‘I saw it a few times. Castelnuovo is a spoilt little shit. If he doesn’t get what he wants, all hell breaks loose. He’s not used to anyone saying no to him.’
‘But I thought you two were friends?’
‘We hang about in the same group. That’s it.’
Scamarcio frowned. He couldn’t make sense of these adolescent relationships.
‘And you told my colleague you’d seen him beat up a guy?’
Pombeni tucked his legs beneath him on the settee, as if he was getting comfy before telling a tall tale. ‘Yeah, it was fucked up. This guy had said something snide about an expensive jacket Ale was wearing, Ale saw red and smashed the guy’s head into a wall, hard. And I mean fucking hard. The guy passed out.’
‘What happened next?’
‘The paramedics were called, and they brought him around — I don’t know how. The guy was taken to hospital, though.’
‘Was he OK?’
‘As far as I know, yes. They didn’t keep him in long, anyway.’
‘And how was Castelnuovo after this happened?’
‘Well, it was creepy, actually. He looked like he really couldn’t give a shit. Like it had been nothing. He wasn’t smiling or anything, but he just shrugged and carried on as normal.’
‘He wasn’t afraid of being arrested?’
‘If he was scared, he certainly didn’t show it. I reckon he thinks he’s immune — what with such powerful parents and everything.’
‘And that’s exactly what happened, isn’t it?’
‘How do you mean?’ The boy stuck a thumb in his mouth like a baby.
‘Well, you told my colleague that the boy’s parents wanted to kick up a fuss, but that Castelnuovo’s family had it all hushed up.’
‘Oh yeah. The kid’s folks were furious, understandably — furious with the school, too — then it all just disappeared, as if it had never happened. The principal told us not to talk about it to anyone.’
‘The school principal?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And you’re sure it was the Castelnuovos who’ve had it all swept under the rug?’
‘Not sure, exactly, but that’s the logical conclusion, isn’t it? And I remember Castelnuovo saying that it would all get covered up like it always did.’
‘That’s what he said? “Like it always did”?’
‘Yeah, I definitely got the feeling it had happened before.’
Scamarcio took a breath. ‘And getting back to Andrea Borghese and the girl, Graziella Feliciano …’
‘Graziella had the hots for Andrea, and Castelnuovo had the hots for Graziella. Big time — he wasn’t going to let anyone get in the way.’
Scamarcio paused before he posed the question. ‘Do you think he could have killed Andrea?’
The boy nodded eagerly. ‘To be honest, that was my first thought when I heard the news.’
Scamarcio rubbed a hand across his mouth. This was the tricky bit. ‘Who is Castelnuovo really good friends with?’
‘Him and Jacobini are tight.’
‘Jacobini?’
‘Samuele Jacobini.’
‘Do you think if he did something terrible, like kill a man, he’d confide in Jacobini?’
The frog-boy paled slightly, as if the seriousness of the situation was finally dawning on him. He took a long breath. ‘I don’t know. Castelnuovo’s the type to keep his own counsel, but I guess, if he did want to unburden, Samuele would be the one.’
Scamarcio nodded and thought to himself for a minute. Then he looked at the boy. ‘Tell me, have you ever considered a career in the police?’
Pombeni looked surprised. ‘Me? Oh, uh, no. Not really.’
‘You’d make a good detective, you know,’ said Scamarcio. ‘You’ve paid close attention to the dynamics between all your peers. You know how to read them. You’ve got good instincts. And being a detective is all about instinct.’
The boy blushed and looked pleased.
‘So listen,’ said Scamarcio, ‘I need you to do something for me.’
Frog-boy paled again. ‘Oh God, really?’
‘Right now, all we have is supposition, and that counts for shit in the courts. We need to take it to the next level.’ Scamarcio paused and looked into his lap — he couldn’t just ride roughshod through the rules, much as he wanted to. He had to check. ‘How old are you?’
‘I just turned eighteen last week.’
‘Good.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. I need you to have a little chat with Jacobini, find out if Castelnuovo told him anything.’
‘You’ve got to be joking. Jacobini thinks I’m pond slime.’ It was an unfortunate analogy.
‘Just try — see where you can get. If you ever want a career in the police, assisting with an investigation will help.’
‘I don’t know …’
‘It might be fun,’ said Scamarcio.
‘What — the police or this gig?’
‘This gig. But police work has its moments.’
‘I’m not sure. I’ll need to tell my parents.’
‘Why? Do you tell them everything? Like when you screw a girl? Or fart?’
The boy looked uncomfortable. He’s probably still a virgin, thought Scamarcio.
‘OK, you’re right. No need to get them involved.’ He opened his spindly arms. ‘I’ll be glad to help in any way I can.’
‘Excellent,’ said Scamarcio, extending a hand.
Aurelia was waiting for him when he entered the bar. A couple of men at a table to her right were giving her the once-over, but she seemed oblivious. She already had a large glass of red in front of her, and it was half full.
‘I’d mention that you’re late, but what’s the point,’ she said, getting up to kiss him on both cheeks. That she’d even deigned to do that surprised Scamarcio.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m working that exorcist case, and it’s pretty much round the clock.’
‘Nothing’s changed, then.’
‘Nope.’
‘Except that you’re about to become a father.’
Scamarcio took off his jacket and draped it across the back of a chair. He sat down and waved the waiter over. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I get a drink first.’ His heart was hammering in his chest.
‘Of course.’
Once he’d ordered a large glass of Nero D’Avola, he folded his hands on the table and looked at her. There was no denying she was beautiful. But in a different way from Fiammetta. Aurelia’s beauty was of the solid kind. From whichever angle, the beauty remained indisputable, perfect, unchallenged.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,’ Scamarcio said, meaning it. ‘But I wasn’t even sure you wanted to hear from me.’
‘I didn’t.’
He shrugged. ‘Well, there you go.’
Aurelia sighed and took a long slug of wine. ‘I appreciate what you did for me — in Munich, I mean. I know you had me kept an eye on, so to speak.’
‘It was the least I could do.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Scamarcio.’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘You couldn’t know they’d come for me.’
‘I might have guessed.’
‘No. It was a high-stakes game, and it was new to you. Nobody in your position could have foreseen what happened.’
Scamarcio sniffed and looked away. Then he looked up at her and said softly, ‘It’s decent of you to say that. But I worry about you being back here. I’m still not sure it’s safe.’
‘I heard that the Cappadona had changed leadership and dropped the hunt. I wouldn’t be back here otherwise.’
‘You can’t ever be certain,’ said Scamarcio.
She smiled sadly. ‘I can’t stay hidden forever. My life is here, Scamarc
io. My family is here.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said into the table.
‘I want to lay the past to rest.’
He looked up. There was a cold finality to the words. He felt both relieved and disappointed.
‘I don’t want to be carrying around hate and resentment and all that negative shit.’
He said nothing.
She pushed her short hair behind her ear, but it refused to stay and fell back against her cheekbone. Scamarcio had to look away again.
His wine finally arrived, and he drained it in one.
‘I hear you were awarded the medal of honour.’
He smiled. ‘Last year. It was a bit of a headfuck.’
‘Giangrande told me all about it. Why is it you always find yourself in the middle of this shit?’
‘That’s a question I’m still trying to answer.’
‘It will have to change with a kid.’
‘I know.’
‘Are you worried?’
‘Just a little.’
There was a silence. But Scamarcio didn’t feel uncomfortable.
‘Your girlfriend — how did you meet her?’
‘It was on a case last year involving some people who work in TV. She worked in TV at the time. She —’
‘It’s OK, I know who she is.’
‘Why are you asking, then?’
‘I dunno, I …’
Scamarcio leaned forward across the table. The wine had emboldened him. ‘Aurelia, this is very difficult having you back here. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t still think about you. It was easier when you were abroad. But now …’
‘But now you’re about to have a child, so you need to move on. As do I.’
Scamarcio let out a long sigh. ‘Things could have been different, I think.’
‘Everything could be different. There are multiple potential outcomes for any situation. Our outcome was what it was.’
He rubbed his cheek. ‘Right.’
‘I wish it was me who was having your child, but it’s not to be.’
He looked up from his glass. ‘You do?’
‘Of course.’
‘Your guy in Munich?’
‘That didn’t work out. We were too different — call it culture clash.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘No, I’m not. I want to sleep with you.’
‘But you can’t.’
He grabbed his jacket and threw some money down on the table. ‘I can’t. What kind of man would I be?’
‘And what kind of woman would I be, going to bed with a man whose girlfriend was nine months pregnant?’
‘We’d both be total shits.’
‘And we’re not.’
They headed outside. The air was damp and cold, and there was a strong smell of old rubbish and wet stone. She gave him a perfunctory kiss on both cheeks.
‘Look at the moon,’ she said. He followed her gaze. It was full — fat and bright.
‘Good luck, Scamarcio. I love you.’
And with that, she was gone. He wanted to smash his head against the wall.
22
IT WAS 8.00 AM on Sunday, and Fiammetta was sleeping soundly for once, but Scamarcio knew a lie-in was not an option. He was wired — both Aurelia and the case had spun his mind into overdrive.
He dialled Sartori. ‘Any trace of Gennaro Borghese?’
‘He pitched up home late last night, apparently.’ Sartori sounded like he was struggling to shake off sleep.
‘Any idea where he’d been?’
‘The mistress’s. Katia gave us an address in Parioli, which Lovoti was staking out. No joy, so he did a trawl of the local neighbourhood. Found them in a restaurant a few streets away. She’s quite a piece, by the way.’
‘Lovoti …’
‘For fuck’s sake, Scamarcio, we need all the help we can get. I’ll deal with Lovoti so you don’t have to.’
‘He tried to fuck me over on a case last year. He’s only out for himself.’
The line fell silent.
‘Anyone spoken to the mistress?’ asked Scamarcio, trying to rein himself back in.
‘I thought you’d want first dibs.’
‘I’ll head over there this morning. You got a number?’
Sartori scrambled around for something, then reeled off the details. ‘I can’t do much on the whole financial angle, today being Sunday.’
‘Do what you can, leave the rest until tomorrow.’
‘And there was me thinking you’d say, “Don’t sweat it, you enjoy Sunday with your kids.”’
Scamarcio felt like an arsehole. ‘Don’t sweat it, you enjoy Sunday with your kids.’
Melissa Melandri lived in small but immaculately kept apartment in a smart modern block just behind Via Ruggero Fauro in Parioli. She was tall with long brown-blonde hair, wide blue eyes, and dense brows, and reminded Scamarcio of the actress Brooke Shields. He could see why Gennaro had slipped up.
‘Can I offer you anything, Detective — coffee? Juice, perhaps?’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
She led him into a neat living room painted in calming shades of grey. The sofas were a crisp white.
‘You have a very nice place.’
‘I’ve just had it redecorated. This is supposed to be “New England” style, according to the brochure.’
‘I lived in the States awhile. West Coast, though.’
She motioned him to the sofa. ‘I’ve never been. It’s on my bucket list.’
Scamarcio smiled and sat down.
‘I’m so sorry about Andrea.’ She stretched out her long legs in front of her. He noticed the bottom of her calves, where her designer jeans stopped, were very tanned. Maybe she and Gennaro had been away. Maybe she had other lovers.
‘Did you know him well?’
‘We’d been family friends — I saw him grow up.’
‘It must have been very difficult for his parents.’
‘Katia didn’t make it any easier.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you’ll know that she took to drink — when the stress became too much?’
‘I’d heard something along those lines, but I wasn’t sure how seriously to take it.’
‘It’s quite true. She took to drink, and she never quit. The problem for Gennaro and Andrea was that she was a bad drunk. Became aggressive. In the end, she was aggressive most of the time.’
‘And she’s still drinking now?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t say I’ve seen much sign of it.’
‘I believe she kicks off in the evening. In the daytime, she can just about keep it together. I mean, she’ll drink, but you won’t notice.’
‘And Andrea, how did he cope with this?’
‘By shutting himself away in his room. I suspect her drinking exacerbated his condition. I know that’s what Gennaro thinks, anyway. The stress of the arguments she’d start certainly did not help Andrea.’
Scamarcio sighed. ‘What a mess.’
‘Indeed.’
‘But then, you didn’t exactly improve things, did you?’
‘My relationship with Gennaro has nothing to do with it.’
‘How can you say that?’
‘I was there for him when he needed me.’
‘But that wouldn’t have helped Mrs Borghese’s drinking any.’
Her back stiffened, and she took a quick sip of water from a cut-glass tumbler. ‘She’d be drinking anyway. She’s too far gone.’
Scamarcio rubbed his mouth and studied the woman before him. She was the picture of composure, she had it all together.
‘So, as Andrea’s mother — I mean, how did it work? Was she able
to be a responsible parent for him?’
Melandri sighed and looked away for a moment. ‘In the beginning, I have to say, she did her utmost — gave it all she had. Then, I think there came a point when she just couldn’t handle it anymore. It all became too much. Maybe a lot of us would have broken under the pressure — maybe I would have, too. Who knows?’
Scamarcio looked at her and doubted it. ‘So, in recent times, how were things between her and Andrea?’
‘Gennaro told me that often she didn’t bother to prepare meals — didn’t even show up.’
Scamarcio thought of the solitary Mars bar found in Andrea’s stomach. He returned again to the question of why Mrs Borghese hadn’t been home on the afternoon of the murder. Perhaps she couldn’t face it. Took some time out. He thought of Andrea — the lack of friends, cheating father, absent, alcoholic mother. Poor kid.
‘And Gennaro and Andrea, how did they get on?’
‘It was a strong bond — a good relationship, as far as it could be. Andrea looked up to his father; he knew he’d always be there for him.’
‘Did you see them together much?’
‘Gennaro and Andrea?’
‘Yes.’
She frowned, then tried to soften it at the edges, but couldn’t quite muster a smile. ‘We sometimes went for walks together. I could tell there was a lot of love there.’
‘Did Andrea know?’
‘About Gennaro and I?’
Scamarcio nodded.
She shook her head firmly. ‘No, I’m sure he didn’t.’
Scamarcio wasn’t convinced. He paused to change tack. ‘A friend of Andrea’s told me he’d claimed his parents had ruined his life.’
‘Isn’t that just something all teenagers say?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Do you think Gennaro hates his wife?’
She stared at him, her eyes narrowing. ‘Hate is a very strong word.’
Scamarcio just shrugged, he wasn’t going to give ground.
‘I don’t think he hated her before the death. He was exasperated, frustrated, angry, but I don’t think he hated her.’
‘But now?’
‘He holds her responsible. If she hadn’t brought the church into it …’
‘I don’t follow the logic.’
‘Gennaro believes it’s all connected. I don’t think he’s clear on how, exactly, but he feels that there’s a link to the exorcisms.’
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