‘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?
‘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.’