Blume protested in authoritative tones, but was hushed.
“You’ll wake the other patients up.”
“What time is it?”
“Half past four in the morning.”
He slept fifteen more hours and found himself groggily agreeing to spend one more night in hospital. The following morning, he thanked them all for the excellent treatment. Even the doctor. If he had one complaint, he said, it was the excessive hygiene and the constant smell of bleach from the lime-colored wall.
The doctor actually went over to the wall and smelled it, then came back and announced Blume would have to stay for another battery of tests.
“What for?”
“Phantosmia.”
“What’s that?”
“Olfactory hallucinations. Could be serious.”
The following morning, he learned that the results of the test would be ready in two more days. He announced he was discharging himself anyhow.
“You shouldn’t drive. Can someone pick you up?”
Blume called Caterina.
“I’m on duty.”
“Is that a no?”
“Just that I need to let the others know where I’m going.”
“As long as you’re not ashamed,” said Blume.
As she drove him back to his house, she filled him in on some of the developments. “Angela Solazzi was discharged from the hospital immediately. She’s staying with Emma now. She’s been in contact twice, says she’ll cooperate as much as we want.”
“Good.” Blume pictured her as she lifted the copper pot, looked into it, and threw the contents into the blazing doorway. He could see her face as she lifted the pot, the look in her eyes, the same as the look she had when she started the fire.
“I don’t think she has much to answer for,” he said.
“Some good news, too,” said Caterina. “The Maresciallo has developed septicemia from the dog bites.”
“Fatal?”
“No. But he seems to have slipped into a state of stupor. But we’re not getting that many details. The Carabinieri are dealing with him.”
“He’s probably putting it on,” said Blume. “It’s the beginning of his defense.”
Caterina’s phone rang. She answered and Blume noticed the slight tremor of subordination in her voice, and knew who she was talking to
… She handed him the phone. “The Questore. He wants to speak to you.”
That was quick, thought Blume. The Questore had probably asked to be informed as soon as Blume was out of hospital. Someone in the office had wasted no time in telling him.
He took it, and, with an extra layer of gruffness for her benefit, said, “Blume here.”
“What the fuck was that, Blume?”
“It’s a long story, sir.”
“A long story can be told in a long report, and with four weeks’ sick leave, to be reviewed at the end of the period and probably converted into a three-month suspension, you will have plenty of time to give me all the details.”
“No need for the suspension, sir,” said Blume.
“This morning I got news that the dead British national, John Nightingale, was shot point-blank with your pistol, also found at the scene. That has rather overshadowed our little propaganda success at capturing the tourist mugger. A Carabiniere colonel with an impossibly dense web of important contacts was burned to death while an internal investigation into his activities was being conducted. A former policeman, recently removed from duty under highly suspicious circumstances, was killed hours before that, and, in a minor development, I hear a search warrant was issued by a magistrate for your apartment which, it turns out, was also the scene of a burglary that was not properly reported. Did I say three months: how about thirty-three years?”
“One investigation fused into another, and things… I lost control for a while.”
“And another thing. Where was the investigating magistrate overseeing all this? Did we even have one?”
“Not as such. Buoncompagno and the Colonel…”
“Buoncompagno has been hauled before the disciplinary section of the Magistrates’ Council for his handling of this and other cases. Basically, his immunity disappeared along with the Colonel and a garden villa owned, it turns out, by a branch of the Pamphili family.”
“I could come up with a summary version. One in which any unregulated actions are seen to be natural developments of a rolling, highly complex investigation in which, perhaps, there was insufficient liaison with the judicial authorities, but, in compensation, in which the police and Carabinieri worked closely together,” said Blume.
“I see the knock on the head left you pretty much the same devious bastard as before, Blume. If you write that report, I want you to write a longer version, too. Just in case, God forbid, your version is viewed as not fully credible.”
“I also think the American Embassy might put in a word on our behalf with the Ministry,” said Blume.
“You think so? Well, that would be unaccountably nice of them.”
“I have a favor I can do them. All I shall ask in return is that the Ministry recognizes the skill with which the Questore of Rome has handled a very difficult and complex case. I think what’s-his-name the ugly little Minister from the Northern League would be chuffed to receive a pat on the head and a tickle under the chin from the Americans.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Blume.”
He handed the phone back to Caterina.
“I think it was probably Rospo who told the Questore to use my number to contact you,” said Caterina. “In case you were wondering.”
When they arrived outside his building, she opened her bag, took out a set of keys, and handed them to him.
“These are yours,” she said. “Your apartment has a new door, remember? I picked them up for you.”
“Right. Thanks.” He fingered the three long new keys. “I don’t suppose…”
“I need to get back to Elia,” said Caterina.
“Right.”
“But call me.”
When he reached his apartment, he was shocked, then overcome with emotion, to see it pristine clean. She had picked everything up. The slashed cushions sat in a corner waiting to be stitched back up. The sink gleamed. On the kitchen table sat the three notebooks, looking a little dusty and tired now. He took them into the study, filed them away.
He passed across the hallway into his bedroom. The bed was freshly made, his clothes were folded in a pile on the polished dresser.
Chapter 47
The following morning he called the American Embassy and asked to be connected to Kristin Holmquist.
“Alec! Lovely to hear you. I’ll phone you back.”
She kept her word, but leisurely. Three hours passed before she finally rang his cell phone.
“I hear you were in the hospital again.”
“Just a checkup, really. Home now.”
“Great, I was beginning to feel really bad about not visiting.”
“I picked up the anguish in your voice right away,” said Blume.
“Yeah, well, you sound fine to me,” said Kristin. “Were you making a personal call or is this business?”
“Business. I can talk on this line, right?”
“Sure. Not that I would vouch for your phone but shoot. Maybe be a bit oblique if you’re going to supply me with more of that vital intelligence info you’ve been feeding us.”
“Actually, I do have something you might be interested in.” He paused, waiting for her response. “Kristin? Are you still there?”
“Don’t you know the sound of bated breath when you hear it? Give me what you got, Alec. I’m busy.”
“It’s old stuff, not current or all that sensitive any more, but of some diplomatic value. The relationship between the US Embassy and the Christian Democrats back in the day. The hostage negotiator flown in-the guy who writes the books? We spoke about it after a pleasant Mexican chili in my house?”