‘Why?’ asked Scamarcio. ‘Andrea was murdered. He …’
‘Don’t ask me. Last night we had a huge row. Gennaro is struggling — he is very close to his twin brother, but he’s been unable to reach him with the news — Corrado’s hiking in Nepal. Because he hasn’t been able to talk to him about Andrea’s death, he’s turned on me. He keeps saying, “This is what happens when you bring the devil into it.” He’s now convinced that we should have persevered with the science.’
‘It sounds like it’s your husband who’s the true believer.’
She opened her arms. ‘It’s crazy, I know. But right now, he hates me — deeply. Maybe he’ll hate me forever …’ Her eyes grew vacant, and she studied her slippered feet. ‘I’ve lost both my son and my husband. It doesn’t get much worse than that.’
Scamarcio left the elevator and stepped into the foyer of the Borgheses’ apartment block. As he was heading for the front door that led to the gardens, he felt a chill hit the back of his neck and sweep down his spine. It must have been a draught coming from somewhere down the corridor, though when he turned to check, he couldn’t spot any doors or windows ajar. He carried on walking, but the chill intensified. He turned again, and, this time, he thought he saw a small shadow disappear around a corner — a fleeting glimpse of black. His mind flitted uneasily to devils and demons, and he relived the strange sensation he’d experienced in Amato’s rooms. He swallowed and told himself not to be so stupid. It was probably just a cat.
He stepped outside and immediately felt the cold rain against his skin. To his horror, he realised that several TV news vans were already parked at the kerb. An engineer was rolling out thick black cables through the back doors of one. To the right were a couple of TV reporters Scamarcio recognised. One was adjusting her make-up, while the other was speaking into his mobile phone as he glanced up at the apartment building. Scamarcio was already halfway down the path to the street, which meant there was nowhere left to run. He needed to take a right onto the pavement, but that meant walking straight past them all.
‘Fuck,’ he whispered.
‘Detective Scamarcio,’ trilled an uncomfortably familiar voice from somewhere close behind him.
‘Go to hell,’ he muttered, not wanting to look round.
‘Detective Scamarcio, might I have a word?’
He turned to see his least favourite journalist running towards him, a long, lurid red coat billowing out around her. Fabiana Morello snagged a high black patent-leather heel between two paving slabs and swore. Scamarcio smiled.
‘Detective,’ she said breathlessly, once she’d extracted the shoe. ‘Can you give me some details about the Borghese murder? There’s been nothing from your press office.’
Scamarcio rubbed a hand across his mouth. Morello had improved since he’d last seen her. She had never been beautiful, but had always worked hard to make the best of herself with expensive clothes and careful make-up. But today, the skin around her eyes seemed tauter and her lips fuller. He guessed she’d visited a top plastic surgeon, and he wondered for a moment where the money had come from. For years, she’d crucified him in her articles, and Scamarcio could never quite shake the suspicion that there was someone in the background pulling her strings.
‘The press office will release a statement in due course. There’ll probably be a conference. I’m sure they’ll let you know,’ he said, walking off as quickly as he could without breaking into a run.
‘Oh, come on!’ She was grabbing his arm now. ‘You can do better than that. If you would only bother to give me a chance, you might find I have a few interesting things to share.’
He stared at her hard. ‘I’m not going to be doing any kind of deal with you, Morello. You’re the very last reporter I’d trust, given the shit you’ve written about me.’
She feigned offence. ‘Oh, come on, don’t be so sensitive, Leone.’
‘It’s “Detective” to you. Now fuck off and leave me alone.’
He strode off, knowing that he was exiting the frying pan for the fire. The TV pack was hurrying towards him. In the short time he’d been talking to Morello, they seemed to have swelled in number.
‘There’ll be a press conference,’ he shouted, pushing past them. ‘I don’t have anything now.’
They were screaming questions, the same ones over and over.
‘Was the cardinal a suspect?’
‘What was his relationship to the boy?’
‘Was it sexual?’
Scamarcio just waved them all away and focussed on the pavement as he hurried for the taxi rank at the end of the Borgheses’ street. He hoped they didn’t all try to follow. Next time, he’d have to bring the car.
7
‘CHIEF MANCINO ISN’T TOO impressed. He thinks you could do with a media-training refresher,’ said Garramone as he stopped by Scamarcio’s desk.
‘For fuck’s sake.’ Scamarcio looked up from his computer, narked at the interruption. There was so much to do, and he still hadn’t been assigned a proper team.
‘You come across as hostile in the footage they’re running on the news. We mustn’t give the impression that they’re our enemy.’
‘They are.’
‘You know that, and I know that, but we’re not allowed to say so. Next time, try to crack a smile or something. Don’t look so cornered.’
‘Crack a smile? A kid was murdered, for God’s sake.’
Garramone shrugged. ‘We need to show willing, for the good of the department. We all have to play politics now, not just the bosses.’
‘I’m a detective. I’m not here to play politics.’
‘You have no choice.’
‘When’s the presser?’
‘Gio from media relations is coming up to have a word. She’s organising it for 5.00 pm, I believe.’
Scamarcio looked at his watch. ‘That’s just two hours away.’
‘She wants you there.’
He had expected as much, but it didn’t make it any easier to digest. He hated press conferences.
‘And the Borgheses?’
‘Gio called them, and they don’t want to do it.’
Scamarcio rubbed his temple. His skull felt tight. ‘Why?’
‘I dunno. Can you see if you can bring them round?’
Scamarcio reached for the desk phone. ‘The mum might be good. The dad, I’m not so sure.’
‘The mums are always good,’ said Garramone, walking off.
After a long phone call with each of the Borgheses, Scamarcio eventually managed to persuade them that their presence could prove valuable for the investigation. Both had blamed their reluctance on exhaustion and a wish to avoid the public eye, but they’d finally been swayed by examples Scamarcio had recounted from past cases. Unfortunately, when it came to the matter of his son’s passwords, Mr Borghese hadn’t had any information to share.
Scamarcio decided to use the hour he had left before the press arrived to have one last try at getting into Andrea’s devices. But after less than a minute of guessing passwords, it was clear that he was wasting his time. He decided to head over to Tech to ask if they could help.
Negruzzo was the only technician who waved when Scamarcio entered the bunker. All the others studiously ignored him. The air was stale and male and smelled of frustration.
‘Have I got the plague or something?’ he asked, as he placed Andrea Borghese’s laptop and mobile on Negruzzo’s desk.
‘We’ve been honing down a child porn inquiry. The guys are focussed,’ said Negruzzo, looking troubled.
‘Sure,’ said Scamarcio, recollecting a terrible case he’d worked on several years back. ‘Who are your perps?’
Negruzzo stretched his arms out and rolled his neck, trying to release the tension in his shoulders. ‘A ring of Poles living right under our noses here in Rome — but of course they’
re distributing far and wide.’
Scamarcio sighed. ‘I wish we could just hang them all.’
‘Yeah.’ Negruzzo turned over Andrea’s phone, holding it to the light. ‘You’re not alone in that thought. What curiosities have you got for me here, then?’
‘It’s the exorcist thing.’
‘I just caught a bit of that. You didn’t exactly look the picture of happiness, Scamarcio.’
Scamarcio sighed. ‘Neither would you if you had that lot up your arse.’
‘Did these belong to the vic or the cardinal?’ Negruzzo was opening the laptop now.
‘The vic. They seem to be locked, and I don’t have the passwords.’
Negruzzo shrugged. ‘No biggie. As long as they’re not encrypted — but they rarely are. What are you hoping for?’
‘I want to take a look at the files on the laptop and have a snoop through his life online.’
‘Those will be different passwords, but hopefully he stayed logged on to his social-media accounts. What was his full name?’
Scamarcio obliged.
‘I’ll work on getting into the devices. For the laptop, as long as it’s not encrypted, I’ll use a live USB. That’s a drive that contains a full operating system that can be booted up. That should let me browse all the data on his computer. I could also edit the grub boot-menu options to reset the root password, but …’
‘It’s the social media that I’m most interested in.’
Negruzzo pulled up Facebook on a grease smeared tablet, typed in Andrea’s name, and scrolled through some photos. ‘This him?’ he asked after a minute or so.
‘Yeah,’ said Scamarcio.
‘His Facebook account is set to private, unsurprisingly.’ Negruzzo paused. ‘Just thinking ahead here, but can you provide me with any pets’ names, parents’ names, favourite football team, favourite rock bands and online games, favourite foods and drinks …? Might be useful if he has logged himself off. And could help with the devices, too.’
‘I don’t have all that yet.’
‘Can you get it?’
‘Don’t you have a more sophisticated way of getting in?’
‘It’ll probably be guesswork. Did the CSIs take a photo of the area around the laptop? That can be valuable. We once got a guy’s email password from looking at the number on a scrap of paper he’d pinned to a board, which was actually his dad’s prison ID. It was all there on the crime scene pictures — gold dust.’
‘The CSIs didn’t even bother to lift the devices. I doubt they took pics.’
‘That’s a bit crap.’
‘Yeah, but it was a mad one. They got called away to another homicide almost immediately.’
‘It’s all falling apart — soon we won’t have a police force …’
‘Don’t you start.’
‘If I can’t guess my way in, we’ll have to subpoena Facebook. They’re obliged to supply us with all his posts, friends, unfriends, etc. Every little bell that has ever been rung.’
‘Will that take long?’
‘Not usually, if it’s a murder investigation. Are we just looking at Facebook for social media?’
‘I doubt it. He was probably on Twitter, Instagram. Could you do a search?’
Negruzzo shook his head in faux disbelief. ‘Feels to me as if I’m doing more than my fair share these days.’ But there wasn’t that much animosity in his tone. ‘You know a kid that age would probably be on Snapchat or TikTok, too, right?’
Scamarcio made a motion with his hand to indicate that he didn’t care what they were called, Negruzzo should just check for them. ‘And the iPhone?’
‘There are a few vulnerabilities I could exploit — I might be able to get in through the cloud. If he’s synced the phone to the laptop, that could also be an option.’ He paused to examine the phone once more. ‘Hmm,’ he murmured. ‘It’s an 8. The 8 can run iOS 11, which is significant. Apple reconfigured the iOS 11 so you could disable fingerprint recognition by tapping the power button five times. You realise you’re about to be nicked — you just reach into your pocket and tap away. The US cops were furious because, whereas before they could force suspects to give up something they had, like a fingerprint, they couldn’t force them to reveal something they knew, like a password.’ He fell silent as he touched the screen. ‘Let’s have a little look-see …’
‘Don’t make me wheel over the corpse so you can use the fingerprint …’
‘I’d take the phone to the morgue, Scamarcio,’ said Negruzzo, in a Don’t be a twat tone. ‘Ahh,’ he murmured, disappointed. ‘He’s disabled it. It couldn’t just be easy for once, could it?’
‘I wonder why,’ said Scamarcio. ‘Surely having fingerprint ID is easier than typing in a password every time?’
‘Quite,’ said Negruzzo. ‘You ought to keep sight of that — it might be a clue for you.’
He set down the phone and began rooting around in a drawer full of USB keys. It was a strange sight — they were all shapes and colours and looked like the haul from a robbery.
‘Will you call me or shall I call you?’ asked Scamarcio.
‘Leave it with me. I’ll let you know when I’ve got somewhere.’
Scamarcio rose to his feet and tried a wave in the direction of the other technicians, but no one looked up.
He was glad to leave the bunker. There was an atmosphere within its walls that brought him down.
8
WHEN THEY ARRIVED FOR the press conference, the Borgheses were walking wide apart and didn’t appear to be speaking to one another. Mr Borghese took the door first and almost let it swing back into his wife’s face. Scamarcio managed to catch it just in time.
He led them into a small room next to the hall where the conference was to be held and fetched them both a coffee from the machine. He noticed that Katia Borghese had gone to some effort; she’d put on a smart suit and washed and styled her hair. Unfortunately, he knew that this didn’t always play well with the public. They’d ask why a grieving mother was composed enough to worry about her appearance, and they’d wonder if it was a sign of involvement. At best, her polished image risked eroding any initial sympathy.
‘I really don’t want to be here,’ she said, as he handed her the coffee.
Scamarcio wanted to add that neither did he, but instead he said, ‘It’s for Andrea. Having the parents at a press conference always helps.’
At that moment, Giovanna Rinaldi from media relations strode in. She was a tall brunette with long limbs and a can-do, easy-going manner. Scamarcio much preferred dealing with her than the other PR guy, Paolo Gatti, who was a power hungry, Machiavellian rat.
Rinaldi introduced herself to the Borgheses and gave her condolences. ‘We’re aiming to start in five minutes. You all set?’
The Borgheses nodded listlessly.
‘I know it’s hard, but try to remember to speak up, and in complete sentences, if you can. It’s easier for them to use your soundbites that way. Detective Scamarcio will be with you, as will I. Any questions you’re not happy with, turn to me, and I’ll deal with it.’
‘Sure,’ whispered Katia Borghese. Her husband just studied the floor.
‘OK then, I think we can begin making our way inside.’
Rinaldi led them to the conference room. When they entered, scores of cameras flashed and red eyes blinked as the media tracked their arrival. Scamarcio couldn’t remember ever having seen the room so full — not even for the case of the missing American girl he’d led a couple of years back.
They took their positions at the desk, and Scamarcio studied the crowd. There were a lot of faces he didn’t recognise, and quite a few foreigners among them. He noticed several Asian crews. There was nothing to be done — this story was going global.
Rinaldi introduced them all before handing over to Scamarcio. ‘Detective Scamarcio
will give you the facts of the case — that is, the ones we have so far.’
Scamarcio coughed and looked down at the bullet points he had prepared. He didn’t feel as nervous as he’d expected, just irritated, mainly, at the time he was losing. But he reminded himself that the song and dance might yet be worth it.
He began by talking them through the time and place of death, but he did not mention that they suspected a professional hit or that Andrea had been strangled. He’d agreed with Garramone that they should keep those details quiet for the time being. Scamarcio then gave some general background on Andrea and his sessions with Cardinal Amato. When he finished, the room exploded with a barrage of questions, and it took Rinaldi quite some time to restore order. ‘One at a time, please, ladies and gentlemen,’ she shouted for the fifth time.
She indicated to a middle-aged man in a smart grey suit near the front. Scamarcio recognised him as a reporter from TG1.
‘Go ahead, Paolo.’
‘Detective Scamarcio, everyone is wondering — is the cardinal a suspect?’
Scamarcio cleared his throat. ‘The murder was yesterday. We’re in the very early stages of our inquiry, which means nobody can be ruled in or out.’
‘So, he’s a suspect?’
Scamarcio wrote tomorrow’s headlines in his head. He had enough experience not to fall into the trap that was being set for him. ‘As I say, it’s very early days.’
‘And the other priests who were with him?’
‘We’re exploring all avenues.’
Rinaldi turned towards another hand held aloft. ‘Gina.’
Gina Rizzo was an attractive blonde from Sky News who Scamarcio had made the subject of numerous sexual fantasies.
‘How much time elapsed between the end of the exorcism and Andrea’s murder, Detective?’
‘We believe about an hour.’
She turned her head towards the Borgheses. ‘I have a question for Andrea’s parents. Could you explain why you’d decided to consult Cardinal Amato? What made you think that your son was possessed?’
The Devil Page 5