The two women shook their heads while others in the group sighed. ‘What tree did you fall out of?’ said Maria. ‘Questions are bad for business.’
Scamarcio sensed his time was up, but knew that Maria was holding out on him — maybe not because she didn’t want to talk, but maybe because she didn’t want to talk here. He pulled out a few business cards.
‘If you remember anything, please give me a call. Any time.’
‘Any time?’ one of them tittered.
The blonde flipped the card, and frowned. ‘What’s this about? Has something happened to Max?’
His eyes met theirs as he pulled up his collar against the wind, tightening his scarf about his neck. But he said nothing and just turned, saluting them gently as he left. The huddle fell silent.
5
The dog was completely still now. Marco Moltisanti sat on some rocks, drawing patterns in the sand with the bloodied stick. His little brother was some way away, skimming stones across the water. He could still hear its whimpers, its howls; he could still feel the full force of Marco’s punch when he’d tried to stop him. It was the end of September. There was a slight chill in the breeze, a hardness to the sand, a silence in the birds that spelled the close of summer. He knew that this day marked the end of something: something that had been inside him but had left; something that was never coming back.
Scamarcio slept fitfully that night, his dreams troubled by strange creatures: half-man, half-woman, faces distorted to a bloody mess, eyes missing. He had called off his date for Saturday evening. He figured that breaking it up early to go and visit some transgender hookers was probably worse than cancelling. He’d need to make it right, though. He needed a second life to distract him — needed it like air.
He opened the blinds and got back into bed. He observed the milky sunlight soak its way through the brickwork of the building opposite, and watched a couple of pigeons stand in companionable silence on the ledge above, surveying the ant-like activity of human life below. He longed for a joint. If there was still a point in going over to the bookshelf, extracting the tin, flipping the lid, and lighting up, he’d now be enjoying the calm sweep over him: the sweetness, the rest, the emptiness of the moment. But the cupboard was bare: there was nothing in the house — his attempt at some kind of self-preservation. He sank back into the pillows, studying the ceiling and its intricate rings of damp. He wasn’t sure how long he could maintain this particular battle of the will — it was tougher than he had anticipated.
He went into the kitchen and made a coffee, and then lifted the newspaper from under the door. La Repubblica had a small piece on Ganza on page five. They said he had gone to a secret location for a period of rest and reflection following the recent death of his beloved mother, Alessandra. It was expected that he would return to parliament soon. Not bad being a politician, he thought — not only were they the highest-paid MPs in Europe, but they could just take time off whenever they wanted. He wondered how many workers at Fiat could take a proper break following the death of a relative.
He sat at the kitchen table and sipped the coffee. How long would the PM be able to keep this out of the papers? Was he really that powerful? He found it hard to believe that every editor in the land had been persuaded not to run with this story. He was no journalist, but to him it seemed that a married father of three found with young rentboys was a pretty good tale as it was, and the fact that he just happened to be foreign secretary gave it a nice spin, particularly in the current political climate. Surely la Repubblica would have given their back teeth to sock it to the PM and the cabinet? Nothing made sense any more.
His mobile rang and he gave a start, his coffee spilling across the table and soaking the edges of the newspaper. He had a feeling it might be Aurelia complaining about having been stood up the night before, but wasn’t sure that was her style. He also didn’t know whether he wanted to talk to her or not. He hadn’t quite worked out how he felt about her — whether he wanted this one to go the distance, or just stumble on for another few dates.
The bass on the other end of the line told him it wasn’t her.
‘Scamarcio, Filippi. Got something for you.’
‘You working Sundays now?’
‘Shitty new rota — two weekends a month. I get Monday and Tuesday off, but that’s a fat lot of good when the kids are at school. I never see them.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I’m angling for a transfer. The wife’s breaking my balls.’
Scamarcio heard the scratching of a pen. Filippi took a slurp of something: it came out too loud down the line.
‘What you got for me?’
‘Yeah, your boytoy …’ There was a question, a hint of curiosity, in his tone. Scamarcio smelt danger.
‘Seems like your lad was mugged a week before he died — had his rucksack stolen, and with it his mobile phone and house keys.’
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘Wish I were, Scamarcio. Wish I were.’
Scamarcio thought about the memory card. Had it been in the bag? Had it been another reason for the theft? Instead he said, ‘How did you hear about it?’
‘He visited the precinct. I found out when I put his name into the system, looking for ‘Previous’. He’d come in to report the theft. The desk sergeant remembers him. Well, you would, wouldn’t you — all that mincing. Says he was very upset; lots of tears.’
‘Did he give a description of the mugger?’
‘Didn’t give us much — it was late at night, near his place. Two of them, apparently, well built, both in balaclavas. Roman accents.’
‘Any chance I could have a look at the report?’
‘No problem. I’ll put it up on the network.’
Scamarcio felt his nerves triggered, like someone had broken the electric current surrounding his defences. ‘Can you email it? I’m out the office for the next few days.’
‘No worries.’ Filippi paused for a beat. ‘What’s all this about? It seems odd to me you’re interested in a dead renter on my patch. Even odder that he’s a dead renter who just happens to have been mugged.’
Scamarcio laughed gently. ‘Oh, it’s nothing. Just something I said I’d follow up for a friend. He knew the vic, and wanted to know what happened to him.’
‘Strange friends you have.’
There was a shout — an indication of sudden movement — from somewhere in the background of Filippi’s office. It sounded like something was going down in Sunday-morning Trastevere.
‘Scamarcio, I’ve got to go. One other thing: check out the neighbours, if you want. There’s another one of them in the flat above. Came down to find me last time I was there, crying and wailing, but I didn’t have the time, so I just put her on the backburner. If you want to talk to her, you’d be doing me a favour getting her off my back. Name was Sanchez, or something like that.’
What did he mean by ‘another one of them’? But Filippi had already hung up.
6
WHATEVER HAD BEEN going down in Trastevere was a long way from Arthur’s street. The alleyway was quiet. There was a bar on the corner, and Scamarcio caught a warm waft of coffee grounds and fresh baking over the usual undercurrent of decaying sewage pipes and stale alcohol. Through the window he spied a couple of old guys at the counter and an even older guy behind the bar. Sky News was on mute in the background: the PM was dressed down in casual clothes, showing Putin around Portofino — another uncomfortable alliance in Europe.
The door to Arthur’s building was locked. He scanned the buzzers and found a Santa, but not Sanchez. He tried it, but there was no response. He tried again, and eventually a voice came on.
‘Who is it?’
‘I’m from the police, a colleague of Mr Filippi. He sent me to see you. Is it OK if I come up?’
There was a pause.
&nb
sp; ‘I’m sorry, I’m not dressed. I just need five minutes.’
Instinct kicked in. Perhaps she was having second thoughts — maybe she wanted to flee?
‘That’s OK. I can wait in the sitting room while you get dressed. It’s cold down here.’
A sigh: ‘Second floor.’ The voice was low and gravely, and Scamarcio got it then: Filippi had meant another gay man, this time a trans. The door buzzed open and he pushed his way in. Old cigarette smoke coated the air, and he saw the police tape flicker in the draught from downstairs as he passed Arthur’s doorway. The body was gone now, safely in the morgue waiting for the ME. The ME was next on Scamarcio’s list, but he didn’t know how to work it — it really would be a breach of protocol as far as Filippi was concerned.
Miss Santa was waiting for him on the second floor, wrapped in a tired-looking kimono, its red and green silk depicting a lizard poised to strike. She extended a hand. Her eyes, ringed and puffy, still bore traces of last night’s make-up, and her dark hair was dried out and broken yet greasy at the roots. Scamarcio would have put her at over forty, and would have been in no doubt as to her original gender.
‘I’m sorry that you catch me like this. I worked late last night.’
She headed back into the flat, and Scamarcio followed. He caught a blast of perfume, newly applied.
She gestured him to a sofa in the centre of a large room. Exposed beams lined the ceiling, and diamond windows looked out onto the street, just as Arthur’s had done. It was a nice apartment, tastefully decorated: he took in line drawings in silver frames, expensive upholstery, silk scatter cushions. The apartment didn’t match its owner, somehow, and he wondered how she could afford it. Rents in Trastevere were high. He wondered how someone as young as Arthur had afforded it.
‘Please make yourself at home — I won’t be a moment.’ She retreated into a back bedroom. Again, it had the same layout as Arthur’s place.
He noticed some photos on a bookshelf, and walked over to take a closer look: there was a huddle of young people, a family, all from somewhere in Latin America maybe, with palm trees in the background and brightly painted houses. There were also a couple of portraits of a teenage boy, with something familiar in his features — maybe he was a brother or a nephew. He couldn’t find Miss Santa in the pictures.
She was back in the room now, her hair scraped back into a ponytail, her face clean, dressed down in jogging pants and a sweatshirt. She had tied a silk scarf around her neck, but he didn’t understand why — it had nothing to do with what she was wearing.
‘Can I get you anything to drink?’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks — all dosed up on coffee already.’
She smiled tightly and sat down carefully on an armchair facing him, as if she were a guest in her own home. He noticed that her hands were smooth and well manicured. The nail polish was a subtle colour, almost nude, not the garish red he had seen on the girls from the night before.
‘Detective Filippi says you came to speak with him when he was in the apartment downstairs.’
She looked to the left, towards the window, as if sensing the presence of a spirit below.
‘I was in quite a state. I probably wasn’t making much sense, so I can’t blame him for not listening. I think he was in a hurry, and needed to leave.’
‘He asked me to apologise. He was called away on another case. I want to assure you that we are very interested in whatever you can tell us about Arthur.’
The woman sighed, and smoothed one hand inside the other. Her eyes were still fixed on the window.
‘It’s such an awful thing. He was so good.’
Good at what, he wondered, or in what way good?
‘Had you known him long?’
She turned her head slowly and let her eyes meet his. But he could tell that this was unnatural for her — she was shy, and would have preferred to look away.
‘Me and Arthur, or Max, as he used to be known, we go back a bit. We both used to work in a club in Magliana, a kind of cabaret place. I served behind the bar, and Arthur was one of the dancers. It was a grim place, after hours, all-male clientele.’
‘How old was he?’
‘He never told me, although I asked several times. He just said something about being in his early twenties. He always boasted that he looked good for his age.’
‘Did you sense he might be younger?’
She looked down for a moment. ‘In the beginning, perhaps. Then I think I kind of forgot about it. He seemed very mature for a teenager, so I figured he was probably telling the truth.’ She paused. ‘It’s very hard to tell peoples’ ages sometimes.’
‘Do you think they suspected he might be underage at the club?’
She responded with a fragile laugh, almost a sigh: ‘I doubt very much they cared.’
Scamarcio smiled. ‘How long were you both there?’
‘I arrived a while before he did and stayed on after he left, but we kept in touch. We used to look out for each other.’ She swept her arms around her. ‘It was Arthur who arranged this apartment for me.’
He tried to conceal his surprise. He surveyed the room once more, appreciatively, slowly. ‘It seems like a very nice place — it must cost you a fortune.’
She waved the thought away. ‘I don’t have to worry about the rent. Arthur saw to that.’ Her gaze fell to her lap — maybe she was reflecting on her sudden change of circumstance.
He couldn’t square it away. How could Arthur afford to pay one rent in Trastevere, let alone two?
‘He must have had a good job.’
‘He never talked with me about his work. He only stayed at Il Lupo — the cabaret place — two months, and then he said he couldn’t make ends meet and needed to find something better. I had a feeling he’d gone on the street. I think he’d got an intro at the bar — customers wanting more, you know? He probably realised it was a way to make more money more quickly, so figured it was worth taking up.’ She paused. ‘But, like I say, he never discussed it with me. After Il Lupo we stayed friends, saw each other often, and I guess I kind of became like a mother figure to him, being that much older. Also, we’re both from Argentina, so it gave us that link to home, you know.’ She tailed off, lost in another thought. ‘But he never discussed his work with me. Never.’
‘Arthur was from La Quiaca, right?’
‘That’s what he told me. But I don’t think he was close to his folks — there was a falling out with his father, and his mother had to take sides, and it was all downhill from there. Arthur left when he was 17, went to Buenos Aires, found work in a bar. Then he fell in love with an Italian, and ended up here.’
‘The Italian, you have a name?’
‘Only a first name: Fabio, I think. But he didn’t talk about him much. It ended just a few months after he arrived — ended quite badly. They were no longer on speaking terms.’
‘How old was Fabio?’
‘Mid-thirties.’
‘Was he happy to be dating someone so much younger?’
Ms Santa arched an eyebrow. ‘I imagine so. That’s not why they split, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Well, it’s not the usual choice.’
Her gaze was cool. ‘Maybe not for you, detective, but it drives some people wild.’ The words were neutral and matter-of-fact — there was no outrage. Ms Santa seemed too tired and worn-out for that, as if life had dealt her too many bad hands.
‘Why did they split?’
‘Fabio cheated on him. Broke his heart.’
Scamarcio let that sink in for a second, wondering if a betrayal like that might push you onto the street.
‘Were there any other boyfriends in his life? Anyone you knew of?’
She shook her head. ‘He was always working and, when he wasn’t, he was sleeping. He never spoke to m
e about lovers — there never seemed to be anyone special.’
‘And you have no idea what line of work he could have been in to afford to pay two rents in Trastevere?’
‘He wasn’t paying the rents. He owns both apartments.’
Scamarcio lost his breath for a moment. By his reckoning, that was well over a million euros of real estate.
‘I don’t think you make that much money working the streets,’ he said, searching Ms Santa’s face for some kind of answer.
‘You don’t. If you did, I’d be doing it.’
She looked away, losing her gaze to the window once again. He sensed that she knew something more and was deliberating whether to share it.
‘His parents weren’t wealthy?’
‘No, and after the row with his father they wouldn’t have given him a cent anyway.’
She fell silent again, her eyes off to one side, like Princess Diana in that famous TV interview.
‘So you don’t have any idea how you come to be living in a rent-free apartment in Trastevere?’
She sighed and got up from her seat. ‘I need a drink. You sure you don’t want anything?’
‘Quite sure.’
He followed her retreating back as she headed for the kitchen. It lay behind a wide annexe that opened onto an oak table and chairs. He caught a glimpse of stainless-steel cabinets and expensive tiling. He heard the clinking of glasses, liquid being poured, and ice broken, and then she was back again with a tumbler of something clear — maybe water, maybe vodka.
She reclaimed the seat opposite and started taking tentative sips, as if she wasn’t quite sure whether she wanted the drink after all. They sat in silence for several moments.
‘I think he had a patron,’ she said eventually. Scamarcio’s thoughts had been elsewhere.
‘A patron?’ Perhaps her Italian was letting her down. The word didn’t quite make sense to him.
‘A sponsor — someone who looked after him, gave him money.’
He leaned forward slightly, trying to lock eye contact. ‘He or she must have been a very generous sponsor.’
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