‘No. I was in care. When I was fostered out, I was sent to live with a family outside Rome, near Monterotondo. The men from the parties collected me from there, and returned me at the end of the evening.’ He exhaled, and paused a moment. ‘The foster family must have been in on it — they just handed me over at the door, like I was going on an outing.’
‘The name of that family?’
‘The foster parents are both dead; the last one, the mother, died five years ago.’
Scamarcio wanted to press him on what happened at the villas, but it seemed too soon. Right now, he didn’t want to cause him any more stress than was necessary. ‘So after the fifth time, they just stopped showing up?’
‘Yeah, I never saw them again. I was moved from the foster family, and adopted by a wealthy surgeon and his wife with an apartment on Via Licia. After that, life got a whole lot better, and it’s not been bad since.’
‘So how come you knew about Elba and the girl?’
The boy sighed, and shifted his weight back against the wall. ‘Do you have a cigarette?’
Scamarcio reached for the fags in his pocket and opened the packet for the boy. He took one, and Scamarcio lit up for him. The young man drew the nicotine deep into his lungs, blowing the smoke away to his left, clear of the table. ‘I never told my adopted parents what had happened to me. It seemed shameful, and I didn’t want them to see me as … as in some way tainted.’ He took another drag. ‘So I kept it to myself. But there was a part of me that felt guilty about not speaking out. I worried that other children were suffering and that I’d had the power to do something about it, but hadn’t.’
‘So what did you do?’ Scamarcio realised that his voice had dropped to almost a whisper.
‘I set about finding out all I could about them, these people, if you can call them that: where the parties were held and when, who organised them …’
‘How did you manage it?’
‘There were certain things I remembered about being brought there — things that my mind hadn’t managed to block out. One was that I was always collected by a man with a Tuscan accent, and that we took the motorway north to Siena, after which point he put a sack over my head and made me lie down on the floor of the back seat. When we arrived, I heard other Tuscan accents.’
He paused for a moment, exhaled deeply, and downed the rest of his wine.
‘You want another?’ asked Scamarcio.
‘Yes.’
He went to the bar, and was back within a minute. He’d brought a second glass for himself as well. ‘Take all the time you need.’
‘No, I want to get this over with.’ The young man took another couple of sips and then seemed to locate some kind of inner resolve. ‘The other things I remembered, well, they actually only became a memory later on — crystallised, as it were — when I had worked them out.’
Scamarcio was puzzled, but tried not to show it; he just wanted the man to press on uninterrupted. ‘They formed a memory when I saw them on TV.’ He stopped a moment. ‘I’m probably not making any sense: what I mean is, when I saw their faces on TV, I recognised who they were.’
‘Saw whose faces?’
The young man looked down, searching for the words. Scamarcio felt stupid. ‘Sorry, carry on.’
‘One was a high-ranking cabinet minister at the time — he’s dead now; the other was the mayor of a major city — he’s now retired, I understand.’
‘Both these men were at the parties?’
He nodded. ‘When I recognised them, I realised that if I went to the authorities they’d never believe me, and, even if they did, these men would stop them from taking it further. You know how it is.’
Scamarcio nodded, saying nothing.
‘So I thought the only thing I could do was investigate it myself, and collect as much evidence as possible. Maybe one day the time would be right and I could present that evidence and see it through.’
‘And how did you go about doing this?’
‘I have a girlfriend whose father is a politician, a good guy for once. He had heard rumours — a few names had been mentioned. I bought some bugging equipment online, got myself a job as a cleaner or dressed myself up as a repairman, and got into the places where I knew these men worked. I bugged their landlines, and, when I could, their mobiles. For a year or so I got absolutely nothing, and then finally one day it happened: I listened in to a conversation where they mentioned the parties for the first time and talked about where one was being held. So I went up there, watched the place for a couple of days before the scheduled event, and identified who the organisers were. Then I got inside and placed a tap on one of their mobiles. There were three of them planning everything — bringing in the drugs, the children, the other horrendous stuff — but I only managed to bug one of them. It was a stroke of luck I’d managed to get in there in the first place: pest control, that time. But, as it turned out, that one person’s phone was enough.’ He paused, and took another mouthful of wine. ‘From him, I went on to find out where the other parties would be held and when. I tried to collect some video evidence as children were brought in, and guests arrived — but I was always filming in the bushes, and it was always dark, so I don’t think any of it has come out.’
A second team had been recording in the bushes at the villa the night before, but if the prosecution could prove that these parties had been going on for many years, the boy’s video would bolster their case, thought Scamarcio. ‘Actually, they can touch that stuff up now — do quite a lot with it,’ he said. ‘You might have something useful there, even if you don’t realise it.’
The young man exhaled. ‘Well, that would be something.’ He pushed on: ‘Everything I’m telling you happened within the last year; until then I’d drawn a blank, as I said before. Then, just a week or so ago, I overheard the man I’d been bugging talking about a premium child. By that, they mean blonde and blue-eyed — the same category I think I’d fallen into. This child had been identified on Elba. She was going to be brought in by a group of Albanians who’d started working for the organisers, but they didn’t quite trust them; they were worried they were going to screw up. Then the next day, I think it was, my guy, the organiser, was in a right state about that boy Arthur who has been in all the papers with Ganza. He was worried because he’d been a regular at their parties, and they thought it was going to open a can of worms for them. They were extremely worked up; they were considering cancelling the parties for a while. Then, when it came out he’d been killed, they really freaked — they thought the police would be sniffing all around his death, although one of their clients had apparently promised to keep a lid on it for them. Anyway, that’s when I knew the time had finally come to push the police in the right direction and hand over what I had.’
‘How did you know to come to me?’
‘I hung outside Arthur’s flat for a while, and saw a few people come and go. I saw you come by a second time, and thought you seemed to be taking it pretty seriously, so I followed you and I heard you answer your mobile and say, ‘Scamarcio’. That rang some bells for me, so I googled you and realised you were the Flying Squad guy who everyone was talking about last year because of your father. That’s how I knew to come to you.’
Scamarcio was impressed. ‘You ever considered a career in the police?’
‘Actually, I’m training to be a doctor. I’ve had enough listening in and spying to last me a lifetime. I’ll be glad to lay this thing to rest once and for all — I just want to move on now.’
Scamarcio smiled. ‘Well, let me know if you ever change your mind.’ He paused, and took another long sip of wine. ‘It sounds like you might have some interesting evidence there, but are you prepared to testify? It would help the prosecution case significantly.’ Scamarcio knew what he was asking, but decided to just come right out with it.
The young man
shook his head slowly, a different kind of sadness in his eyes now. ‘I can’t, Scamarcio. I can’t do that to my parents. I can’t face these men in court. I just want to get on with my life — be normal, successful, have a family of my own.’
Scamarcio nodded. ‘We could give you anonymity.’
The young man sighed. ‘You know that’s never enough. They’d find me in the end. Make me pay, one way or the other. They’d know people — judges, police, court officials — and word would get back. You know how it is.’
Scamarcio fell silent. He saw the case splintering apart in front of him, the illustrious clients still smug in their top jobs, snug in their immunity.
‘I can give you all the evidence I collected — the recordings of the phone conversations I made. It’s all very well filed and documented,’ insisted the boy.
‘That’s very helpful, but to date we only have one decent witness, and his account alone may not be enough to seal the prosecution case. There’s Giorgio Ganza, but I’m not sure he can be compelled to testify. We’ve taken another, one of the Albanians, into custody, but it’s unclear yet whether he’ll talk.’
‘I’m sorry, Scamarcio. I can’t.’
Scamarcio nodded slowly, and took a long breath. He felt like smashing his glass in frustration, but just said: ‘Thank you for all your hard work.’ Then he added, ‘I suppose you know we raided the party last night?’
The boy nodded. ‘I saw the news coverage, and put two and two together. They didn’t say anything about the parties, though — just mentioned you’d found her at a villa.’
‘No, they wouldn’t; probably they never will,’ said Scamarcio, stubbing his cigarette into the ashtray as if he wanted to eliminate it from the face of the earth.
‘Did you get Enzo? That was my man, the guy I’ve been following. I don’t know the surname, but he’s Tuscan, like I said. I have all that evidence against him.’
Scamarcio sighed, finally giving up on the butt. ‘He went down in a firefight. He’ll be no good to us now. None of the big fish showed up — someone must have warned them off.’
Neither man spoke for a while. Scamarcio couldn’t rid himself of the fact that here was their golden witness, a child who had actually been brought to these parties, and seen what went on. A witness like this would seal the deal; he’d nail the prosecution case. They could offer him top-level protection, the works. But, somehow, he knew the boy was right. It wouldn’t be fair or proper, it would never be justice, for someone who had already spent so much of their childhood in a different kind of prison, who just wanted a fresh start and a settled adulthood. How could Scamarcio do that to him, especially after he’d already shown such courage?
The boy nodded slowly, resigning himself to the reality in which they both lived. ‘I can offer you one thing, Scamarcio: I can talk to the papers, tell my story to them — if you find me a journalist you trust, who you know won’t betray my identity.’
Scamarcio pondered this for a moment. It might make a difference, in the court of public opinion at least — which, when all was said and done, did still occasionally exert some sway over judicial proceedings.
‘I’ll find you someone. Leave it with me.’ He downed his glass and then said: ‘You’ve got a girlfriend, you say?’
The young man smiled in the affirmative.
‘You happy now? Things good?’
He nodded. ‘I’m getting there. I’ve got a feeling things are going to turn out OK in the end.’
Scamarcio nodded, and smiled back. ‘I’m sure they will. The past is another country, as they say. All that matters is your present and your future, and you’re going to do just great. I can tell.’
66
SCAMARCIO STRETCHED OUT in bed, and opened the newspaper across his lap so he could read the double-page spread inside. Carfagna had done a good job, and Scamarcio knew he had made a sound choice: the journalist was one of the few decent guys around, a solid reporter with a strong moral compass and a genuine sense of outrage when it counted. The subeditors had pulled out several key pieces of text from the article and put them up in bold. One of them read: ‘They call themselves The Few.’
‘Arrogant,’ thought Scamarcio.
His mobile buzzed and he reached for it, annoyed that it was interrupting his reading.
‘What the fuck???’ screamed Garramone down the line. Scamarcio held the phone at arm’s length for a moment before returning it to his ear.
‘What the hell are you playing at, Scamarcio?’
‘Sorry, Sir, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘The double-page spread in la Repubblica is what I’m talking about. That had to come from you. I know you’re the only one tight with Carfagna. And where the hell did this mystery witness suddenly spring from?’
Scamarcio took a deep breath. ‘He came to me last night, I put him onto Carfagna, and they did the piece straightaway — held the presses and rushed it out for this morning.’
‘Wouldn’t it have been better to save it for court?’ Garramone sounded like he was about to have a heart attack. ‘Or maybe run it past me first?’
‘He won’t go to court, because he’s scared. He doesn’t trust the judges to keep his identity secret, and thinks the perverts will come for him in the end, which they probably will.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Scamarcio! The PM will finish me for this. There are references to the death of Arthur and Ganza all over the bloody piece!’
‘Well, that’s the truth, isn’t it?’
‘Right now, who gives a fuck about the truth? You’ve cost me my job, Scamarcio, and this will definitely cost you yours!’
‘Well, screw you and screw my job! The PM was witnessed at the scene of a Mafia killing by half the bloody Antimafia Squad. Can you grasp that? Do you even get what that means? He has serious questions to answer!’
‘He’ll never face those questions. You don’t understand the realities of the situation.’
‘The realities of the situation? You know what, Garramone, you’re not going to just shut me up and sweep all this shit away, just to save your fat arse. As soon as I put down the phone to you, I’m going to call Carfagna and tell him just who it was who first asked us to look into the death of Arthur, to conduct our own secret little investigation. It will move his story on beautifully to the next level.’ He hung up and threw the phone down, punched the wall beside him, and then punched it again. ‘Fuck it, fuck it,’ he shouted. ‘Fuck every last one of you.’
He’d probably just blown his career, blown it all — all those years of hard work — for good. He sank back into the pillows, took a few long breaths, sighed, and then sighed again. But he had had no choice. He couldn’t just stand by and let this cover-up happen. He couldn’t be like all the rest of them. Otherwise, what was the point? He might as well have stayed put with Piocosta and his boys, enjoying Chiara’s ragù every day.
He went into the kitchen and made himself a coffee, lit a cigarette, padded into the living room, switched on the TV, thought about Pinnetta’s special blend, and then resolved to wait a bit, maybe half an hour if he could manage that. On Sky, the PM — the disgusting, two-faced, hypocritical fucker — was giving a press conference. Bulbs were flashing, and journalists were firing question after question. The ticker along the bottom of the screen said: ‘The prime minister steps down, will be leaving politics for health reasons, with immediate effect. Basile to step in.’ Scamarcio leaned forward, and turned the sound up. The prime minister looked tired, older, and more bowed than usual. Almost humble for once. He was addressing the journalists: ‘After my many years in power, my health and my family have to take priority now. I will be leaving politics and Italy for retirement abroad.’
‘Why? What’s wrong with you?’ the journalists were screaming. ‘Where are you going?’ ‘Why now?’
The PM had always held onto power so tenaciously, despite all the court cases and public slurs against him. But now, after all these years of struggle, he was finally bowing out, doing a Craxi. Scamarcio sighed and took a long drag on his fag. Of course, it was always going to end like this; there could be no other way. His mobile rang, and he knew it would be Garramone again.
‘Have you seen the news?’ He sounded disorientated, as if someone had hit him over the head with a hammer.
‘Watching it now.’
‘Turn it off and come to the station. No buts.’
67
‘SO, SCAMARCIO, your new witness, what did he give you?’ asked Garramone, trying but failing to keep his tone level.
Scamarcio talked him through the things that had not already come out in Carfagna’s piece. He reiterated the young man’s unwillingness to stand trial. When he’d finished, Garramone said: ‘Why didn’t you tell me all this before?’
‘I thought it could wait. I knew you had your hands full with the raid and the Ganzas.’
Garramone sighed, and shifted his bulk under his desk. Neither man said a word for almost a minute.
‘So let’s do the maths. We’ve got three guys from the raid — no guests, just staff and minor players who seem to know next to nothing about where they were working. For some reason, the guests didn’t show: it seems like someone on the inside tipped them off. So, right now, none of the men we took are saying anything. Ymeri has buttoned up, too, and Ganza’s way too scared to be of use.’
Scamarcio had sensed this would be the outcome. He wondered briefly if Garramone had been the insider, had alerted the clients to the raid. But his instincts told him otherwise.
‘About our phone call this morning,’ said Garramone. ‘Obviously, things have changed a bit in light of my friend’s decision.’
‘You spoke to him?’
‘I didn’t tell him you’d seen him at Gela. He didn’t mention the article in la Repubblica. But we talked about a trial.’
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