The Memory Key (10 page)

‘All right. Stefania left here at 5:45. Then what?’

‘I went to give a seminar in front of 50 or so students . . .’

‘You went directly from here to the classroom?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you were on time for the seminar?’

Pitagora undid one silver cufflink and then the other, like a magician preparing for a show. He pulled up his sleeves.

‘I have no watch, Commissioner. I may have been early, I may have been late. The fact is, my students are enthusiastic and come early, so they were waiting for me. I have not worn a watch for years, for the same reason you have not.’

Blume touched his wrist self-consciously.

‘On some people, a timepiece cannot keep time. If it is mechanical, it loses or gains, if it is digital, it malfunctions from electromagnetic interference from the wearer. I am one of those people, Commissioner, and so are you.’

‘Basically, you’re saying you were late,’ said Blume.

Pitagora redid his cufflinks with care. ‘While I was there a student came in to say someone had been shot.’

‘Who was this student?’

‘I don’t know. A friend of one of my students. I had never seen him before.’

‘He came in and shouted it out, or . . .’

‘More or less. “They are shooting people” he called out, or words to that effect. Then they all ran out. I have given the names of the students to the Carabinieri, and I believe they have been questioned. This means I am somehow a suspect, which is fantastical nonsense. And now, if you don’t mind and even if you do, I have to ask you to leave.’

‘Why?’

‘I have students waiting for me.’

‘Where?’

‘Behind the door.’

Blume went over and opened the door. Sure enough, a group of about twelve students were standing about in the corridor.

He surveyed them, then said, ‘One minute’, and closed the door.

‘Who are they?’

‘Some of my best students. They are here for a lesson on Tasso. You know the epic poem
Jerusalem Delivered
?’

Blume ignored the question.

‘The story of the Catholic knights who freed the erstwhile Jewish capital from the infidel Muslims? I know you know what I am talking about. I am transferring that poem to their memory. They must learn it by heart.’

‘Literature students, then?’

‘No. There is one, but the rest of them come from other faculties. But they understand that all knowledge is connected. The more you learn about anything, the more you know about everything.’

‘Can I borrow one?’

Instead of asking why, Pitagora nodded and said, ‘Take Miriam. She’s the blonde one you noticed, almost to the exclusion of the others.’

‘Who says . . .’

‘You know who I mean?’

‘There was a blonde girl there, yes, but . . .’

‘Ask her her name. Go on.’

‘I am not playing your games.’

‘Blondes stick in the mind better. That’s why women who want to be remembered should go for the blonde look no matter how poorly it suits them. It is also why so many saints and angels are fair-haired. What about that list from earlier, the one I wrote down. Do you remember it?’

Blume ignored the question. He opened the door and called to the students, who filed in sheepishly, as if they had done something wrong.

‘Miriam,’ said the professor. ‘This is a police commissioner. He was looking particularly at you.’

The girl blushed, and arched her foot.

Blume opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it.

‘He says he wants to “borrow” you. Do let us know what he does with you, will you?’

‘That is, if you don’t mind,’ said Blume.

The girl shook her head.

‘Commissioner! I know you’re going to want to talk to me again. Come to my home. I live on the Via Appia Antica, but you’ll know that. I want to show you my memory theatre. It will expand your mind.’

Blume turned to the girl, whose scarlet blush was just fading.

‘Just a quick favour,’ said Blume, and ushered her out the door.

As he left the office, he let out a long sigh and shook his head and limbs as if coming out of the sea from a long swim.

‘He’s intense because he’s a genius,’ said the girl.

‘Do you study literature?’

‘No. Final year medicine. Where are we going?’

‘I sorry, I didn’t explain.’ He had the girl give him her telephone number and they separated at the end of the corridor, him going up the stairs and her down. He climbed two more flights to the top floor, then walked down the empty corridor. The rooms he passed were stuffed full of smashed desks, and piles of books.

At the end of the corridor, he turned left, and entered a small corner room. The roof sloped down and he had to duck under a cross-beam piled high with dust so fine it billowed like icing sugar at his passing. He grabbed a broken brush handle from the floor. He made his way over to the window, familiar from the Carabinieri photos he had examined in Principe’s office. It was small, circular, and iron-rimmed like a barrel. An iron bar ran along the middle dividing the window into two half-moon lights. The lower pane was intact and the upper one was missing, and he could imagine bats flying in and out. It was less dusty here because of the air coming in, or perhaps because the Carabinieri had swept it clean. It commanded an ample view of the concourse below. He took out his phone and called Miriam.

‘Ready? OK, start walking now. Keep the phone to your ear.’

He stuck the broom handle out of the gap, and looked down it. Thirty seconds later Miriam’s blonde hair appeared below. He took aim at the top of her head. Then he ordered her to stop. The figure below stopped.

‘OK, I just needed to check that was you. Can you go back to the door and start walking again, this time all the way to where the paths meet in the centre of the yard?’

Twenty seconds this time. She was walking faster, impatient with his game. No problem. He kept the broom handle pointed at her beautiful head and fired imaginary bullet after imaginary bullet into it. When she reached the centre of the courtyard, he told her to keep walking. Ten seconds later, she was hidden by the protruding wing of the admin building.

He picked up his phone and thanked her, wishing her luck in her exams, and then he walked all the way down the stairs, and into the courtyard, counting one elephant two elephant three elephant as he did so, and ignoring the looks he was getting.

Well, he thought, as he exited the university campus, that doesn’t really make sense.

Chapter 11

God, this girl Olivia was bouncy. Her breasts bounced, her auburn hair bounced, her shoulders bounced as she shrugged off his questions with careless declarations of forgetfulness and a shake of the bangles on her wrists. Even her voice bounced up and down as she explored the dramatic potential of doing public double-takes, repeating what Blume said in incredulous tones to make sure he got the point that his questions were either cretinous or hard for her to fathom. She liked to make the most of her large brown eyes by opening them wide in exaggeration of surprise, or rolling them in melodramatic disbelief at the obtuseness of his questions. But he had a strong suspicion it was all a show for him, in which case she had misread what he liked. Her mood followed the general principle of bounciness, leaping from petulant bad temper to sudden flashes of sorrow for her lost cousin, then back to enthusiasm as she spoke about her boyfriend Marco and her plans for that evening.

They were standing on the road, just a few metres from where Sofia had been shot. The crime scene tape was still there, torn and fluttering. There were just four bouquets at the spot. Someone had washed down the wall to get rid of the bloodstain, and had inadvertently created the outline of a person standing against the wall, a bright shade.

In the hope of evoking a mood of reflection or sadness, Blume moved slightly to one side, so that the spot where Sofia had died was visible to Olivia, but the girl seemed not to see it.

‘So the other night, you told Sofia to be here so that you could pick her up in your car?’

‘I don’t see why you couldn’t have come into the magistrate’s office with me this afternoon,’ Olivia complained. ‘You are asking me
exactly
the same questions, and I am giving
exactly
the same answers.’

‘I had things to do on the campus. Besides, it’s different here where it happened.’

‘Yeah, it’s colder,’ she gave a cute little shiver that ran down from her shoulders to her backside. ‘Can we maybe sit in a car or something?’

‘This will only take a minute. We are standing more or less where you said you would meet her.’

‘Yes. That is to say where I would be. She waited over there.’

‘And you here.’

‘It’s practically the same point. What’s the difference?’

‘Why not exactly at the same point?’

Olivia shook her head in disbelief at having to explain it. ‘Here, where we are is beside the road, right? So if I am picking her up outside the university, this is the place where I stop. I can’t get any closer in the car. She liked to stay over there waiting.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s out of the wind, it’s sheltered, and she’s got a wall to lean on while she waits.’

‘Are you not always punctual?’

‘With Roman traffic! And I’m the one doing the favour of picking her up.’

‘How often did you meet here?’

‘Lots of times. Twenty, thirty? Like I was her chauffeur.’

‘And she always waited by that wall?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see. And who else knew about the appointment?’

‘Anyone that she told.’

‘Do you know her friends?’

‘She didn’t have any. At school, I used to lend her my friends, even though we were younger than her. Pathetic, huh? Can we go now? I’m cold.’

‘Do you think when we listen to the recording of the call between you and her we’ll hear her say she’ll be at the wall?’

Olivia’s eyes widened. ‘You can do that?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Blume gravely.

‘Well then, you’ll hear her say “usual place” and then “thank you”.’

‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘You realize this is very important?’

‘I
think
those were her words,’ said Olivia. ‘Why is it so important? I mean, obviously it’s a murder and all, so everything is, like, really important, but why is where we decided to meet so important?’

‘Because this is where she was killed,’ said Blume.

‘This is going to come across as bit heartless, and that’s not at all how I mean it, but so what?’

‘She was shot with a high-velocity bullet, probably from a rifle. The killer had to be waiting for her, so he had to choose his vantage point and had to know she would be here.’

‘We just said the usual place. Except this time . . .’ Her eyes welled up with tears, which she allowed to splash freely down her cheeks, smudging her mascara.

‘I am sorry I had to bring you here,’ said Blume mechanically. Tears irritated him no end. Was Olivia misjudging him again?

Olivia sniffed, and brought her face closer to his. The tears had gone already. ‘Is my face a mess?’

‘Your face is fine,’ said Blume. ‘You were very kind to give her lifts.’

‘We were more like sisters than cousins. She was like a big sister.’

Blume accompanied her back to her car, parked fifty metres away. He patted the roof of the car, on which was painted a Union Jack. Two more Union Jacks were painted on the leading edges of its aerodynamic wing mirrors.

‘Are you an Anglophile?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘These British flags all over your car.’

She laughed at him. ‘They were there when I bought it. They were part of a set of optional extras, I suppose. I have a bag with that flag on it, too.’ She paused, ‘And a T-shirt and a pencil case and an iPhone cover. I just like the colours. And the shape’s pretty cool. Better than the Italian flag, wouldn’t you say? I mean the Italian flag on your car would just look silly.’

‘And attract vandals if you drove it up north,’ said Blume.

‘But the British flag looks good. Besides, everyone loves Britain and all things British. Can I go now please, Inspector?’

‘Commissioner. I am a commissioner.’

‘Is that higher or lower?’

‘Infinitely higher. You bought the car?’

‘Sure.’

‘You personally?’

‘Well, my dad.’

‘What does dad do?’

‘Not much. Hangs out with friends, works in a hospital sometimes.’ She shrugged.

‘One more question. Sofia worked in the Health Institute on Viale Margherita. Why was this the usual meeting point for you?’

‘Because this is where I study. This is my campus.’

‘Yes, but isn’t it a bit out of her way?’