powerful in the mind. He had had an image of Caterina lying completely motionless on the bed come to him, and then an image of her as she was the other day, her breasts rounder, her forehead glowing, he should have noticed that, too, and now pale . . . his child inside. Rage had boiled up. If she didn’t answer, it meant she was dead.

He pulled out his phone and called the hospital. He was halfway through explaining who he wanted to talk to when he had a better idea and hung up. He called her mobile and she answered immediately.

‘Caterina? Are you all right?’

‘Alec! You called. That’s something, at least.’

She sounded all right to him. The feeling that something had gone wrong was ebbing. No one had died after all.

‘Are you coming in, then? We need to talk,’ she said.

‘Of course, I am coming.’ His sense of relief was so strong that his earlier anxiety about her well-being seemed exaggerated. Now that she was fine, there would be time. ‘I’ll just finish up here and be on my way,’ he told her.

‘I am scheduled for a scan . . . you had better hurry.’

‘The main thing is you are OK.’

‘That’s relative. I was better before being hit by a scooter.’

He could feel the conversation beginning to curve back upon itself. Soon it would form a circle, with the same things being said over and over again. He promised he would call back.

‘Not call. Come,’ she said.

He promised that, too.

The professor had recovered his equanimity and was regarding him with a teacher’s indulgent smile for the gifted but unruly pupil.

The rain was solid, and the fat drops sounded like a series of slaps as they bounced off the professor’s strangely flat hair. Pitagora was quite an old man, he realized. The brightly coloured jacket and shirt seemed out of place in the overgrown and wet garden.

‘Commissioner, let’s go back inside and dry off.’

Blume held his phone stupidly in his hand.

‘You, Commissioner, are a centrifugal force, spinning on your own energy and flinging people away from you. Manhandling me is supposed to represent your affection for the policewoman, but you are here. If you cared in the way women expect you to care, you would not be here. You would be by her bedside. Women expect that, which is one of the many reasons I am not married.’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about, Prof. I am on my way to her right now. Just one thing. Ideo. Professor Ideo. He was a pupil of yours?’

‘First you ask me about Marco, one of the dullest students I ever had, and now about Matteo, one of the best ever. That’s going back a fair while, isn’t it? He became an animal behaviourist, and developed his own theories. Actually, they aren’t really his, they belong to Bruno.’

‘Who’s Bruno?’

‘Giordano Bruno, the philosopher.’

Blume pictured the statue with the cowl on Campo de Fiori. ‘Oh, him. I thought you meant a real person.’

‘Bruno was more real than anyone.’

‘A live person. The dead don’t count.’

‘That’s a bad attitude for someone who works in homicide. Maybe you should think of a career change.’

‘I have other people working on just that, thanks,’ said Blume. ‘Skip the bit about Bruno and his philosophy and tell me what sort Ideo was.’

‘Intense. A bit tragic. You see, like Bruno and followers of Hermes Trismegistus . . .’

Blume held up a restraining hand. ‘Please, Professor.’

‘All I was going to say is Matteo was very persuaded of the idea that all things are connected, and that they are connected through memory.’

‘Fine, but what was he
like
? Popular, gregarious, funny, lazy, politicized . . .’

‘He was not very popular, no. That was sort of his tragedy. He loved the idea of all things being connected, except he himself was not. He was disconnected. A loner.’

‘Did you like him?’

Pitagora looked pleased. ‘It’s very pleasant to hear you actually ask my opinion, Blume, I wouldn’t have expected it.’

‘Just answer yes or no.’

‘Not as much as I should have, given his deep understanding of the mysteries of Hermeticism.’

‘When is the last time you met him?’

‘Oh, years ago. But he did call recently. Just after Stefania was shot, as a matter of fact.’

Blume felt an unfocused sense of anticipation, like when he knew something good was in store but had momentarily forgotten. His stomach turned quietly over.

‘What did he phone about?’

‘He wanted me to write a review of his book.’

‘Will you?’

‘I am not sure. I haven’t read it yet.’

‘Did he mention anything about the shooting?’

‘No, no. He gave me the impression he had not even heard of it. I hear he spends almost all his time in the company of captive animals. It’s perfectly possible he knew nothing about it. He mentioned something about dropping by, but I never saw him,’ said Pitagora, turning around as the orange light on the gatepost began flashing and the gate started swinging open. ‘I must have visitors.’

‘Did someone in the house open the gate?’ asked Blume, thinking of the girl he had alarmed.

‘A few people have keys. No, well, look who it is.’

A dark blue car with a red stripe and two flashers came rushing through and stopped bumper to bumper with Blume’s car. Another identical car followed, and behind that an unmarked silver car with a magnetic flasher on its roof. Two uniformed Carabinieri jumped out of the second car.

Zezza, wearing a suede jacket, came strolling towards them. He had huge white trainers on his huge feet. He walked with a slight fillip to his step, as if considering breaking into a sprint, came up to them, and nodded. If he was surprised to see Blume, he did not let it show.

‘Professor. Commissioner.’

‘Captain,’ said Blume and Pitagora in unison.

‘Everything all right here?’

‘Oh, I think so,’ said Pitagora. ‘We may need to sort a few things out.’

‘Anything to do with the student who phoned?’

‘Ah, she phoned,’ said Pitagora. ‘Good for her. I thought she had just run away.’

‘We were on our way anyhow. There has been a development. The girl said something about someone kidnapping the professor. That was you, Commissioner? Or have you just rescued him from a kidnapping?’

The point of the captain’s nose was flat and almost cube-shaped. It was a small nose. Blume felt the headache descend from his forehead into his eyes, and he squeezed them shut.

‘What are we doing in the wet?’ said the captain. ‘Let’s go inside.’

Blume found himself back in the same study, this time in the company of Pitagora and Captain Zezza. One of the Carabinieri cars and its occupants had returned to barracks, but there were still two other Carabinieri wandering about the house somewhere.

The captain looked at ease in his surroundings. He was a young man. At first glance, he might be dismissed as all university and gym, and no street action. But this was likely to be to his advantage. Captain now, he was clearly marked to keep rising. This much was visible from his body language, the relaxed way he had about him. He leaned back from the desk and folded his arms. ‘Stefania Manfellotto fell to her death 90 minutes ago from a fire escape at the hospital. It may have been an accident. It may have been suicide, and it may have been something else.’