The Namesake

by Conor Fitzgerald

  Here I am, he thought to himself, twenty years on, burning money again.

  10

  Rome

  The young policeman pointed to the screen with a triumphant air not yet diminished by the grinding repetition of tasks that his career had in store for him. ‘There!’ he said. ‘That vehicle there.’

  Blume leaned forward, allowing the side of his face to brush against Caterina’s hair. Businesslike, she moved away from him and pointed to a blurred blob on the screen.

  ‘Not very clear, is it?’ said Blume.

  ‘No. It’s an old traffic camera,’ said Caterina. ‘Over here, we have RAI offices, which are definitely going to have a surveillance camera, but we’ve got nothing from them yet. And there is the court of the Giudice di Pace, where most of this footage comes from. Show him, Claudio.’

  The young policeman smiled at Caterina. He was probably good-looking, if you were into white smiles and muscles obviously toned through excessive workouts in a gym. As he brought up images on the screen, he strained Blume’s forbearance further by explaining what Blume already knew.

  ‘This is a bar, which closes at 12:30, and this is a restaurant that closes half an hour later. The cooks and the owner usually leave at around 2:30 in the morning. They all cross the open piazza to where their cars are parked. Inspector Panebianco interviewed them all and none of them reports seeing anything, so we know it was after 2:30 . . .’

  ‘Look, just show me what you got,’ said Blume.

  Claudio pressed a button on his fancy control panel, and another grainy image in washed-out colour appeared on-screen. Blume recognized the crime scene. In the background, practically the only vehicle in sight, was a van, stopped by the kerb.

  ‘Three-twenty in the morning, we can see the van at the crime scene. This is taken from the offices of the Giudice di Pace. It is too far for us to make out any detail, even with enhancement techniques, also because it is dark. The camera takes frames every thirty seconds. The vehicle is stopped here, see? Afterwards we can just make out the body on the ground, but we miss the moment they put it there.’

  ‘But maybe we’ll see that from one of the other cameras we have not examined yet. It could be useful for prosecution purposes,’ said Caterina.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ said Blume, not all that impressed so far.

  ‘If we go back ten minutes,’ said Claudio, ‘we catch the same vehicle passing a camera on the banks of the Tiber and . . .’ he pressed a button, ‘there it is going past the crime scene, this time without stopping. If we go forward, there it is again, heading away from the scene. So the vehicle, which I think is a Ford Transit, drives by what will be the crime scene, like it was checking, goes down the banks of the Tiber, takes a right, goes down 200 yards where we capture it here, goes back to the crime scene, stops there, then back to the banks of the Tiber for the second time, where the cameras pick it up again.’

  He sat back, ran his thumb down his sternum in satisfaction, and beamed at Caterina, who beamed back at him. Agente Carini looked quite dashing in the short-sleeved summer uniform he was wearing, and his hazel eyes were shining and full of enthusiasm for his job and the success they were having. He drew a breath to continue his explanation but was interrupted by Blume.

  ‘I’m taking it you got the number plate.’

  Agente Carini’s face fell as he realized he was not going to get a chance to explain his brilliance.

  ‘Sorry if I spoil your fun and save my time,’ said Blume. ‘You’ve reported the registration number to Milan, I presume?’

  The young policeman pouted, ‘Of course we did. Forty minutes ago. Not just Milan, a general request to all patrols.’ He folded his arms and tried to ignore Blume’s stare.

  ‘Was the van headed out of north Rome on the A1 back towards Milan?’

  Agente Carini nodded reluctantly.

  ‘OK,’ said Blume. ‘So the vehicle will have arrived in Milan early this morning – but you still don’t have images for it leaving the highway?’

  ‘Not yet, we have to guess its probable arrival time. Obviously we’re going to see if it gets picked up on the security and speed cameras, in service stations . . .’

  Blume held up a hand and cut him off in mid-flow. ‘From about half an hour ago there has been an APB out on it. Who’s the van registered to? Is it stolen?’

  ‘It’s not reported stolen. It’s in the name of some shopkeeper in Latina,’ said Agente Carini. ‘It looks like he figured he’d save on the vehicle transfer tax. So the van’s still in his name. He’s just now gone into the police to make a sworn statement to the effect that he sold it eight years ago. We’re waiting for news, but he’s probably got nothing to do with it.’

  ‘People should pay the damned tax to transfer ownership. They don’t realize they can be liable, especially if there is an uninsured accident,’ said Blume.

  ‘It is a bit steep, that tax,’ said Caterina. ‘My car’s in my aunt’s name.’

  ‘I don’t think the commissioner meant people like you, Caterina,’ said Agente Carini.

  This was too much.

  ‘Caterina?’

  ‘I meant to say Inspector Mattiola. Sorry, sir.’

  Blume looked at Caterina, and shook his head disbelievingly. ‘Inspector, why are you still here? Shouldn’t you get back downtown?’

  ‘If we get images of the van on the highway going back to Milan, that will be useful,’ she said.

  ‘Leave that job to the Boy Wonder here. Anyhow, I don’t understand you. Useful for what?’

  ‘Useful as evidence,’ said Caterina in her iciest tone.

  Blume poked the young policeman. ‘Hey, Calogero . . .’

  ‘Claudio. My name’s Claudio.’

  ‘You look like a Calogero to me. Go get me coffee.’

  The policeman stood up without looking at Blume, then made a point of going over to a female colleague at the next desk and whispering something and nodding at Blume and Caterina. Eventually he slouched off.

  ‘How dare you humiliate me . . .’ hissed Caterina, then stopped as she realized a dozen young cops at the data centre were straining to listen in.

  ‘No, you listen to me, Caterina. You got the number plate, now move on. Evidence for what – the pretrial conference? For the trial, which may never be held? How is it the recipe for hare stew goes? First, catch your hare. This stuff can wait. For God’s sake, Caterina, you’re the one who wanted this. You have twenty-four hours to find out what the victim and the suspects were doing in the twenty-four hours before the murder. Or have you forgotten?’

  The young policeman came back, and sat down close to Caterina and glared at Blume. ‘The coffee machine’s broken,’ he said.

  11

  Rome

  Blume had a shower, lay down, closed his eyes and breathed in the familiar air of the bedroom. It had been his for more than twenty years, but he still thought of it as his parents’ and of the bed he slept in as theirs.

  He was just beginning to drift off for a deliciously early night, when his mobile phone rang. He placed it under the pillow. The muted trill and faint buzzing from beneath his head was quite soothing. If it was urgent, they would phone again.

  They phoned again.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Commissioner Blume,’ said a voice he had not heard before: a voice that harboured no doubt it had the right number and was speaking to the right person. ‘My name is Captain Massimiliano Massimiliani. I would like to see you as soon as possible, if I may.’

  ‘Who did you say you were?’ asked Blume.

  ‘Massimiliano Massimiliani. Primo Capitano. Carabinieri. I am seconded to the DCSA. Where are you at this precise moment?’

  ‘I am in the San Giovanni district.’

  ‘Where in the San Giovanni district?’

  ‘Via Orvieto,’ said Blume.

  ‘Do you mean to tell me you are at home?’

  Blume groaned in exasperation as the intercom by his front door rasped. Now what?

&nb
sp; ‘Commissioner Blume?’

  ‘Just a minute, Captain.’ He took the phone from his ear, ignoring whatever the captain was saying, went into his living room, and picked up the intercom, held it to one ear, put the phone back to the other. ‘I’m still here, Captain. Someone’s at the door . . . Wait a second . . . Yes?’

  ‘It’s me. At your door, downstairs. I’ll hang up,’ said Massimiliani.

  The mobile phone relayed the words a full second later than the intercom, giving Blume the unpleasant feeling of the captain’s voice going in one ear, passing through his brain and out the other.

  Blume put his phone away, grabbed a polo shirt and pulled it on. The intercom rasped again. He had forgotten to press the button to open downstairs. He did so now and went back into his room to fetch some trousers.

  The captain rapped rhythmically at the door like an old friend in a good mood as Blume was doing up his flies. He had not found any socks. He answered the door to a well-turned-out man in his early thirties, dressed in expensive casual clothes. Early thirties, already a ‘primo capitano’, a Carabiniere grade that had no direct equivalent in the police, but could be said to be ever so slightly higher than the rank of commissioner.

  ‘How did you know I was at home?’ demanded Blume, standing aside to allow his visitor in.

  The captain held one arm down by his side; in the other he had a thin leather portfolio with which he rhythmically swatted the side of his thigh. He entered the room with two long strides, and tossed the portfolio carelessly on the coffee table. The captain was not gym-toned like the idiot cop Caterina had seemed to like so much, but there was not an extra pinch of fat on him. Blume recognized the look. It was the easy confidence of someone with long military training, of one who has seen action. The easy gait, the ready smile came naturally to a man who saw no one in his sights who could possibly threaten him. The only sign of tension and, possibly, a lack of control were in the hands, which the captain could not keep still.

  ‘I needed to find you as quickly as possible,’ said the captain, as if this were a sufficient answer. ‘Also, I told you, I work for the DCSA. Electronic surveillance and tracking mobile phones is what we do.’

  ‘For drug smugglers and criminals. Not for police commissioners,’ said Blume.

  ‘Were you going somewhere?’ the captain pointed to an outsized, shiny hard-shell suitcase next to the door.

  ‘That’s been there for weeks,’ said Blume. ‘Why did you pretend not to know where I was?’

  ‘You’re the one who seemed reluctant to mention that you were at home. It seemed impolite to insist. May I sit here?’

  ‘It’s a bit . . .’

  The captain sat down on Blume’s sofa, which received him in a soft sinking embrace so that his knees were soon on a level with his eyes. He struggled back up and eyed it then Blume with suspicion.

  ‘I was going to suggest the armchair,’ said Blume. ‘That’s basically just a pile of cushions. The springs went and then the webbing.’

  The captain sat in the armchair and beat out a tattoo on the cracked leather armrests. For himself, Blume chose a cheap IKEA chair that Caterina had made him buy for her apartment and rejected as soon as he had finished assembling it.

  ‘You should dispose of that sofa,’ said the captain.

  ‘I know,’ said Blume. ‘It’s been here for years. I’ll get around to it someday.’

  The captain interlaced and cracked his fingers. ‘I need your help for Monday morning, think you can do that?’

  ‘Sure thing,’ said Blume. ‘You need to move a piano, paint a room, have someone killed?’

  ‘Ah, sarcasm. Here’s my ID card if you need to check my credentials.’

  He neatly flicked a plasticized card into Blume’s lap, then clicked his fingers impatiently as Blume examined it. The badge showing the interforce symbol of the DCSA: three swords, the flaming grenade representing the Carabinieri, a walled crown representing the police, the yellow flame of the Finance Police, and the motto: Trigemina vis cor unum.

  ‘Three forces and one heart,’ translated Blume. ‘Beautiful concept.’

  ‘Let’s get down to business, Commissioner. On September 2nd, the Ndrangheta are holding their annual general meeting in Polsi after the Feast of the Madonna. This year, same as last, we’re fitting the place out with hidden cameras and mikes, keeping an eye on who turns up. We’ll be logging number plates, taking photographs. They know we’ll be there, but, as always, they don’t care, and no matter how many devices we plant, they don’t have any problems making sure we pick up nothing that is vital. The bosses from all over the world turn up, or give powers of proxy to their seconds-in-command. This year, for the fun of it, we’re hosting a delegation from the German Federal Police, the BKA. The delegation arrived a few hours ago, and we meet tomorrow morning, then again on Monday and during the week. There are some tensions between the BKA and the Italian authorities, but more cooperation than you might think. The Germans have occasional moments of humility when it comes to organized crime, or, at least, they are willing to acknowledge our greater experience. Now that they have moved beyond the “mafia-doesn’t-exist-in-Germany” stage, they are interested in learning. A visit to Polsi is part of that. Your friend Agazio Curmaci could well turn up, too.’

  ‘My friend?’

  ‘You know what I mean. You come recommended, Blume. Magistrate Arconti speaks highly of you. In fact he says hello.’

  ‘He said hello? Not hyyuhhaggh?’

  Massimiliani shrank back as if unnerved by Blume’s zombie imitation. ‘If you’re referring to the fact he was taken ill today, he’s already far better. He was sitting up in bed when I saw him. It’s true, he can’t speak properly, though I don’t think that’s an excuse for you to mock . . .’

  ‘You’ve seen him today?’

  ‘Yes. He recommended you a while back, of course. Today I went to visit him as a friend.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Blume, taken aback. ‘And what did he recommend me for?’

  ‘As someone who we might turn to for an extra hand. Specifically, someone who had a perfect command of English, a smattering of German, professional integrity, intelligence, experience, willingness to travel, no family commitments.’

  ‘A hand in what? I’m busy right now.’

  ‘It looks to me like you were taking an early night.’

  ‘I am on standby. Is Arconti really sitting up?’

  ‘He had a stroke, they administered the drugs. It remains to be seen what damage there is and how long it will take him to heal. But he’s already regained movement. Look, Blume, I’m not a doctor.’

  ‘Now that we’re on the subject, who are you exactly? Who do you work for? Apart from the DCSA?’

  ‘In order of importance and pride, I would say I am first and foremost a Carabiniere. I also work for AISI, and I have been seconded to the DCSA.’

  ‘AISI. You didn’t mention that before. SISDE, huh?’

  ‘AISI, not SISDE. SISDE’s the old name. It hasn’t been used for a while.’

  ‘That’s because you fuckers had such a reputation for subversion and corruption you had to change your name like a criminal on the run. More of a conspiracy of crypto-fascists, thieves, Freemasons and Vatican financiers than a secret service.’

  ‘I was a kid back then, but most of your criticism is justified. Even so, there was always a public-service ethos. Good people. Same as in any institution in this country. Layers of deadwood and corruption, but a core of good people in the middle, fighting against the odds. There is no conflict between homeland security and my duties as a Carabiniere. They are complementary. You know what the motto of the AISI is? It’s Scientia rerum Reipublicae salus, which means . . .’

  ‘The salvation of the Republic comes from knowing all about other people’s shit,’ said Blume.

  ‘That’s a very free translation.’

  ‘Tell me some of the Republic-saving intelligence you know.’

  ‘I know your colleagues are spe
nding all night following up an investigation that has already ended. And you, sensing this to be the case, have wisely decided to take an early night.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘A few hours ago the police in Sesto San Giovanni got a call reporting an explosion and fire in one of those giant disused industrial areas. They found a van with two charred corpses. The bodies have not been identified, yet. But the van is the one your colleagues have just put out an APB on. The investigating magistrate in Milan has decided not to inform the investigating magistrate in Rome until tomorrow or even Monday.’

  Blume retrieved his home phone from among the cushions of his collapsing sofa.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘They’re my colleagues. I’m going to tell them. So they, too, can get an early night.’

  ‘I’d prefer you didn’t.’

  ‘They’ll know soon enough; why not immediately, give them a proper weekend?’

  ‘Because I would be breaking my word to my friend in Milan, if Rome were to learn about this before he was ready.’

  ‘So you shouldn’t have given him your word.’

  ‘I told you this because I thought I could trust your discretion.’

  ‘You’re one of these people who can’t keep a confidence. Immediately you hear one, you rush off to tell someone else, me in this case, and then you get all moral and uppity if it looks like I want to do the same thing. A secret service man who can’t keep a secret,’ said Blume.

  ‘I can keep secrets, Blume. For instance, I am not going to tell anyone that you falsified a confession by the wife of a powerful member of the Ndrangheta.’

  Blume started to put the phone back on the sofa. But before it touched the cushion, it started ringing.