Conor Fitzgerald - The Namesake

‘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.

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.