“That’s a Scottish name?”
Blume had no idea.
“Where are you from?”
“The police.”
“Originally.”
“America.”
“Really? Do you like dogs, Alec?”
“Good God, no. But I know you do,” he said. “That’s what I want to talk about.”
“About dogs? Or about a man who dedicated his life to looking after them?”
“The other. The man, I mean,” said Blume. “But if you don’t mind, I’d just like to clear up that we’re talking about the same person.”
“Arturo Clemente,” she said. “He was murdered. Knifed to death. That’s what you’re here to talk to me about, isn’t it?”
Blume tried to find some purchase on the yielding cushions. “Yes. Where did you hear about his murder?”
“On the news.”
“Radio or TV?”
“Radio.”
“It hasn’t been made public yet,” said Blume.
“Yes, it has. You just haven’t been listening to the radio.”
This was possible, Blume thought. The news would have got out by now.
“What I want to know is if you have been doing anything at all,” said Manuela.
“What I want to know,” said Blume, “is how you know about the knife. Was that detail on the radio, too?”
“For all you know it could have been.”
She had him again.
“I don’t think it was.” Blume was now remembering the point of holding morning meetings to coordinate investigations. He needed these details.
“Maybe it wasn’t, then,” said Manuela. Her indifference to being caught out was total.
Blume’s mobile rang, and he took the opportunity to struggle off the armchair into a standing position in the center of the room.
“It’s her. It’s definitely the daughter,” said Zambotto’s voice. “Want someone to come over?” He sounded pleased, like he couldn’t wait to tell all his friends.
“No. Thanks anyhow,” said Blume and hung up, and turned his attention to the woman. Her face was tracked and furrowed, as if her tears had been made of acid.
“What were they saying about me?” she said.
“Nothing. That was something else.”
“Sure it was.”
“Police business.”
“That’s what I am right now. Police business. I have been sitting here all fucking night waiting for you useless bastards to come here and ask me questions.”
“You could have phoned,” said Blume.
“If you hadn’t got as far as finding me, then you weren’t making much progress, so what would be the point? Anyhow, I don’t phone the police.”
“I’m having a hard time understanding here,” said Blume. “Are you planning to help or not? Let’s begin with some basic information.”
“I slept with Arturo, about twelve times. No, not about. Exactly twelve times. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?”
Blume settled himself on the broad arm of the armchair. A strand of red hair lay curled on the armrest. “I was going to get to that in a more roundabout way. What about his wife?”
“What about her?”
“Wasn’t there a risk?”
Blume casually rolled his forefinger over the fabric and curled the hair between it and his thumb.
“We did it here, we did it in a friend’s house in Amatrice. Yesterday was the first time in his house. First time and last time.” She looked more angry than upset now.
“Who was this friend in the country?”
“A friend of Arturo’s. There’s no obligation to answer your questions, is there?”
The idea of bringing this woman in for questioning seemed remote now. “Not yet. How did you hear of the murder? And don’t say the radio.”
Manuela pushed an unruly curl from her forehead, patted her hair into shape. “A friend of my father’s. He phoned.”
“And what was his source?”
“Unofficial channels.”
“From the police or the judiciary?”
“Next thing you’ll be asking me who my father’s friend is.”
“No, next thing I’m asking is at what time this friend phoned.”
“Last night. Late. They phoned up to see if I was OK. It was two o’clock in the morning. I have been awake since, waiting for you. I expected there to be two of you, though.”
Blume was not surprised that the information had leaked. If the department and forensics teams had leaks, the judiciary was an open faucet. But the news had traveled too fast to this woman. She knew even before the calls among law enforcement agencies had completed their circuit.
“OK, and now my next question is: Who’s the source?”
“This is all irrelevant,” said Manuela. “If you’re serious, I’ll talk to you. If not, then I want you to leave.”
“What do you mean serious?” said Blume, pulling out his sunglasses case.
“If you are serious about catching the bastards who killed Arturo, I’ll help you. If I can.”
It was not so much an offer as statement of intent. Blume took out his sunglasses and a soft blue lens cloth. He polished his glasses.
“Have you ever heard the name Alleva?”
She did not hesitate. “Yes. It was not him.”
Blume replaced his glasses, folded the lens cloth over them, placed the strand of red hair carefully on the cloth, and put away the case.
“No?” said Blume. “I hadn’t even got as far as suspecting him.”
“It would make sense,” said Manuela. “But I think I might have heard something by now.”
Blume nodded, trying to look wise. He wanted to know where to fit Alleva in, but could not ask. He promised himself never again to skip an investigation meeting before dealing with a witness. He went for a different line.
“When did you last see Arturo Clemente?”
“Friday morning. I left him at around half past ten. We had been together since about a quarter to nine.”
“Where was this?”
“At his house. I just said.”
“Were you in bed together?”
“Yes. I just said that, too. No wonder you don’t make much progress in your investigations.”
“Why did you leave?”
“Because he asked me to, said his wife was returning. She was meant to be away all weekend. I want you to check up on that. What was she doing coming back? Look into her. That’s what you should do. She’s an icy bitch.”
“Did she know about you two?”
“Maybe. Arturo implied she did. He said he was not going to hide our relationship, but I didn’t believe him. Sleeping in his house was my way of testing him. We had been planning to go to back to Arturo’s friend’s house.”
