Contents
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
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Acknowledgements
THE DEVIL
Nadia Dalbuono has spent the last eighteen years working as a documentary director and consultant for Channel 4, ITV, Discovery, and National Geographic in various countries. The Devil is the fifth book in the Leone Scamarcio series, following The Few, The American, The Hit, and The Extremist. She divides her time between the UK and northern Italy.
Scribe Publications
18–20 Edward St, Brunswick, Victoria 3056, Australia
2 John Street, Clerkenwell, London, WC1N 2ES, United Kingdom
First published by Scribe 2020
Copyright © Nadia Dalbuono 2020
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publishers of this book.
9781925713619 (Australian edition)
9781911617945 (UK edition)
9781925693607 (e-book)
Catalogue records for this book are available from the National Library of Australia and the British Library.
scribepublications.com.au
scribepublications.co.uk
Prologue
‘EXORCIZO DEO IMMUNDISSIMUS SPIRITUS.’
I exorcise, O God, this unclean spirit.
The father’s voice is soft, yet powerful. In his gnarled hands, he holds the leather-bound book that has been used by the Vatican for over four centuries. Before him, the young woman’s body begins to throb and quiver. She lets out a piercing cry, slumps down into her chair, and falls back into a trance. The father places his right hand gently over her heart.
‘INFER TIBI LIBERA.’
Set yourself free.
The woman loses consciousness, her long raven hair spilling across her cheek as she lolls back in the chair.
‘TIME SATANA INIMICI FIDEM.’
Be afraid of Satan and the enemies of faith.
All of a sudden, the woman begins to thrash violently. The priest and his five male helpers struggle to pin her down. Saliva is foaming on her lips and while everyone else in the room is sweating, her skin is as cold as ice.
‘RECEDE IN NOMINI PATRIS!’
Leave, in the name of the Father!
Her features slowly contort and morph into a mask of despair as she continues to convulse and twist. She’s trying to rise now; she is trying to attack.
‘SANCTISSIMO DOMINE MIGRA.’
Let him go, O God Almighty.
The woman thrusts forward and screams in the father’s face, her spittle flecking his lips. ‘Never!’ she cries. ‘Never!’
A low buzzing starts, like the growing swarm of a thousand bees. Everyone in the room is praying: imploring God to keep the devil away; asking him to destroy this evil force. But the woman is beginning to growl and scream again. ‘Neverrrrrrrrr!’ Her cry fills the room. Then a completely different voice, from somewhere deep inside her, shouts, ‘Don’t touch her, don’t ever touch her!’ Her eyes are still closed tight.
‘CEDE! CEDE!’
Surrender!
‘I am Satan,’ the woman screams. The buzzing in the room persists as she becomes increasingly defiant and agitated.
‘IN NOMINE DEO QUANDO TU EXIS?’
In the name of God, when are you leaving?
‘Never!’ she cries. And then, a beat later, ‘She is mine! She belongs to me!’
‘SHE BELONGS TO JESUS CHRIST!’
‘We are an army!!’ she yells.
‘Requie creatue Dei.’
Rest, creature of God.
The father’s voice has dropped to a whisper. The woman awakes slowly and sits up. She’s dishevelled and seems to have no memory of what has just happened. But then, without warning, she starts to sway from side to side — to writhe and seethe again. One burly priest has to hold her by the neck while another pins down her legs. She thrashes and kicks and bites, but then, finally, her body is still.
Over the course of several minutes, she gradually returns to a normal state. Her long, thick hair, lustrous in the lamplight, frames her angelic features, and to the father she seems almost beatific.
1
SCAMARCIO WATCHED THE GLASSY droplets strike the windscreen like miniature bullets. The world outside remained the same monochrome blur of charcoal and black. It had been over a week since he’d last seen the sun, and, even then, it had risen pallid and hopeless, as if the very act of breaking from the dense cloud mass had robbed it of all strength. He was reminded yet again of how much he hated the Roman winter. It had been different down in Calabria. Of course, they’d had grey days, but with them was always that certainty that March, and the first swim of the year, were just around the corner. In Rome the grey was interminable — a foggy morass that one might never escape, and Scamarcio’s low mood felt equally intractable.
He knew that, on paper, there was much to look forward to, but his heart refused to catch up. Sure, there were moments when he felt a surge of excitement at the prospect of becoming a father, but these were greatly outweighed by the nightmares, the sleepless hours spent sweating in the dark, and the waves of anxiety at the sudden appearance of boxes of nappies or baby clothes. None of this was helped by Fiammetta’s refusal to learn the sex of the baby. If only he had something concrete to work with — if only he could plan — he felt sure that it all would have seemed more manageable. The truth was that he was angry with Fiammetta. He felt she was being selfish, unnecessarily adding to his fear and uncertainty, and he asked himself, yet again, if she truly understood him. Had they been together long enough? Were their foundations solid?
He realised that his attempts to tap out a cigarette against the steering wheel while also navigating a busy roundabout were triggering the ire of an obese guy in a dented white van. Scamarcio quickly stuffed the unlit fag between his teeth so he could flip him the bird.
‘Cunt,’ he hissed, rooting around in his jacket pocket for a lighter. He’d promised Fiammetta that he’d quit before the birth, but the baby was due in two weeks, and his habit had recently jumped to around twenty-five a day. He had a hunch that all the coming stress would see it hit thirty. It was already bad enough that Fiammetta had banned his trusty dealer, Pinnetta. Scamarcio needed to preserve some kind of outlet.
His mobile started to ring, and he felt the same emotional maelstrom he did every time he heard the brash new ringtone Fiammetta had chosen for him. ‘Una Vita in Vacanza’ had been the smash hit of last summer, and now it seemed that everywhere you went it was be
ing played on a loop. He hadn’t liked it the first time around, and now that it had infected his phone, that dislike had turned to hatred. Has she gone into labour? Is this the call that will change it all? He made a mental note to switch the ringtone back to something neutral.
‘Scamarcio,’ he muttered, his mouth dry.
‘Chill out,’ laughed Garramone. ‘It’s only your boss.’
‘Which one?’
‘You don’t sound ready.’
‘Who the fuck is? All those guys who go to the classes — join in with the heavy-breathing shit — they’re just faking it.’
‘You been?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
Garramone chuckled. ‘You want a little something to take your mind off it all?’
‘You pushing dope now?’
‘I won’t dignify that with an answer.’ Garramone paused. ‘I’ve just had something peculiar come in. Peculiar but interesting.’
Scamarcio frowned. ‘I’m flattered.’
‘You heard of Cardinal Piero Amato?’
‘That old guy who’s always on the talk shows? What is it they call him — “the Vatican’s chief exorcist”, or something like that?’
‘Yeah, that guy.’
‘What’s happened to him?’
‘Nothing, but an eighteen-year-old boy, Andrea Borghese, has just been found strangled in an apartment on Via Po and the cardinal was the last one to see him alive.’
Scamarcio whistled. ‘Sex game gone wrong?’
‘I won’t dignify that with an answer, either.’
‘What was the cardinal doing at the flat?’
‘What do you think he was doing there?’
It took a moment for Scamarcio to make the leap. ‘You’re kidding me.’
‘He was conducting a weekly exorcism along with four of his priests,’ said Garramone with aplomb.
‘Fuck,’ Scamarcio pushed the still unlit fag behind his ear. ‘The press will wet their pants.’
‘That’s why I want you on it.’
Scamarcio rubbed at his stubble. ‘My presence will only make things worse. I’m their red meat.’
‘No, you’ll be a good conduit.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Look, it’s a complicated case, and you know your way around the Vatican; you’re my choice for this. I’ll be waiting for you in my office.’
‘My girlfriend’s about to …’
But Garramone had already hung up.
2
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, SCAMARCIO set the photograph of Andrea Borghese back down on the coffee table. The boy had the same startling eyes as his mother: a deep amber-brown, framed by soulful dark brows. He could have been a model or an actor. The word ‘promise’ floated into Scamarcio’s thoughts. A young man with promise.
‘I know you wouldn’t think it to look at that picture — he seems so normal, so at ease there,’ said the victim’s mother, Katia Borghese, slowly picking up the photo and using a manicured nail to gently trace the outline of her son’s face, ‘but the truth is that Andrea’s life has been a living hell. I’ve lost count of the number of “experts” we’ve seen.’ She put a heavy emphasis on the word, signalling her disdain. ‘Psychologists, psychiatrists, neurologists — you name it, we’ve tried it. Eventually, none of us could take the disappointment anym—’ Her voice broke, then shattered. She let out a shuddering sob, then dropped the photo and hid her face behind her hands. Scamarcio returned the photo to the small pile between them, carefully holding it by the edges. He looked up and studied Andrea’s father, Gennaro, sitting apart from his wife on the couch. He was staring into the middle distance, face pale and drawn.
‘So, that’s why you resorted to the Vatican?’ Scamarcio asked softly, after Mrs Borghese had stopped crying.
She nodded and wiped the tears away with a ragged tissue that needed replacing. Scamarcio turned to look at her husband again and noticed that his shoulders seemed to have hunched and tightened at the mention of the church. Scamarcio cleared his throat, careful to cover his mouth with a fist. This was Parioli, and he was in polite company.
‘Mr Borghese, can you talk me through Andrea’s symptoms? I’ve been given some basic information, but I’d like to hear the details from you.’ He pulled out his notebook and patted his jacket pocket for a pen.
The father sniffed and leaned forward in his chair, laying his palms nervously on his smart trousers. Scamarcio took in his reddened eyes and the taut, salty skin beneath. Borghese had already cried many tears for his son.
‘Andrea suffered from mood swings, paranoia, tics, seizures, and delusions,’ he began stiltingly. ‘For the past couple of years, he’s been experiencing hallucinations that convinced him he was destined to transform into a monster.’ He looked away. Scamarcio watched his eyes film with fresh tears. ‘On a certain level, that was true. He could become very aggressive: he would swear, throw things, break things, try to create as much damage as possible.’ He paused. ‘He’d sometimes take that aggression out on us — he’d punch and slap us both, gave me a black eye once.’ Scamarcio watched a tear slide slowly down his cheek.
‘When was this — that he became violent?’
‘During the hallucinations,’ said the mother slowly, as if she was trying to wade through something dense and impenetrable. ‘Usually only then. Most of the time he was calm and kind … often thoughtful.’ Another low sob escaped her, and she covered her thin mouth with a hand.
‘I’m so very sorry,’ Scamarcio repeated, feeling, as he always did, that the language was lame and inadequate. ‘Can I get you anything? A glass of water perhaps?’
Mrs Borghese threw him a withering look — he was an unwelcome intrusion into her grief. ‘A glass of water isn’t going to bring back my son.’ She rose foggily from the sofa and left the room.
‘She’s not doing well,’ mumbled Mr Borghese.
‘Of course,’ said Scamarcio, surprised that Borghese felt the need to apologise for her. ‘Who would be?’
He considered Andrea’s father, sitting there, an entirely broken man in a crumpled designer suit. He must have rushed back from work. He had a worn look about him — furrowed skin, thinning grey hair. Years of stress and struggle were etched across his face. Scamarcio’s gaze moved to the man’s right hand; his fingers were tapping out some kind of repetitive rhythm against the chair, growing faster and faster, more and more urgent. It reminded Scamarcio of certain kinds of coping techniques he’d heard therapists gave their patients. It made Borghese look unhinged.
God, thought Scamarcio, a disquieting realisation dawning. This is the lottery of parenthood. You have no way of knowing your child will be OK. You just have to take the hand fate deals you. He felt a snake of anxiety slither through him. He swallowed and was about to ask if he could smoke, then got a grip on himself.
‘Mr Borghese, would you talk me through the routine — how these sessions with the cardinal played out? Was your wife always present?’
Borghese ceased his tapping and nodded. ‘Normally, yes. But this afternoon she had to rush away as her father had fallen ill. Cardinal Amato usually brought three other priests with him to help. I imagine it was the same set-up today.’
‘And who was it who found your son’s body?’
‘Me …’ Mr Borghese looked into his lap. ‘I found him.’ His face crumpled.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Scamarcio whispered, feeling useless again.
‘Where is he?’ asked Mr Borghese, suddenly looking up as if the thought had just hit him.
‘Who?’
‘My boy. Where have they taken him?’
‘Oh, didn’t they explain? They’ll have taken the body to the police morgue.’ Scamarcio glanced away from Borghese’s stricken face. ‘The pathologist will conduct an autopsy there,’ he added quietly.
Borghese nodded slowly, and peered into his lap once more.
Scamarcio coughed. ‘So, when you returned home, sir — could you describe what you saw?’
At that moment, Mrs Borghese walked back in and returned to her place on the sofa opposite, a strangely defiant look in her eyes.
‘For years they told us it was epilepsy,’ she said, slightly louder than was necessary.
Scamarcio gently laid down his notebook. ‘The experts?’
‘The experts.’ She made two quotation marks with her fingers. ‘But their problem was that an epilepsy diagnosis didn’t explain certain elements of Andrea’s condition.’
‘Such as?’
‘Before his seizures, Andrea would become paranoid. He was convinced hidden enemies were all around. And then his voice would change, sometimes several times, as if he was taking on different personalities,’ she said, more quietly now.
Scamarcio felt his eyebrows rise and tried to return his expression to neutral. ‘That must have been difficult to witness.’
Mrs Borghese shook her head at the memory. ‘It was unsettling. One minute he’d be loud and booming, forceful, then he’d suddenly become soft and shy like a little boy, then, seconds later, he’d be all wheedling and sly, like some middle-aged salesman. On and on it went, as if he was inhabited by all these different people.’
Scamarcio glanced at her husband.
‘I’m not making it up,’ snapped Mrs Borghese.
‘I didn’t think you were.’
‘Then why are you looking at my husband?’
Mr Borghese sniffed. ‘It’s true. It was very disturbing to watch — it gave me goose bumps.’
‘Could he have been putting on an act, doing it for attention?’
‘No, Detective,’ said Mrs Borghese, even angrier now. ‘He didn’t welcome these changes; he hated it. He would have done anything to avoid it. It would happen against his will and would leave him totally drained afterwards.’
Scamarcio felt disorientated. He reopened the notebook, and jotted down the list of symptoms. ‘Mrs Borghese, do you work?’
‘I used to be an English teacher, but I had to abandon that to look after Andrea when he was still quite young.’ There was a jarring bitterness to the words.
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