The Namesake (26 page)

‘When was this?’ asked Caterina. ‘I was given to understand that you were in a coma. In fact I was surprised when the doctor called.’

‘Yes, it was Massimiliani’s idea to say I was totally incapacitated. It was such an opportunity for a plausible lie he simply could not let it pass, even if it served no purpose whatsoever. Not that I’m up and dancing yet, but no coma. Is Blume a principled man?’

Caterina fell silent.

‘If it helps,’ said Arconti with another lopsided grin, ‘I think he is but . . .’

‘But?’ asked Caterina. ‘What has he done? Or what are you going to ask him to do?’

‘I am not going to ask him to do anything, Caterina. But he took a doubtful initiative. I think his motives were pure – well, not pure but justifiable – and I think he was looking out for me . . .’

‘Don’t make excuses for him,’ she said.

‘You’re right. Still, I get the feeling that Blume has embraced a philosophy he doesn’t believe in, and it’s led him in the wrong direction. I’d be interested to know whether you are accompanying him on it . . . You haven’t a clue what I am talking about, have you?’

‘No.’

‘That means he’s on his own.’

‘You are still talking in riddles, Giudice.’

‘When Massimiliani found out I was not a vegetable, he came in to ask me about a confession apparently made by Curmaci’s wife, Maria Itria. When I said I had spoken to the woman but never received any confession, quite the contrary really, he showed me a transcript, adding that copies of the same had been leaked to the press, and one in particular could be tracked back to a policeman in your office who is known to do anything for a bit of cash and is therefore usually kept away from sensitive information . . .’

‘Rospo,’ said Caterina.

‘So the confession was fed to him, or left where he would find it. Massimiliani anticipated this by conducting his own search, and meanwhile Blume takes a leave of absence . . .’

‘I understand,’ said Caterina. ‘Blume falsified a confession by a Mafia wife.’

‘Exactly. You’re very quick on the uptake. Massimiliani was full of admiration for this technique, and I think he might really want to recruit Blume whose name, I admit, I am responsible for putting forward. Me, I have my doubts that Blume’s action was such a good idea. He put the woman’s life in direct and immediate danger, and perhaps the lives of her two children.’

‘Blume is a stupid, arrogant bastard,’ said Caterina. ‘He can deal with this himself.’ A thought struck her. ‘I hope you’re not implying I had anything to do with it?’

‘No. I am not accusing you of complicity. I meant what I said: I am not going to be a magistrate after I get out of here. I just want to make things as right as possible on my last case. Has the arrogant bastard been phoning you?’

‘He has been avoiding me more than anything. He’s been avoiding me for a year now, come to think of it. We were supposed to . . . sorry, you don’t need personal details.’

‘I would like to help.’ The magistrate closed his right eye sympathetically, while his left eye continued to glare at her.

‘Commissioner Blume is a coward,’ said Caterina.

‘That’s very harsh, Inspector.’

‘He has it in his power to do good for himself and others; he refuses to do it through fear, and calls it principle.’

‘He did it to draw Curmaci out. I think he did it for me.’ Arconti dabbed the side of his mouth again and asked Caterina to help him drink a glass of water. It was an awkward moment, and she kept apologizing as the water ran in rivulets down the lifeless left corner of his mouth. All the while, his left side regarded her with loathing for her clumsiness. Eventually, the magistrate had swallowed half a glass and dribbled the other half.

‘That’s fine. I’m used to it already, though the therapist tells me I must never get used to anything. Apparently I must fight like hell to get back to how I was just the other day, which is rather depressing.’ He dabbed his mouth and laid his head back, addressing his thoughts to the ceiling. ‘Blume is treating Curmaci as if he were a common criminal, which is a mistake. It is far easier to isolate a common criminal than one who operates in an organization. When dealing with the Mafia, it is almost impossible for us to restrict the consequences of an operation. I am not sure Curmaci is the sort of prey you’d want to catch. I withheld some information about Curmaci from Blume because . . .’

‘Because you’re a magistrate and that’s what you guys do,’ said Caterina. ‘You withhold stuff.’

For a moment both sides of Arconti’s face regarded her with the same expression, but then he relaxed. ‘It’s the system, not the people. Magistrate means master. We do the thinking, you do the doing. That’s why you are called agents. It’s not how things work in reality, but it’s what the law says.’

‘Yeah, well . . . Plenty of magistrates need to be taught stuff by us agents.’

‘True. Look, Blume is making a mistake. I want you to tell him that. For his sake. This is organized crime, not ordinary crime. People like Curmaci aren’t in it for the money. It’s the power, the prestige, the fear they can instill in others, the power to corrupt, the revenge against the classes that kept them down, the ability to design the political landscape. The Ndrangheta is like an order of murderous monks, and Curmaci is one of the high priests.’

30

Positano

The clean white hotel in Positano was set into cliffs overlooking the sea. It was still Campania; the stinking chaos of Naples was only up the road, but they had entered another world.

The girl at the reception desk gave them a bright smile as they entered. When they had filled out the visitor cards, the girl glanced out of the door and saw the camper van.

‘Is that vehicle yours?’ Her smile seemed a little more forced.

Blume jerked a thumb at Konrad, who was looking around the hotel lobby with an appreciative air. ‘Not mine. His.’

The girl nodded as if in understanding. She looked at the ragged backpack drooped off Blume’s shoulder.

‘Is that your luggage?’

‘I have a suitcase in the camper, too heavy to bother moving.’ He patted his backpack appreciatively. ‘Got all I need in here.’

The girl was now avoiding his eyes.

From the front, the hotel seemed like a single-storey house, but the entrance and lobby areas turned out to be the top floor of a building of three levels that developed in a step pattern downwards towards the sea. From a window on the left, they could see the roof tiles of the next two levels down, the lower of which jutted out into what seemed to be empty space. It was as if the entrance lobby where they now stood was the only part of the building sunk into safe ground. Konrad was unabashedly delighted with the place, at one point even nudging Blume and pointing at the vertiginous prospect, as if Blume, who felt a little giddy, could miss it.

Blume was sure the buildings below were actually nestled safely into the rock and resting, at least in part, on solid earth, but he still walked down the hallway with the same cautious tread he used when shuffling up the aisle of an aeroplane in flight, thinking of what would happen if his foot went through the floor. Konrad’s room was in the lowest of the three buildings to the far left, Blume’s in the building above to the right.

Blume was reassured to find the back wall of his bedroom was thick and uneven and it followed the contours of the rock face. It was cold and slightly damp to the touch. He had a shower to wash off the memory of rats. Then he opened his backpack and took out fresh clothes rescued from the suitcase. Fresh, but wrinkled, so he decided to put them on, lie on the bed, force them into some shape against his body.

The wide rectangular window, which swivelled open on a central hinge so that it could complete a 180-degree turn until the outside panes faced in and the inside panes out, framed nothing but sea. He had to stand right next to it and peer downwards to see the cliff into which the building was embedded. He caught a glimpse of a tiny garden set on a narrow ledge fifteen feet below, large enough for maybe one child to play in, a child with very laid-back parents. A ball dropped from his window would bounce once, bang in the centre of the garden, then fly over the cliff edge and down into the sea for ever.

The air that came in was salty but not clammy. The temperature was perfect. A three-masted tall ship lolled halfway to the horizon, headed out west. He opened his mouth wide and with three deep breaths cleared his mind and gratefully exhaled the threatened headache that had been lying in wait all day.

He expected Konrad any moment now, demanding his notes back, accusing him of bad faith. He flicked through the binder he had taken from Konrad’s suitcase, shaking his head at the sheer number of pages in German. Blume’s German was just good enough to see that the texts dealt with the ceremonies, history and beliefs of the Ndrangheta. One or two articles were in English and the rest in Italian. The leaves were filled with marginalia in blue and red. Konrad Hoffmann was a conscientious and fastidious scholar. No surprise there.

Blume took out the small curved black notebook he carried around in his back trouser pocket, which he used only when he had forgotten or deliberately set aside his larger one. His intention was to note down any points of particular interest among Konrad’s papers that caught his eye, but he gave up after ten minutes to focus instead on the image of the torn Madonna signed on the back by Domenico Megale. Konrad’s putative passport to somewhere, a membership card for something. What was the etiquette about ripping a Madonna in hal
f
? The Ndrangheta initiation ceremony involved the burning of images of the Archangel St Michael. For all he knew the tearing up of a Madonna was fine. But Konrad should not have it in his possession. Far from a voucher or token of safe conduct, the half Madonna was a death sentence that the foolish German was going to deliver with his own hand.

He picked up the reassuringly heavy handset of the bedside phone and called reception. Yes, the girl told him, they did have a fax and of course she would be happy to send something.

Blume took his Samsung and, after moving icons back and forth like he was trying to solve a tile-puzzle from his childhood, finally found the number pad, pressed ‘1’, held it, and waited.

Massimiliani answered on the third ring.

‘Nice of you to call in. Do you know how many times I have tried to contact you?’

‘No, but I’m sure this clever phone can tell me,’ said Blume.

‘It looks like you’re near Positano.’

‘Very clever phone. Actually, we’re there, in the hotel. We took a bit of a detour to Lake Avernus, which was the mad German’s idea. No reason that I can see, except he says he studied Latin once. Do you have a fax number up there?’ asked Blume.

‘A fax . . . I suppose we must still have one. Hold on.’

Blume heard the plop of a hand being placed over the mouthpiece, as if Massimiliani felt it was important not to let himself be heard calling out to someone in the room about whether they had a fax.

Finally, Massimiliani was back with a number, which Blume noted down. Very much to Massimiliani’s surprise and annoyance, he hung up as soon as he had finished writing.

The girl behind the desk smiled at Blume as he walked over, but the smile faded as Blume slapped the 83-page document on the desk in front of her and said, ‘You told me you had a fax.’

He wrote the DCSA number on the back of the first page. ‘These need to go out immediately.’

The girl picked up the file and seemed to weigh it in her hand. Then, with what sounded like relief, she said, ‘I can’t fax this: it’s in spiral binding.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Blume. ‘You fire up the fax machine or whatever you have to do, and I’ll rip the pages out and hand them to you one by one.’

‘That’ll take hours. Look, when I said we had a fax . . .’

‘And that you’d be happy to oblige,’ added Blume.

‘Yes, I did say that but . . .’ The girl picked up the phone and pressed a number. ‘Dad? I need you up here.’

When the hotel owner arrived at reception, he immediately dismissed his daughter with a curt nod of the head. He then turned to Blume with an expression of loathing, which Blume couldn’t justify unless the girl had telepathically communicated his unreasonable fax demands. He began to explain about the fax again when the manager interrupted him.

‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to leave. Both of you.’

Blume turned around, looking for Konrad, but he was alone in the lobby. Through the window of the hotel he could just see a small part of the rear section of the ridiculous old camper van.

‘Your skinny boyfriend isn’t here. You know how I know that?’ said the manager. ‘I know that because he is at this moment lying naked on a ledge beneath our private garden. There have been complaints. Three children and a very respectable woman have seen him so far. Lucky for him my daughter has been spared the obscenity.’

‘My boyfriend?’

‘Partner, whatever you people call yourselves these days. I should have guessed, two men in a camper. There’s a campsite in Salerno, an hour from here, I’m sure you can park for the night there.’

‘Look, he’s German,’ said Blume in his best soothing voice.