Ms Santa nodded slowly and pulled at the dry tips of her hair scraped into the ponytail. ‘He never told me this, you understand. It was just a feeling I had. I got the sense that if I asked too much, it would all be over — that if I wanted to keep this place, I had to accept the way things were, and not pry.’ She paused. ‘So I never asked, and he never told, and it all ticked over just fine.’ She paused again. ‘Until now.’
7
He stands on the terrace of the villa near Radda. It is the end of summer, and only the smallest wisp of red still clings to the horizon. As the light bleeds from the sky, he feels the day’s heat rise up from the earth, and hears the gentle murmur of the cypresses as they shift in the breeze. He is reluctant to go inside; he would prefer to stand here longer, tasting the air, swimming awhile in the musk of roses, the scent of Mediterranean pine.
From inside, Lucioli shouts: ‘I think they’re here. There are cars on the drive.’
As if in confirmation, he hears the crunch of tyres on gravel, the slam of doors. He wills himself inside.
Lucioli is standing in the light, drink in hand.
‘You sure this makes sense?’ he asks him for the third time that day.
‘The banks are on our backs, Pino. Of course it makes sense. We need cash; they need a home. It’s what they call a symbiotic relationship.’
‘But it’s afterwards I’m worried about — the repercussions.’
Lucioli sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. ‘Without these guys, there is no afterwards.’
The door opens, and two men step into the room. He feels his breath catch, feels it freeze in his lungs.
‘I bet you never thought you’d see us again.’
They move towards him, almost in sync, but he just stands motionless, suddenly severed from the world.
Uninvited, they put their arms around him, enfolding him in an iron embrace. ‘Pino, our Pino.’
Lucioli says afterwards that he looked like he’d seen a ghost.
‘I NEED TO speak to Ganza.’
‘That’s not possible,’ said the chief. He sounded tired and depressed, as though he wanted to escape — to take the car and get the hell out of Italy.
‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s not to be disturbed. Besides, he’s in the retreat. We can’t just go waltzing in.’
Scamarcio felt a knot of anger burn in his gut. ‘You know that’s not how these things work!’ Was the chief losing it? For now, Ganza was their chief suspect; their only suspect.
‘Don’t talk to me like that.’
He took a breath, trying to count to five. ‘It’s just that he’s crucial to the whole investigation.’ Then, as an afterthought: ‘Obviously.’
‘But he was in the retreat when Arthur died.’
It was as if Garramone had forgotten his training, and Scamarcio was there to drag him back to rational reality. ‘For all we know, he could have hired some guys to take him out.’
‘But why would the prime minister call me if that’s what he suspected? Surely he’d try to keep that quiet?’
‘Maybe he has no idea.’
Both of them fell silent for a moment.
‘Where are you phoning from?’ The chief sounded alarmed.
‘The car.’
‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘What?’
‘Shut up. Meet me in the usual place in an hour.’ Garramone hung up, and the empty line echoed back at him. Scamarcio felt suddenly hollow. He was getting tired of this. He couldn’t spend his life going up and down to Via Nazionale, couldn’t spend his life lying to his colleagues.
The chief was waiting for him in the flat. There was no suit, today being Sunday — just a worn jumper and some dirty mustard cords. Scamarcio wouldn’t have thought his wife would allow him to go out like that; on the few occasions he had seen her, she was buttoned down and immaculate. Garramone pushed a package across the table towards him, saying nothing. A quick glance told Scamarcio that it contained a new mobile phone and SIM card.
‘I don’t want our conversations to be overheard,’ said the chief. ‘I’ve been told not to trust the normal lines. I should have given this to you when we started.’
Scamarcio took a seat. There was an overwhelming heaviness in his bones. He didn’t like the way this thing was progressing. Worse, he had a feeling that it couldn’t end well for either of them.
‘Seems like Arthur had a benefactor.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I talked to a friend of his who lives upstairs: it appears that someone bought him two apartments in Trastevere. The friend lives in the other flat.’
Garramone pulled out a seat and sank into it. He crossed one leg over the other, and then uncrossed it.
‘Did the friend know who?’
‘Says he never told.’
‘And your money is on Ganza?’
‘Well, it’s a possibility.’
‘It’s a possibility but he’s out of bounds for now. The PM was insistent — says that he made a marital indiscretion, and that’s as far as it goes.’
‘So what is the prime minister looking for, exactly? Does he know who’s behind this death?’ Scamarcio got up and started pacing. ‘And if he does, why did he bother to call you?’
The chief sighed, and yawned. The skin around his eyes was tight; it looked bruised. ‘He knows nothing — that’s why he called. But he clearly doesn’t put Ganza in the frame, for various reasons, and not just the retreat.’ He paused, leant forward a little, pushed the palms of his hands together.
‘Look, just see where you get with these other lines, and then we can think about taking it back to Ganza. But I don’t want to do it just yet, not now.’
Scamarcio’s mind turned on Garramone’s new position. Was what they were doing even legal? Could the PM really get a detective to do his bidding, unbeknownst to the chief of police? Was it even constitutional? He paused. Maybe the chief of police already knew about all this. It would be so much better for the both of them if he did.
Scamarcio used the new mobile to call Forensics on his way home. Lately, everyone seemed to be working at the weekends, so there was a chance that Manetti would pick up.
‘What do you want?’ He sounded like he hadn’t slept since they’d last met, which was always possible.
‘Why does everyone seems to work Sundays now?’
‘Need the overtime — the basic is so shitty.’
‘I hear the same story from everybody.’
‘You ask me, we all need to leave, get the hell out. This country has no future: we’re broke, we no longer produce anything useful, and we’ve got a bunch of corrupt cretins in charge.’ Manetti paused for breath. ‘The wife wants to go to Australia; she says the kids would have better prospects.’
‘She could be right.’
‘I know but, hell, it’s a big step. Got a 90-year-old mother living alone in Ostia — you know how it is.’
They both said nothing for a moment, pondering the options.
‘So I guess you’re calling about Filippi’s dead hooker?’ said Manetti, breaking the reverie.
‘Just wondered if you’d found anything.’
‘Only what you’d expect. The place was obviously trashed to shit, but the perps didn’t leave much behind — very careful job, despite the chaos. We got a few fibres, but we’re not pinning much hope on them. There are pints of blood in the mattress — but just his, unfortunately. My guess is that he bled out fast. They meant business.’
‘Who is the ME?’
‘Aurelia D’Amato.’
‘Ah, Aurelia.’
Aurelia was young, good looking, and a rising star. Scamarcio had wondered in the past whether she had a soft spot for him, but had dismissed it as im
probable — although recent events had made him think again. Were he to justify his last-minute cancellation of their date, she might be persuaded to turn a blind eye if he were to root around in Filippi’s case.
‘Yeah, “Ah Aurelia” indeed — that woman gets better looking every time I see her, but I guess you’re not allowed to say that kind of thing nowadays. It was more fun in the old days, but you wouldn’t remember them.’
‘Any news about the camera?’
‘No card, as we suspected, but there’s a drive. I spoke to Gunbach in IT yesterday. He explained all the technical stuff, but left me none the wiser. I reckon you need to speak to him direct.’
‘He in?’
‘No, but I’ve got a mobile. Hang on.’
Gunbach in IT had a thick Neapolitan accent. Scamarcio wondered when his relatives had arrived from Germany. Maybe it didn’t go that far back — perhaps the father was German and had married an Italian. He wanted to ask, but it didn’t feel appropriate.
Gunbach didn’t seem at all bothered to be disturbed on a Sunday. Scamarcio had the sense that he was at a loose end, that maybe he was a geek loner and had no one to hang out with. What was it with these IT guys and personal relationships — was it some kind of autism thing? It was one of those clichés that seemed to come good every time.
‘We took out the internal drive, and tried to run it to see if there was any data left to find.’
‘And?’
‘And we’ve just got a few fragments. Hardly anything — JPEG fragments.’
‘Photos?’
‘Yes, photos.’ There was something strange about the way he said it.
‘Can I take a look?’
‘Well, like I say, they’re just fragments.’ Gunbach paused and then coughed, seeming almost embarrassed. He was an odd guy, Scamarcio decided. Maybe it was the blend of Italian and German. Those were two cultures that shouldn’t mix.
‘And …’
‘Well, to me, detective, it looks bad. But I think you need to judge for yourself.’
8
GUNBACH HAD NOT needed much persuading to open up his lab for the afternoon. He had seemed almost glad of the distraction, if not somewhat uncomfortable about the photos and whatever it was they revealed. Scamarcio was fighting a growing sense of apprehension; he had a feeling that he wasn’t going to like what he saw, that it would have adverse implications for a whole lot of things.
Gunbach was fiddling with the mouse, opening files and doing something to the images that Scamarcio couldn’t understand. The technician was an unusual-looking guy, in his late twenties, pale, with red hair. There was nothing Italian about him — nothing that would ever lead you to guess he was from the south.
‘Just trying to make them clearer,’ he explained. ‘I think you will get a sense of the overall picture pretty quickly.’ He paused, and shuffled from one foot to the other. Then, after a few seconds, he laid down the mouse and said: ‘I’ll leave you to it. I’m going to get a coffee from the machine. You want one?’
‘Please.’
It was like he couldn’t leave the room quickly enough.
Scamarcio’s eyes remained fixed on the first picture in front of him — the last image that Gunbach had been working on. His brain moved fast to decipher the meaning, to grasp the bigger picture, as Gunbach had predicted. The image was blurry and low res, but slowly it came together and, as it did so, a sickly feeling started forming in his stomach. He clicked on another fragment file at the bottom of the screen, and once again his brain rapidly processed the contours, supplied the missing information. The image now filled the frame, and the sickness began to spread through his abdomen, taking hold of him, making him sweat. He steeled himself for the remaining two images and clicked rapidly, trying not to give himself too much time with them. The last was the worst, because it was the clearest and left the least room for doubt. He could see the fear in the child’s eyes.
He got up from the computer and stepped outside Gunbach’s office, rooting for a cigarette in his pocket that he knew wasn’t there. He’d have to buy a packet tonight — these were extraordinary circumstances. He’d never had to see that kind of stuff before. He knew guys that dealt with it daily, but had never understood how they managed, how they didn’t let it ruin them. Someone had told him once that they didn’t deal with it — that they were all head-cases under regular care from psych — but he wasn’t sure if that was just exaggerated gossip. Now he wished he’d never seen it, and knew it would stay with him forever and would colour other experiences in a way he didn’t want. He felt sorry for Gunbach. The poor guy had been asked to fix a camera, and he’d had to look at this. He was coming towards him with the coffees now, anxiety clouding his pale face.
‘You okay, Detective?’
‘Should be asking you the same. I’m sorry you had to see that— it wasn’t what I’d been expecting. I thought I’d be looking at something rather different.’
Gunbach handed him the coffee and leant against the wall across from him.
‘No sweat. I know how it is.’
‘You tell Manetti about these?’
Gunbach shook his head. ‘No. When he called me yesterday, I hadn’t seen them. I put it all together before I went home last night.’
‘Could you keep this to yourself?’
He looked confused, and seemed to want an explanation. ‘Sure, if you need it that way …’
Scamarcio put out a hand, and leant against the wall. He felt like he needed to catch his breath.
‘The thing is, this relates to something else I’m looking into, and I need to keep the two investigations separate for now. Could you just bear with me for a while?’ He looked into his eyes, trying to find the real Gunbach.
‘Sure, I understand.’
‘I’ll remember you for this.’ The words were both a promise and a threat — an ambiguity not lost on the boy.
Scamarcio returned to the tiny office, and retrieved his jacket from the chair. ‘Can you do me print-outs?’ Gunbach, who had followed him in, was sweating under the fluorescence.
‘No problem.’
He leaned over and clicked the mouse a few times, and the printer whirred into life. They waited in silence, neither sure what to say, the images on the screen killing any conversation. Scamarcio glanced over his shoulder, checking whether there was anyone in the corridor who might pass by and see what they had been looking at. The place was silent, but he swung the door shut nevertheless.
Gunbach handed him the prints. ‘You still want me to see if I can retrieve any more fragments?’
‘Yes, but be discreet. If Manetti or Filippi come asking, you have nothing.’ He knew that there was next to no chance that Filippi would trouble the boy. Manetti was his point of contact for the CSIs — if, that is, he took the trouble to pursue the murder, which so far seemed unlikely.
Scamarcio thanked him and left, avoiding the other offices along the corridor for fear of running into Manetti. He took the fire escape rather than the elevator, and exited onto a side street. His caution paid off: as he joined the main road, he saw the chief CSI and some colleagues returning from lunch, laughing — over some sick joke, no doubt. He waited until they had entered the building before he stepped out of the shadows. This didn’t feel right, all this cloak-and-dagger stuff, hiding from his colleagues. Once again, he had the sense that it could not end well.
9
Luca Moltisanti opens the cabinet, takes out the trophy, handles it in the light, and puts it back. He picks up another and does the same. ‘You did good,’ he says.
‘And so did you.’
‘Not like you, Pino. No-one’s done good like you.’
His brother is at the window, looking out at the rain-soaked pitch, the scar beneath his left eye livid in the light.
‘It’s been
a long time.’
‘Thirteen years.’
‘Thirteen years.’ He savours the words, as though it’s a crowning achievement.
‘We’ve missed you, Pino.’
He laughs tightly, looks away, wants to ring for Security, but knows he can’t.
‘That why you’re here?’
‘In a way.’ He takes a seat, and straightens a trouser leg. The suit is Armani; the shoes are brogues.
‘We think it’s time.’
‘YOU FOUND WHAT?’
‘Child porn, sir.’
The chief fell silent for a moment, and then the tension of the last few days finally broke surface: ‘What sick-pig bastards are we dealing with? Why the hell did he bring me into this?
Scamarcio let him run with it for a while, figured he needed to vent. He had two young boys, after all. ‘I don’t get it, what is he doing with child porn on his camera? You think he was into that? You think he took the photos?’
Scamarcio still knew so little about Arthur, but what he did know had led him to believe that it was unlikely. It didn’t feel right; it didn’t square with the picture that Ms Santa had painted. He had a sense that the photos served a secondary purpose — possibly financial, but probably not dealing. He didn’t like him for a dealer.
‘So what’s your take on this? Help me out here.’
He watched the thoughts forming, saw them take shape as he spoke. ‘He had all this money, right, from this so-called patron he never talked about …’
‘Yes …’
‘Well, what if that money wasn’t given over so freely?’
The chief fell silent for a moment, thinking it through. ‘Blackmail, you mean?’
‘He had photos of someone important doing something appalling, and he made him pay for his silence. When he knew that his time was up, that he had come to find him, he couldn’t let him have the last word. That’s why he tried to save the camera, and put it back on the shelf. He wanted us to find the photos.’
‘These photo fragments — do you see the face of the adult?’
The Few Page 4