them,” said Principe.
“I was referring to the sheets.”
“What about them?”
“They’re still folded, or almost. Look.” Blume went over, picked up a sheet, smelled it. “Fresh.” He unfolded it. The fabric was ironed flat, the creases sharp. “Someone was changing the bed.”
Blume continued to search. All four folding eaves of the ceiling-high pine cabinet were opened, clothes scattered here and there.
Blume pulled out the Staedtler pen and used it to lift a pair of silk underpants. He lifted them up to his face. They smelled very faintly of woman, but they also smelled of conditioner, dry-cleaning fluids, and soaps.
None of the items had been discarded there by a woman undressing. Everything else about her side of the wardrobe suggested order, cleanliness. She would not be the person responsible for strewing her clothes on the floor.
Blume put the underpants down again and ducked his head under the bed. Nothing. Not even a dust bunny.
“Why would you change the bed?” he asked Paoloni and Principe.
“Dirty sheets?” suggested Principe.
“This place is perfect,” said Blume. “They definitely have a house keeper.
Looks to me like she’s here almost every day.”
“Everyone in this neighborhood has a cleaner,” remarked Paoloni, a hint of bitterness in his voice.
“The house keeper would change the sheets, wouldn’t she? Once, twice a week, whatever.”
Principe picked up Blume’s line of reasoning. “So why was he changing the sheets himself? If it was him.”
Blume nodded, “As you said, dirty sheets.”
“So you think our man was up to something in this bed.”
“If so, it wasn’t with his wife, who was at the other end of the country,” said Blume. “The used sheets are in the laundry basket.”
“OK. I’ll make sure forensics is planning to bag one, though I think they would have anyway.”
Paoloni and Blume left Principe in the bedroom and moved into the kitchen. Blume liked the room. Each brushed steel unit would cost him two months’ wages. He pulled a drawer, which slid out with millimetric precision from between the drawers above and below it. He looked inside and saw wooden spoons, an egg whisk, a shining bottle opener, and place mats. The counter was black granite, shining and clean, with thick ledges.
A juicer and coffee grinder looked as if they had been made by the same German engineers responsible for the perfect drawers. A blue LED display on the oven told him it was 18:15. The fat refrigerator clicked and started humming. He opened it. The lettuce and fruit were still bright and fresh on the lower shelves. They had yogurts of every conceivable flavor. A bowl of green beans with plastic wrap over them sat on the top shelf, looking like it was meant to be lunch. A jar of peanut butter was wedged between two jars of capers in the door. Blume opened the jar. It was almost finished. How did they expect it to spread properly if they kept it in the refrigerator?
They moved into the study. Again, the room was dustless, apart from a thin grayish patina on the floor where the computer had been before the technicians took it away. A pile of glossy animal rights leaflets lay on the floor. He picked one up. It showed a baby fox with large eyes, and the caption read, “Does your mother have a fur coat? Mine used to.”
Blume felt the accusation did not apply to him. He noticed a few things dumped on a Japanese-style sofa with black cushions. He walked past the sofa, not pausing to consider the objects. He did not want to influence Paoloni.
“Anything look out of place to you here?” he asked.
Paoloni looked around the room. “It’s pretty neat. Not much out of place. Maybe that stuff on the sofa?”
“Good,” said Blume. “Let’s wait till Principe catches up.”
The investigating magistrate arrived a few moments later.
“Anything?”
“We haven’t started,” said Blume. “We were about to look at this pile of things on the sofa.”
Blume went over to examine it. A book on flowers, an apple, crumpled cartons of juice, and a sweatshirt were heaped together.
“What does this seem like to you two?”
Paoloni was writing down a list of the objects in his notebook. When he had finished he looked up and said, “I don’t know. Even neat people dump things in a pile sometimes.”
Principe’s brow furrowed, but he had no suggestions to offer.
“A book on flowers,” said Blume.
“Yeah, well he was one of those Green types,” said Paoloni.
“But it’s the sort of thing you might bring outside with you. Same goes for the sweatshirt. I’m not sure about the apple, but those empty cartons of juice. You wouldn’t drink them in here, then put them there on the sofa. They were removed from a bag,” said Blume.
“Why would he have empty cartons in his bag?” asked Paoloni.
“He’s one of those Green types, like you said. Probably didn’t want to throw them on the street like most… Italians.”
“Like most Romans,” corrected Principe, who was from Latina.
“Apple’s a bit wrinkly,” observed Paoloni.
“Clemente was a man,” said Blume. “What sort of bag would he carry?”
“I don’t carry a bag,” said Paoloni.
“I carry a briefcase,” said Principe. “A backpack? That would fit what he seems to have been like.”
“Yes,” said Blume. “Let’s see if we can find it.”
They searched the study, but found nothing. Then they went through the other rooms of the house. Eventually they found a black Invicta backpack folded away in the back of the wardrobe.
“It wasn’t this,” said Blume. “If he had taken the trouble to fold it up and put it away, he would have cleared the mess from the sofa in the study.”
“Maybe the wife took it?” said Paoloni.
“Good point. Go find out. The first reporting officer is at the door. Ask him.”
Paoloni left.
Blume turned to Principe. “If the wife didn’t take the bag, then the killer probably did.”
“If he’s stupid enough to keep it, it will be strong evidence against him,” said Principe.
“Why would you empty out and remove a backpack?” asked Blume.
“To put stuff in?”
“Right. Which means the killer did not work out what he needed beforehand. He was not properly prepared. More evidence of amateurish behavior. Real amateur, not feigned.”
Blume sat down on the floor beside the leaflets. He slid open the filing cabinet, leafed through at random, pulled out a file folder marked G-L. It contained another folder marked Galles. The first document inside was headed Plaid Werdd Cymru, which meant nothing to him, and contained a list of names and telephone numbers in the UK. The next document folder was marked Die Grunen/Verdi Austria and contained more names.
Under L he found a brochure on lemons. Other files mentioned bird-ringing, bike lanes-after a while he stopped opening the folders to see the contents. C–Camorra/Crimine looked promising, but the papers were political leaflets, a printout of a conference speech by the head of the Green Party, Pecoraro Scanio: no names or numbers. A folder marked Cani was noticeably thicker, and contained some disturbing photographs of bloodied dogs. He turned them over to see if the photographer’s name was on the flipside, but found only a few dates. One of the ugliest images had “web campaign?” scrawled on the back. Blume laid that one aside. Nothing was filed under H. He opened the top drawer: ACP countries, Attivisti (more names), Alleanza Nazionale, Ambiente, Animali.
He needed to get the head of the forensic team to give him a list of objects removed from the scene.
“Ale?” Paoloni often romanized his name.
“What?”
“The wife wasn’t carrying a bag when she left. The officer was certain of that.”
“OK.”
