Conor Fitzgerald - The Namesake

‘Maybe they didn’t know either, which is what they are claiming after all. I mean, it must happen occasionally in your world that someone accidentally tells you the truth.’

‘Hmm. You could be right. Speaking of which… tell me how you managed to lose Konrad on the autostrada.’

‘I was never behind him.’

‘Thought not. You were carrying his phone.’

‘Yes. He left it behind. I picked it up.’

‘You were deliberately misleading me?’

‘I was,’ said Blume. He explained about Konrad’s disappearance in the early hours of the morning, the phone, his destruction of it.

Massimiliani smiled. ‘I was right about you from the get-go, Blume. You are a devious bastard: the false confession by Maria Itria, the way you walked away from an investigation you knew was going nowhere — or nowhere that would redound to your credit — the way you let Arconti misread you, the way you control what you say on the phone, your air of the innocent abroad in the Tuscolana HQ. What else have you been holding back? Last night you said something about a Madonna.’

‘A torn Madonna,’ said Blume. ‘I was going to tell you, but… you seemed uninterested.’

‘I am interested now.’

Blume told him about his search of Hoffmann’s suitcase and his discovery. He enjoyed seeing that Massimiliani, despite his job, had a lousy poker face. First his expression registered outrage at Blume’s reticence, but it was soon replaced by a hungry look as he sought more details.

Massimiliani drove on in silence for some time, then said, ‘Well, at least we know something the Germans don’t. Even if it’s not important… And presuming it’s true and you’re not making it up for some reason I cannot fathom.’

‘Now that makes me wonder how good you can really be at your job, Massimiliani. There can be no efficiency without at least a little bit of trust. If you never believe anything anyone tells you, then there’s not much point in sending people out to discover things, is there?’

‘We had no previous trust between us.’

‘And we have less now, I think,’ said Blume.

‘Not true. I still say we could work well together. Maybe I can give you some more background next time, clarify your position.’

‘Next time,’ said Blume.

Massimiliani pulled out a Smartphone, tapped it expertly and exchanged a few words with someone, organizing a meeting point and something to do with a car, and hung up.

Blume remembered the Samsung in his pocket. He took it out and set it on the seat. ‘Keep that. I’ve discovered I don’t like Smartphones. I suppose you have been listening in to my conversations with Caterina.’

‘And Caterina would be…?’

Blume laughed.

‘Oh, you mean Inspector Caterina Mattiola? No, no.’

‘Of course not,’ said Blume. It was getting hotter and clammier as they neared the coast, and the tyres rumbled and thudded unpleasantly over the pocked surface of the autostrada. He imagined Konrad in his camper, probably coming down the other side of the mountain range now, the ageing engine finally able to pick up some speed as it rolled down towards the Ionian sea, the land getting harder and rockier and dustier on the descent. That was part of the upside-down world of the Italian south. In the north, where he liked to holiday, the green was below and the land got harder as you went up, not down.

Blume was worried for Konrad, concerned even for the camper van itself and, in particular, his outsized suitcase, which he could picture sliding across the floor as the van began the descent towards the eastern seaboard. Underneath the stratum of old jackets that had grown too tight and trousers that had, unaccountably, become narrow around the waist and short in the legs, were things he really valued. Had Konrad rifled through his possessions as he had through Konrad’s? If so, he would have come across some prints, a few signed books his father had collected — including three signed first editions of Pirandello plays. He imagined Konrad holding up the amber necklace his mother used to wear, then frowning at the worthless string of wooden worry beads that Blume had had all his life. He had sucked most of the lead paint off them in his childhood, but the greens, blues and yellows were still faintly visible. His father said it was a rosary of sorts, but his mother denied it. The Cat in the Hat Dictionary, which had taught him to read, was in there, too, all the pages loose, the spine cracked by the heat of Rome, the ice of Washington State, and the stress of the movement from one to the other.

Tucked into the corner, lovingly cushioned among his socks and sweaters, were two coffee mugs celebrating the year 1976. One, decorated with a white star formed by the implied space between dark-red and pale-blue lines, celebrated the bicentennial of the USA; the other, which displayed a blue-and-green V-shaped badge with a Viking-style bird’s head, celebrated the first year of the Seattle Seahawks football team. Inside the first mug, wrapped in tissue paper, were his parents’ wedding rings. Inside the other, also wrapped in tissue paper, was a little leather pouch, and inside that was the diamond engagement ring that his father had given his mother. It wasn’t much of a diamond, and it was set off on either side by two blue lapis lazuli gemstones that reminded him of neon lights, and gave the ring a tacky Las Vegas feel. Something that belonged as much to the 1970s as the cup it was hidden in. When he found Konrad, or the camper, or both, the first thing he would do would be to rescue his suitcase.

Massimiliani interrupted his thoughts. ‘Did you deliberately allow Hoffmann to escape?’

‘No. That was just my being careless.’

‘I see. Well, apart from your complete failure to do the few simple things I asked you to, I still think you’ve got potential. If another case came up, would you be interested?’

‘I’d have to think about it,’ said Blume.

‘You’d be better briefed next time.’

‘Good.’

‘Almost there,’ said Massimiliani.

‘Where?’

‘The point in the road where you make a decision, Blume. Do you want to continue with what’s left of this mission?’

‘Someone needs to stop Konrad.’

‘We might have picked him up before if you hadn’t misdirected us.’

‘That was a mistake.’

‘I don’t really understand why you did that.’

‘Partly because even though he had given me the slip I still wanted to give him a headstart on you and the BKA, as a sort of favour to him. Partly because I thought he might sow some confusion among Curmaci and his friends, partly because I was fed up getting only partial information from you and the BKA, and partly because I was embarrassed to admit I had lost him,’ said Blume.

‘That’s good and honest,’ said Massimiliani. ‘I thought you might want to know Curmaci’s disappeared.’

‘I know,’ said Blume. ‘Caterina told me.’

‘This ship is leaking in all parts. If she was referring to us losing him in Bari, we found him, then lost him again. Someone else is driving the car he rented. Presumably he took another car and is now in Calabria. Do you still hold him responsible for that killing of the insurance broker or whatever he was?’

‘If not, then he is responsible for many other things,’ said Blume.

‘On the day the murder was committed, Curmaci was in Spain. Malaga, which is almost as big a cocaine port as Gioia Tauro. We got this from the Guardia Civil. Then, just as the charred bodies of the presumed perpetrators were found in the Milan hinterland, Curmaci was in Milan, doing a little tour of certain families, including the Flachi. The Flachi specialize in logistics, by the way. You know the companies that deliver stuff you buy on the internet?’