“I’m sorry,” said Blume.
“I am cremating him.”
“He’d have liked that,” said Blume.
“He’d have enjoyed being cremated?”
“As long as he was dead first, obviously.”
“Jesus. I can see why he considered you his friend.”
“I’m sorry,” said Blume. “It’s how we used to talk to each other.”
“Will you be there? It’s tomorrow morning. In Viterbo.”
“Of course I’ll be there,” said Blume.
“Some people think I’m wrong to cremate him,” she said. “It’s not popular.”
“People,” said Blume.
“Yeah. Listen… the thing that got him killed-it was his own fault as usual, wasn’t it?”
“It was the fault of the person who killed him,” said Blume.
“But he put himself in harm’s way, didn’t he?”
She seemed to want to think this, but he did not want to exonerate himself.
“No. I put him in harm’s way.”
“If you think that, then I bet you want to make things right, don’t you?”
“I can’t do that.”
“No, you can’t. You were his best friend. He always said that. He was a violent man, too. It’s what lost him his job.”
“He was a good man.”
She continued as if she had not heard him. “Our son, Fabio, is going the same way. He has the same vengeful mindset as his father. Now I have to pick up the pieces, all over again.”
“If I can help… ” said Blume.
“You can,” she said. “You know who killed Beppe, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to leave him alone. I do not want you or anyone else to do him physical harm.”
“But… ”
“You said you would help. Promise me.”
Blume stayed silent.
“Promise me. I know you don’t know me that well, but I knew Beppe and underneath it all… to save his son he would have renounced all vengeance. He wanted Fabio to be better than him. He always said so.”
“OK.”
“And promise no one else under your orders will harm the bastard?”
“That, too.”
“There is one more thing you have to do. Not immediately, but soon. You have to talk to Fabio.”
“I’ll try,” said Blume. “But I don’t have kids, so I’m not going to be much good.”
“You’ll do fine. And I want you to explain why you decided not to revenge his father’s murder with violence, and why he should not either.”
“He won’t listen. If I was him, I wouldn’t listen.”
“He might. He might not. Maybe he’ll get it in a few years. But you can try. It’s your duty.”
“I haven’t a clue what to tell him. The justice system in this country… it doesn’t work. Nothing fucking works. That Carabiniere will walk. Maybe he’ll lose his job, if they decide to be harsh. There’s no comfort for your son.”
“I didn’t ask you to comfort him. That’s my job. Talk, stay honest. Can you do that?”
“I don’t know,” said Blume.
“Good. Like that,” she said. “You don’t know, but you’ll try. The crematorium is at Via dei Monti Cimini, number 36. Ten o’clock tomorrow morning. There won’t be many of us there.”
Shortly before dinner, he phoned Caterina.
“Who paid for my door?”
“I did. You owe me € 2,600.”
“Can I come around to pay? I’ve got a checkbook.”
“There’s no rush.”
“Not to pay, maybe. But can I come around?”
Chapter 48
“It’s just pesto from a jar, I’m afraid,” said Caterina.
“Pesto’s fine,” said Blume. He meant to be more gracious, but he was feeling uncomfortable at the kitchen table, Elia’s big brown eyes on him, then off him every time he turned around to smile.
After dinner, Blume sat in the living room watching TV while Caterina did whatever it was mothers did to get children to bed. It took a long time, and Blume was beginning to get into a Bruce Willis film when Caterina finally came in. To the side of the television was a pile of bedcovers and a sheet.
Caterina sat down near him and watched a few minutes of explosions, then said, “I need to explain about those bed clothes. I had a visitor the other night.”
“No, no. Nothing to do with me,” said Blume. “You don’t need to tell me anything, really.”
“The visitor was Emma Solazzi,” said Caterina.
“Ah,” said Blume. He switched off Bruce Willis in mid-leap. “I think maybe I do want to hear about it.”
When she came to tell him about Emma’s confession, Caterina was both relieved and disappointed that he seemed to take the news in his stride. He seemed far keener on seeing the painting she had brought.
She thought he might have something to say about her harboring a suspect, but he hadn’t. Instead, he began to tell her about the mistakes he had made from when he allowed Paoloni to talk him into staging a burglary in his own apartment.
“That was the point I stopped being a proper policeman and began playing a game that led to my friend’s death. That was the point when I should have called up Faedda, and tried to set the Colonel up. That was when I should have called in an investigating magistrate, drawn up a report, put the facts in order. Everything I did from then on was illegal. A fatal game. And if you ended up with a suspect sleeping on your sofa and a rogue Carabiniere threatening your child, I’m responsible for that, too.”
“It’s a thin line between self-accusation and self-pity, Alec,” said Caterina. “So shut up now before you cross it.”
He looked at her in amazement.
“Seriously,” she said. “Shut up. What’s done is done. I’m sorry about Paoloni, and I’m sorry about Nightingale. But you didn’t kill them. As for what Emma did and what you think her mother may have done
… it’s not for us to say. Now do you want to see that painting?”
Blume nodded.
“Good. I’ll get it then. Meanwhile, there’s a letter over there, on the desk next to my laptop. It’s what Treacy wrote to Angela, if you’re interested.”
Blume went over and read the letter.
“He wrote better in English,” he said as she returned. “All these yew berries and kisses, fruits and pentimenti. Awful stuff. He wrote mush in Italian.”
“Maybe it’s not because of the language but because of the person and his feelings of regret,” said Caterina.
Blume was looking at the painting. “Jesus, this is one lousy piece of work.”
“I like it now,” said Caterina. “I didn’t at first, but I do now. I like that he did it in the style of the woman he loved.”
“The woman he bullied, you mean. And this is hardly a flattering homage to her art. It’s a parody of bad painting. Or a parody of de Chirico. That’s what he was on about in the letter.”
