Conor Fitzgerald: The Namesake

‘What about my big American breakfasts at the weekend? They seem to disturb you, too. I need to know they can continue.’

‘That’s a cultural thing. I can accept that. I like the pancakes too. But I don’t know how you can bear to eat all that meat and eggs first thing. It’ll kill you.’

‘Not at all,’ said Blume. ‘Fat and protein are beneficial.’

‘No one will convince me that those fried sausages do you any good. They put all sorts of disgusting stuff in them.’

‘I know that,’ said Blume. ‘You know what’s a big ingredient in supermarket pork?’

‘No,’ said Caterina.

‘Aspirin.’ He picked up the envelope, gave it an appreciative flick with the back of his hand, and dropped it into the top drawer of his desk, which he kicked shut as he leaned back in his chair. ‘Still, thanks for this.’

‘You need to take the results to your doctor.’

‘Sure thing. Like I said, thanks.’ He returned to his newspaper.

‘Now.’

‘What?’

‘I took the liberty of checking your schedule and making an appointment for you. We have no urgent cases…’

‘You did what? I’ll make my own appointments, thank you. Also, I have one with the magistrate this morning.’ He picked his watch up off the desk and reluctantly started attaching it to his wrist.

‘I saw that. But it’s not until eleven,’ she said. ‘Also, I thought he’d finished with you.’

‘More or less. He probably wants to explain where the case is going. A courtesy thing. There’s a certain irony in this, isn’t there?’

‘If there is, I don’t get it,’ said Caterina.

‘Not with the courtesy. Magistrate Arconti is a courteous man. I meant the case itself. It involved Nimesulide, remember? Which is just the analgesic I want for my headaches, so that makes it ironic. Or is it the opposite of ironic? Apt?’

‘If I knew what you were talking about I might be able to help you choose your words.’

‘The case involved Nimesulide. The drug they make Aulin pills from. Chief Inspector Panebianco tells me it’s the only thing that works for migraines like mine.’

‘So now it’s a migraine.’

‘It always was a migraine,’ said Blume. ‘I just don’t like to make a big deal of it, so I call it a simple headache.’

Caterina rolled her eyes. ‘Maybe you should have taken a few handfuls of the Nimesulide when you made the raid.’

‘The thought did occur to me,’ said Blume. ‘But stealing drugs, even if they’re not illegal in themselves, and interrupting the chain of evidence in an Ndrangheta investigation…’

‘I was kidding, you know.’

‘I know. Taking you literally is my way of kidding you back. I expect Arconti just wants to sign off on the investigation. There’s not much we can do from here anyhow since the person he’s investigating operates in Germany, Switzerland and Milan. And Calabria of course.’

‘So the case is being transferred to the DIA?’

‘Probably. The DIA isn’t what it used to be. Twenty years ago, with Law 41(a) and the Mafia on the run, those guys saw themselves like a cross between the Marines and the FBI, poised for victory and revenge. Now… Just another mistreated police force. So the investigation goes to them, or it gets kicked into the undergrowth and left to fester. I suppose the investigating magistrate’s been taken off it, too. He probably wants to explain all that to me today.’

‘Meanwhile, your original investigation into the “suicide” of the hospital consultant from Naples…’

‘Stops here. For now. Foul play was not established, but at least the case opened an interesting avenue.’

‘That avenue was wide open if anyone cared to look,’ said Caterina. ‘The consultant had never even practised. For ten years he had been issuing prescriptions for vast quantities of Nimesulide, using hospital procurement contracts to cover his tracks. It was clear he was supplying the drug to someone who was using it to cut cocaine on an industrial scale. All people had to do was open their eyes. His colleagues, the hospital accountants, the Finance Police… he was acting in broad daylight, driving a Lamborghini on a state salary.’

‘Disgusting,’ said Blume. ‘But, eventually overcome with remorse, the consultant beat himself around the face, head, groin and chest before hanging himself from his balcony in what was unquestionably suicide.’

‘Are you really happy to leave it at that?’

‘It’s not up to me. It’s Arconti’s call. But it’s hard to care about the consultant or the verdict on his death. The consultant was a door into a more interesting inquiry. Arconti had retroactive traces put on the calls made by the consultant, which worked just fine, because it led to the arrest of two gallant gentlemen from Calabria.’

‘Your appointment with the doctor is for 9:15.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘So you should get moving now. The clinic is on the way. If you want, you can get painkillers prescribed by him. OK?’

Blume shook his head. ‘You’re kidding, right? You expect me to stand up and go to the doctor, just like that?’

‘Yes. You wanted something for your headaches. Go to the doctor, talk to him. I went to the trouble of making the appointment, it’s the least you could do.’

‘If I don’t?’

‘If you don’t go, I’m going to leave this office, wait for you outside, and then make a scene here in the station, in front of everyone. Maybe in the corridor, you know, with voices raised and all the trappings.’

‘You don’t scare me. Anyhow everyone’s on holiday.’

‘I can embarrass you though. All it takes is for me to announce we are half-living together.’

‘Everyone knows that.’

‘But it’s not acknowledged,’ she said. ‘If I make it official, you’ll have to write up a report on conflicts of interest, and one of us will have to be moved to a different department. Or else we’ll just have to marry and present it as a done deal.’

‘So what time did you say the appointment was?’ said Blume.

Half an hour later, Blume sat in the waiting room in the company of a desiccated old woman who avoided his eyes and fluttered her hand nervously across her throat every time he looked in her direction. He raised his arm and looked at his watch, and was about to ask her what the hell was the point of doctors setting appointment times for patients if they didn’t respect…

The doctor appeared in person at the door of the waiting room and motioned him in. Too cheap to hire a receptionist. In the office, the doctor unfolded Blume’s test results, read them, and burst out laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘What on earth do you eat?’

‘Food, normal stuff.’

‘I’ve never seen a cholesterol reading like that. Bad LDL cholesterol, I mean. I’m putting you on statins. Zocor, one a day for the rest of your life.’

‘I am pretty sure you have seen a cholesterol level like that in the past,’ said Blume.

‘No, no. I’d have remembered a reading like this.’

‘No, you wouldn’t,’ said Blume. ‘Because I was here five years ago and we had pretty much the same conversation.’

The doctor frowned, ‘I thought I knew your face.’ He tapped at the computer on his desk. ‘There you are. I prescribed statins for you then, too. Why did you tell me this was your first visit?’

‘I didn’t want to have an argument about statins again.’

‘Obviously you’re not taking them.’

‘No,’ said Blume. ‘My cholesterol is inherited. Northern ancestors. Sweden, Norway, Minnesota. Places like that.’

‘Why bother with the blood test then?’

‘My partner insisted. Besides, I might have something else.’

‘Well, you do. Poor liver function. What’s your beef with statins?’