Scamarcio wanted to say ‘Call yourself a security guard?’, but instead he glanced inside the small booth and asked: ‘You guys got CCTV?’
‘Sure.’
‘Have you got a camera on the entry gate?’
‘Sure.’
‘Can we spool back to when the film crew arrived?’
The man looked down at the logbook once more, searching for the timings with his finger.
‘You’d better come round the other side.’
When Scamarcio was seated in front of the small TV, Detective Caporaso knocked on the door of the cabin.
‘We could have something,’ said Scamarcio. ‘I’ll come get Proietti once we cue it up — he might recognise them.’
Caporaso nodded. ‘He’s fallen asleep, would you believe?’
‘Drink?’
‘God knows.’ Caporaso tossed his Marlboro into the trash and headed back to the car.
The security guard leant forward and fiddled with a small joystick on a console. It took a minute or so before he said: ‘Here they are.’
Scamarcio peered in closer. He saw a series of young people taking turns to sign the logbook. The first was female; the others, male. They seemed to be in their late twenties, early thirties. They were all reasonably good-looking, apart from the last to sign, who, with his unfashionable glasses and balding pate, appeared to be the geek of the group. Scamarcio didn’t recognise any of them.
‘Can you freeze it there? I just need to get someone.’
The guard nodded.
Proietti cried out when Scamarcio woke him. He appeared to be in the middle of a nightmare. Scamarcio put a hand on his arm in an attempt to calm him down. ‘I need you to come with me.’
Proietti just looked confused, but then, with the easy compliance of a sleepwalker, he stepped carefully from the car and followed Scamarcio towards the cabin.
When he was finally positioned in front of the small TV, Proietti pushed up his lower lip and said: ‘I’ve never seen any of them before.’
‘You sure?’ asked Scamarcio, trying to read his eyes, trying to understand whether he was lying again.
‘Yes,’ said Proietti, his gaze fixed on the screen, his eyes desperately tracking the faces, the expressions, the movements.
Scamarcio watched him hunched over the TV, his forehead a scowl of confusion and disappointment, his finger in his mouth like a troubled child. Proietti was telling the truth. Any vague doubts Scamarcio might have had about Proietti really wanting to find his family disappeared in that instant.
Back home in his flat, Scamarcio ended his call to Forensics. He’d ordered them to conduct a DNA search of the studio used by the TV people Proietti hadn’t been able to recognise. Scamarcio didn’t really expect to find anything, but he wanted the location sealed and inspected before anyone else could use it.
He pondered the change in Proietti’s demeanour when they were out at the industrial park. He’d felt sure that as soon as they entered that place something clicked for him, something that had made him feel that his family weren’t in serious danger. The park was used regularly by TV people. Was it this connection that had reassured Proietti? Had he originally believed someone else to be behind the kidnapping — someone far more dangerous? Had it therefore been a relief to discover that there could be a more benign explanation?
Scamarcio sighed, and ran a hand across his face. If that was the case, why couldn’t Proietti just be open with them? Surely he didn’t want them pursuing the wrong leads, if he already knew better? Scamarcio shook his head. He doesn’t know, he said to himself. He thinks he might know, but he’s not sure. And it’s that little bit of doubt that scares him. As long as an element of doubt remained, Proietti had to make sure the police tried all avenues. That doubt, Scamarcio realised, had to relate to something very big and very dangerous for Proietti to risk exposing his secrets.
Scamarcio thought of Davide Stasio and the Calabrian connection, and something stirred in him — something toxic. His mind flashed on parasites: ripe, bloated, visceral. When was Stasio coming back? Where was he? Scamarcio sensed that Stasio had been keeping his head down, that he didn’t want their paths to cross.
It was time to meet this ghost, time to make him real.
15
SCAMARCIO DREW UP OUTSIDE the offices of Sizzle. It was a cold, misty morning, and the early promise of summer seemed to have disappeared. The soulless, pale buildings against the slate-grey sky made him feel newly down, and he wondered yet again about Aurelia and how she was doing. Had she already met someone? Was she moving on? He imagined that she’d attract a lot of attention from the other researchers at the lab, that she wouldn’t have trouble creating a new life for herself. He stopped himself: if he really cared about her, that was what he should be hoping; after everything, she needed to be able to put what had happened last year behind her. Why couldn’t he just want the best for her? It was the very least he could do, given the disaster he had brought upon her.
He thought of Piocosta’s threat. Could he risk enraging the old man? If he didn’t do what he wanted, how far would Piocosta go? Would it just be a case of him lifting Aurelia’s protection, or would he strike harder? Would he throw her to the lions himself?
Scamarcio pinched his nose and looked up into the grey sky. He would be a fool to trust Piocosta on any level. And now, this Calabrian connection on the Micky Proietti case just sharpened his anxiety. He sensed that he was being dragged back under; that however fast he swam, the riptide would suck him back down, again and again. He took a long, silent breath: he needed to stay near the shore for as long as he could.
Stasio’s secretary did not look pleased to see him when he walked in.
‘Davide’s not here,’ she said before Scamarcio could get the question out.
‘When is he coming back?’
‘I don’t know,’ she snapped, looking away, as if Stasio’s absence was a personal affront.
‘Where can I find him?’
She sniffed. ‘Well, if you feel like making a daytrip to Catanzaro, you might get lucky.’
Piocosta’s stamping ground.
‘I might?’
‘Look, I just told you, I don’t know where Davide is. I think he’s still down south, but I’m not sure.’
‘Didn’t you ask?’
‘It’s not my business,’ she hissed, turning her attention to her computer screen. Scamarcio noticed that her nails were bitten to the quick. He thought he saw dried blood on one.
‘Can you give me Mr Stasio’s telephone number and address in Catanzaro? And for his place in Rome?’
She sighed, and pulled out a block notepad. She started scribbling the details, her pale face set in anger.
‘You know what I don’t understand in all this is that you’d think that Maia Proietti’s relatives would be doing all they could to help the police find her and her son. But all I’ve had from the start is lies and obstruction. It makes me think I’ve stumbled into a nest of vipers.’
She looked up, open-mouthed now, but he just snatched the piece of paper from her hand and left.
The secretary’s quip about a daytrip to Catanzaro riled him. It was a ten-hour drive there and back, which meant Scamarcio had no choice but to start with Stasio’s place in Rome. On the one hand, he very much doubted he’d find him there; on the other, he wondered if Stasio would feel the need to be near the scene of the crime. If his sister and nephew had been kidnapped, he couldn’t imagine him sweating it out down in Catanzaro, waiting for news. Why hadn’t he been round Proietti’s place, offering a shoulder to cry on, then? The quick picture Scamarcio had formed of Stasio was of a mover and shaker, a doer. He imagined that he’d want to be on top of things; that he’d want to know how the police were proceeding — what their next moves would be. His absence made no sense.
It seemed that Stasio lived on a
very respectable street just five minutes from the Piazza Venezia. Scamarcio figured that he must have a lot of high-profile politicians for neighbours. The man had certainly done well for himself, but how he’d managed it was the million-dollar question. Scamarcio didn’t know much about the porn business, but he wondered if Stasio’s wealth could be attributed to that alone.
When the maid brought Scamarcio into a vast living room with sumptuous oriental rugs, glinting chandeliers, gold mirrors, and chesterfield leather sofas, he wondered again. The place had the stamp of the southern boy made good: ostentation, opulence, and colour-blind chaos. The room was an orgy of different styles and patterns, the frenzied accumulation of wealth evident in every hideous bauble and trinket, every gold-tassled cushion.
He followed the maid through the living room into another smaller lounge. A huge projector screen was mounted on one wall, a vast grey leather sofa opposite. Scamarcio noticed little speakers and compartments built into the arms. When he drew closer, he saw that they contained bottles of beer and white wine — little fridges, he realised.
The maid stopped, and knocked on the outside of a gold-studded door. A soft voice mumbled a response, and she walked in.
‘The police are here.’
Scamarcio couldn’t believe it was this easy. Stasio had been at home in Rome all this time.
A small man with a grey beard was seated behind the desk. He was the absolute antithesis of what Scamarcio had expected — he could have passed for a classics teacher or a librarian.
Scamarcio extended a hand and introduced himself.
‘Renato Guidice,’ said the man, smiling.
Scamarcio frowned. ‘I was hoping to speak with Davide Stasio.’
‘Do take a seat,’ said the man, still smiling as he gestured to a wide leather armchair in front of the desk. The décor was more sober in here.
‘Where can I find Stasio?’ snapped Scamarcio, not wanting to waste any time sitting down.
‘Mr Stasio is out of town. I’m his lawyer. You were lucky to find me — I just popped in to deal with some paperwork.’
‘Have you heard about Stasio’s sister and nephew?’
The lawyer nodded, his expression giving nothing away. ‘Mr Stasio is with his mother now. She’s very ill — heart trouble — he doesn’t want her to find out about what’s happened. He’s down there to make sure nobody tells her.’
How convenient, thought Scamarcio. ‘When are you expecting him back?’
The lawyer shrugged. ‘How long is a piece of string? I suppose when all this is over, when the police have tracked them down.’
‘It seems odd to me that Stasio isn’t in Rome. He could be assisting us with our inquiries.’
The lawyer’s thin mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Mr Stasio is very much a family man. There is nothing he wouldn’t do for his mother. But you could reach him by telephone or, if you were prepared to travel down to Catanzaro, I’m sure he’d be happy to help in any way he could.’
Why did Scamarcio have the sense that the lawyer had been expecting him — that he’d been wheeled in precisely to deal with the problem of the bothersome detective?
‘OK,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘I’ll give him a call. Unfortunately, a trip down to Catanzaro is a bit difficult right now.’
The lawyer nodded understandingly. Scamarcio knew this was the answer he’d been hoping for.
If he had to, Scamarcio would make the sodding trip to Catanzaro, as much as that god-forsaken hellhole made his stomach churn and his mouth dry, but first he wanted to check out a hunch. The feeling that he was being led a dance was growing by the day, and he couldn’t help thinking that Catanzaro was a part of it; that Stasio was still in the capital, keeping out of his way. Scamarcio figured that if he was vigilant he could soon find out where.
‘How’s Proietti doing?’ he asked Detective Caporaso when he called him after leaving Stasio’s pad.
‘The usual. Drinking too much, sitting in that chair all day waiting for the phone to ring.’
‘Nothing more then?’
‘No.’
‘You think he pissed the kidnappers off?’
‘Nah. They’re testing him, making him sweat. There’ll be another call.’
Scamarcio had reached the same conclusion.
‘So he never goes out?’
‘He takes a walk in the evening at about nine — always nine. He’s usually gone for half an hour or so — doesn’t want protection.’
‘Do you see where he goes?’
‘Well, we followed him the first time, and he just went round the block, sat in a park for a bit, watched the birds — nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘Did you follow him again?’
‘No, just the once.’ Caporaso paused. ‘Should we have? Has there been a fuck-up?’
‘No. I was just curious, that’s all.’
Caporaso exhaled. ‘The pressure’s on. Garramone’s on our case cos there’s no progress to show the media.’
‘There’s so fucking little to go on, though. These guys have it down pat. They don’t seem like yokels.’
‘Yeah, but I keep asking myself why they bothered with the phone call. That’s a risk.’
‘They knew they could get away with it, and — like you say — they wanted to make Proietti sweat.’
‘He’s sweating, all right.’
Scamarcio yawned and said: ‘Well, ring me if there’s any news. I’m heading back to the squadroom.’
When he was back at his desk, Scamarcio called Manetti about the DNA search of the studio.
‘Zero,’ said the chief CSI breezily. ‘Nothing from the mum, and nothing from the son. No matches to any crims on the database.’
Scamarcio stifled a sigh. ‘Well, I wasn’t expecting to find anything. Just going through the motions, really.’
‘I guess the kidnappers might have rung from that studio, but they’d never have taken the victims there if they knew you could trace the call.’
‘That’s it, Manetti, a waste of time basically.’ Scamarcio thanked him and hung up. Then he dialled the numbers he had been given for Davide Stasio, but they both rang out. He was about to try again when a thought occurred to him. Maybe it would be best to wait until after tonight. There was a strong chance Micky Proietti was taking a quiet constitutional every evening, but Scamarcio wondered if he should check it out. If there was any significance to these evening strolls, it might be useful to understand that before dealing with Stasio.
Scamarcio’s thoughts turned to the new steer from Sartori. The news that Italy’s leading footballer was in love with Fiammetta di Bondi couldn’t be ignored. She’d not really allowed herself to be drawn on the matter — so now, at least, Scamarcio had to pay Aconi a visit, get a sense of whether he might hold some kind of grudge against Proietti. But going as far as to organise a kidnapping? A celebrity of Aconi’s stature had way too much to lose. Scamarcio chewed on the top of his pen, and the cap came loose. He spat it on the desk in frustration, tasting ink. It came back to the same thing: the box had to be ticked; the man had to be questioned. He thought about sending Sartori, but quickly decided that he didn’t have the confidence to delegate this. Besides, if he was honest, he couldn’t help but feel a little excited at the prospect of meeting the country’s star striker.
He ran a web search for Aconi’s representation, and was put through to an officious-sounding woman. When he explained what he wanted, her tone softened slightly.
‘You’ll find him at the training ground out at Trigoria. He’ll be there for the next couple of hours — after that, I don’t know. He has an event on Via Settembre later this evening, but that might not be the best place for a talk.’
‘Sure. I’ll head out to the ground now.’
The woman cleared her throat. ‘Is this anything we should be worried about? Mr
Aconi has a legal team. If they need …’
‘I can assure you that this is just a casual chat. Right now, he’s not a person of interest. I was just hoping he could provide some background.’
‘Are you close to finding them, that man’s wife and son?’
Scamarcio paused to craft a response. ‘We’re confident, yes.’
‘Glad to hear that. Well, let me know if you need anything else.’
He thanked her, and cut the call.
Scamarcio realised that when women described Aconi as a Greek god they perhaps had a point. Standing at 6 foot, with curly blonde hair and large blue eyes, the man was a tight knot of tanned muscle and sinew. When Scamarcio walked in, he was emerging from the shower, rubbing his enormous shoulders with a blue-and-white Inter towel. Scamarcio thought it must have been given to him as a joke. The rest of the team appeared to be several stages ahead, and were already dressed and gathering up their kit. Scamarcio took in a few famous faces, and was surprised at how short a couple of them were. On TV they seemed so much taller. As they bustled past, he pulled out his badge and headed to the bench where Aconi was patting himself dry. Scamarcio gave him a few seconds to put on his boxers and then made his approach.
‘Can I take a few moments of your time, Sir,’ he said, holding the badge up for him to read.
Aconi studied it, his expression switching from confusion to discomfort.
‘Is this one of those candid-camera stunts? Are you from Channel 5?’
‘No, like the badge says, I’m Detective Scamarcio of the Flying Squad. I’m investigating the disappearance of Micky Proietti’s wife and son.’
Aconi frowned, and pulled on a tight white T-shirt, followed by a pair of baggy designer denims. He carefully took a seat on a dry patch of bench, not bothering with shoes. ‘Yeah, I heard about that,’ he said running a huge hand through his wet hair. ‘It’s been all over the news.’
Scamarcio took a seat opposite. He didn’t want to be standing over him.
‘You and Fiammetta di Bondi have been seeing each other, I hear.’
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