‘How old was he when you first noticed it?’
‘The change happened at around six years old — that’s when his behaviour became very erratic and he started to show a lot of aggression towards us, as well as himself.’
‘Do you think the two things could be connected?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s hard to know — like I say, they appeared about the same time. That’s as much as I can tell you, really.’
There was the same evasive quality again, a hesitancy behind her eyes that made Scamarcio wonder. It didn’t feel as if she was lying to him, exactly. More like she might be lying to herself. But why?
He tried a smile. ‘Thanks for your time, Katia. I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything.’
‘Please do,’ she said, turning away quickly.
But he’d already seen the tears.
It felt odd to be heading up to Calcata again so soon after the last time. Scamarcio relived for a moment the events of last summer, and a small shiver ran through him. The stress of those thirty-six hours was something he hoped never to experience again. He thought of Alessandro Romanelli in his new position as head of the country’s foreign intelligence service and smiled. Who would have thought that threadbare hippy harboured such an interesting secret?
Soon, the jumbled red and brown rooftops of the village came into view, tiny windows winking in the sun like glass beads. From a distance, it seemed as if the houses grew out of the wall itself — as if the entire village was a living, breathing organism, a rejection of that other world that began in the valley below.
Scamarcio parked the car and made the steep climb to the square. He thought of the laptop and USB sticks he’d deposited on Negruzzo’s desk before leaving. He hoped Negruzzo would get to them quickly. Scamarcio could sense that he’d reached that point in the case when he needed to maintain momentum; if he slowed, or hesitated, he might lose that fleeting first glimpse of an answer before it coalesced. With his mind working that theme, he dialled Manetti for the third time that day. He still hadn’t managed to speak to the chief CSI in person.
‘Ah, finally,’ sighed Scamarcio when he picked up.
‘I’m not your personal consultant, Scamarcio. I also work for other people. Many other people.’
Scamarcio closed his eyes and let the comment pass. ‘OK, but I have an important question — and only you will do.’
‘Knock yourself out,’ sighed Manetti. ‘And you better not be badgering me again about the DNA comp. I’m doing the best I can in difficult circumstances — they’re as slow as fuck down there this week.’
Scamarcio muttered ‘Shit’ under his breath. The DNA comparison between Meinero and Andrea’s corpses should have been in days ago.
He struggled to push his frustration aside. ‘You know that young guy — the CSI on the scene when we got to the hotel room for the dead priest?’
‘Yeah, bright spark.’
‘You know how the ring and watch were already bagged when we arrived? Would he have taken them off the body?’
‘God, no. He’d know better than to do that. It’s the first page of the textbook.’
‘You sure?’
‘Absolutely. Anyway, I remember his report — the ring and watch were on a bedside table, along with the wallet and other stuff. I’ve also seen the crime-scene photos that show them lying there.’
‘Right,’ said Scamarcio breathing out slowly. ‘I need you to do me a favour.’
‘Another one?’
Scamarcio couldn’t think of what the first favour had been. ‘Can you go take a look at that ring? Can you see if there’s a watermark or an engraving of any kind? If so, can you send me a photo?’
‘Is that all?’ Manetti asked, the sarcasm plain.
‘Yes, that’s all. I need it as soon as possible.’
Manetti just tutted and hung up.
Scamarcio slipped his phone into his pocket and studied the piece of paper Katia Borghese had given him. She’d written that her brother-in-law lived on a tiny street behind the church in a house with a bright-red door. Scamarcio soon spotted the door beneath a dense wall of ivy. Running to its right was a steep stone staircase leading to an upper floor. The house, like so many of the others in Calcata, looked as if it might topple over at any moment.
Scamarcio knocked loudly three times before a gravelly voice said, ‘Come in.’
Scamarcio pushed the heavy door and entered what appeared to be a small consulting room. In one corner was a desk with an Anglepoise lamp, two chairs either side. Against the other wall of the narrow room stood a bed covered with a disposable paper sheet. The exposed stone walls were lined with books and jars and boxes of various shapes and colours. A variety of intricate Indian rugs covered the terracotta floors, and the air smelled faintly of incense and oranges. Scamarcio noticed a tall man crouching awkwardly before one of the book shelves. He was running his finger along the spines, looking for something.
‘Corrado Borghese?’ Scamarcio asked, pulling out his badge.
The man turned, and his eyebrows formed a small arc of surprise as he took in the police ID. He rose to his feet, and Scamarcio noticed that he seemed slightly taller than his twin. But if you took away the beard, this would have been the only difference: they might have been the same man. Scamarcio wondered for a moment if he was being played. Then he told himself that Gennaro couldn’t have grown a full beard in such a short space of time.
‘You seem surprised. I take it Katia didn’t ring ahead.’ Scamarcio extended a hand, and the man shook it politely, confusion troubling his brow. He smoothed his beard with long tanned fingers.
‘Oh, I did speak with her this morning. But she didn’t mention you. I just got back from trekking in Nepal.’ He paused and looked at the terracotta beneath his feet, downcast. ‘Then the world caved in. You’re here about my nephew, I take it?’
‘Yes,’ said Scamarcio, glancing towards the desk. ‘Would you mind if we had a chat?’
The man followed his gaze and said, ‘Of course.’ He shuffled to the front door and removed a sign from the back. ‘I’ll just shut up shop for a second. I didn’t really feel like opening anyway — heart’s not in it.’
Once he had placed the sign, he said, ‘Let’s talk on the patio. It’s a bit more convivial, and I could do with some air.’
‘Could I see your identity card first? It’s police procedure,’ Scamarcio lied.
The man walked over to an empty-looking backpack propped against the far wall. A few items were scattered around it in stages of unpacking — Scamarcio spotted a compass, a silver thermos, and several brightly coloured ropes. Borghese pulled out a plastic wallet from the front of the pack and showed Scamarcio the ID. He scanned it: Corrado Borghese. Same date of birth as his brother. Same place of birth, too. Scamarcio had noted Gennaro Borghese’s date of birth when he’d first learned it as it was the same day as Scamarcio’s father’s — albeit some twenty years later.
‘OK,’ he said, satisfied.
Corrado Borghese smiled tiredly and led him through a narrow kitchen, which opened onto a patio with a small wooden table and two iron chairs. It was covered by a gazebo. The patio ended abruptly at a crumbling wall, beneath which Scamarcio glimpsed a sheer drop to the Treja Valley below.
‘Spectacular view,’ he said.
‘Spectacularly scary. I worry the wall might give in at any moment.’
Scamarcio had been thinking the same thing. Corrado Borghese motioned him to a chair. ‘Can I get you anything, Detective?’
Scamarcio waved the offer away. ‘That’s kind, but I’ve just had my fifth coffee of the day.’
Corrado Borghese grimaced as he took a seat. ‘You know it’s poison? The only coffee I drink is made from orzo and chicory.’
‘Mr Borghese, I fear if I relayed my daily diet to you, you’d be appalled.’
‘Better to ditc
h the junk now than go through chemo in your sixties.’
‘That’s bleak.’
‘Why is there so much cancer around? Because we’re all eating shit. Cut out plain flour, sugar, dairy, and meat, and I guarantee you, you’ll live a long life. Simple.’
‘That doesn’t leave much I can eat.’
‘It leaves a lot.’ Corrado Borghese sighed. ‘But that’s not why you’re here.’
‘That’s not why I’m here,’ Scamarcio echoed.
‘I’m very worried about Gennaro.’
‘Have you heard from him?’
‘He called me when I was in Nepal, but I only picked up his messages the day before yesterday — just before I was due to fly.’ He paused. ‘I feel so guilty not to have been there for him.’
‘Are you close?’
Corrado Borghese nodded. ‘We usually talk every day.’
‘In the messages, how did he seem?’
‘Well, devastated obviously.’ Borghese slowly scratched at his temple, as if he still couldn’t believe what had happened. ‘But you know, Gennaro, he … well, Gennaro …’ He stopped. The words wouldn’t come.
‘It’s OK, Mr Borghese. We have plenty of time,’ said Scamarcio, not at all sure that they did.
Corrado Borghese took a deep breath. ‘He sounded a bit off, a bit crazed, if I’m honest. Not his usual rational self. But I guess, shit, his son had just died …’
‘What made him sound crazed to you?’
Borghese’s gaze moved off to the side as he thought it through. ‘He was talking about retribution, you see. He kept saying he’d get his revenge. But, you know, he didn’t specify any details — who, why, where, etc. He just spoke in generalities.’
‘So, you have no idea who your brother might hold responsible for his son’s death?’
Corrado Borghese shook his head sadly. ‘I don’t, no. That’s the problem.’ He paused. ‘I was going to head straight to his apartment from the airport — I was concerned. But I couldn’t reach him, and then Katia told me he’s in Frascati, but no one can track him down. It’s not like him to fall off the radar, especially with me. I figure he doesn’t want me involved in whatever it is he’s up to; he doesn’t want me around.’
Scamarcio rubbed his stubble. ‘Yeah, Katia also suspects he might try to put some kind of plan into motion, but she doesn’t know what, either.’
‘And you still have no idea where he is exactly?’ asked Borghese as if the fault somehow lay with the police. It probably does, reflected Scamarcio.
‘Once he arrived in Frascati, the trail went cold. Do you have relatives there? Or does he have friends there?’
Corrado’s face was expressionless. ‘I can’t think of anyone.’ He sighed. ‘God, why does he have to be so impulsive? He’s been like that since we were kids. I’d think things through; he’d just act then deal with the consequences later.’
‘And you chose such different careers too …?’
Borghese shrugged. ‘I started out in general medicine, actually, then turned to homeopathy a bit later.’
‘Did you and Gennaro ever argue about it? The whole homeopathy versus chemical medicines thing?’
‘No, not really.’ Borghese shrugged again. ‘Gennaro is in marketing. I never got the feeling he was that invested in the medical science behind it — it’s just a job for him.’
‘You two surprise me a bit,’ said Scamarcio. ‘For twins, you aren’t much alike …’
‘Then I take it you’ve not met many — sure, there’s the physical similarity, but it often ends there.’
Scamarcio pulled out his notebook and flicked through several pages — not because he was looking for something, but because he needed a few seconds to plot an approach. ‘Did you know your nephew well?’ he asked. ‘Were you close?’
Corrado nodded slowly. The sadness was like a mist descending: it had started soft and subtle, but now seemed to grow thick and dense around him. Scamarcio feared it might become impenetrable.
‘I’ve never married and don’t have children of my own. Andrea filled that vacuum — we’d spend weekends together, go camping when his parents needed a break, that sort of thing.’
‘And his mood swings didn’t bother you?’
Borghese waved the comment away as if it were inconsequential. ‘He didn’t have many with me and …’ — he took a long breath — ‘… when he did, I just gave him space. I didn’t really react. To me, it seemed as if Andrea felt caged — we just needed to unlock the door, let him vent as much as he needed.’ He opened his palms, as if it was all very simple.
Scamarcio had been about to ask what Corrado thought of the decision to approach the church, but his mind had snagged on something else. ‘You have medical experience, Mr Borghese. Do you have any thoughts on what might have caused Andrea’s illness?’
Corrado Borghese looked up quickly from the fog of sadness and stared at Scamarcio. ‘Haven’t they told you?’
‘Told me?’
Borghese swung his head from side to side, disbelieving. ‘No fucking way — all these years …’
‘Sorry …’
Borghese leaned forward on the creaky iron chair, which made a precarious scraping sound against the stone. ‘Andrea was given medication for ADHD as a small child. Some idiot my brother worked for at the pharmaceutical company recommended it. Andrea had been a very difficult kid, agitated, moody, aggressive, distracted. Katia was at her wits’ end. So, they gave him a stimulant, methylphenidate. He was six years old, and after that,’ Borghese clicked his fingers, ‘Andrea changed. He became much worse. Tics, mania, delusions. The tragedy was that they kept him on those meds for over two years. The quack of a doctor, again recommended by the same arsehole at the pharmaceutical company, told them they needed to stick with it, but any idiot could tell that the drug was the problem. It was new, I believe. They did go on to try other stimulants, but the damage had already been done, and they just seemed to exacerbate his condition. I firmly believe that first drug, followed by all the others, caused Andrea long-term damage.’
‘Was he still taking any of those stimulants when he died?’
‘I think they stopped a few years ago, but, if you ask me, it was way too late by then. There was no going back for Andrea.’
‘The side-effects from these drugs — do you think they might be misconstrued as demonic possession?’
Borghese opened his palms. ‘But, of course. It was idiocy to approach the church. Aggression, agitation, psychosis, delusions, mania, motor or vocal tics — these are all very well-known collateral effects of methylphenidate. And they’re also all on the list for your average possession syndrome. Gennaro knew that — he’s no fool. But I guess he and Katia had grown desperate; they’d tried everything and none of it had worked.’
‘I’ve watched some videos of Andrea’s exorcism sessions, and I have to say that they seemed to have a calming effect on him. I don’t know how to explain it.’
‘There’s no hidden mystery there, Detective. He was just exhausted. These episodes are draining: highly physically demanding. In the end the “possessed”’ — he made two quotation marks with his fingers — ‘can’t go on. The body has to rest.’
Scamarcio fell silent for a moment as he took it all in. ‘Why didn’t your brother tell me Andrea had been given these drugs?’ he asked eventually.
Borghese passed a hand across his mouth then down his beard, as if he wanted to rub the whole thought away. ‘Because he doesn’t want to admit it. He knows he made a mistake, and he just can’t face it.’ He paused. ‘But, if you ask me, some fault lies with Katia, too. She didn’t want to be stuck at home with a difficult kid, and she put pressure on Gennaro to fix the problem.’
‘Understandable, I guess,’ said Scamarcio. ‘I mean, what would you have done in their position? Could Andrea really just have been left untreat
ed?’
Corrado didn’t hesitate. ‘I think the outcome would have been far better for him. With the right environment and the right stimuli, he could have lived a much more satisfying life. And who’s to say he wouldn’t have grown out of those symptoms eventually — they may not have been permanent.’
Scamarcio thought about all the years Andrea had been medicated. All the damage done. ‘Couldn’t Gennaro have sought compensation from the manufacturers?’ he asked.
‘That whole thing is like trying to enter Kafka’s Schloss. It’s very hard, if not impossible, to prove liability.’
Scamarcio wondered for a moment if Corrado’s personal beliefs were clouding his judgement, then he thought back to the strange sensation he’d had earlier that Katia had been lying to herself about something.
‘Did you ever talk to your brother about this?’ he asked.
‘I tried to — once. He became extremely angry and said he never wanted to see me again. After that, I didn’t dare broach the subject.’
Scamarcio nodded and made a pointless note on his pad. A shape was starting to form, but it remained shadowy and oblique. ‘You ever heard of a company called Zenox Pharmaceuticals?’
Corrado considered it. ‘I don’t think so …’
‘We believe your brother may have been involved in trying to bribe officials at the Ministry of Health to license and buy certain drugs made by Zenox.’
Corrado Borghese’s face seemed to fold in on itself. But a few seconds later, the shock was followed by something else: a kind of dawning realisation. He covered his eyes with his hands and said nothing for a long time. Scamarcio heard someone on the street shout, ‘See you later.’
‘No,’ Corrado finally whispered.
Scamarcio shifted in the uncomfortable chair. ‘What’s going on, Mr Borghese?’
All at once, Corrado Borghese was on his feet and heading back into the house. ‘I need to make a call.’ He shuffled inside, and Scamarcio followed, worried that Borghese might be about to make a run for it. But instead, he stopped at his desk and quickly began flicking through a Rolodex, which seemed to hold various business cards. He stopped at one and recited the number out loud as he picked up his desk phone and dialled.
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