‘Can you walk?’ someone was asking.
His voice had left him.
‘Let’s get him outside. Take his legs.’
As they emerged into the sunlight, he gasped at the fresh air, trying to suck it in, to drink it down, his lungs burning with every breath.
‘Sit him on the step, get him water,’ said a voice that Scamarcio recognised but couldn’t place.
‘Pour water in his eyes — more, more. That’s it, keep going.’
The voice drew nearer. ‘You’re going to be all right. Stay calm. It will soon pass.’
Slowly, Scamarcio’s vision began to return, and he started to make out the blurry outlines of two men removing gas masks. As the scene came into focus, he noticed rounds of ammunition on their belts, semi-automatics at their feet. Their faces were pale, their eyes scared and excited like dogs at a fight. A middle-aged blonde woman was standing on the step below them, quickly loading rifles into a holdall. She could have been a soccer mum, packing up her kids’ kit.
Scamarcio rubbed at his eyes. As he moved his head to his right, his stomach lurched, and he felt that he might vomit once more. Dante Greco had entered his field of vision, a beige cashmere coat draped across his shoulders.
Dante’s expression was sombre; there was no smile of triumph. ‘Now you can get back to Rome and forget all about it,’ he said quietly.
Scamarcio looked at him standing there, lord of all he surveyed, his men filthy and exhausted all around him.
Greco tilted his head to one side and studied him back, his eyes two pools of ice.
‘No need for thank yous; I thought you might fuck it up, so I had a contingency plan. Always have a contingency, Scamarcio.’
Scamarcio nodded. His throat was too sore to speak.
Greco turned and began descending the steps. Scamarcio saw a silver Bentley waiting in the turning circle, its engine idling. Greco was about to get in the car when he stopped and looked back at Scamarcio. ‘And good luck sorting that American business.’
‘What?’ said Scamarcio, barely managing a whisper.
‘You know that mess from last year — that put Cappadona in a wheelchair?’
Scamarcio tried to swallow again, his tonsils a painful lump.
Greco smiled thinly and raised a hand in salute before sliding into the passenger seat of the Bentley, a chauffeur gently closing the door behind him.
Scamarcio felt a rush of heat to his belly, and suddenly tasted bile. Had he made a fatal miscalculation? He wiped the sweat from his eyes and took a long, shaky breath. As the car disappeared down the driveway, he thought of devils, and whether it was wiser to do business with the ones you already knew.
27
THERE WAS SOMETHING REASSURING about the mess in Fiammetta di Bondi’s apartment. Scamarcio found some comfort in returning to a situation that was predictable, that had remained unchanged. He didn’t know if he’d just struck out for survival in Calabria or whether he’d signed his own death warrant, but in the midst of this fresh hell, the one thing he could be sure of was that di Bondi’s place would be a pigsty.
‘You don’t look too good, Detective,’ she said, handing him a cup of coffee he hadn’t asked for. The cup was chipped, and there was a faded lipstick stain on the other side of the rim.
‘There’s a flu going around. I think I might have the beginnings of it.’
She frowned. Her eyes seemed to say that she didn’t quite believe him. Although it was four in the afternoon and warm outside, she was wearing a heavy, pink towelling dressing gown with a ketchup stain on the sleeve. There was nothing of the femme fatale about it.
‘I’m here because we’re trying to tie up some loose ends regarding the death of Manfredi,’ said Scamarcio, pulling out his notebook.
‘I thought you were focussed on the disappearance of Micky’s family.’
‘We are, but to make progress with that, we need to understand the Manfredi connection.’
‘There is no connection.’
‘You know that’s not true.’
She tossed her hair behind her ears and took a seat on the sofa, leaning forward to retrieve her cigarettes from the table. Once she’d lit up, she sat up straighter and crossed her legs beneath her, rearranging the dressing gown across her knees. She studied him through the smoke. From where Scamarcio was sitting, it did not look like a positive appraisal.
‘How long have you been a detective?’ she asked.
‘Almost eight years. Now, Miss di Bondi …’
‘Do you enjoy your job?’
‘For the most part, yes.’
‘Why do you always look so miserable then?’
He sighed. ‘Do I? I hadn’t realised.’
‘It’s like you’re dragging some huge weight around.’
‘I didn’t come here to talk about me.’
‘What does it matter? We’ve got plenty of time — I don’t have any work today.’
‘I do. We need to find Proietti’s wife and son as quickly as possible. I need you to answer my questions.’
She scratched beneath her nose. ‘Here’s the deal, Scamarcio. I’ll tell you about me and Manfredi if you take the time to tell me a little bit about yourself.’
He wanted to scream. Garramone had asked him to be in the squad room in an hour. As he had nothing new on Davide Stasio to offer, Scamarcio had decided to drop by di Bondi’s first, so at least he could perhaps deliver the boss something more on the Manfredi angle.
‘OK then. You go first,’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘How do I know you’ll honour your side of the bargain?’ She rearranged her dressing gown yet again.
‘I’m an honourable man.’
He realised distractedly that she might be flirting with him, but he was too tired and strung out after Catanzaro to work out how he felt about this.
She nodded. ‘The thing between me and Manfredi was never love.’
‘You told me that already.’
‘Stasio, Micky’s associate,’ she hesitated for a moment, took a quick drag of the cigarette, and scratched at the corner of an eye. ‘Well, Stasio wanted me to hang around Manfredi for a while.’
‘Why?’
‘He wanted to know what he was up to.’
‘Why?’
‘Manfredi had some dirt on Micky, and Stasio was afraid he was going to use it.’
‘What would make him do that?’
‘He owed Micky money, but he couldn’t pay up. He was looking for a bargaining chip.’
‘What did Manfredi know?’
‘Stasio never told me, but he wanted me to keep an eye on Manfredi — he wanted to know whether he ever spoke to anyone about Micky.’
‘And you did this?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Favours in return. Micky is big in TV — I need work in TV.’ She shrugged as if to say Don’t be slow.
‘And did you find out anything?’
She fell silent and took another long drag on her cigarette. Eventually she said: ‘Manfredi told me one night when he was a bit tipsy that he was about to ruin Proietti. Those were his words. He said he had evidence that could prove he was a criminal.’
‘And you told Stasio?’
‘Yes.’
‘When was this?’
She fell silent again and studied the floor. After several seconds had passed, she said, ‘The night before Manfredi died.’ Then, almost as an afterthought: ‘Like I told you, it’s a whole world of shit.’
For the first time, he thought he heard some genuine emotion there.
She looked up and smoothed her fringe away from her forehead. ‘Now you need to keep your side of the bargain.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Tell me something about yourself.’
Sca
marcio shrugged. ‘What’s to tell?’
‘Come on. That’s not what we agreed.’
Scamarcio wanted to get up and leave, but he willed himself to remain civil. He couldn’t afford to alienate a witness. He took a few moments to gather his thoughts, then started speaking. But it was as if his voice was coming from afar, as if someone else was doing the talking: ‘You may have read that I grew up in the South, down in Calabria,’ he heard himself say. ‘My father was a godfather in the ’ndrangheta. When I was a teenager I decided that I didn’t want the life, his life, so after university I came to Rome and joined the police.’
‘What made you decide you didn’t want the life?’ asked di Bondi calmly.
‘My father was shot. I saw it happen. After that it felt like time for a change.’
‘Did he die?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it quick?’
‘Was what quick?
‘His death.’
Jesus, what is it with this woman? He wanted to tell her to go hang, but instead he heard himself reply: ‘Actually, it took around ten minutes.’
‘Did he say anything to you?’
‘When?’
‘While he was dying.’
Scamarcio stopped breathing. This was something that he never spoke about. How dare she? Who the hell did she think she was? Did she think he was just another sad fuck she could manipulate any which way she wanted? Yet at the same time it was as if she knew; as if she’d somehow caught a glimpse of the maelstrom inside his head; as if she realised that he needed to release some of the grief.
‘He told me that he loved me and that he wanted me to be happy. That I should do whatever it took to be happy. Rules and traditions were meaningless.’ Scamarcio heard his voice catch. He swallowed, trying to push the grief back down. This woman couldn’t be allowed any kind of victory over him. He got up to leave.
Di Bondi said nothing for a moment, then: ‘I feel like an idiot. If you can make it in this world, then I certainly can.’
Scamarcio shrugged, not wanting to pass judgement. He coughed, trying to steady his words. ‘If you remember anything else, Miss di Bondi, let me know.’
‘Please, call me Fiammetta.’
She rose from the sofa and accompanied him to the door. As he was heading out into the corridor, she reached out and brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. ‘Maybe we could try to be there for one another, give each other some support.’ Her eyes were burning with intensity, uncompromising, and he was surprised to feel something undeniably honest pass between them. There was an electric connection that he hadn’t seen coming. For a second, it floored him; the next moment, he just wanted to act on it, do something about it. But he couldn’t — it would cost him his job. He tried to summon every ounce of willpower to get himself out of the flat and across the threshold before the whole situation spiralled away from him. He inhaled and held his breath until he was safely at the top of the stairs. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said, his mouth dry.
She smiled and swung the door shut gently.
As Scamarcio made his way to the squadroom, the spring sunshine burning through his damp shirt, he spun back through the conversation in his head. Could he really take her words at face value? Was she interested in him, or was she just trying to use him, like she used everyone else? Wasn’t he simply another means to an end? He stopped at a bar and ordered a cappuccino in the hope of settling his thoughts. As he drained the cup, he realised that he really didn’t know what to make of Fiammetta di Bondi. She confused him, but now he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
28
‘SEARCH HIS HOUSE AGAIN, search the parliament. We need Manfredi’s evidence, whatever it is,’ said Garramone, as if Scamarcio was unable to work this out for himself.
‘Stasio is tight-lipped. He’s been around the block too many times to say anything incriminating.’
Garramone took a breath and fixed him with a stare. ‘So you were really unable to find out any more about him? You were so confident.’ He sounded more disappointed than angry.
‘I didn’t expect to have every door slam in my face. People seem really scared.’
‘That’s worrying.’
‘And Proietti?’
‘The team at his place thinks he’ll be in hospital with cirrhosis of the liver before this inquiry is out. The man’s falling apart before our eyes. We need to sort this, and sort it quickly.’
‘And no more communications from the kidnappers?’
‘Nada.’
Scamarcio said nothing for a moment, mulling it over. ‘On the wiretap you played me, Stasio said he had a plan. Do you think he’s put it into action, and that’s why we’ve heard nothing more? Perhaps he’s made contact with the kidnappers, made them some kind of offer?’
‘OK, but then why is Proietti falling apart?’
‘Because he doesn’t know. Stasio said he wasn’t going to share the plan — he doesn’t trust Proietti not to tell us.’
Garramone nodded and took a sip from a large cup of coffee. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this,’ he said eventually.
‘Why’s that?’ asked Scamarcio, although he already knew exactly what he meant.
‘Because it feels like we’re working in the dark, as if the power has been taken from us. And whenever that happens in a kidnapping, it never ends well.’
On his way to the Manfredis, Scamarcio thought about what Garramone had said. Stasio, too, was labouring in the dark, perhaps dealing with forces well beyond his control. But could events down in Calabria have an impact on this inquiry? Now Piocosta had been assassinated, where would this leave the Rome operation? Would his footsoldiers give up every last spit and cough to Greco? Was it possible that, in the confusion of the transition of power, Proietti’s debt might be wiped — that the kidnapping could be forgotten? Scamarcio did not know enough about how Greco ran his operations to understand whether this was probable. For a moment, he felt tempted to call him and discuss the case, to ask him to stand down Piocosta’s former team and bring home the Proiettis. Yet, another part of him knew that this was the road to ruin. He’d simply be repeating the mistakes of the past, mistakes that had brought him to Greco’s door. No, they had to go their separate ways. Piocosta’s slaying had to be the beginning and the end of their contact.
Scamarcio pulled up outside Manfredi’s apartment and killed the engine. He sat staring into space for several moments before closing his eyes and leaning back against the headrest. Events in Catanzaro had unsettled him — had left a rip in his heart and acid in his stomach. Now he just wanted to forget, to kill the memory and put an end to the exhausting churning in his mind. He sighed and reached for the door handle. It was a relief to be here on this nondescript street, to have work to do. He needed the distraction.
He’d decided to start with a search of Manfredi’s place first, because he couldn’t face a head-to-head with Max Romano at the parliament, and only wanted to fight that battle when there were no alternatives.
‘Did your husband ever work from home? Did he have an office?’ he asked Mrs Manfredi once they’d exchanged pleasantries.
‘He has a small study next to the kitchen — had a small study.’ She looked down at the floor for a moment. When she looked up, she asked: ‘Do you think you’ll have a case for murder? Is there enough?’
Scamarcio felt guilty that he hadn’t called her to bring her up to speed. ‘I think you were right. There are signs of third-party involvement, and it’s enough to rule out suicide. The reason I’m here is that I’m looking for evidence that might help confirm the identity of the killer and explain his motives.’
‘Can you give me any ideas about who is behind this, Detective?’
He was about to answer when a tall young woman entered the hallway from a side room. She was wearing striped pyjamas, and one of those airline eye masks was pushed
back on the top of her long blonde hair. The daughter, figured Scamarcio, although she looked quite different from the earlier photos he’d seen. She laid a hand across her mother’s shoulder and studied him with concern.
‘If I’m honest, I’d prefer to do that once I’m sure. Is that OK with you?’ he said.
Mrs Manfredi nodded, and the daughter looked even more worried. Scamarcio introduced himself and gave his condolences. She smiled tiredly, but said nothing.
‘I’ll take you to his study,’ said Mrs Manfredi, leading him by the elbow.
When she’d shut the door and left him to it, Scamarcio began pulling out the thin drawers of Manfredi’s antique desk. It was the only antique item in the room — everything else looked as if it came from Ikea or Savings World. He removed one drawer after the next, laying them next to each other on the ground, but he couldn’t find anything of interest — it was all household bills, tax forms, and energy contracts. He scanned the room for a filing cabinet but, besides the desk, there wasn’t any other storage furniture. He noticed a couple of Polaroid photographs pinned to the wall of Manfredi’s twins when they were small.
Scamarcio carefully replaced all the drawers, his heart sinking with the realisation that he’d probably have to extend the search to Manfredi’s office at the ministry. Max Romano would no doubt relish every moment of making life as difficult as possible for him. Would he make him come back with a warrant? No doubt. Would he instruct Manfredi’s staff not to speak to him? Of course.
Scamarcio rose from the floor and headed back to Mrs Manfredi, refusing to give up quite yet.
‘Would you mind if I checked your husband’s …’ Scamarcio stopped dead as he entered the kitchen, his brain struggling to process the scene before him. It was as if he’d been winded. Mrs Manfredi appeared to be locked in what could only be described as a romantic embrace with her daughter. What the hell? he whispered. Up until now, he’d deemed the Manfredis the most normal of the people he’d encountered in the course of his investigation.
The Hit Page 20