Free The Memory Key by Conor Fitzgerald

.’
    ‘I don’t want to discuss this,’ said Blume. Had Caterina ever thought of shaving down there. Not all off. A landing strip. How could he ever broach the subject with her?
    Was she really still talking about the magistrate and the murdered thug? She turned her body towards him, which was encouraging, but it meant his arm was suddenly too long for what he had been trying to do.
    ‘I’m sort of in charge of the witness,’ said Caterina. ‘I was the first to interview him, and I accompanied him to the magistrate. And then this evening, Martone ordered me to go round to him again, and check that he was sticking with his story.’
    If he responded she might finish the conversation quicker. ‘What’s he do, this witness?’
    ‘He’s a barber.’
    ‘A barber. Well, people don’t feel strongly about barbers. The court is not going to have any pro- or anti-barber prejudices.’
    ‘You speak from experience?’
    ‘No. Just, you know, people feel neutral about barbers. He’ll make a good witness.’
    ‘Your hand is hot.’
    ‘If you want me to stop, just say the word.’
    ‘No. It’s just . . . This cold. I need to pee.’
    A few minutes later, when she had stopped complaining about her feet being cold, he realigned himself and started again, with a little less hope and enthusiasm than before.
    ‘It’s nice and warm under the duvet,’ she said encouragingly.
    He grunted.
    ‘Did you turn off the heat?’
    ‘No. It turns itself off.’
    ‘It turns off far too late, though,’ said Caterina.
    ‘So adjust the timer.’
    ‘I don’t know how.’
    ‘Jesus.’
    When he got back to bed, Caterina was almost asleep, and he wasn’t having that.
    ‘If you’re so hot, let me take this duvet off and, turn round, that’s it . . .’
    Caterina lifted her arms and put them behind her head. ‘You are such a romantic, Alec.’

Chapter 10
    For a man in his mid-sixties, Professor Pitagora had remarkably well-preserved pale skin. Close up it was a mass of tiny cracks like the surface of a white porcelain plate left in an oven rather than the melted latex look of an ageing rock star, though he did sport a disconcerting moptop Beatles’ haircut that his silver hair made looked like a metal helmet.
    The professor was well turned out. His suit was undertaker black but had an expensive cut, beneath which he wore a black shirt with a tiny priest-like collar. Around his neck, he wore a shimmering gold foulard, an unapologetically female piece of apparel. Rising from a broad red chair, he walked across the room towards Blume. The heavy, shiny brogues were masculine enough, as was the gait. If he lost the foulard and pushed his hair back, he would look like a normal person, Blume reckoned.
    He seized Blume by his hand, and placed his other hand on the elbow, and shook it firmly, his face showing apparent delight, as if Blume were a favourite brother. On his wrist, he wore a dark gold bracelet.
    ‘A police commissioner. A valorous and completely underpaid profession. I have always vigorously preferred the police to the Carabinieri, who are always ambiguous. The Carabinieri tend to treat themselves like a state within a state, don’t they? Whereas you people, the Polizia di Stato , well, the name says it all. You are a reflection of all the imperfections of the Italian State. When the country is rotten, the police are rotten, but the Carabinieri hide their faces, collaborate in the corruption, then emerge as virtuous. Not so the police. So I’ll try to be as helpful with you as I can, out of deference to your uniform.’
    Blume glanced at his arm to check he had not inadvertently put on his dress uniform that morning.
    ‘Are you political, Alec Blume? You don’t mind me calling you by the name you were baptized with, presuming you were baptized at all.’
    Blume wrinkled his nose to indicate he was not too happy with the use of his name, but the professor had crossed his arms and was tapping his foot, as if waiting for