Konrad nodded. The ice cream stood untouched in a stainless-steel bowl in front of him, next to the torn image of the Madonna. ‘I am not hungry.’ He pushed the bowl away from himself and the Madonna. ‘You must understand that I am extremely nervous.’
‘Everyone here is nervous, Mr Hoffmann. In all my long years, I have never had such a strange request. In fact, it is so unprecedented that I do not know what to make of it. Could it be you came all this way to make fun of us simple southerners?’
‘No.’ Konrad turned the card over. ‘This is Mr Megale’s signature.’
‘And this is the address Mr Megale gave you?’
‘Mr Basile’s Cafe Bar Gelateria, yes.’
Basile shook his head in an elaborate display of amazement and disbelief.
‘I thought you would have the other half of the card, and that would be a sign of good faith,’ added Konrad.
‘Is that what Domenico said?’
‘No,’ admitted Konrad. ‘He never said who would have the other half.’
‘I understand you do not want to talk to me. Salvatore tells me you want to talk to Agazio Curmaci, who lives in Germany, where you are from. And he also tells me you are a policeman of some sort. If you wanted to talk to Curmaci, you could have arrested him there on false charges, which is the sort of behaviour we have come to expect from the authorities.’
‘I do not want to arrest him. I just want him to answer a few questions.’
‘I have to tell you I have no idea where Curmaci is at this moment. His son was in here the other day. Brave kid. But Agazio.. ’ Basile took the bowl of ice cream and tossed it into the sink. ‘It feels like we are all wasting our time.’
‘I am sorry if this is inconveniencing you.’
‘ Mah.’ Basile waved a generous hand.
A spluttering noise followed by an engine roar caused Konrad to run to the door of the bar. ‘My Hymer. They’re stealing it!’
‘No one is stealing anything from outside my bar. It must just be the traffic police. You’re not allowed to park motor homes in the middle of the town. They’ll be taking it to a campsite for you. I’ll make sure you’re taken there after this.’
‘The traffic police don’t get in and drive away an illegally parked vehicle,’ said Konrad. ‘I have the keys here, so how did they start it?’
Basile shook his head in disgust. ‘The traffic police are such busybodies, you wouldn’t believe it. Are you going out there to stop them?’
Konrad stayed where he was.
‘Good. Now sit down, and let’s see if Curmaci turns up. I haven’t seen him myself in more than a year, and most people seem to be under the impression he is still in Germany, and won’t be making it down for the Feast of the Madonna tomorrow. So I will be surprised and delighted if he walks through that door.’
‘I’d like to wait here for him, if you don’t mind.’
‘Mind? Of course I don’t mind. This is where I live and work, and it’s cool and dry in here. Tell you what, I’ll shut up the bar, make sure no customers come in to disturb us!’
Konrad surveyed the empty room. Even the wrinkled bald man who had been serving at the bar when he entered had vanished. It was just him and Basile. People were passing by in the square outside, but it was as if a force field was keeping them from coming in.
Fifteen minutes later, seated across a table on which stood two empty and unused glasses, Basile said, ‘And do you mind me asking what you want to talk to Curmaci about?’
‘Private affairs.’
‘Ah.’
‘From long ago,’ added Konrad, a hint of apology in his tone.
‘Well, I go back a long way, too. Perhaps I can remember something that will help you and him resolve this?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Konrad. ‘It’s not a pleasant business.’
Ten minutes later, the door opened and four men came in. The last of them was Curmaci. Basile’s face registered no surprise at seeing him, but for the sake of consistency of tone, he professed astonishment. ‘Agazio! Your foreign friend here was right!’
He stood up and went behind the bar. The three men and Curmaci himself were looking at the torn Madonna on the zinc counter. Konrad stood up, and walked over, and leaned on the far end of the bar and watched from a safe distance. Everyone ignored him.
‘What can I get the gentlemen?’ asked Basile.
‘ Cafe corretto with a drop of Sambuco for me,’ said Curmaci, pulling out his wallet. The others all ordered coffee. Curmaci plucked out a 10-euro note and left it on the bar, where it went unheeded by Basile. Curmaci slipped two fingers into an inside fold of his wallet and pulled out a bent piece of thick paper, which he smoothed out on the counter and set beside the torn Madonna. The men looked at it and nodded.
‘A perfect match, how about that!’ said Basile.
Konrad knew then that he was going to die, and that he had known this from the start of his journey.
Curmaci, finally acknowledging Konrad, motioned him over, and pointed at a seat. The other men disappeared into the kitchen. Basile remained behind the bar, at a discreet distance but not out of earshot from where Curmaci and Konrad were now seated.
‘ Wollen Sie lieber Deutsch sprechen? ’ began Curmaci.
‘As a matter of courtesy in my bar, could you please speak Italian,’ said Basile from behind the counter.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Curmaci. ‘Konrad, your Italian is good, isn’t it?’
Konrad nodded.
‘You have built up a file that could be very damaging for Megale and our operations in Germany, I believe? This is what Domenico Megale tells me.’
‘Yes.’
‘And what would you like us to do about it?’
‘I want you to talk to me,’ said Konrad. ‘First we talk about what I want to talk about, then we talk about what you want to talk about. OK?’
‘That’s a roundabout but valorous way of putting it.’
‘Did you kill Dagmar?’
‘You don’t even give me her last name.’
‘I don’t need to, you know who I am.’
‘But if you put it like that, it sounds too intimate, like we are old friends. You, Dagmar and me. That’s not how it is, though.’
‘We are not friends, no.’
‘Good, that’s cleared that up,’ said Curmaci, with a quick glance at Basile who was quietly rearranging a stack of cappuccino cups balanced on top of the cream-coloured Gaggia espresso machine. ‘Her surname was Schiefer, and I shot her dead in 1993 in execution of a direct order from Domenico Megale, who went to prison as a result of her attempts to impress her superiors. Do you really want to hear this story?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very well. She had gone to the Edeka supermarket near her house. Her parents’ house. She still lived with them. I remember she had chestnuts in her shopping. It’s funny the incidental details that come to mind even after so long a time. She had parked her bike in the car park, and we pulled up. Our driver, who didn’t even speak any German, started asking directions, she came over. I remember she had a big smile on her face. I got out the back, pushed her in. It was so easy, it almost felt like she climbed in willingly. Are you listening?’
‘Yes.’
‘We went north out of the city in the direction of the airport, then took a right towards Lintorf. We drove down Lintorfer Waldstrasse, which, as you know, is one of the few bits of countryside left around that area. We pulled in off the road, without even bothering to hide the car very much since it was not going to take long. She walked on her own two legs away from the car. I told her I wanted her to walk into the copse of black poplars
