‘He’s not planning anything, is he?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Revenge of some kind? Perhaps he has someone in his sights?’
She shook her head slowly. ‘He’s certainly not said anything to me.’
He believed her. Melandri was no fool and didn’t seem the type to withhold information. She’d want to keep things tidy with the police.
‘Will you tell me if you hear anything?’ He handed over his card, and she took it quickly.
‘Of course, Detective.’ She paused. ‘Do you have a theory yet? On who did this?’
‘Unfortunately, I have several. The task, now, is to whittle them down to one.’
‘It must be a fascinating job.’
He blinked. It was a strangely detached comment from someone whose lover’s son had just been murdered. ‘What will happen now?’ he asked, locking eyes with her.
‘I don’t quite follow …’
‘Between you and Gennaro?’
‘Oh,’ she placed a smooth manicured hand across her heart, as if trying to steady it. ‘I hadn’t really thought. We’ll probably just keep going the way we are. I don’t think Gennaro has the energy for a divorce.’
‘It would cost him too much?’
‘Oh, it’s not that; I don’t think he’s bothered about the money. It’s just the emotional turmoil of dealing with Katia.’
‘And you don’t care?’
‘I’ve never been big into marriage.’
‘Is Gennaro from a rich family?’
‘No, quite the opposite.’
He was about to push her further, but then figured it would be unwise to tip off Borghese that he was interested in the financial element.
‘Thanks for your time, Miss Melandri.’
‘No, thank you. I do hope you find who did this.’
He held her gaze. ‘Oh, don’t worry, we will.’
23
‘“TAKE A STROLL THROUGH his bank accounts,” you said. You made it all sound so easy.’
Scamarcio lit another fag and blew the smoke just clear of Sartori’s reddened face. ‘What’s the hold up?’
‘The bank is being arsey — wants us to go the official route.’
‘Did you tell them about the case?’
‘They seemed to know all about it already.’
‘Borghese?’
‘Could be. Or they saw it on the TV.’ Sartori pulled the tab on a can of Coke and slumped down into a dented plastic chair. ‘You’d better watch that,’ he wiggled a fat finger at Scamarcio’s cigarette.
‘Fuck off. You know what happened to Moia? They just lopped off his left leg due to diabetes.’
‘Don’t screw with me.’
‘I’m not. I got a text from him a few days back. He won’t be running down the criminal underworld for a while.’
‘He’ll be like the big guy in a wheelchair on that American show.’
‘There’s no way Moia will accept being in a chair. He’ll just limp about with a stick.’
‘They’ll hear him coming for miles.’
Scamarcio sucked down hard on the fag, then, as if finally heeding his conscience, stubbed it out half-smoked and tossed it in the bin — which he realised too late was full of crumpled-up papers. He bent over and tried to fish it out.
‘We digress. I’ll get that perv judge onto it, the one Garramone keeps in his pocket.’ He had to pause. The effort to retrieve the fag had left him out of breath.
‘Yeah,’ Sartori tried to stifle a belch, but failed. ‘That’s probably the quickest route. I get the feeling we need to move fast.’
‘Why?’
‘If Borghese’s up to something, he may have transferred the money out.’
‘We’ll see it if he has.’
‘Sure.’
‘It’s all evidence — of what, I still don’t know.’
Sartori handed Scamarcio a sheet of A4. ‘Borghese’s work history. I’ve listed the companies, their details, and the dates Borghese was there, along with the positions he held.’
Scamarcio took the paper. ‘Did you get salary details?’
‘Oh no, I didn’t think it was important,’ said Sartori, sarcasm rammed to maximum. Scamarcio ignored him. Sartori conceded: ‘For the first two, but I’m struggling with the current one.’
‘Why?’
‘They’re bleating about data protection.’
‘I’ll give them sodding data protection. We’re the police.’
Sartori shrugged. ‘Maybe Garramone’s perv judge will grease the wheels?’
‘Yeah, don’t sweat it — once he waves his dick, they’ll start singing.’
‘I hope he’s got a big one.’ Sartori pulled his notepad from his pocket and flipped through a few pages. ‘I’ve honed down some family background on Borghese. He doesn’t come from money. His father was a low-level accountant, and his mother a housewife. Sure, they were comfortable, but nothing spectacular.’
‘The mother’s still alive, I think. Mrs Borghese mentioned her.’
‘Yeah, living in Garbatella.’
‘Decent area, but not exactly luxury.’
‘It’s not Parioli.’
‘And Mrs Borghese’s parents?’
‘Even less spectacular. Her father was a farmer, her mother did odd jobs cleaning. God-fearing folk.’
‘It seems to have rubbed off on their daughter.’ Scamarcio scratched his palm, and studied the sheet of information Sartori had handed him. ‘The highest salary on here is 40K. And looks like it’s his current company that won’t spill?’
Sartori nodded.
Scamarcio sighed. ‘I want to see those bank records, and I want to see that salary. I want to see this giant leap of social mobility explained. I could understand it if Borghese was an entrepreneur, had his own company, but …’ he pushed a hand under his armpit, he needed to take a shower, ‘… all that for an employee. I don’t know — it may be nothing, but my instincts are trying to tell me something.’
‘You want me to ask Garramone to get his puppet dancing?’
‘No, I’ll do it. I need to see him about something else.’
‘Fucking banks,’ said Garramone, when Scamarcio was seated across from him. ‘When I was young, they treated you with respect, wanted your business. Now it’s like they’re doing you some fucking huge favour holding your cash. And all that “too big to fail” shit — what bollocks — nobody’s too big to fail.’
Garramone still looked haggard. His skin was grey and saggy, and his hair unwashed.
‘Everything OK, boss?’
‘Not exactly. But if I told you, I’d have to kill you, so let’s just leave things as they are. I’m short on detectives as it is.’
Scamarcio smiled.
‘So, you want me to get on to my buddy,’ said Garramone as he tapped at his keyboard and frowned.
‘I didn’t know you two were friends.’
‘We’re not, but that prick thinks we are. A couple of rounds of golf do not a friendship make.’
Scamarcio rubbed at an eyelid. He was bone-tired. ‘I need it as comprehensive as possible. We may need to dive back in later for something else — you know the score.’
‘I’ll ask him to give you the works. It should allow you access to Borghese’s entire banking history.’ Garramone looked at him for a moment. ‘You just want his?’
‘Let’s get the wife’s, too.’
‘Good lad. Are we just talking about bank records — I don’t want to have to go cap-in-hand a second time.’
‘Employer salaries, too. One of them’s holding out on us.’
‘Right.’
Scamarcio thought for a moment. His last major case came to his mind. It had ended with a trip to the stock exchange.
�
�Can we see if he holds other assets — shares maybe?’
‘Shares is a longer job, but certain assets are doable. I’ll add it to the request, and then we’ll take it from there.’
‘For the wife, too.’
‘For the wife, too.’
‘Hmm.’
‘What’s bothering you, Scamarcio?’
‘Borghese has a mistress.’
‘Ah.’
‘If he’s clever and he’s hiding something, he may have used her.’
‘Good thought. Give me her details, and we’ll add her to the mix. But we’ll have to stop there. It’ll start to feel like a fishing expedition otherwise, and my guy will get antsy.’
‘I thought you had his balls in your pocket.’
‘I do, but they could still slip out at any time.’
Scamarcio grimaced.
24
TOMMASO POMBENI HAD CALLED just after lunch.
‘Can you meet me? Not at my place though — there’s a café on Via Civinini. Caffè Giò. I’ll see you there in half an hour?’
‘Has something happened, Tommaso?’ Scamarcio fingered the plastic on a fresh pack of Marlboros and tried to stop thinking about Aurelia. She’d been playing on his mind all morning, and he felt guilty, but the more he tried to push any thoughts of her away, the more they persisted. Maybe it was something about being in the office — sitting at a desk allowed his mind to wander.
‘Not on an open line,’ said Pombeni dramatically. He sounded slightly breathless.
Not on an open line. Scamarcio mouthed the words silently and rolled his eyes. The boy thought he was in Miami Vice.
‘I hear you,’ said Scamarcio, gravely, deciding to embrace it. ‘I’ll see you in thirty. You’d better not be packing.’
‘Packing?’
‘Thirty minutes, Pombeni.’ Scamarcio rolled his eyes again and cut the call. Still playing with the unopened cigarette packet, he turned his attention to the document Sartori had drawn up of Borghese’s employment history. For the past twenty-five years, Borghese had worked for one pharmaceutical company after the next. He’d left Sapienza with a degree in marketing and communications, and had been taken on by an American firm called Delaware Pharmaceuticals as an intern. After six months, they’d offered him a permanent position, and he’d gone on to stay with them five years. Scamarcio made a note of the company’s name — he’d run a search on them later. He noticed that Borghese’s final salary was 65 million lire — around 35,000 euros in today’s money. Good, but not spectacular. After Delaware, Borghese had been hired by a firm called Genesis Pharmaceuticals, but had only stayed for two years. Final salary, 74 million lire — around 40K. Most of Borghese’s career had been spent with his current company, Arrow Communications, who specialised in providing marketing and media consultancy for various healthcare and pharmaceutical firms. He’d joined Arrow just before his son was born. Among the companies Arrow counted as clients were several European and US pharmaceutical businesses. Scamarcio typed the names of each of the companies into Google and had a look around.
The US firms seemed to have a presence in several European countries, including France, Italy, and Spain. They specialised in vaccines for influenza and cervical cancer, as well as drugs for epilepsy, prostate problems, and migraines. Their annual turnovers were around the 100-million mark. None of them were in the mega-league with the likes of Sanofi or GSK, but they all sat comfortably in the middle. Scamarcio searched some of the firms’ drugs, but it seemed none had featured in the news — only a few trade periodicals. He noticed that the Italian Ministry of Health had chosen one of the firms, DC Pharmaceuticals, as their key supplier for epilepsy medicines and influenza vaccines — a huge contract which had seen the DC share price soar.
Scamarcio looked away from the screen and scored a dense box around the word ‘epilepsy’. He wasn’t sure why — he just knew it had figured in the early discussions of Andrea’s condition. It probably wasn’t significant, but he found himself drawing a second frame around the word, nevertheless.
He studied the wrapped box of fags — the perfect envelope corners, the smooth glittery lettering, the sheen of his desk light playing on the plastic. He picked up the pack and slipped it back into his shirt pocket. But two seconds later, he pulled it out again and tore it open.
He looked up and realised that Sartori was watching him. ‘What number are you on?’
‘I haven’t been counting.’
‘Start. You can’t smoke around a baby.’
‘Then I’ll smoke outside.’
‘Then you’ll always be on the balcony, and your girlfriend will be inside doing all the work.’
Scamarcio inhaled, drew it deep into his lungs, waited for his synapses to sing back their response. ‘You joined women’s lib?’
Sartori gave him a pitying look, then slapped another sheet down in front of Scamarcio. ‘Ninety grand.’
‘You won the lotto?’
‘Borghese’s current salary.’
Scamarcio fell silent and cupped his nose in his hands. ‘Again, good, but not spectacular.’
‘I don’t think it can explain a 200-square-metre apartment in Parioli.’ Sartori chewed down on a nail.
‘Or a Porsche.’
‘That rat you smelled is starting to stink, Scamarcio.’
Scamarcio leaned back in his chair and swung around so he could see the window. He observed his own reflection in the glass. His face was tired and drawn, his eyes sunken. Beyond his distorted form, Via San Vitale was bleak and empty — the rain must have been keeping everyone inside.
‘How come Arrow coughed up the info?’
‘Our pervy judge has just been onto them, urging cooperation.’
‘That’s what I call good service.’
Sartori shrugged and followed Scamarcio’s gaze to the street. As if from nowhere, a hard flurry of rain hit the glass, turning the world outside into a grey blur. ‘It’s bad when you can smell the corpse, but wherever you look, you still can’t find it.’
‘That’s a recurring nightmare of mine,’ muttered Scamarcio.
Sartori eyed him with concern. ‘So, what now?’
‘Our judgeship seems on the ball. Get back onto the bank, see if he’s already ruffled their feathers. You might point out that it will look a hell of a lot better for them if they cough up the data before we slap them with an official order.’
Frog-boy was pale — well, paler than normal. There were dark rings beneath his eyes and a sprinkling of acne had broken out across his forehead. Scamarcio wondered if it was stress-related.
‘So, Tommaso, how’s it hanging?’
Pombeni took a hurried swig of Sprite and coughed when it went down the wrong way. He glanced around nervously. ‘Did you come alone?’
‘What?’
‘I asked if you came alone.’
Scamarcio leaned forward. ‘Pombeni, this is not Law and Order. Yes, I came alone.’ He sat back in his chair and pulled a Marlboro from the pack. His lighter was refusing to respond, but Frog-boy leaned forward and helpfully produced one from his pocket. Scamarcio noticed a sketch of a topless woman on the front.
When Scamarcio was good to go, the boy said quietly, ‘They threatened me.’
‘Who?’
‘Castelnuovo and that cunt friend of his, Jacobini.’
‘Threatened you how?’
‘I did as you said, tried to get Jacobini to talk a bit. After less than five minutes he calls Castelnuovo over — I hadn’t realised he was around — and goes, “This guy’s trying to make me grass on you.” That’s when all hell broke loose.’ The boy lifted up his AC/DC t-shirt — his abdomen was a mess of bruises: purple, yellow, and brown.
Scamarcio breathed in quickly, but forgot to breathe out. ‘Jesus,’ he said after a moment. Then, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m just a kid. There’s some serious shit going down, and I don’t want to find myself slap-bang in the middle of it.’
Scamarcio nodded. He was right, he needed to lift him out of this before there was blowback. But instead he said, ‘“Trying to get me to grass on you,” is an interesting choice of phrase.’
The boy shrugged. ‘I dunno if they’d be that stupid. But there’s something else.’ He was playing with a sachet of sugar, squeezing it, and the paper suddenly broke. The granules left a glittery trail on the table top.
Scamarcio frowned. ‘Go on.’
‘Just as I was about to approach Jacobini, I heard him on the phone to someone. He was trying to keep his voice down, but he was talking about Castelnuovo. He was bragging that he had him by the short and curlies — that Castelnuovo had fucked up big time, and that he had to help him out of it. Jacobini said he owned Castelnuovo. He said he’d own him for the rest of his life, and that he’d own his bastard politico parents, too. I waited for Jacobini to finish the call, hung about a few minutes and then I made my approach. But, like I say, he didn’t want to talk to me.’
‘After that call, I’m not sure he really needed to.’
Frog-boy’s lower lip drooped. For a moment, Scamarcio imagined him on a lily pad, trapping flies with his tongue. ‘Did I make a mistake?’
‘No. You did right. You have any idea who he might have been talking to?’
‘It could have been his girlfriend, Maura Valentini. He has another good friend Stefano — Stefano what-is-it?’ He looked at the ceiling, as if he hoped to find the name scrawled up there. ‘Rosati! Could have been him.’
Scamarcio’s mind whirred over the possibility of tracking them down, getting them to spill what they’d heard.
‘And when Ale Castelnuovo came over, how did he seem?’
The boy’s eyes clouded for a moment at the memory. ‘Angry, obviously.’ He fell silent for a beat. ‘But what was different was that he wasn’t his normal self. At least, he didn’t give off the usual relaxed rich-boy air that nothing or nobody could touch him. If anything, he seemed a bit worried — stirred up.’ He fell silent again, then added, ‘Perhaps even scared.’
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