‘Do sit down, Detective.’
‘Right, yeah, thanks.’
He opted for a chair where, as far as he could tell, there was nothing but a few old newspaper supplements.
‘So,’ he said, pushing the magazines aside and noticing a used paper tissue underneath. ‘Have you heard about Micky Proietti?’
In stark contrast to her apartment, Fiammenti di Bondi was immaculately turned out. She was wearing pristine white jeans with a shimmery grey top, a long silver pendant hanging from her neck. Her nails were painted a pale coral pink, and her dark eye make-up looked as if it had been expertly applied. Scamarcio couldn’t square it. In his experience, if your place was messy, you were messy.
‘What about Micky?’ asked di Bondi, sweeping her mane of blonde hair behind her shoulder. Her hair was so thick and straight that Scamarcio wondered if she had ironed it.
‘You might want to sit down, Miss di Bondi.’
She looked taken aback, but not overly worried. He quickly sensed that she was not in love with Micky Proietti.
When he had finished filling her in about the fake accident, di Bondi rifled through the detritus lining her coffee table and retrieved a dented pack of Camel Lights. She opened the crumpled box and extracted a lighter with a leopard-skin design. She lit up slowly and took a long first drag, surveying Scamarcio languidly through the smoke, her eyes narrowing like those of a cat getting comfortable.
‘Wow,’ was her only comment. Scamarcio couldn’t see any sympathy there, any real concern for Proietti’s plight.
‘Do you have any ideas about who might be responsible?’
She took another drag and blew the smoke clear of the table. Then she tucked her hair behind her ear and began smoothing out the tips with her fingers.
‘No idea, sorry.’
Scamarcio couldn’t read anything from her eyes. She might as well have been wearing sunglasses.
‘You were seeing Micky, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So …’
‘So, what?’
‘So, from where I’m sitting, you might be responsible for what’s happened.’
She started laughing — a deep, guttural laugh that didn’t quite suit her. He had expected something delicate and glassy. She took another drag on the Camel. ‘Really, is that the best you can do? I thought you flying squad guys were supposed to be shit-hot.’
The swearing didn’t suit her either.
‘It’s a legitimate question.’
She leant towards him, her cigarette hand against her knee now. ‘Micky and I were sleeping together, but that’s as far as it went. I wasn’t in love with him. I suspect, however, that he was falling in love with me.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘A woman has a sense for these things.’
‘How did you feel about it?’
‘Irritated, mainly. He was getting all clingy, calling me all the time, wanting to know where I was, what I was up to. That kind of behaviour can fast put you off a man.’
Scamarcio knew where she was coming from. ‘Were you going to do anything about it?’
She brought the cigarette to her lips once more, but didn’t inhale. ‘Actually, I was. I called him yesterday to end it, but he never got back to me.’
‘So your affections lie elsewhere?’
She took a quick drag and then looked away to a picture-less wall. ‘No.’
‘That’s not what I heard.’
Her gaze remained fixed on the wall. ‘Well, whatever you heard is bullshit.’
‘That’s a strong word.’
She turned to face him now. ‘Look, I’ve given you all I can. I think we’re done.’
‘I decide when we’re finished.’
She sighed, her lips forming a child-like pout. How old was she? he wondered. Early twenties?
He pushed on: ‘I hear you like to hang out with VIPs, politicos.’
‘So what? That’s the scene down here, isn’t it? You go to any VIP party, and you’ll see a bunch of balding old men rubbing up against twenty-year-old girls stoned on coke and mojitos.’
‘You sound like you don’t enjoy all that very much.’
‘It’s a whole world of shit.’
‘So why are you doing it?’
‘Because if you look like me that’s the route you take. No young girl aspires to be anything decent anymore, because there’s no money in it.’
‘That’s a bleak analysis.’
‘You ask any teenager what she wants to become, and she’ll tell you a showgirl or a reality-TV star. They all dream of getting on Big Brother or The Island of the Famous — that’s the only place where the cash is.’
‘Would you prefer to be doing something else then?’
‘I wanted to be a physicist, specialising in astrophysics. I’ve been obsessed with space ever since I was small. I want to be reading about all that, opening my mind, not stuck down here in Rome sucking up to arrogant arseholes.’
‘So why don’t you leave?’
‘Oh, it’s that simple, is it? To study, you need money. My parents don’t have any.’
‘Surely you’ve made a fair bit by now.’
‘A fair bit, but not enough. I have a target. I need sufficient to provide me with an insurance policy, a cushion. When I’ve reached that, then I’ll leave.’
‘Are you far off?’
‘I’ll be here for another year at least, barring some sort of miracle.’
Scamarcio frowned. This beautiful girl was telling the prostitute’s tale. The disquieting thing was that he sensed it wasn’t her fault; once again, the state had failed to provide.
‘So why were you with Micky?’
‘Us girls kind of get passed around. Someone suggested Micky would be a good person to know — head of drama, loads of contacts in TV. I thought, why not?’
‘Who was this someone?’
‘One of the old codgers.’
‘The politicos?’
‘May have been, I can’t remember.’
‘Are you sleeping with any politicians?’
‘I can’t see the relevance.’
‘I decide the relevance.’
She scratched beneath her left eye, careful not to smudge the perfect make-up.
There was a noise behind her, and a short, small-boned young man with peroxide blond hair came hurrying into the room. He was wielding a large silver case. He took a quick look around the room and then slapped a palm across his mouth.
‘Fiammetta, you said you were going to clear up! They’ll be here in ten minutes. You can’t let them see the place like this!’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Jesus, it’s a brothel. We need to get moving — maybe your friend can help?’
Scamarcio rose from the sofa and introduced himself. When he extended a hand, the young man blushed and held his fingers to his lips in a pantomime gesture.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Detective, I had no idea! Has Fiammetta been a bad girl again?’
Scamarcio smiled weakly. ‘Do you have guests arriving?’
‘People magazine! We can’t let them see this chaos.’
‘Fiammetta herself looks perfect, though,’ said Scamarcio, wondering where the strange man-boy fitted into the picture.
‘Doesn’t she?’ He extracted a card from his very tight jean pockets and handed it over. Scamarcio read: ‘Fabio Bonzo — make-up artist and life coach.’
‘Do feel free to call me anytime.’ Bonzo turned to the coffee table and began collecting glasses.
Di Bondi muttered something about needing a coffee, and retreated to the kitchen. Once she was out of earshot, Scamarcio lowered his voice.
‘Fiammetta was just telling me about her politician boyfriend.’
‘Oh, Gianl
uca Manfredi?’
Scamarcio stopped for a beat. He hadn’t expected it to be so easy. ‘Yes, the culture minister. What’s he like?’
The man-boy glanced over his shoulder quickly and then said: ‘Jealous. A pain in the butt.’
‘How so?’
‘He’s obsessed with Fiammetta. It’s driving her crazy.’
‘Well, she’s very beautiful, it’s hardly surprising.’
‘Yeah, but there are different levels of obsession, aren’t there?’ The man-boy swept a stack of cigarette butts into a black bin-liner, and tutted.
‘I don’t quite follow,’ said Scamarcio.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever known a more disgusting slob.’
Scamarcio took him gently by the elbow, and he looked up from his tidying in surprise. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m conducting a very important inquiry. I need you to explain exactly what you mean about Mr Manfredi.’
The man-boy set down the bin bag and took a seat reluctantly on the sofa, checking behind him yet again that di Bondi wasn’t listening.
‘So you were saying that Mr Manfredi is obsessed?’ Scamarcio tried.
The man-boy crossed his legs and leant forward, his chin in his hands. He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Well, I’m not sure how much it will help you, but Fiammetta told me that Manfredi had told her that he’d kill for her. It’s a bit OTT, don’t you think? Frankly, I think the man’s a little mad.’
8
SCAMARCIO WAS ON HIS WAY down to the parliament when his mobile rang. He didn’t recognise the number.
‘Detective Scamarcio?’
‘Yes …’
He’d barely been able to get out a reply before the caller snapped: ‘Max Romano.’
Scamarcio was impressed. He’d read that the government’s chief spin doctor liked to be on top of his ministers’ private lives, but this seemed fast, even for him.
‘Do you have time to come by my office this morning?’ said Romano.
‘You at the Palazzo?’
‘Room 614. I’m in all morning.’
‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes. I was heading that way anyway.’
‘I thought so.’ Romano cut the call — no goodbye, no ‘Thanks for your time.’
When Scamarcio entered Room 614, the first thing he saw was a plain, middle-aged woman behind a large oak desk. To her left was a slightly smaller desk where a bookish young man in his early thirties was cradling the telephone.
‘No,’ the young man was saying, his exasperation plain. ‘Borbera put words into his mouth and then, as usual, the press pack repeated it as gospel. Do you guys ever do any original research?’
He sighed, and ran a hand through his dark, wavy hair before readjusting his spectacles. ‘Well, if you do, it will be a lie.’
‘Can I help you?’ the woman asked, her eyes a frown.
Scamarcio had hoped to hear more of the conversation. He introduced himself, and she buzzed through to Romano. ‘He says to go straight in.’ She pointed towards an oak-panelled door behind her.
Scamarcio knocked twice before the clipped, confident voice of the man they called Doctor Death shouted, ‘Come.’
The chief spin doctor was seated behind a desk so vast that it made the ones outside look miniature. His paperwork appeared to be meticulously ordered in colour-coded piles on which rested a series of marble and silver paperweights shaped like eggs. A gold letter-knife, inkpot, and fountain pen took pride of place at the head of the desk.
Romano was dressed in a blue suit with a crisp, white shirt and a silk silver-grey tie. His dark hair was cut fashionably short, and he was smooth-shaven. He was almost handsome, but not quite: his dark eyes were too small, too close set, somehow.
Scamarcio followed Romano’s gaze to a widescreen TV mounted on the wall. Sky TG24 was playing. There was another small set on the desk in front of Romano, and as Scamarcio drew closer he noticed it was showing the parliament channel with the sound muted.
Romano tore his eyes away from the news for a moment and extended a hand. ‘Detective, thanks for coming. Please take a seat.’ It was more an order than an invitation.
Scamarcio sat down in a wide, studded leather armchair. How many famous names had occupied the same spot, he wondered. How many had been given their marching orders while seated in this chair? It was well known that Romano decided who would sink or swim, whose star was in the ascendant. The analysts said that the party danced to his tune; that he had the power to unseat the premier if he so wished; the premier had confidence issues that Romano had managed to manipulate to the best of his Machiavellian abilities. Some commentators even went so far as to argue that Romano could have taught Machiavelli a thing or two.
‘So, you wanted to see me?’ said Scamarcio. He tried to make himself comfortable in the uncomfortable chair. He wondered whether Romano had chosen it deliberately to ensure his visitors didn’t linger.
Romano leaned back and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. ‘You said you were heading down here anyway …’
So it was to be a game of cat and mouse. Hardly surprising, thought Scamarcio resignedly.
‘I was on my way to see the culture minister.’
‘Yes, that’s what I heard.’
Scamarcio figured that Fiammetta di Bondi had probably phoned Manfredi in a panic once she realised that her friend had said too much.
‘Shall we call him in, then?’ said Scamarcio. ‘I need to ask him about his relationship with Fiammetta di Bondi.’
‘What relationship?’
Scamarcio sighed, and patted his pocket for his cigarettes. He’d given up for a whole month a while back, but then Aurelia had left for Munich, and his resolve had crumbled. ‘Do you mind?’
Romano waved the thought away. ‘I’ll join you.’
Scamarcio handed the packet across, then lit up for him.
‘I always find the day starts better this way,’ said the spin doctor.
They sank back into a semi-companionable smoker’s silence before Scamarcio said: ‘I’ll cut to the chase. I’m not the press. You can’t spin me a line. I’m conducting a police investigation into a kidnapping that we’re hoping is not about to become a double murder. I know Manfredi was having a relationship with Fiammetta di Bondi. And I also know that di Bondi was seeing Micky Proietti. There’s a connection. And I need to understand if that connection might have any bearing on the kidnapping of Proietti’s wife and child.’
Romano took a long pull on the cigarette and then pushed a small pile of blue papers carefully to the right, evening out the edges as he did so.
His eyes narrowed through the smoke. He had the look of an emperor who was still trying to decide whether one of his subjects should be executed at dawn.
‘Before we involve Manfredi, I need to bring you up to speed: the culture minister’s days are probably numbered.’
‘Probably?’
‘He’s not popular with voters, he’s not a great communicator, and he’s said some foolish things to the press on more than one occasion. I’ve been thinking of ditching him. I need to know whether I should act sooner rather than later.’
‘You’re asking me to tell you what I’ve got on him?’
Romano nodded quickly. His blank expression seemed to suggest that such a request was perfectly reasonable.
‘Mr Romano, you must know that police inquiries are confidential.’
Romano dismissed the thought with a small shrug. ‘Come on, Detective, you know the game.’
Scamarcio wasn’t sure he did. ‘Right now, I have a connection, nothing more.’
Romano steepled his fingers again, bringing them to his lips this time. ‘Manfredi and Proietti,’ he said, looking off into the middle distance.
The voicing of those two names together flicked some kind of switch for Scamarcio. The direct connection
was Manfredi and Fiammetta. Why had Romano jumped straight to Proietti?
‘Obviously, Micky Proietti is an interesting character,’ said Scamarcio, tentatively.
Romano took another puff on his cigarette, and loosened his tie. It was hot. It was only April, but Scamarcio had smelt the first mellow scents of summer from the honeysuckle lining the walk to parliament.
Romano coughed, and set down his cigarette in a bulky glass ashtray. ‘The whole bonking-a-showgirl thing is fair enough, as far it goes. I mean, they’re all doing it. If I had to sack every one of them who had a bit on the side, then I wouldn’t have a cabinet left. Italy wouldn’t have a government.’
Scamarcio nodded and tried to look understanding. He sensed a ‘but’ coming.
‘But it’s the freemason thing that’s the issue.’
‘Hmm,’ mumbled Scamarcio, covering his mouth with a fist. For some reason, he wanted to smile. ‘I thought that might be the nub of it.’
‘A member of one of the country’s most prestigious lodges has his wife and child kidnapped, and then it emerges that one of his fellow lodge members is screwing the same showgirl. The public don’t mind a bit of sex on the side, but they don’t trust freemasons. They think they’re all up to no good. If it comes out that Manfredi was a mason, then everyone is going to think the rest of the cabinet are as well.’
‘Are they?’ asked Scamarcio.
Romano frowned with distaste and said nothing. Then he leant forward and pressed a button on his telephone console.
‘Gloria, get Manfredi on the line, will you? ASAP.’
Scamarcio felt a spike of irritation. He’d have preferred more time to talk to Romano.
‘Let’s see what Manfredi has to say. It’s only fair to hear him out,’ said the spin doctor.
Scamarcio thought this odd, given Romano’s earlier comments.
The buzzer on Romano’s desk lit up, and the secretary came on again. ‘Manfredi’s in parliament, but he says he’s in a meeting and can’t be disturbed.’
‘Tell him if he’s not here in five minutes, he’s fired.’
The line went dead once more.
‘Detective, would you mind if I answered a few emails?’
‘Be my guest,’ said Scamarcio, suddenly glad of having a few moments to think. So Proietti was a freemason? Where did that leave the kidnap inquiry? And, more importantly, why had Romano decided to share this?
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