‘Capo, I have heard a rumour that the police intend to return at the end of the month and perform their own procession in honour of the Archangel St Michael. Twice in one month, they intend to come here.’
‘Yes. It will be an empty gesture. And they will not do it next year. That is a promise.’
This time, the murmur sounded more satisfied.
Later, when the noise level had gone up again, Agazio Curmaci came up and sat down on an empty chair near Basile.
‘We have already spoken, Agazio.’
‘I know. But if you’ll forgive me, I want everyone here to see you speaking with me.’
‘If I wanted to be seen speaking to you in front of these men, I would have called you over. What you are doing is disrespectful and arrogant.’
‘I am sorry. I also wanted to say something that I hope may be of use. We have a bargaining chip with the police.’
‘We have more than one. Are you referring to the commissioner who was seen entering but not leaving Locri?’
‘If they found his body, mutilated and strategically placed…’
Basile held up his hand. ‘Did I not just say I was a man of peace? We will not respond to the provocation of the authorities. You have this commissioner alive in a safe place?’
‘Immured where he cannot be found.’
‘They do not seem to be looking for him yet.’
‘No, but they will. And they will also start looking for the German.’
‘Agazio, the next few days promise to be troublesome on several fronts. Let’s not add to the confusion. Two vanished policemen is more than enough.’
‘I understand.’
‘Stability and continuity are what we want. Return to Germany at the first opportunity. With my blessing.’
‘Thank you.’
‘No more initiatives. I shall see to the rest.’
‘Thank you. What about the policeman?’
‘For the sake of peace, let him rot.’
49
Thursday, 3 September
Ardore
Blume opened his eyes to the dark. Smell was the most primal sense. Eyes, ears, touch could all be fooled, but it was hard to fool the nose. What you saw was not always there, what you heard could be an echo, but a smell was a smell. He stood up and inhaled with mouth and nose like he was on a mountaintop. It had seemed that Pietro had walked in his own light, then stretched himself out directly opposite, but his memory was not real, so there was no point in using it to find the body. Instead, he stooped down and, sniffing like a dog, moved towards the corpse. His nose did not lead him astray and, within minutes, he was on his knees, arms outstretched over the dead body. One hand touched hair, the other something wet and cold. He almost wept at first contact, but he was not going to give up. Using the tips of his fingers, he established the position of the head, the neck, and then he touched the greasy denim fabric, and began to search systematically, feeling for pockets, buttons, his sense of urgency and hope driving away his revulsion.
Milan
Magistrate Bazza had been quite put out when Caterina announced her intention to stay in Milan and visit Arconti’s widow, Letizia, and children. She had planned the visit before he called her up one day ahead of her schedule.
‘It would be better if you did not visit the widow. It’s asking for trouble.’
‘It’s planned. Besides, you want me to lie to her about the case, don’t you?’
‘I want you to comfort her with a half truth. Why tomorrow?’
‘The family has been staying with Letizia’s parents in Tuscany. They come back this evening, and I’ll see them in the morning. My visit will coincide with their first day back in Milan.’
‘Do you expect me to authorize your hotel bill?’
‘No. I wouldn’t get the reimbursement for a year anyhow. Just sign a piece of paper saying you needed me here for two days to conclude the investigations. That way I don’t have to use my holiday time.’
‘But you were prepared to pay a hotel bill and lose a day of holiday because the widow of a murder victim asked you to?’
‘Yes.’
Bazza shook his head in disgust. ‘That’s not how it’s done.’ But as they left, he said he would look into a way of reimbursing her.
She slept badly in the hotel room, thinking about Blume and, sometimes, wondering whether to break her promise to Bazza and tell Letizia Arconti the truth. It was supposed to set people free.
The next morning, sitting in a bar eating a second pastry with a bad conscience, Caterina watched the trams and was quite impressed by their regularity. The one that would take her to the Indro Montanelli Gardens came every five minutes, but being nervous, early and full of carbohydrates to which she should never have succumbed, she decided to walk instead. Heaving her overnight bag on to her shoulder, she pushed in a pair of earphones, double-checked that incoming calls would interrupt the music, scrolled down, and selected a playlist dominated by Einaudi. A tram went clanging by and ruined the lush opening of ‘Out of the Night’. She restarted the track and set off at a brisk walk down Via Conservatorio. Now all she had to do was walk to the end, go left, then right and wait for the gardens to appear. In the middle of the busy street, she paused like the worst sort of lost tourist, and called Blume’s number yet again, which went to voice mail yet again.
The road opened into a piazzetta. To her right was a church with an ugly facade. Rome did this sort of thing better, she thought with pride. She checked her map. Basilica Santa Maria della Passione. Her appointment was simply for the morning, not at any fixed time, and she did not want to arrive too early. She crossed the cobblestones and entered the church that turned out to be far larger, brighter and more beautiful inside than the facade had led her to expect.
Caterina dipped her finger in the holy water font and touched her forehead, allowing a drop to run down the bridge of her nose. She centred herself in the aisle, genuflected briefly, politely, professionally, she hoped, and walked down towards the transept and the high altar. Blume would have been able to tell her stuff about the frescos. When it came to art, he always said he knew nothing. His parents had been experts, not him. He was just a policeman. After he had gone through this tiresome rigmarole, based more on anger and hurt than false modesty, he might relent, and if the artist was one he knew a lot about, his enthusiasm would soon displace his reticence and unhappiness. In fact, once he got going, it was hard to shut him up.
She stared for a while at a Last Supper. The red-haired Christ, seated at the end of a foreshortened table, gazed back at her. Applying Blume’s advice, she suspended her automatic reverence and looked for what was intentionally or, better, unintentionally funny in the painting. According to Blume, irreverence was the key to understanding whether a work was any good. If it made you laugh, maybe it contained subtle humour or maybe it was simply laughable. Never trust to reputation. This Christ, she reflected, looked a bit feminine and He definitely had a stoned expression in his eyes. A tripping Christ with hair the colour of copper. The apostles around Him seemed to be more professional, the efficient staff of a boss whose best days were behind Him and whose immediate future was looking pretty bleak.
But try as she might, she could not keep her reverence for the Son of God and the ancient artist at bay, and the painting ended up making her feel smaller. She went in search of a more intimate side chapel that Blume would have censured as kitsch. She sat and stared at a Virgin holding a child. Blume would thrown his head back and scoffed; Caterina bent her head forward and prayed.
Twenty minutes later, she was on her way through the Indro Montanelli Gardens, the trees and open space a relief after the unfamiliar streets. She did not trust Milanese drivers; you could never tell what they might do next. In Rome, you needed to make sure the driver had seen you, and then you were OK. Here she was not so sure.