Scamarcio took a breath. ‘Can we meet?’
It was just as he’d pictured it when they’d spoken on the phone. He was sitting at the bar when Scamarcio came in, his blue beret inclined to the right. The old man hugged and kissed him on both cheeks, and then ushered him out back.
A huge table was laid out with spaghetti and ragù, prosciutto and cheeses, bruschetta — the works.
‘You hungry?’ The old man didn’t wait for an answer. He just started loading food on a paper plate and set it down in front of him.
Two of his lieutenants were eating at the end of the table, giving Scamarcio a nod as he sat down.
‘It’s Lucio’s boy,’ explained the old man. The two lieutenants nodded again, placing their fists on their hearts, as was the way.
‘Eat, eat — you don’t look like you get enough to eat.’
Scamarcio started on the ragù. It was one of the best he’d tasted. The old man pulled out a seat next to him, and leaned in. ‘Good, huh? You can’t fault Chiara — she’s the best.’ Scamarcio remembered that Chiara was his sister, and murmured in agreement.
‘So, Leo, what is this favour you need from us?’
‘You know the Moltisanti brothers?’
‘Sicilians?’
‘Yes.’
The old man exchanged glances with his two lieutenants. They all seem surprised by the question. ‘I know of them, yes, but have never had the pleasure.’ The sarcasm was acidic.
‘What do you know of them?’
‘I heard they fell out with their commanders, have become loose cannons, got a few backs up — that kind of thing.’
‘Would you know where to find them?’
The old man clapped his hands together and laughed. His lieutenants laughed with him. ‘Would I know where to find them? Ah, Leo!’
Scamarcio said nothing, and just stared him out. Eventually, the old man said: ‘We’re Calabrians, Leo, not Sicilians.’
‘Come on, I wasn’t born yesterday,’ said Scamarcio. ‘You know people who know people. I need this, Piero, and I need it fast.’
Piero Piocosta nodded slowly, as if weighing it up.
‘And?’
‘And you know I’d make it worth your while.’
54
HE DECIDED TO TAKE a walk along the Tiber. He felt sick. It wasn’t the quantity of food he’d eaten, but the thought of what he’d just done. In terms of his personal development, he’d probably set himself back five years. He couldn’t tell Doctor Salvai about this — he mustn’t allow it to come tumbling out when he next had a confessional moment. And what would they want in return? He kicked an old shoe lying by the wall, and then kicked it again. Oh, who gave a shit? It was a girl’s life at stake, and they needed that raid to go ahead — it mustn’t be headed off by Nepi and his squad. This was how it worked, how their damaged little world turned. He couldn’t beat himself up if he strayed to the dark to get back to the light. Could he? Once again, he felt the need for someone or something to ground him, to help him make sense of it all.
His mobile was ringing. He flipped it open, but for some reason decided not to say anything.
‘Scamarcio, is that you?’ It was Garramone. He sounded beaten.
‘What’s up?’
‘Still no progress on Elba, and I’m having trouble getting the green light on that raid.’ He could tell that Garramone just needed to let off steam to someone, and that Scamarcio was the only person he could talk to right now.
‘Great.’
Scamarcio kicked the wall. Some slimy moss attached to his shoe. Were they just going to stand back and allow Stacey Baker to be ruined? Were they so calculating that they were willing to sacrifice a child? And there might be other children being delivered to tomorrow’s get-together. If the raid went ahead, there was also a chance of reaching them.
‘Scamarcio, you’ve gone quiet.’
‘I can’t believe that it’s actually come to this: that the squad is just going to turn a blind eye to a little girl getting led to the slaughter. Is their greater good so fucking important? We need that raid, Garramone.’
The chief sighed down the line. ‘The Antimafia guys are the gods, you know that. If there’s a major conviction in the offing, the chiefs will back a delaying strategy. They’ll just put it on the slate for next time.’
‘But next time will be too late.’
‘My hands are tied — I can’t see a way around it, as hard as I try.’
The call-waiting signal kicked in on Scamarcio’s phone. ‘Listen, I’m going to have to call you back.’
He switched to the new caller. ‘Scamarcio.’
‘It’s Ms Santa, Arthur’s friend from upstairs. Do you remember me?’
‘Yes, of course.’ He took a deep breath. ‘How can I help?’
‘You said to call any time, so I thought I should let you know that Arthur’s father and brother have arrived here from Argentina. I think you should speak to them — it might be useful for your investigation.’
Something about the way she said it had him turning right immediately over the Ponte Garibaldi towards Trastevere.
Along Arthur’s staircase a slight tang of iron still tainted the air, but the police ribbons had gone, and there was nothing to suggest that just a few days before this had been a murder scene. He knocked on the door to Arthur’s apartment, and Ms Santa opened up. She seemed battered and drawn, and wasn’t wearing any make-up. ‘Good afternoon, Detective,’ she said, keeping her voice low, and gesturing to two men standing looking lost to the right of the trashed living room. They were both lean and tall: the older one was slightly stooped, with greying hair, clutching a white handkerchief; the other, maybe thirty years younger, was resting a hand on his back. ‘They wanted to see her place,’ she explained. ‘I’m not sure it was such a good idea.’ Scamarcio said nothing. He just smiled gently and raised an eyebrow.
‘Anyway, I shall leave you to it, Detective. I will be upstairs if you need anything.’
He thanked her and took a few steps into the room. The men turned as he did so, so he gave them a nod and pulled out his card. He quickly showed it to each of them, and then shook hands with them both.
In English, he said: ‘Detective Scamarcio, Rome police. I’m deeply sorry for your loss.’
The younger man nodded. ‘Thank you. My father speaks no English, and mine is not so good, so do you mind if we go slowly?’
‘Not a problem,’ said Scamarcio. ‘Would you like to stay here, or would you prefer somewhere …’ he looked around him, ‘… more comfortable?’
The younger man, who he put in his early forties, shook his head. ‘My father prefers to stay here. He wants to be close to José. You understand?’
For a moment, Scamarcio was confused, and then remembered that Arthur had started life as José. He was glad the man had mentioned the name — it cleared up the diplomatic issue of how to refer to him. ‘You and José were brothers?’
‘Yes. José was my younger brother. We are, we were, four boys, and he was the youngest, the baby.’ He looked to his father for a moment. ‘My parents are very, very sad about this — destroyed. I worry for them. It was such a bad way to die.’
‘How old was José?’
‘He just turned 18. One month ago.’
Scamarcio swallowed, feeling suddenly down. ‘When did you last see your brother?’
The man shook his head. ‘A long time ago, I don’t know the years — maybe two, maybe three — José left La Quiaca. He had always imagined a better life for himself. After that, we didn’t see him so much.’
‘You stayed in La Quiaca?’
‘I was different from José. For me, the simple life was OK. It was enough.’
Scamarcio surveyed the old man standing next to them. His eyes were red
-rimmed with tears, and he was clasping and unclasping his hands. On closer inspection, Scamarcio saw that it wasn’t a handkerchief he was clutching, but a note of some kind.
‘You sure your father doesn’t want to sit down somewhere? It would be easier for him.’
The son shook his head again. ‘No, really, it’s OK. He’s a strong man. He wants to be here now.’
‘What’s that he’s holding there?’ asked Scamarcio.
‘It’s the last letter José wrote us. When we got it, we were so worried that we spent our savings to come here to Italy.’
‘Nobody told you about his death?’
‘It’s not their fault. They didn’t know how to contact us. The kind neighbour, the one here just now, she said José never told her where we were — she didn’t know how to tell us.’
Something was troubling Scamarcio. ‘What was it about the letter that worried you so much?’
The man reached over and took the note gently from his father. Scamarcio saw the old man’s hands tremble as he gave it up.
‘You speak Spanish?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
The man opened out the paper. Scamarcio saw several lines of neat handwriting in fountain pen.
‘I try to translate it for you.’
‘OK.’
‘I should explain you something first. José had written before — a few weeks before. He had asked to come back to La Quiaca to live at home with my mother and father. It was a big surprise. But my father had never forgiven José for what he had become. You know what he had become?’
‘I know he was homosexual. I know the work he did.’
The brother gave a sharp nod of confirmation, keen to press on. ‘For my dad, all that was a big shock. He found it disgusting. It was a big embarrassment for the family. La Quiaca is a traditional town, you know?’
Scamarcio nodded.
‘So when José wrote to us after all those years, my dad said, No, don’t come back. You have brought too much shame on this family. We don’t want you here.’
‘Did you agree?’
The man sighed. ‘I’m not sure. You know he was still my brother. It’s not easy to explain.’
‘I understand,’ said Scamarcio. ‘So, this letter here?’
‘After my father said no to José, he wrote to us again — this letter.’ He waved it in the air.
‘What did José say in the letter this time?’
‘I translate it now.’ The man scanned the lines for a few seconds and then raised his head, looking into the middle distance. The sunlight caught his profile, and Scamarcio saw that he was good looking, his even features reminding him of the photos of Arthur he’d seen.
The man returned his attention to the note in front of him and started to read. ‘This world, this earth, it is full of, um … mal. Um, how do you say?’
‘Mal — male in Italian. In English, evil?’
‘Yes, male: evil. José always like the drama.’ He coughed softly and read on: ‘I have no more choices now. The only good thing left for me to do, the only useful thing, is to leave this life, so I say goodbye and God bless to you.’ He folded the note in two again and passed it back to his father, who took it absently. ‘We tried to contact José, but we couldn’t reach him on the number he’d given. That’s why we got the plane. We thought he was going to kill himself. We worried that we would be too late, and we were.’
55
SCAMARCIO FELT DISORIENTATED. He stepped out into the harsh sunlight of Arthur’s street, narrowly avoiding a group of American tourists and their guide. His throat was dry, and there was a burning behind his eyes and a humming in his ears. He felt the most tired he had done in days, and the thought that everything about this case now had to be turned on its head almost pressed him to the ground. It was too exhausting to process.
The fact remained that Arthur had been knifed repeatedly. He couldn’t have done that to himself, could he? And why choose frenzied stabbing as a mode of suicide? It was one of the worst ways to go — there were easier, far less painful options. He thought of Buddhist monks and their acts of self-immolation as a form of political protest. Was Arthur protesting something? Was his death meant as a statement? And what about the morphine in his system? Had he really administered himself a painkiller before stabbing himself to death?
He took the blue line in the vague direction of Salaria, and then walked the rest of the way. The guy on reception looked more rested than the last time he’d seen him.
‘Things calmed down, then?’
‘There’s been a slight lull, but we don’t want to talk about it in case it tempts fate. We can’t have another two weeks like the last — it’ll kill us. ‘Scuse the pun.’
‘How’s Aurelia?’
‘Just about getting through the backlog now. Down the hall, if you want her.’
Scamarcio nodded. Along with his growing anxiety, he felt a small flutter of excitement at the thought of seeing her again. But he tried to tamp it down for now, push it away.
When he came in, she was stacking files on a desk. He noticed a sheaf of paperwork in a neat pile ready to be sent off to various parties.
‘How’s it going?’
She spun around and seemed a bit flustered to see him there, pushing some stray hair back into a clip, and pulling some more behind her ears. She looked younger than last time — her skin was smoother and had more colour. ‘Ah, can’t complain. Nobody’s decided to shoot, strangle, or drown anyone for twenty-four hours now.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘Filippi’s on the mend.’
‘So I hear. Great news.’
She threw him a quizzical look, and then walked around the desk and took up her usual seat. She gestured him to the chair opposite. ‘Is this business or pleasure?’
‘It’s always a pleasure, Aurelia.’ He hadn’t meant it to sound so lame.
She rolled her eyes, and a slightly awkward silence followed. Scamarcio wanted to cut it off, so leaned forward across the desk. ‘Listen, remember that dead rentboy, badly cut up?’
‘Yeah, just about,’ she sighed.
‘Could it have been a suicide?’
Aurelia rested her elbows on the arms of her chair, cupping her chin with her hands in thought. ‘A suicide? Well, that would be way out there; it would demonstrate a serious degree of self-loathing. I’d need to check the wounds again, measure the reach, and the entry and exit angles. Come to think of it, I don’t remember there having been much of a struggle. And if memory serves, it was a short, thin blade — they require less pressure. So in theory, yeah, it’s possible. But it’s a very unusual way to go. I’ve never seen a suicide with knifework like that; usually they opt for a simple cut, just one wound. Or most of the time far-less awful ways, like an overdose or drowning. Besides, with repeated stabbings, at a certain point your strength would leave you. That many punctures takes a lot of effort.’
‘And the morphine?’
‘Hmm, the morphine … I guess he could have dosed up and then set upon himself with the knife. But he’d have to move quickly, because that quantity would have knocked him out fast. If he really wanted to make sure he wasn’t coming back, he’d have had to work very efficiently.’
‘He couldn’t have started the stabbing and then taken the morphine?’
‘But why endure all that pain? Besides, that’s riskier, because he could have passed out before he had a chance to finish with the knife. That would have been the scarier of the two options for him. I’d put my money on the first one.’
Scamarcio nodded, thinking about the camera. He felt sure it had been thrown on the floor and smashed in the general trashing, so exactly when had Arthur put it back on the shelf? Before he took the drugs, and before he picked up the knife? But did it really matter? The more import
ant question was why it was positioned like that. Maybe if the camera had been left on the floor, it would have been interpreted the wrong way. Yeah, that was it, he decided — the interpretation. It had been a kind of protest. Arthur had wanted someone in the police to notice those photos, and the best way to get them noticed was to stage a dramatic death. As his brother said, José was dramatic. And there was something else he’d said. What was it now? He spun back through the conversation in his head. Yes, that was it, those last words of the letter. He’d said that the only good thing, the only useful thing he could do, was to take his own life. In Arthur’s mind, this was a good act, a useful act, an act that would bring attention to these crimes against children. Scamarcio believed he had a grasp on it now. It finally made sense to him.
Aurelia was eyeing him strangely. ‘You all right, Scamarcio?’
He looked up, remembering where he was. ‘Yeah, sorry.’
‘Thought I’d lost you there for a moment.’
He got up. ‘Actually, I need to go. Sorry.’
She frowned at him. ‘Stop saying sorry. You’re always saying sorry.’
56
He picks up the telephone, his hand shaking slightly. How long would it be before they tipped them off? How much time did he have to collect his family and bring them in? Madalena, his youngest, answers after a few rings. She is laughing at someone’s joke, telling them to shush.
‘What is it, pappy?’ She sounds happy with life, unburdened by worries. He wonders if he was ever like that. He thinks not.
‘I need you home now. I’ve sent a car for you. He’ll be there within the hour …’
‘But pappy …’
‘But nothing. There is no argument. I need you home.’ He replaces the receiver, and dials again.
‘Dad, can I call you back? I’m right in the middle of something.’
‘No. I’ve sent a car. You and my grandson must return to Rome immediately — there’s to be no discussion.’
‘But …’
‘Just do as I say. I’ll explain later.’
He hangs up and rests his head against the leather back of the chair. There are dark motes floating in front of his eyes, but he doesn’t think they’re dust particles. The sun is bright outside, the leaves in the courtyard aflame, moving slowly, so slowly, in the breeze. He calls Stefano, the head minder, into his study.
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