As they made their way up the tarmac drive and its twin columns of cypress trees, Scamarcio spied a man in a dark suit, talking into a walkie-talkie. He cut short his conversation and held up a hand to stop their driver as they approached. The chauffeur, who was actually a fellow Flying Squad detective, informed the man that he was bringing representatives of the Moltisanti. The gatekeeper seemed momentarily confused and peered into the car to get a better view of its passengers, but was unable to see anything due to the blacked-out windows. He hesitated a moment, and then seemed to think better of it and waved them through. They swung into a large gravel turning circle with an elaborate fountain at its centre. To their right was a sprawling villa in caramel Tuscan stone. Along its walls, small fires were burning in gold torches, and the wide stone steps leading to its entranceway were decked with a long, red carpet, immaculately clean. Scamarcio noticed a couple of other limos pulled up ahead of them to the left of the circle. Parked right in front of them now, just a few metres away, was the people carrier.
Scamarcio knew that the moment had finally come, and he and the team commander beside him exchanged a curt nod. The commander then gave the one-word instruction and, along with the unit, Scamarcio leapt from the car, keeping well back and low to the ground, letting the marksmen ahead of him do their jobs. These were Garramone’s best men, Flying Squad guys, but in every way just as capable as Nepi’s crack commandoes — if not a little less arrogant.
Ymeri and his associate, who were in the process of opening the boot, swung around at the commotion on the gravel behind them.
‘Freeze, Flying Squad — you are under arrest,’ barked the unit commander. ‘Lay down your weapons.’
But it was immediately clear that Ymeri’s associate had other ideas. He was reaching for his gun, but the sniper to Scamarcio’s right had already spotted it and fired. The man fell to the ground, shaking and convulsing. Ymeri, fat and sweaty, looked desperately around him, shocked and confused, trying to run, scanning for the exits. Suddenly, a group of men in the same black suits as the gatekeeper with the walkie-talkie were running from the house, shouting, their rifles at the ready, poised in mid-air. Scamarcio didn’t have time to take them all in, but he thought there were at least five of them and that they were wielding Franchi SPAS 12S — futuristic and frightening semi-automatics with a hefty price tag. Then, all about him, the air exploded in a barrage of gunfire, and he could do nothing but press himself to the ground, deep into the gravel, reaching for his Beretta 92 inside his jacket holster. Almost in slow motion, he watched the shoulders of the marksmen in front of him readying and recoiling, readying and recoiling, over and over again. It was as if time had become stuck in a loop, sucking them all into a wormhole. Then, all at once, it was still, utterly silent: the birdsong had ceased, the cicadas had abandoned their evening rhythms, the traffic on the mainroad had died away to a nothing. It was as if all life had ended here in this one place, at this one precise moment.
‘Headcount,’ barked the commander, shattering the dead air around him.
The snipers all answered in the affirmative: no one was down. Scamarcio raised himself off the gravel onto his elbows, peering through the gunsmoke towards the people carrier. Ymeri was rolling around on the ground, clutching his leg. Good: he’d still be able to talk; they’d been told to avoid a fatality there. The boot of the car seemed undamaged; again, the snipers had been briefed to steer clear.
Scamarcio stumbled slowly to his feet, and saw a mass of black-suited corpses lining the entranceway to the villa, like a mound of diseased crows, waiting for the sun and the flies to claim them. He hobbled towards the people carrier, his muscles stiff and cold, the acrid taint of gunpowder coating his tongue. He heard the boots of the team behind him running up the steps, ordering whoever was inside the house to freeze. He reached out a shaky hand towards the lock, steadying his fingers to press it, the catch sliding under his sweat. He tried again, and then again. Finally, the boot of the car sprang open, causing him to take an involuntary step back. Inside was a little girl curled into the foetal position, trembling but alive, her fine, blonde hair plastered to her head. Scamarcio took a breath, stepped forward, and lifted her gently from the car. Stacey Baker just whimpered in his arms, and wouldn’t open her eyes. ‘It’s OK,’ he whispered in English. ‘I’m a policeman, and I’m going to take you to your mum and dad now.’
la Repubblica, 9 June
MISSING AMERICAN GIRL FOUND ALIVE!
The international search for the missing American child Stacey Baker reached a dramatic conclusion last night when armed police raided a villa outside Monticiano, Tuscany following an anonymous tip-off. The swat team located the seven-year-old alive and well in the grounds of the house and immediately rushed her to Rome, where she was reunited with her desperate parents.
According to police insiders, the handover was deeply moving and brought tears to the eyes of even the most hardened of the crack commandos. The success in tracking down the missing child is being heralded as a major achievement for the new Rome Police chief, Gianfilippo Mancino, who scrambled his specialist anti-kidnap squad in a matter of minutes following the tip-off. Just why she had been brought to the villa is as yet unclear.
Stacey Baker’s father Paul told reporters: ‘My heartfelt thanks goes to the Italian police force, whose efficiency and dogged determination we will never forget. I cannot thank them enough for all they’ve done. They have literally saved our lives.’ It is believed that the family, from Maine, will return to the States tonight. They have no plans to visit Italy again.
Theories about the Baker abduction abound. It is possible that she could have fallen victim to an Albanian child-trafficking gang working across Italy. Such operations have mushroomed in recent years and are causing the police mounting concern. It is equally likely that she could have been snatched by an individual, acting alone. The Rome police department has not yet commented on the motive behind the crime but it is believed further details will emerge in the coming days.
The Elba tourist office, as well as other resorts the length and breadth of the peninsula, have reported a surge in cancellations following the little girl’s disappearance while, in many communities across the country, children are no longer being allowed to play in the streets unsupervised. ‘It is a sad testimony to our changing times,’ commented Marco Sordi, the mayor of Porto Azzurro.
61
FRANTIC BIRDSONG ECHOED along Via Boncompagni as Scamarcio searched for his key in his pocket. Yes, they’d got Stacey Baker, but there was a hard knot of frustration in his chest — a burning disbelief that they’d failed to find any clients inside the villa last night. Maybe the news of the Moltisanti deaths had them running scared; maybe someone in the know had tipped them to the Flying Squad’s involvement? And two further questions still vexed him: Who was it who had grabbed him in the alleyway that time, and told him to go to Elba? What was their agenda, and what were they hoping to achieve? One possibility troubled him, kept circling: was it his father’s old lieutenants trying to push yet another favour his way, to pull him closer into the fold and drag him back in? Or were they attempting to oust their rivals — jeopardise a competitive operation? But that didn’t feel right to him. Yes, they were criminals and gangsters, but they had never touched children. They were old-style, the old guard: extortion and contraband; killing when required, but sparingly. They would never touch children — never in a million years. His father would never have countenanced that. He stopped, and this was the second question: What had The Priest been getting at when he alluded to his connection to his dad? Why did he seem to think that Scamarcio was the only one who could offer him forgiveness? The memory of the events at Longone chilled him anew. He resolved to speak with Piocosta one last time, and to finally get an answer. And, of course, they still expected a favour in return for the Gela tip. But he had no scraps to throw them right now.
His phone shuddered
in his pocket. Aurelia didn’t bother with ‘Hello’, as if she were somehow a reluctant caller: ‘That knifework — just got round to it. The reach is OK, and the entry and exit angles don’t show much variation. Could have been him. But I worry about the strength he would have needed to finish it off — too many punctures to complete. Yet no obvious defence wounds either, and no trace under the nails.’ She paused. ‘It’s not clear. Perhaps I need a bit more time with it.’ She’d gone before he had a chance to respond.
He sighed, struggling for the key some more. Tiredness was preventing him from functioning. Tiredness was playing tricks with his mind, making him imagine that someone was touching his arm. But it was no illusion, he now realised: a tall, thin man in dark glasses was standing in front of him on the pavement. Scamarcio was too exhausted to feel afraid.
‘Detective Scamarcio?’
The voice was somehow familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Could you come with me a moment?’
‘No.’ He was done, had had enough. ‘It’s 7.00am, and I’ve been working all night.’
The man raised his glasses quickly so Scamarcio could see his eyes. It was Giorgio Ganza, the foreign secretary.
‘Would you mind sparing me half an hour? If you accompany me to my home in Prati, I’d like to give you some information.’
Scamarcio sighed and then nodded. Sleep would have to wait.
It was a sumptuous apartment, probably 200 metres square. Fitted out in the liberty style, the cornices were perfect, the windows high, the oak floors polished to perfection. The study where they were sitting was painted a duck-egg blue, and mahogany shelving ran the length of the walls, bearing leather-bound books arranged by height and colour. It was one of the most immaculate offices Scamarcio had seen. On the oak desk in front of Ganza were several family photos in silver frames, and behind him on the wall was a portrait in oils of what could have been a father or a grandfather. Scamarcio seemed to remember that the older generations had also been in politics. Something about the partisans came up to his mind, but he couldn’t quite home in on it.
‘I’m sorry to drag you off the street like that,’ said Ganza. ‘But I couldn’t think how else to do it. Can I offer you anything — a coffee, perhaps? Have you had breakfast?’
‘I was planning on that when we met.’
‘In that case I will get you some brioche also.’ He rang a small bell on his desk, and a Filipina in full maid’s outfit came into the room. Scamarcio didn’t know people still had maids at home, or still made them dress up like this. He felt as though he had stepped back into the oil painting with Ganza’s grandpa, or whoever he was.
Ganza placed the order with his maid, and she hurried off. He grew thoughtful for a moment and spent some time studying the empty desk in front of him, as if looking for an answer there. Scamarcio decided to break the silence, to try to make the atmosphere more comfortable. ‘So you said you had some information for me?’
The maid came back in with the coffee and pastries, and set them down beside him on a side table. She placed an espresso on the desk in front of Ganza.
‘Thank you, Aurora.’
The woman smiled and left. Scamarcio had the sense that Ganza treated his staff well, and was in some respects a decent guy — if that could ever be said of someone who attended the kind of parties he did. He also had the sense that his wife was not as kind.
‘Sorry, you were saying?’
‘I was asking why you wanted to see me — what it was you wanted to tell me?’
Ganza leaned forward in his chair and then leaned back again, as if unsure of quite what to do with himself. He rubbed a forefinger under his nose and stared back down at the desk, searching for the answers there again. Eventually, he looked up and met Scamarcio’s eye.
‘I could have gone to your boss, but I wanted to deal directly with you. I thought it would be cleaner somehow.’
Scamarcio was intrigued by the choice of phrase, but didn’t want to distract him. ‘Go on.’
‘There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just come straight out with it. I killed him, you see — trashed his apartment, too.’
Scamarcio felt time stand still. He no longer heard the ticking of the carriage clock on Ganza’s desk that he had noticed when he’d first sat down.
‘Are you talking about Arthur?’
‘Yes. You’ve seen the pictures, I presume?’ The tone remained strangely businesslike.
‘Of the two of you at the party? Yes.’
Ganza nodded. ‘I should have told you sooner — I realise that. I just needed some time to get my thoughts together.’ Although the delivery was neutral, his hands were trembling slightly.
Scamarcio tried to keep the shock out of his voice: ‘Why did you kill him, Mr Ganza?’
Ganza sank back into his chair, and slid down in it slightly. ‘The shame, I guess. I panicked. I didn’t want to lose everything I had, didn’t want him to talk, didn’t want to see him on some evening chat-show dishing the dirt.’ The words made sense, but the tone didn’t. Despite the water collecting in the corner of his eyes, Ganza now sounded like he was reciting lines in a play — the emotion was absent.
‘So you just went to his place and stabbed him to death?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why all the chaos?’
‘I wanted it to look like a burglary.’
‘Where was he when you entered the flat?’
‘On the bed.’
‘Awake or asleep?’
‘Asleep.’
‘And you gave him the morphine, too?’
Scamarcio registered an unmistakeable flicker of surprise. Ganza didn’t know about the morphine.
He pretended to ignore it and pushed on: ‘So you gave him the morphine?’
‘Yes.’
Scamarcio knew now that he was lying, both about the morphine and the murder. But he was at a loss to understand why. If his father and brother were to be believed, Arthur had apparently committed suicide, had finally had enough. So why should Ganza now be trying to take the blame for his death? Was he scared? Was it fear now pushing him towards a prison cell? Were years behind bars preferable to what was waiting for him on the outside? Was he afraid of the same thing as Zaccardo? He sighed quietly, patting his jacket pocket for his cuffs, but realised they were in his car.
‘So I guess I’m going to have to arrest you.’ He felt like the other actor in Ganza’s little play.
‘I guess so.’
‘I don’t have any cuffs with me.’
‘I’ll accompany you willingly to the station. We can take my car.’
‘Right you are.’
Scamarcio drained the dregs of his coffee and stood up. They headed back out through the vast polished living room towards the front door.
Ganza stopped in front of him. ‘Can you give me a second? I need to use the bathroom.’
Scamarcio nodded for him to go ahead. He walked on into the lobby area towards the front door, and took in the chandelier, the oil paintings, and the large, lavish black-and-white floor tiles. As he was admiring the decor, he noticed a door ajar to his right. There was a light coming from within, so he stepped a little closer, curious to catch a glimpse inside another of the rooms. But as he drew nearer he realised that Mrs Ganza was standing just beyond the threshold — getting dressed, it seemed. In this light, her profile was even more elegant, her cheekbones higher, her nose more delicate; even if he hadn’t known it, he would have been able to tell just by looking at her that she had once been a society girl. He was about to step away, not wanting to be taken for a Peeping Tom, when he noticed something else about her: her left wrist was bandaged, and there was something wrong with the colouring on her right forearm. He drew a little closer, and saw that it
was badly bruised — blue and raw-looking. And at that exact moment, she looked up, and their eyes locked. And it was then that he knew it was she who had killed Arthur.
62
AT THE STATION, Mrs Ganza remained composed and dignified while her husband, left alone for several minutes in an interview room, was racked by sobs, shaking and heaving back and forth — a humiliating spectacle that Scamarcio felt embarrassed to be observing on the monitor. He thought that Ganza should at least be allowed some element of privacy.
Mrs Ganza had told them that she didn’t want to wait for her brief and would prefer to push on with the interview until he arrived. Garramone had nodded his assent, so Scamarcio turned the recording device on, duly noting the date and time, and the names of the three individuals present.
‘So, Mrs Ganza, your husband has told us that he’s responsible for the death of Arthur Maraquez, also known as José, at his apartment in Trastevere last week …’ He was about to ask her what she thought of this, but she was ready with her response.
‘He isn’t.’
‘What makes you say that?’
There was silence for several moments before she replied: ‘Because I killed him myself.’ The words were flat and cold. There was an icy bitterness in her stare, too — an expression that intimated What of it? Wouldn’t you have done the same in my position?
For a moment, the air seemed to desert the little room.
‘That is not the account you gave me the other day,’ said Scamarcio finally.
‘I wasn’t ready the other day.’ She paused. ‘I had things I needed to get prepared first.’
Scamarcio gave a slight nod. ‘Could you explain what happened — talk us both through it?’
‘He was about to ruin my husband’s career, and destroy my family, my reputation, everything we’d worked so hard for.’
The Few Page 29