The Memory Man

by Steven Savile

  There were traffic cameras on the junction at the far end of the street. There was also a sign warning people that there were traffic cameras in operation. That was uniquely Swedish. It didn’t matter that the cameras were there for public safety, they were viewed as infringing on the people’s right to privacy, and the will of the people was stronger than the law. She doubted very much that the Memory Man would have been careless enough to wind up on one of the feeds, especially with the signs warning him that Big Brother was watching.

  Anglemark could have walked here from the apartment. It was far enough that he might have taken a taxi in bad weather; that didn’t help much, but she made a note to check with the various taxi firms, to discount them as much as anything else.

  The place was open.

  Not that she’d have been able to tell without the bored-looking girl behind the counter. There wasn’t a customer in the place, but it was still early. Swedes ate in shifts, mainly going out for lunch between 11:30 and 13:00, and then not coming out again until after 19:00.

  There was no menu in the window.

  The decor inside was considerably more expensive that she would have expected, given the location. The girl looked up as she opened the door and smiled. Frankie figured she was about eighteen or nineteen, probably picking up shifts to help fund college, and more interested in being anywhere but here.

  ‘Hi there,’ Frankie said, as the girl slid a pad across the counter in front of her.

  ‘It’s two for one before six,’ the girl said. ‘Eat here or to go? I’m sure we can squeeze you in.’ This time her smile was genuine.

  ‘I’m not here to eat.’ Frankie fished out her identification out of her pocket.

  ‘Eurocrimes? That sounds exotic. Please tell me this is about something glamorous. Something that’s going to make the news.’

  ‘It already has,’ Frankie said. ‘I’m investigating the murder of Jonas Anglemark.’

  ‘The politician they pulled out of the water?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘I read he had his tongue cut out? That’s awful. I mean can you imagine?’

  Frankie raised a hand to silence her before she could ask any more dumb questions, because contrary to what every teacher had no doubt told the girl for most of her life there are in fact dumb questions. It wasn’t good that the detail about his tongue was in the public domain. That would make it harder to weed out the cranks. It also meant they had a leak somewhere between the coroner’s department and her office. Though of course there was so much interest in the case it could have been from any of a dozen links in the chain.

  ‘I’m looking into his whereabouts during the days running up to his death.’

  ‘And you think he came in here?’

  ‘I think he met his killer here.’

  ‘Here? You’re joking.’

  ‘I don’t tend to do that,’ Frankie said. ‘Do you have some sort of security camera?’

  ‘We do—’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘But it won’t help. It hasn’t worked for months. Valentino, that’s the guy who owns this place, decided that it wasn’t worth getting it fixed when it died.’

  Frankie’s heart sank.

  She saw that the connecting wires were dangling loose.

  Anyone who paid attention when they came in would have seen that and known that it wasn’t working, which made it the perfect place for a kidnap. ‘That’s a real shame,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose you were working here last week?’ She gave her the date.

  ‘I only work until seven. Any idea what time?’

  ‘Say around two o’clock, so after the lunch rush, like today.’

  The girl made a quick search on the electronic diary: there were no reservations until seven on both evenings. ‘That’s not surprising though. We never have more than half a dozen people in after the lunch rush so no one bothers reserving ahead of time. Most places round here close up for three or four hours between services, but Tino likes us to stay open. Every hour we’re closed is an hour we’re not making money.’

  ‘I had a boss like that,’ she sympathized. She reached into her pocket for a photograph of Anglemark then laid it on the counter between them.

  ‘Is this him? Good-looking guy.’

  ‘Do you remember him coming in?’

  ‘To be honest, he looks kind of familiar, but he’s been on the news a lot, hasn’t he? He’s not a rock star or anything, but plenty of people would see him and think, oh I know him from somewhere …’

  ‘OK. But think. Do you remember him coming in here? Meeting someone?’

  The girl tilted her head to one side and looked at the picture again as if the shift in perspective might somehow shake an errant memory loose. ‘He might have done, maybe. Honestly, I can’t be sure. And even if he was, I can’t be sure if it was even the right day. We got a lot of people in here, especially during lunch. You only remember the ones who stand out.’ Which made sense. ‘Let me see if Tino remembers. He would have been looking after the restaurant side of things.’ She came out from behind the counter and crossed the terracotta floor to the kitchen doors, opening them to allow a waft of garlic and tomato to escape.

  ‘Hey, Tino. You got a minute? There’s someone here wants a word with you.’

  The response was almost inaudible against the clatter of pans, but the girl nodded and told Frankie, ‘He’ll be out in a minute. He’s working on the marinara base. I need to go and take over.’

  Frankie took her word for it.

  The girl slipped out through the door, to be replaced a moment later by a brute of a man in kitchen whites that were splattered red. He looked like some slovenly butcher, only instead of blood it was tomato sauce. He was sweating profusely. Tino used the sleeve of his whites to mop up the worst of it from his forehead.

  ‘Do I know you?’ he asked.

  ‘Francesca Varg,’ she said, showing her identification again. Tino did not seem to be as impressed as his waitress. He scrutinized it and handed it back with a shrug.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  Frankie showed him the photograph which was still lying on the counter. ‘Do you recognize this man?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘He was due to meet someone here last Wednesday.’

  ‘Diavolo.’ Devil.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Diavolo. That’s what he ordered. Classic Neopolitana pizza. Tomato base, buffalo mozzarella, spicy Naples salsiccia, peppers, goat’s cheese, and basil.’

  ‘You remember him?’

  ‘The guy who was murdered. Yeah, I remember him, but he looked different. He wasn’t wearing a suit. He was in jeans, and grey shirt. T-shirt underneath.’

  ‘You have a good memory.’

  The man shrugged. ‘Not every day you read about a customer being murdered,’ which was true. ‘Besides, we talked a bit. He ordered in Italian, told me he’d spent some time in Milan.’

  ‘And the man with him?’

  ‘He didn’t speak, the politician ordered for him. Gamberetti, hand-scaled shrimps, garlic, lemon, and parsley. It’s good. But all of our pizzas are good.’

  ‘Did you get a good look at him?’

  ‘Gamberetti man? He didn’t even look up when I brought the food out. He had his back to the kitchen door. I can tell you what the back of his head looked like.’

  ‘Anything you can tell me might help.’

  ‘He had hair. That’s all I’ve got. What’s so special about Gamberetti man?’

  ‘He is almost certainly the murderer,’ Frankie said.

  The man’s face went slack, his eyes glassy, as he wrestled with the notion he’d served food to a man capable of murder.

  Tino mopped his forehead with his sleeve again.

  ‘They sat here,’ he said, showing her the chair the killer had occupied. He didn’t touch the back, as though he expected her to suddenly start dusting for prints. The problem was in more than a week there had probably been a hundred other peo
ple in that seat. Any residual evidence would be long gone.

  ‘Why don’t we sit for a minute?’ Frankie suggested.

  Tino nodded with gratitude. She sat in the killer’s chair. He sat across from her. ‘Sorry,’ he said, picking up a paper napkin carefully folded on the table to wipe his face again. It came away sodden. He had the complexion of an alcoholic on the verge of a heart attack.

  Frankie placed her notebook on the table and looked at what little she’d managed to write so far.

  ‘OK. Anything you can give me. How old would you say he was, ball park?’

  ‘Younger than the politician. He was in good shape. I remember thinking he looked like he could handle himself.’

  ‘And you said he had hair?’

  ‘Razor cut, but not shaved.’

  ‘Anything you can remember about his face? Anything at all. It would be really helpful.’

  Tino shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What about his clothes?’

  ‘Grey fleece, I think. Something sporty. Like climbers wear. That’s about it. Sorry,’ he said again.

  ‘Believe me, that’s great, thank you.’

  ‘I hope you find the bastard.’

  ‘I will.’

  FORTY-ONE

  Ash had no intention of following the judge immediately. First, because it increased the likelihood the other man would make him; second, because he wanted to see if anyone else was following him. And that included Donatti.

  This was someone he didn’t want his security detail knowing he was meeting, or someone who didn’t want to be seen visiting the house. Then again, it was Italy; maybe Maffrici was meeting his mistress.

  He waited until the judge was inside the building before climbing out of the Fiat.

  He followed him.

  A group of noisy children rushed ahead of him, determined to be first inside the restaurant, the shop, or the toilet. A couple of frazzled teachers tried to wrangle them. He didn’t envy them. They made no effort to keep the noise levels down. Not that they could have made themselves heard against the constant babble.

  Maffrici had his back to him.

  The judge scanned the dining area in search of whoever he expected to meet.

  Ash noticed a hand go up to attract his attention.

  The judge weaved his way between other tables and diners to reach him.

  Ash moved through into the sitting area and took a seat at a table close enough to watch their body language without being close enough to overhear anything.

  He slipped his phone out of his pocket and using the camera app fired off a sly shot of the stranger, not worrying about how it was framed. He enlarged the picture, but the distance and the shitty zoom feature meant there was very little clarity to the detail of the face, and it wasn’t a face he immediately recognized, either.

  He rattled off a quick message to Laura and attached the image. She’d find him if he was in the database if he was there to be found.

  The man was older than Maffrici. He was thinner, too, and frail. There was nothing about him that suggested strength, certainly not the kind of strength needed to subdue or overpower anyone. So not the killer. Which, if his gut hunch was right, made the old man another potential victim.

  The conversation did not last long, and whilst there were no raised voices it didn’t appear to be a particularly friendly tête-à-tête. Maffrici was obviously in control. The other man looked less than reassured – if that was the purpose of their sit-down. He took a single swallow of his caffé, downing it in one. The caffeine was unlikely to calm him.

  The judge got to his feet suddenly, scraping his chair back across the linoleum floor. A few heads turned in their direction, drawn to the unexpected noise, but Ash kept his head down, pretending to concentrate on his phone. It prevented the risk of accidental eye contact. Never had this generation’s fixation with all things digital and cellular been so useful.

  Maffrici left.

  Not just left; he stormed out.

  The other man remained at the table holding his small coffee cup. Even from this distance he looked obviously distressed.

  It was a gift horse, of sorts. A perfect photo op if nothing else. Ash took another shot, being less subtle about it. He didn’t cross the room to join the old man. Now wasn’t the right time.

  He waited ten minutes.

  The man finally abandoned his coffee cup and rose slowly to his feet. He was unsteady as he crossed the dining area to the main doors. He didn’t look around, which Ash found interesting. Assuming the judge had just told him there was a hit out on him he would have thought the old man’s first instinct would be to look around to see where it was coming from.

  Unless he knew?

  Ash followed behind the old man, keeping a comfortable distance. Once he reached the car park the man was three rows of vehicles ahead. He crossed in the direction of his hired Fiat, gambling that it would take the old man a few moments to pull himself together once he got behind the wheel. From there it was a fifty–fifty shot on whether he took the Rome exit or followed the loop around and headed back the way he had come.

  Ash saw him fumble with the keys at the driver’s door of a racing green Renault. In the time it took the man to reverse out Ash was in place and ready to follow.

  He joined the flow of traffic, trying to see far enough ahead to see which way the old man went. By the time he hit the autostrada the green Renault was nowhere to be seen.

  He cursed himself.

  Her call came in as he scanned the snake of cars up ahead, trying to use the curve to better see who was out there.

  ‘I’m in, what am I looking for?’

  ‘Too late,’ he said.

  ‘Aren’t you a little ray of sunshine.’

  ‘I lost him. Racing-green Renault.’

  ‘Registration?’

  ‘I’m sure it has one,’ he said.

  ‘Hold on. I’ll see what I can find. I take it you’re no more than a minute or so behind the guy?’

  ‘Assuming I’m going the right way.’

  ‘OK, I’ll spool back through the feed from the exit camera, find you, then track back another minute or so for our Renault.’

  She made it sound easy.

  The line fell silent. He heard the distant flutter of her fingers racing across the keyboard. Ash concentrated on the road ahead. Red brake lights in the distance showed that the traffic was slowing.

  ‘Got him,’ she said. ‘About eight hundred metres ahead of you.’

  ‘What’s the delay?’

  ‘Looks like a car has broken down. They’re getting it pulled over. You shouldn’t be held up too long, but I’ll track the Renault in case he gets away from you. I’ve got a registration, should have a name in a couple of minutes. Just running it through the STA network. Once I’ve got it I’ll run it against EuropaChild.’

  The traffic ahead of him had come to a complete standstill. He still couldn’t see the Renault.

  FORTY-TWO

  Frankie left the restaurant knowing she’d made a small dent in the sheer overwhelming amount of stuff she didn’t know, and it didn’t exactly turn her thinking on its head, but it made her think and that was always a plus.

  Anglemark had made the meeting.

  It was definitely with a man, confirming that working hypothesis.

  The meeting itself had been nothing to write home about, two people sharing a meal. Nothing to raise suspicion or make it memorable for any witnesses.

  The diner had shielded his face, and in the process his identity, but she had a barebones description even if it wasn’t enough to build a photofit around.

  Valentino hadn’t seen them leave, but they’d covered the bill, and left enough of a tip not to stick out in the memory either way. And there was obviously no commotion or disturbance when they left, otherwise it would have been noticed; so Anglemark accompanied the killer of his own free will.

  She stood under the awning looking up and down the street. Where could they have
gone from here?

  It was one thing to walk outside willingly, but if Anglemark had even an inkling of what was to come surely he wouldn’t have walked these streets with that same willingness? Did the Memory Man have something to keep him compliant? Something the politician was prepared to do anything to ensure remained a secret? Memini Bonn. What could have happened there that was so horrific it would make a man walk willingly to his death?

  Her mind went to the dark places of the world she worked in, and all manner of crimes linked to vulnerable children. A paedophilia ring, child pornography, child-trafficking? None of the alternatives felt good, but to be fair, she’d been thinking along these lines from the moment Ash proved the link to the Catholic Church. She wasn’t proud of it, but preconceptions existed for a reason, didn’t they?

  And being found guilty of any of those crimes was not just a career-ender for Anglemark, it was a life-ender, wasn’t it? Here was a man who had ostensibly devoted his life to the protection of vulnerable children. To be found guilty of any of them, even merely in the court of public opinion, would be enough to end the man. So, yes, there were some reasons a dead man walking would willingly take that long walk home.

  She kept thinking about the camera. It was obvious it didn’t work, because of the mess of wires hanging out of its guts, but to know that you had to go inside. There were three things to take away from that. The first, the killer must have known that or he wouldn’t have chosen the pizzeria, and thus had visited the place before. The second, he may very well have checked out other restaurants in the neighbourhood before finding one that suited his purpose. The third takeaway, and the most important, thinking like the killer, you wouldn’t want to give your victim time to gather their nerve or steel themselves to fight back, so you didn’t want to march them through the streets; you wanted to get them off the streets as quickly as possible, so you chose the restaurant based on the proximity to your bolthole, not the victim’s.

  She looked up and down the street, knowing she was close.

  She was looking for somewhere that felt empty, and a long time empty, not just the owner’s at work empty. No lights in the windows, no obvious decoration, pictures on the walls, stuff like that.