The Namesake (49 page)

‘I am a policewoman. I was assigned to investigate your father’s murder.’

‘The killers got killed, didn’t they?’ said the girl.

‘Yes.’

‘So it’s all over?’

‘Yes,’ she said without any hesitation in her voice.

The boy put down the knife with Nutella on it, came over to her, put his arms around her waist, and hugged her. Instinctively she found herself caressing his hair, while his mother stood at the kitchen door.

A phone rang.

‘Wait!’ said Caterina, pushing the boy from her, then, seeing his face, pulling him back and kissing him quickly on the forehead before running into the living room. ‘That’s my phone. I absolutely need to get that. I’ve been waiting for news from a friend.’

She fumbled around in her bag hunting for the phone, mentally imploring the caller not to hang up. The phone was still going. Twelve or so was the maximum number of rings before an automatic disconnect. She looked at the number, and frowned. In a voice that startled even herself, she shouted at Letizia to get a pen and a piece of paper, ‘Now!’ The phone would record the number, but she wanted physical backup.

‘Hello?’ She listened. Letizia handed her a piece of paper and she scribbled down the number. ‘Hello?’

Silence, or almost. The connection was live, and she could hear rustling and a crackle. She had her notebook out now, and with her phone pressed to her ear had gone across the room and picked up Letizia’s house phone without even glancing at her for permission.

She dialled Massimiliano Massimiliani’s personal number. Come on, come on. The sounds from the mysterious mobile phone sounded like the background to one of those new-age relaxation pieces, all rushing air, faraway birdsong. Blume hated that music. Said it was bad enough when Pink Floyd started doing it forty years or so ago.

‘Alec? Is that you? Maybe you can’t speak, but can you hear me? Alec? Answer.’

The mobile phone said nothing, but Massimiliani answered on the other line.

‘At last, Blume’s calling me. You need to track the number, now.’

‘Inspector Mattiola?’

She collected herself, also because she was being watched by the startled widow she had come to comfort. ‘Yes, Inspector Mattiola. Commissioner Blume is calling me at this moment from this number.’ She read out the digits on the piece of paper, and then gave him her own mobile number.

‘Where did you say he’s calling from?’

‘Shit! The line just went down. He’s not calling now.’

‘I’m taking it he said nothing and you need a location?’

‘Yes,’ she said, thankful Massimiliani was quick on the uptake. ‘But what I gave you wasn’t his number.’

‘Right. I’ll get back to you.’ He hung up, without asking any pointless questions.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Letizia.

‘Yes. Can I have a glass of water?’

‘Sofia! Bring a glass of water in here.’

Sofia arrived followed by Lorenzo. Caterina accepted the glass, and gulped it down gratefully.

‘Thank you, Sofia.’ The girl blushed self-consciously. Laden with hurt and fear, yet still able to suffer social embarrassment as if it counted.

Lorenzo stepped forward and relieved her of the glass, and offered to get her another.

‘No thanks,
tesoro
.’

She turned to Letizia. ‘As you may have gathered that was something of an emergency. What’s a good taxi number for me to call? I need to get to Linate airport.’

Letizia picked up the phone and dialled a number. ‘I thought you were going by train.’

‘Change of plan. I need to get a flight to Calabria. Are there many flights from Linate, do you know?’

Cinquefrondi, Calabria

It seemed the traffic policeman wanted to expend as little energy as possible on waving the oncoming traffic to a stop, no doubt trusting that the presence of a small aluminium sign with ‘Deviazione’ written on it and the two cars marked ‘Polizia Municipale’ sitting on the central reservation with their flashers on would make his intentions plain.

Curmaci rolled down his window.

‘What’s going on?’

The cop’s face was glistening in the heat. He wiped his brow with the back of the dark blue sleeve of his jacket. ‘The viaduct is out. A subsidence of the central section this morning.’

‘I need to get to the A3,’ said Curmaci.

‘No problem. You just go straight through the town and rejoin the highway on the other side. It’ll add an extra five minutes to the journey. Take the ramp there, where my colleagues are.’

To Curmaci’s left stood two more traffic cops, one of them beckoning with a red lollipop-shaped wand, the other making sweeping gestures at the side road, as if directing a thick flow of vehicles.

A car came up behind, and the driver rolled down his window as Curmaci had done. The traffic cop let out an exaggerated sigh of exasperation, then winked at Curmaci and went to deal with his next customer. As Curmaci turned his steering wheel, he could hear the same exchange starting up with the driver behind.

Lousy job, he thought to himself as he drove down the ramp onto a pock-marked country lane below the highway. Imagine standing there in the middle of the road waiting to get knocked down by a speeding car, explaining the same thing over and over, sweltering in those jackets.

Except – the thought hit him like a sucker punch –
the policemen should not have been wearing jackets
. The standard issue in summer is pale blue short-sleeved shirts. Was it possible . . .?

He looked into the rear-view mirror.

The car that had come up behind was following him down the narrow lane, which would have been all right, except he now also saw the two Municipal Police cars behind it, occupying the full breadth of the road as they drove side-by-side in slow pursuit.

The road curved rightwards leading to a square-mouthed cement underpass that went below the highway he had so foolishly left. He slowed down as he entered it and stopped even before he had properly made out the two cars positioned nose-to-nose forming a V in the centre, cutting off his escape. Leaving the engine running, he stepped out, pistol in hand.

‘Agazio! You’ve grown fatter and slower since I last saw you.’

He could not see the speaker yet, but knew the voice. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could make out three or four other figures in front of him. The cars behind stopped at the mouth of the tunnel, but he did not even bother turning around to look.

‘And stupider. You should have said stupider. Is that you, Daniele?’

A short man, unarmed, wearing a pink Lacoste T-shirt and perfectly clean tennis shoes, stepped forward. Curmaci kept his gun dangling by his side.

‘I’m afraid it is.’

‘Why?’

‘Too much confusion, a loss of trust. A new beginning. It appears a German policeman was gathering evidence for years, and no one stopped him.’

‘But he’s gone.’

‘The information itself remains, and with it so many doubts. Far too many doubts.’

‘My wife? My sons?’

‘They will be fine. I give you my word.’

Curmaci tried to crack a smile. ‘I am glad I can trust you. You’ll let me phone them now and say a few words?’

The man in pink shook his head. ‘That would just make it harder on everyone concerned. Harder for them when they hear your voice, harder for you when you hear theirs, and harder for us to decide whether you passed on some sort of message. Don’t call.’

Curmaci nodded. He walked back to his car, got back into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and switched off the engine. At a signal from his old friend, the man who had instructed him in the ways of the
Santa
, the cars in the tunnel made three-point turns, then left. The vehicles from behind then filed past him in slow procession. As the last one drew level, the fake policeman, now out of his heavy jacket and wearing a yellow T-shirt, glanced at him and winked.

He waited till they were all gone. Then he waited some more until the rumble of a truck passing overhead had died away. When he was sure the silence was as good as it was ever going to get, he put the gun in his mouth and, before the unexpected sob swelling from his chest had time to reach his throat, he pulled the trigger.

53

Milan

Massimiliani did not call her back until she had already bought her ticket in Linate airport. The next flight from Milan to Calabria was in forty-five minutes. The first time her phone rang, it was Panebianco back in Rome asking something stupid about a file she was supposed to have regarding the murder of a shepherd. A shepherd in Rome. He lived in a camper on the Via Portuense, had a flock of sheep that fed on municipal grass and a criminal record going back to the 1960s. A shepherd who rented out firearms, according to Panebianco.

She told him she might skip the next day at work.

Panebianco did not seem to mind. ‘How’s Blume getting on, any word?’

‘I’ll let you know when I know.’

She was at the boarding gate when Massimiliani phoned.

‘That was a very interesting number you gave us. As it happens, we had a trace on it already. Are you sure it was Blume calling?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘What did he say?’

‘He didn’t say anything.’

‘So you don’t know it was him.’

‘Look, I know it was him. Are you on your way to where the call was made?’

Massimiliani hesitated. ‘Yes . . . it’s a large area. There are a number of problems. First, the signal has died in the meantime.’

‘I know,’ said Caterina. She had only called it twenty times.

‘Second, it’s an old phone, no GPS positioning, so we’re using multilateration, and third, it’s in a rural area with quite a large area covered by the masts. Also, it’ll be dark in a few hours, so if we’re searching outside . . .’

‘Where was the call made from?’

Massimiliani remained silent.

‘Tell me where the call was made from or I’ll kick up such a fuss about Curmaci, Bazza, Arconti – all of them – your phone-tapping activities, SISDE wrongdoings, everything, that you won’t know what hit you.’

‘You’re bluffing.’

‘I’m not. And you’re surprised I know so much. Where?’

‘In the Locride district. Ardore is the nearest village.’ He hung up, which meant even if she had wanted to, she couldn’t tell him she was on her way down.

Twenty minutes later, the flight assistant reminded all passengers not to use their mobile phones.

Locri

Enrico Megale sat in the bar, a large bowl of yellow ice cream completely melted in front of him. The seats around him were empty, and the exclusion zone extended to the next table. Even Pepè was treading carefully, treating Enrico with as much respect as suspicion. All the glances in his direction were furtive, but they could have looked straight at him, because Enrico was staring into space, unaware of his surroundings.

‘Enrico? It’s me, Ruggiero.’

Enrico ignored him.

‘Enrico, you’re needed at home now. Your aunt wants you. Zia Rosa needs you.’

‘I’m the only one left.’

‘Your uncle could still turn up.’

‘I don’t understand what just happened,’ said Enrico. His button eyes stared out unblinking and uncomprehendingly at Ruggiero. Suddenly he lurched across the table in what seemed to have been an attempt to punch Ruggiero.

‘Take it easy, Enrico,’ he said, parrying the blow with ease. ‘We’ll find out what happened.’

‘The way I heard it . . . It was supposed to be your father. That’s what I was hearing.’

‘Vicious rumours, Enrico. Some people have no souls.’

‘My father has gone. I hardly got to see him.’ Enrico started sobbing.

Ruggiero put an arm around him. ‘This is the sort of thing they do when they want to take over. Divide and conquer, turn friends into enemies.’

‘I didn’t know my father!’ Enrico blurted out. ‘He never fucking visited. Never told me anything, never . . . I may as well not be his son.’

‘Well, maybe that will make it easier to accept in the long run.’

‘He was a bastard! My father was a foundling bastard. Everyone knows it. I am not a Megale. I am no one.’ Enrico stared defiantly around the bar and everyone averted their gaze.

‘You are a Megale,’ said Ruggiero softly. ‘You will be treated as a Megale deserves to be treated. And you are your father’s son, now more than ever.’

‘I miss my uncle! Zio Pietro was more of a father than he was.’

‘And your aunt misses you and him. A family needs to be together at a time like this. I’m sure she’s been calling you ever since you saw what you should never have seen in the car park.’

‘Giacomo and Peppino,’ said Ruggiero. He clicked his fingers in the air. ‘Pepè,’ he said, ‘we’re borrowing your bike.’