The Devil

by Nadia Dalbuono

  ‘Did Tommaso Pombeni shed any light on my love-triangle theory?’ asked Scamarcio, trying not to think any more about the Beasts of Satan and how they had buried one of their victims alive.

  Sartori swallowed down the last of the chips. ‘Yeah. You have it about right. Pombeni said that the politico’s son, Ale Castelnuovo, did indeed have the hots for the girl, Graziella, but that her interest appeared to lie elsewhere.’

  ‘But he didn’t specify Andrea Borghese?’

  ‘I pushed him, and he said he’d suspected it might have been Andrea, but that she’d never spelt it out.’

  ‘And did he offer anything interesting on Andrea?’

  ‘Just the same as you got from the others, really. That he was OK when you got talking to him, but that he could throw the most terrible fits, and that’s why a lot of the other kids gave him a wide berth.’

  ‘And he didn’t have any ideas on who might have wanted Andrea dead?’

  ‘Not really.’ Sartori scratched at his huge stomach. ‘But he said something I think you’ll like.’

  ‘Spit it out then.’

  ‘Apparently the politico’s son has a bit of a temper. Pombeni has seen Ale Castelnuovo lose it big-time on several occasions, and one time, the guy on the receiving end ended up in hospital with a broken jaw. Apparently, Ale’s father paid the boy’s family a shitload of hush money not to go to the press.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Scamarcio, drawing the nicotine down deep. It felt medicinal.

  ‘And it gets better.’

  Scamarcio just rolled his eyes.

  ‘Ale is obsessed with true crime and forensics apparently. He gets all those weird magazines that describe the murders of serial killers, that pore over every last little detail. He told Pombeni that he wants to be a pathologist when he’s older.’

  ‘Funny,’ said Scamarcio. ‘He neglected to mention his career ambitions to me.’

  Sartori finally laid down his fork and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘It might explain what Giangrande said about the strangling — the professional element.’

  Scamarcio nodded slowly. ‘You were right. I do like it, Sartori.’ He tried not to sound half-hearted.

  While Sartori had provided two great leads, neither of them brought Scamarcio any closer to understanding why Meinero had been murdered.

  ‘Be a glass-half-full guy, for once,’ said Sartori, easing his bulk out of the chair. ‘Sure, you don’t have the whole picture, but I’ve just given you a big chunk of it. A thank you wouldn’t hurt.’

  Scamarcio looked up, surprised. ‘You’ve done great work, Sartori. I guess I’m just in a hurry to close this.’

  ‘Don’t be in a hurry — enjoy it. In a few weeks, you’ll wish you’d taken your time, believe me.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘When you’re up to your eyeballs in shitty nappies, and you and Fiammetta are screaming at each other because neither of you have slept in a week, a leisurely lunch discussing a case will seem like a taste of paradise.’

  ‘Christ.’

  Sartori surveyed him, his expression grave. ‘God, Scamarcio, I worry. I really do. I don’t think you know what’s coming.’

  ‘Maybe it’s better that way.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  Scamarcio just looked at him and said nothing.

  Sartori winked. ‘Here’s something to buoy you up — lunch is on you.’

  ‘What?’

  But Sartori was already halfway out the door. Scamarcio just stared into space, his mind stalling from stress and tiredness. Eventually, he decided the best thing to do would be to light another cigarette.

  ‘Cocksucker wants a search warrant,’ said Scamarcio to Garramone, across a sea of papers, and empty cups from the machine. Garramone looked addled and pale, the colour in his cheeks from a few days past had all but disappeared. Scamarcio wondered what was amiss.

  The boss yawned and cupped a hand across his mouth then rubbed it up and down. ‘It’s just the usual chest-beating. I saw a wildlife documentary once where they showed these apes fighting about who was in charge. Eventually, the weaker ones would submit by showing the stronger one their backsides.’

  ‘What exactly are you suggesting?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just trying to get you to understand that it’s all a farce. Life is a farce.’

  ‘Are you OK, Chief?’

  Garramone sighed and scratched the crown of his head with a biro. ‘I’ve been around a long time, Scamarcio — seen a lot of shit. On the one hand, it’s depressing, because you never see a break in the cycle or an improvement, but on the other hand, it teaches you to pick your battles — to recognise when it’s not worth the fight.’

  ‘You reckon we’ll find a judge who’ll play ball, then?’

  ‘I’ve got a couple we could try. I’ll call them — it might be better coming from me.’

  Scamarcio tutted. ‘If only we could just haul the cardinal in for questioning.’

  ‘It’ll be easier to get the warrant, believe me. Besides, you wouldn’t want the press to get a whiff of him arriving here. It wouldn’t look good, and it would generate a whole load of fresh shit for you to deal with.’

  ‘’Tis true,’ murmured Scamarcio.

  ‘Look at it this way: once you’ve got a warrant, you’ve got a warrant. Even if you weren’t ready to go full guns, now you have the right.’

  ‘If I get it.’

  ‘If you get it.’

  ‘What if all this isn’t just Cafaro swinging his dick? What if he knows something or suspects something? What if he’s been told to cover it up by the powers that be?’

  Garramone sniffed. ‘Could be, I suppose. But Inspector Cafaro has a solid reputation — I checked him out. He’s a stickler for the rules, and my assessment is he’s just marking his territory.’

  ‘And blocking my inquiry.’

  ‘I’ll let you know how I get on with the warrant. Don’t sweat it.’

  Back at his desk, Scamarcio ran a comprehensive web search on Cardinal Amato. He read every article he could find and made a note of every friend and acquaintance mentioned. The cardinal was born in Bologna in 1943 and had spent more than fifty years as a Roman Catholic priest. He became the Vatican’s official exorcist in June 1988, under the tutelage of Father Carlo Quattrocchi. Amato, it seemed, was a member of the Society of St Paul, the congregation founded by Giacomo Alberione in 1914. In 1992, Amato created the International Association of Exorcists, and remained president to this day. Scamarcio was surprised to learn that the cardinal claimed to have performed over thirty thousand exorcisms in the course of his life and referred to himself, modestly, as the most important and most successful exorcist in the history of the Catholic church. The high number started to make a little more sense when Scamarcio read that Amato believed that a person could be possessed by more than one demon at a time, and that some victims were overrun with hundreds. As he tracked the press coverage over the years, Scamarcio noticed a growing pessimism in Amato. The cardinal began to lament that, ‘People have lost the faith.’ The rise in popularity of superstitions and magic was giving the devil a foothold, he said, and the problem was only going to get worse.

  Scamarcio’s concentration was starting to wane when he came across an article in the online archives of La Repubblica that made him sit up. The headline read, ‘Vatican’s chief exorcist claims to know truth about Cherubini kidnapping.’

  Scamarcio wet his lips and tried to focus. ‘Cardinal Amato, the Vatican’s chief exorcist, has revealed in his new book that he fears that Martina Cherubini may have fallen victim to a sex ring involving an ambassador to the Vatican, other foreign diplomats, and members of the Vatican gendarmerie.’

  ‘What the fuck?’ whispered Scamarcio. Why the hell hadn’t this been on his radar or why hadn’t someone put it
there? The disappearance of fifteen-year-old Martina Cherubini from outside a basilica in Vatican City over twenty years ago had gripped the nation. Her body had never been found, and various conspiracy theories abounded, some involving elements of the Roman mafia, others international intelligence agencies, and some both. But Scamarcio had never been aware that Amato had commented on the case, and he had also been unaware of the gendarmerie link.

  He read on:

  Cardinal Amato says that rumours had circulated for a long time about sex parties with underage girls for diplomats belonging to a foreign embassy inside the Vatican. The girls were allegedly procured by a member of the gendarmerie and a parson of the Vatican church of St Mary. The cardinal’s testimony seems to line up with an anonymous letter sent to Cherubini’s mother that claimed her daughter had been procured for a sex party and had been murdered shortly after. When contacted for comment, Cherubini’s brother, Massimo, said the theory could hold weight. According to Massimo, the family had never been able to explain his sister’s disappearance from outside a busy church at 7.00 pm as she’d never have accepted a ride from a stranger. But Martina knew the priest at St Mary’s, and if she’d been asked to get in a car with him, she may well have agreed.

  Scamarcio looked away from the screen and pinched his nose. It could be nothing or it could be everything. He needed to ask the cardinal about the case. More importantly, he needed to find out what Chief Inspector Cafaro was doing in 1995. Was it possible that Amato had some kind of hold over him, and, if so, would the inspector be prepared to cover for Amato — protect him from his own troubles twenty years later?

  Scamarcio closed his eyes, and an image from the opening sequence of the film La Grande Bellezza swam into his mind. The writhing tango line of those first frames revealed a world where everyone was entangled — priest, politician, sinner, saint. The film director, Sorrentino, had it right: it was impossible to escape the spider’s web in Rome. You were constantly having to ask yourself, Cui bono?

  18

  IT WAS 8.00 PM, and as Fiammetta had said she was going to bed, and as he hadn’t been able to find out anything useful about Cafaro’s career history, Scamarcio thought he’d head to the gendarmerie barracks and do some casual asking around. He hoped that the chief inspector might have gone home, and that the visit might give him a chance to speak to the young priests once more.

  The golden dome of St Peter’s was looming into view when his phone rang.

  ‘Could you come right away?’ said Mrs Borghese. There was a tremor in her voice, and Scamarcio couldn’t decide if she’d been hitting the bottle or crying. Perhaps both, he reasoned.

  ‘Has something happened, Katia?’

  ‘No. Yes. Well … kind of. I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. It would be much better if we could talk in person.’

  Scamarcio stifled a sigh. ‘OK. I can be there in half an hour.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He turned back the way he’d come, searching for a taxi. Friday at 8.00 pm was not a good time to try. The traffic was backed up for miles, and the usual pointless cacophony of horns was starting up. What did she want? He hoped it would be worth the effort.

  An hour later, when he finally arrived at the Borghese’s apartment, Mrs Borghese welcomed him with what looked like a tumbler of whisky in one hand and a burned-out cigarette in the other. She was wearing a silk dressing-gown that was sagging open.

  Great, he thought, a tired attempt at seduction in the middle of a nightmare inquiry. Could it get any better?

  Katia Borghese led him into the living room and flopped herself down on the sofa and yawned. The dressing-gown gaped wider.

  ‘I’m worried about my husband,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Your husband?’

  ‘He keeps disappearing for long periods, and when he does eventually show up, he barely speaks to me.’

  Scamarcio tried to push back against a wave of frustration. He’d changed his plans for this?

  ‘He’s grieving, Katia. Grief affects people in many different ways.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, unconvinced. ‘But I think he’s trying to pull something off.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘My husband’s a mover and shaker. He doesn’t just sit back and deal with what comes — that’s not his way. He’s got to be in the driver’s seat, calling the shots.’

  ‘So, how does that relate to your son’s death?’

  ‘I think Gennaro is up to something. I think he may have found out who’s done this and is out for revenge.’

  ‘What?’

  She shrugged and opened her palms. ‘Like I say, he’s proactive.’

  ‘But surely he knows that’s our job?’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t trust you to find the killer? I don’t know, I just have a strong feeling he has a plan in motion.’

  Scamarcio sat down on the sofa and pulled out his mobile. But before he placed the call, he asked, ‘And do you have any idea who your husband might be targeting? Who he suspects?’

  She shook her head quickly. ‘None. That’s the frustrating thing. Right now, I’m the last person he’d talk to about it.’

  Scamarcio patted his jacket pocket for his fags. There were only three left. ‘Mind if I smoke?’

  ‘As long as you offer me one,’ said Mrs Borghese, readjusting the dressing-gown.

  Although it was nearly 9.30 pm by the time he’d dealt with Mrs Borghese, Scamarcio decided to head back to the Vatican as the chances were now high that Cafaro had left. As Scamarcio approached the Ponte Sant’Angelo, the milky pale faces of the statues stared back at him, sombre and pensive in the moonlight. He thought of the body he’d found hanging here the year before last and the way in which that one murder had changed his world view, had perhaps changed him. His mobile rang, and he looked away from the river and checked the screen. Sartori was finally returning his call.

  ‘See if you can locate Gennaro Borghese, and once you do, put a tail on him,’ barked Scamarcio.

  ‘What’s cooking?’

  ‘No idea, but his wife thinks Gennaro doesn’t trust us to do our jobs and that he might want to strike out on his own.’

  ‘Who does he have in his sights?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Jesus,’ hissed Sartori down the line.

  St Peter’s rose up out of the darkness, and Scamarcio upped his pace. ‘Jesus, indeed. Let me know if you get anywhere.’

  He finished the short walk to the main entrance of the Vatican and produced his badge for the Swiss Guard.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ one of them asked, his expression cold.

  ‘I just need to ask someone a question in relation to my current inquiry.’

  ‘We’ve heard all about your current inquiry.’

  Scamarcio said nothing.

  ‘Who do you want to see?’

  Scamarcio did not feel like sharing his plans, and the reception at the gate was putting him off a trip to the barracks. ‘Priest Lania. He’s from the Veneto,’ he heard himself say.

  The guard frowned, but handed back his ID and motioned him through. ‘You have half an hour, then we will be coming to check.’

  ‘Right you are, then.’

  Scamarcio walked away as quickly as he could, then pulled out his mobile and dialled Lania. ‘Any chance you, Michele, and your colleagues from the exorcism could meet me in the next fifteen minutes? Somewhere near the main entrance.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can round up everyone so quickly,’ said Lania hesitantly.

  ‘Please try. It’s important.’

  The boy said he’d do his best, so Scamarcio slumped down on a cold stone bench in the gardens and spent the next few minutes scrolling through emails. He hoped that the Swiss guards hadn’t alerted the gendarmerie, but he knew there was rivalry there and collaboration wasn’t alway
s a given. There was, of course, the possibility that one of Cafaro’s cronies would be scanning CCTV, but, hell, sometimes you just had to try.

  Scamarcio had replied to most of his emails, most of them pointless, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Lania with one of the other, younger, priests, whose name he couldn’t remember. The third one was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘I couldn’t get hold of Riccioni,’ said Lania. ‘He’s not answering his mobile.’ Scamarcio remembered Riccioni as the priest who had only joined the group on the day of Andrea’s murder, so his absence seemed less of a loss. ‘And Michele has the flu — he sounds awful, says he’s got a fever of thirty-nine.’

  ‘It might be the shock,’ said Scamarcio, wondering quietly if Michele Cogo was trying to avoid him. ‘No worries,’ he added, rising wearily. ‘Thanks for coming at such short notice.’

  ‘You said it was important.’

  ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  ‘The library’s just around the corner. It’s closed, but I can get the key.’

  ‘Sure.’

  The boy led the way inside, stopping at a small office, where he muttered a few words to a plump grey-haired man behind a counter and was promptly handed a large key chain.

  The library was less than a minute’s walk down a wide wood-panelled corridor, which smelled of sandalwood and expensive polish. When they entered, Scamarcio was struck by the hollow ring of their footsteps across the enormous marble floor. As the overhead lights spluttered to life, he glanced up to see a magnificent corniced ceiling adorned with pastel frescoes depicting the Ascension. Row upon row of massive books stretched to the end of the hall, and when he examined the cover of one, the beaten leather and Latin inscriptions made him wonder if it was penned around the time of the Magna Carta.

  The priests were pulling out a couple of heavy chairs from a wide oak table. Scamarcio joined them and took a seat.