The Devil

by Nadia Dalbuono

  ‘Oh, spare me the crap, Detective.’ Borghese took a long desperate drag.

  ‘What are you up to, Gennaro?’

  Borghese finished the fag and stubbed it out in an empty yoghurt pot. The bedside table was strewn with greasy sandwich cartons and crisp packets. Scamarcio spotted a pizza box on a desk. Borghese had been lying low.

  ‘I’m not up to anything. I’m just trying to get over the death of my only child. It ain’t fucking easy, believe me.’

  Scamarcio sighed. ‘You got another one of those?’

  ‘Another one of what?’

  ‘Fags.’

  ‘It’s no-smoking, like the policeman said.’

  ‘I’m the police, I can do what I like,’ said Scamarcio softly.

  Borghese reached for a packet on the bedside table and waved it at him reluctantly. Scamarcio took two and tucked one behind his ear — he was all out of Marlboros, and there’d been no time to restock. ‘You got a light?’

  ‘Next you’ll be wanting the shirt off my back.’

  ‘No, you can keep that — it looks well worn.’

  ‘I’ve had no access to a washing machine.’

  Borghese flicked his lighter, and Scamarcio closed his eyes for a moment as the nicotine hit. ‘I haven’t had Davidoff in a while,’ he said. ‘I may give them a second chance.’

  Sartori huffed and headed to the window, where he made a big show of opening it as wide as possible.

  ‘What is this? Nice cop, nasty cop?’ asked Borghese.

  ‘No, we’re both nice,’ said Scamarcio. Sartori rolled his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry about him,’ Scamarcio added.

  ‘You’ve been onto Zenox,’ said Borghese, out of nowhere.

  ‘We have,’ said Scamarcio calmly.

  ‘You’ve conducted some searches.’

  ‘We have.’

  Borghese flicked some ash from his trousers and let it fall onto the polished parquet. Scamarcio thought of the angry owner.

  ‘The game is pretty much over, then.’

  ‘It is,’ said Scamarcio, trying to sound tired rather than excited.

  ‘You got a case?’

  ‘It feels like it to me.’

  ‘You been around my place, looked through my things?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Borghese took another long drag, then hung his head. ‘Then you’ll know how it all happened.’

  Scamarcio made a mental note. There had to be something of use on Borghese’s laptop that they weren’t yet aware of.

  ‘It would be nice to hear it from you.’

  ‘Nice?’

  ‘The wrong word maybe.’

  Borghese rubbed the back of his neck, then his shoulders. ‘I haven’t slept since Andrea died. My brain is mush.’

  Scamarcio said nothing.

  ‘It’s like I can’t find any focus or steady myself. I just keep going around and around in circles.’

  Scamarcio still said nothing.

  Borghese glanced at him, then at Sartori, standing by the window. Nobody uttered a word.

  Borghese sighed and took another long suck on the cigarette. He closed his eyes.

  ‘The way it worked was that I made regular payments to the director-general of the pharmaceutical service, and to the health secretary.’ He opened his eyes again and started fidgeting with the fag packet, moving the plastic sleeve up and down, shuffling the cigarettes around.

  ‘The bribes meant that the director-general would favour the entry of some Zenox drugs into the health service. From time to time, my work would take a different form, and I was forced to use the stick rather than the carrot.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Scamarcio held a steady gaze on him and didn’t blink.

  ‘Sometimes there were certain drugs, crucial drugs, usually for cancer, that the National Health Service couldn’t do without. I had to threaten to withdraw these drugs from the market if the Health Service didn’t swallow a 1000 per cent price hike.’

  This time Scamarcio did blink.

  ‘Don’t looked so shocked, Detective — it’s common practice. I’m just a small cog in the wheel. There are plenty of others like me making sure the drug-rationing watchdogs are encouraged to lower the threshold on certain medicines. Their incentives usually arrive in the form of direct payments or renumerations for making speeches or giving advice. Zenox is just one of many who use these tricks.’ He paused and smiled tightly. ‘We have our own journalists on the outside, we have our own doctors we can rely on to tow a certain line, officials we can call on to chuck inconvenient researchers behind bars.’ He paused. ‘We pay for our own studies, of course. You see a report confirming the safety of a certain drug? You need to ask yourself who’s behind it. Often these papers are ghost-written by the pharmaceutical companies themselves.’

  The room grew quiet again. A Vespa roared past on the road below; some cats started a fight. Scamarcio could hear the uniform officer making small talk with the owner down on the patio.

  ‘How did you get involved in all this?’ Scamarcio asked eventually. ‘Where was your moral judgement?’ Sartori turned to look at him, his drawn expression warning, You’re pushing it.

  Borghese brought a palm to his mouth, as if he wanted to stop the words from coming out. ‘It all started with a drug my son was given when he was six.’

  ‘I know about it. I spoke to your brother.’

  Borghese looked surprised. Sartori looked miffed to have been left out of the loop.

  Borghese finished the last of the cigarette, but didn’t do anything with the butt, just held it aloft, as if it was the remnant of something lost. ‘When I challenged Zenox about my son’s reaction, they offered me what they termed a “lucrative side-line”, which would require me giving up just one afternoon a month. In a way, I saw it as my chance to give back to Andrea, through material things, so much of what had been denied him.’

  ‘But wouldn’t it have been better to have taken Zenox to court, held them to account? You might have helped others.’

  Borghese looked at him, his eyes full of regret.

  ‘That is all I can think, now. At the time, I did see a lawyer, but they advised me I’d never win a court case — Zenox was too big, too powerful. Zenox had already said they’d destroy me if I ever tried to go public about Andrea’s reaction or their offer — they claimed to have compromising photos of me, and I believed them. I didn’t want to lose my family. In hindsight, I think perhaps they offered me the sideline because they were worried. I know other parents had come forward, furious about adverse reactions in their kids and Zenox managed to fob them off. But I was more of a threat because I worked in the pharma sector and might have been able to stir up a bigger fuss than an outsider. I guess their logic was that if they got me involved in their deceit, I’d be too implicated to ever speak out.’ Scamarcio watched an old fear come to life in Borghese’s eyes. ‘They seemed like an all-powerful machine, and I was just one guy trying to go up against all that. I was overwhelmed, intimidated, and I didn’t think I stood a chance.’ He sighed. ‘Besides, Andrea’s medical bills were huge, and my salary was modest — we needed the extra money.’

  ‘In your letter to your wife, you said that you believe Andrea was killed as a warning?’ Scamarcio tried.

  Borghese nodded slowly. ‘I’ve become very disillusioned lately: I saw Andrea’s childhood and teenage years wasted, reduced to nothing. I regretted my decision not to pursue Zenox; I felt guilty that I’d given in so easily. Recently, I’d read about a few cases where families were winning against drug manufacturers, and I started to think I’d been too defeatist … that I should have been braver. We’d been going through a very rough patch with Andrea, and one day, something inside me snapped — I suddenly felt like no money in the world would ever make up for what had happened to our boy. I guess it was a rush-of-bloo
d-to-the-head moment. I told my contacts at Zenox that I’d be able to prove from a sample of Andrea’s bowel tissue that the stimulant had harmed him irreparably. To be honest, I wasn’t even sure this was true, but I was angry.’

  He stopped and studied his fingernails, which Scamarcio noticed were bitten to the quick. ‘In that one moment of rage, I may have condemned Andrea to death. Perhaps Zenox decided that they couldn’t have this living, breathing potential evidence walking around, so Andrea had to be disposed of. Or maybe, like I say, it was just a warning. I think their plan had been to take his body, but then one of Amato’s priests walked in and spotted them, and they were forced to make a quick exit.’

  ‘What? One of the priests was there? How do you know all this?’ asked Scamarcio.

  ‘As I was parking outside our block, I saw the priest and these two strangers, both men, running away. The priest looked petrified and kept checking over his shoulder for the men. I wanted to follow them, but obviously my instincts were urging me to get up to our apartment and make sure that Andrea was OK.’

  Scamarcio glared at Borghese in frustration and took several moments to let his anger settle. ‘Mr Borghese, why didn’t you tell me all this before?’

  Borghese shook his head tiredly. ‘I was still considering my options.’

  Scamarcio thought back to Meinero’s apparent disquiet during their interview — it now felt discordant with the picture Borghese was painting. Why hadn’t the priest just told Scamarcio what he had seen? Scamarcio couldn’t make sense of Meinero’s hesitancy if anonymous killers from the drug company were involved. Scamarcio studied his worn shoes. There was an explanation, though: maybe Meinero hadn’t understood what he’d seen and had reached his own mistaken conclusion. If he’d suspected that Cardinal Amato had had a hand in Andrea’s death, that would explain his silence. But that assumption posed a troubling new question: was there something about the killers that had made Meinero draw a connection? Scamarcio looked out at the velvet hills beyond the window, trying to imagine what Meinero could have seen. He must have doubled back in order to speak to Andrea alone.

  He became aware that Borghese was watching him, waiting. ‘Did you have any idea about your son? That he might be gay?’

  Borghese slumped back against his pillow. ‘He was? There were a few things that made me wonder, but it wasn’t something we ever discussed.’ He hung his head. ‘Maybe we should have. Maybe that was my failing — that he felt like he couldn’t talk to me.’

  Scamarcio rubbed his chin and thought about it. ‘Don’t beat yourself up. Maybe he just wanted to keep it to himself. Perhaps he wasn’t ready.’

  ‘Being a parent is so difficult,’ mumbled Borghese. ‘You feel like you never get it right, however hard you try.’ His voice grew fragile. ‘And of course, we didn’t get it right, did we? If we had, he’d still be alive.’

  ‘I don’t think Andrea’s death had anything to do with your parenting. If the murder went down as you suspect, it was your decision all those years back to throw in your lot with Zenox that was the mistake. Things could have been different there.’

  ‘Really? Living in a tiny apartment in a grim suburb — struggling to pay all the medical bills. Sure, they would have been different.’

  Scamarcio pushed his hand through the air, trying to wave away the pointless speculation. ‘Mr Borghese, my problem with all this is that, while we have some kind of picture forming about Zenox’s role in the death of your son, I can’t make sense of why Father Meinero was killed.’

  ‘If he saw something he shouldn’t have?’

  ‘Then why didn’t they deal with it at the time? Faking his suicide a day later just doesn’t make sense. It would have given him plenty of time to report the murder, and it’s too complicated.’

  Borghese just shook his head. He didn’t care about the priest, of course. Scamarcio was discussing this with the wrong person. He rose wearily from the corner of the bed and motioned Sartori to follow.

  ‘Thanks for being so open with us, Mr Borghese. You won’t be surprised to know that we have been recording your testimony.’

  Borghese just shrugged again.

  ‘This will all come to trial, you know.’

  ‘Will it? I think you’re underestimating the power of Zenox. They’ll come up with some other way to threaten me or my wife. They’ll think of something.’

  ‘Have faith. If they killed your son, the courts will find them accountable.’

  ‘And no doubt they’ll also find me accountable for bribing public officials.’

  ‘Yes. But a judge may take into account the mitigating circumstances surrounding your initial decision to cooperate with Zenox.’

  Borghese glanced up tiredly. ‘You know what, it doesn’t really matter. My son is dead. Whether I’m in prison or out, my world no longer has any meaning. I’ll be living behind bars for the rest of my life, whichever way it goes.’

  ‘Time does make a difference.’

  ‘Do you have children?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then you can’t imagine my suffering.’

  Scamarcio slumped back down on the corner of the bed. ‘From what people tell me, and I’ve encountered many grieving souls in my work, you will get used to carrying the pain around, but it doesn’t ever really go away.’ He couldn’t think of what else to say, so just extended a hand. Mr Borghese shook it weakly, as if he had nothing left to give. ‘My colleague Sartori will accompany you to the station — there are formalities we’ll need to complete there.’ He rose and placed a hand on Borghese’s shoulder. ‘I’m truly sorry for your loss, Mr Borghese.’

  Back in his car, Scamarcio cursed the decrepit heating system that took an age to warm up. He bashed it a few times, but it made no difference.

  He fished out his phone and scrolled through the contacts, looking for Meinero’s sister up in Piedmont. It was late to be calling, but he knew she was the only person left who might provide the missing pieces. There had to be something about Meinero, or Meinero and Andrea, that she hadn’t told him — something that might explain this second death.

  She sounded weary when she eventually picked up.

  ‘I’m sorry to be disturbing you at this hour.’

  ‘I was trying to get my daughter to settle.’ She paused. ‘Has something else happened?’

  ‘No — I’m just worried there are a few things I may have forgotten to ask you last time. I feel like I’m missing something important.’

  ‘You still haven’t found him, have you? Alberto’s killer?’

  ‘I may have done, but I need to be sure I’m right.’

  She drew a sharp breath. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Can we just go through the conversation you had with your brother about the cardinal’s obsession with Andrea Borghese?’

  ‘… I’ve already told you everything.’

  ‘I know it’s frustrating, but I need to hear it again — please.’

  She sighed, then began the story of the phone call once more. Scamarcio sat back and closed his eyes, ticking it all off in his head, detail by detail, trying to match it to the films of the exorcism sessions he’d seen.

  He opened his eyes. ‘Could you repeat that?’

  ‘He said something needed to be done about Amato, that someone needed to be made aware, but he didn’t know how to bring attention to it all without getting into trouble himself. Oh yeah, and then I think he said, “At least this new fixation of the cardinal’s is healthier than his usual ones.”’

  Scamarcio had been stuck on the first point, but now his interest was seized by the second. ‘Healthier? That was the word he used?’

  ‘Yes — I remember it because it seemed odd.’

  ‘Did you ask him what he meant?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. He was kind of on a roll, a bit of a rant, and then he went on to say something else, and I
didn’t interrupt. Albie was like that sometimes — if he got onto a pet subject, he would talk and talk. My role was always the listener.’ He heard the beginnings of a tremble in her voice. ‘I didn’t mind, though,’ she added quietly.

  ‘So, he never explained it further?’

  ‘No. That was our last conversation. Is it important?’

  ‘It might be.’

  Scamarcio dialled Cafaro’s mobile.

  ‘It’s past eleven,’ growled the chief inspector. Scamarcio heard liquid splashing in a glass and then Cafaro wetting his lips. ‘Is something finally happening?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Seems to me that you’re taking a hell of a long time to wind this up. I thought you were supposed to be some kind of hot shot.’

  ‘Reputations can be strange.’

  ‘What do you want, Scamarcio?’

  ‘Can I come and see you?’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘I’m at home. I was about to go to bed.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t serious.’

  Cafaro sighed. It came out as a whistle down the line. ‘OK.’ He gave Scamarcio the address. ‘Be quick. I need to be up by six.’

  40

  CAFARO LIVED IN A modest apartment on Via Tizzani in Monteverde. Scamarcio realised that he had been expecting something grander. When he entered the hallway, he noticed a load of mobility equipment: crutches, wheelchair, plastic ramps, piled along one wall. He guessed it was for the son.

  ‘Excuse the mess,’ said Cafaro, waving a tumbler at him. ‘I’m enjoying a Scotch. Will you have one?’

  Scamarcio smiled, surprised at the courtesy. ‘Thanks, Cafaro. Don’t mind if I do.’

  Cafaro entered the small living room and motioned Scamarcio to a battered sofa. As he sat down, he saw that the wooden coffee table was flecked with paint, crayon, and bits of plasticine.

  ‘So, what’s happened?’ said Cafaro as he passed him the drink. ‘You have that predatory look a cop gets when he’s about to nail it.’

  Scamarcio took a swig of the Scotch. It was good.