‘Er, Mrs Manfredi?’ He tried to keep his tone light.
‘There’s no need to fret,’ said Mrs Manfredi, pulling away primly and rearranging her blouse. ‘She’s not my daughter. You’ve got the wrong end of the stick.’
‘Er, who is she then?’ asked Scamarcio, hoping to hell that he didn’t need to turn this investigation on its head. There just wasn’t the time.
‘She’s a friend.’ Mrs Manfredi sniffed, and walked over to the work surface, where she took a shaky sip of coffee. The other woman surveyed Scamarcio with a look that bordered on contempt now.
‘I, well, well, like I told you, Gianluca and I, our lives diverged at some point, and they never really found their way back together again.’
Scamarcio couldn’t think of a response. The best he could come up with was: ‘I see.’
She frowned. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry, you don’t need to factor this in. I just needed some comfort. It has no bearing on my husband’s murder.’
‘But hadn’t you and Mr Manfredi just booked a holiday together? It sounded like you were trying to make a go of it.’
The other woman looked surprised by this news, and turned to Mrs Manfredi for explanation.
Mrs Manfredi reddened. ‘That was for our children’s benefit. But, like I say, don’t let this confuse you. Things remain the same. I had no motive for killing my husband, Detective.’
Although he couldn’t permit himself to take her word for it, Scamarcio believed her.
He sighed and said: ‘Can you show me your husband’s closet? I need to take a look inside.’
She nodded and hurried from the kitchen, the other woman’s eyes tracking her. ‘Follow me.’
As Scamarcio began pulling Manfredi’s shoes from the drawers beneath his wardrobe, he ran through the conversation he’d have to have with Mrs Manfredi. How long had she been seeing this woman? Had she been thinking about leaving her husband? Was she considering divorce, etc etc …? It was as if this investigation was adding new layers by the day, making it harder and harder for the light to penetrate.
Scamarcio laid out the shoes in front of him. Manfredi’s tastes were conservative; there was very little colour on display, but they all looked surprisingly new and expensive. When Scamarcio checked inside, the labels confirmed it: there were a pair of brown brogues from Tods, black evening shoes from Ferragamo, tan deck shoes from Hogan.
‘Mrs Manfredi,’ he shouted.
After a few moments, she peered around the door. It looked as if she’d been crying.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you again,’ said Scamarcio. ‘It’s just …’ He held up one of the brogues. ‘These shoes all seem quite new and rather pricey. I’m a little surprised, given what you told me about Mr Manfredi’s attitude to money. I rather got the impression that most of it went on your children — that he didn’t spend much on himself.’
She nodded sadly and took a seat on the edge of the bed.
‘You’re right to ask. It all changed a bit — a few months ago now. I think it must have coincided with when he started seeing the showgirl.’
‘He started spending on himself?’
‘Yes. I found some things in his closet — new shirts, a couple of new suits. When I asked him about it, he became quite defensive. At first I thought it was some kind of midlife crisis. Then, when I found out about di Bondi, it all started to make sense.’
‘How much new stuff did he buy?’
‘Well, a lot at first, then, after I challenged him, that seemed to be the end of it. I didn’t find any new purchases after that.’
Scamarcio scratched his head. ‘I saw him wearing some very expensive-looking gold and emerald cufflinks when I met him at the parliament.’
Mrs Manfredi’s mouth turned down. ‘Did you? I don’t think he has any like that.’
She rose from the bed tiredly and crossed to the other side, where she pulled out a drawer on the bedside table. She took out a series of small jewellery boxes, and opened them. ‘These are his cufflinks,’ she said.
Scamarcio got up from the floor and walked around to take a look. The cufflinks he’d seen on Manfredi that day weren’t there.
How strange, he thought. In the next instant, he wondered if Manfredi had been keeping his spending spree from his wife — whether he’d been hiding his shopping in his office at the ministry.
‘You know,’ said Mrs Manfredi. ‘My daughter told me the other day that Gianluca had asked her if she was in a position to lend him some money. She’s just started a new job with a law firm in New York, but rents are exorbitant, and she doesn’t have much spare. She’d told him she couldn’t help just yet, but that she would do as soon as it became possible. He’d sworn her to secrecy; he didn’t want me to know.’
Scamarcio wondered if this was significant, or whether he was just looking at the symptoms of a middle-aged man’s obsession with a woman half his age.
Mrs Manfredi seemed to read his confusion. ‘I don’t think the money’s a big deal, Detective. It was tight when he died; we were still paying off the twins’ education. I think Gianluca just overstretched himself trying to impress that girl.’ She tilted her head to one side and shrugged. ‘Who can blame him? All those years never spending on yourself; it’s hardly surprising that at some point you’re going to want to kick back, indulge yourself a bit.’
Scamarcio nodded, again wondering at the calm acceptance of Mrs Manfredi.
‘Shall I leave you to it then?’ she asked.
‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Manfredi.’
She shut the door gently, and he remained perched on the end of the bed, staring at Manfredi’s shoes as if they held the key to everything. Scamarcio reflected on how nothing in this case was what it seemed. He wished he could just smash through all the layers and pull out the truth. He was tired, and he wanted this over with.
He reached back into the closet to check that he hadn’t missed anything, and took out a pair of Adidas running shoes he’d overlooked the first time. He laid them on the floor and felt around inside. He stopped. His hand had come up against something hard and smooth. He fished it out and held it up to the light. It was a white, rectangular object with a cap — a standard USB key. He turned it over in his palm a few times, examining it. Then he reached for his jacket and took out the keys to his car.
‘I’ve left something downstairs. I won’t be a moment,’ he shouted to Mrs Manfredi as he passed the kitchen.
‘Ok, you can let yourself out — the door’s unlocked.’
Once he was safely in his car, he lifted his tablet from the glove box. He waited a few moments for it to boot up, and then inserted the USB key. He’d been expecting documents or photographs, but after a few seconds the video icon appeared, offering him the option to press play.
He glanced around him a couple of times, but the street was empty. He started the film.
It looked as if the video had been shot inside parliament — the place had a similar feel to Max Romano’s study. Manfredi was seated behind a desk, and Proietti was across from him. Both had thin crystal glasses of what looked like prosecco in front of them. Scamarcio heard distant laughter, and wondered if the film had been taken at a government bash. From the angle, his guess was that Manfredi had pre-positioned his laptop on a side table to capture any conversation.
‘You’ve got the world at your feet, Micky,’ Manfredi was saying. ‘You’re quite the star.’ His tone was friendly and warm — it didn’t sound as if there was any tension there.
The laptop camera was only capturing Proietti’s right profile, and he was several metres away, but Scamarcio thought he looked downcast.
‘Thing is, Gianluca, I’ve got myself in a bit of a scrape.’
Manfredi’s forehead bunched with concern, but to Scamarcio it looked staged.
‘Sorry to hear that. Anything I can do to
help?’ asked the culture secretary, amiably enough.
‘You know that money …’
Manfredi leant back in his chair as if he suddenly wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and Proietti. He steepled his hands before his chest, but said nothing for a moment. Then: ‘I can’t do it Micky, not yet. You need to give me more time — I’m still paying for the twins’ university.’
‘There’s no time left, Gianluca. I’ve run out.’
Proietti’s voice was shaky; he sounded like a man on the verge of collapse. Scamarcio noticed that his right foot was jiggling up and down.
Manfredi ran a nervous hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know what to tell you, Micky. I don’t have it. I can’t just click my fingers and make it appear.’
Proietti leant forward. There was a sharpness to the set of his features now. ‘Manfredi, if you don’t pay up, I’ll be forced to make things extremely difficult for you.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Proietti sat back in his chair, but said nothing.
‘Listen, if you tell me what your problem is, I’ll try to work out how we can sort it,’ said Manfredi quickly. ‘I’ll try to come up with something.’
Proietti stroked down his trouser leg; his foot stopped moving finally. ‘That’s more like it, Gianluca.’
‘So, this scrape?’
‘I owe money to some people — the kind of people who don’t take no for an answer. The kind it’s usually best to avoid.’
‘What, Stasio’s kind?’
Proietti nodded.
‘He’s bad news, Micky.’
‘I know.’
‘How come you owe them?’
‘One of my vices ran away with me.’
‘You’ve been hitting the tables?’
Proietti hung his head slightly. ‘Yeah.’
Manfredi sighed. ‘Oh God, Micky, you need to get a grip on that.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And Stasio can’t help?’
Proietti reached forward for his prosecco and downed it in one. ‘You got any more of this?’
Manfredi rose from behind the desk and left the frame for a moment. Then he was back with a silver-necked bottle. He refilled Proietti’s glass, and he drained it immediately.
‘Stasio’s associates were giving us money they needed …’ He paused for a moment. ‘Well, how can I put it, money they needed legitimised,’ said Proietti, slurring slightly now. ‘I creamed a little off the top, started using it for the tables, to smooth out a few problems at work …’
‘Work — how the hell does work come into it?’ asked Manfredi, returning to his seat.
‘Like you say, I’m the golden boy; it’s hard to maintain that. Sometimes you need a bit of …’ He stopped for a moment, reaching for the word again: ‘extra padding.’
‘Don’t tell me you used their cash for your shows, Micky. That would be fucking madness.’ Manfredi was trying to sound incredulous, but Scamarcio had the feeling he already knew; that he was just hoping to get Proietti to commit it all to record.
‘Well, I guess I am mad, aren’t I?’ The slur in Proietti’s voice was becoming more marked. ‘That’s what you all say.’
‘We call you the mad genius, Micky. That’s quite different from being outright crazy, with a deathwish to boot.’ Manfredi paused, then said: ‘Fuck, I can’t believe you were gambling away their cash in front of them. You’re on the road to hell this time. Does Stasio know?’
‘Some of it, but not the full extent.’
Manfredi bit down on his bottom lip. ‘Jesus, I worry for you, Micky, I really do.’
‘Then get me that money.’ Proietti leant forward, placing his glass precariously close to the edge of the table. ‘Way I see it, you’re obliged to help me.’
‘I’m thinking, I’m thinking.’ Manfredi got up from his chair and started pacing, a fist at his mouth. He walked nearer to the laptop — careful, though, not to obscure its view of Proietti. ‘What do you reckon they’ll do, these associates of Stasio? If you don’t pay up, I mean?’
Proietti rubbed a shaky thumb across his lips. ‘I don’t want to think about it.’
‘Hmm,’ said Manfredi.
‘So, do you have any ideas — any ideas about how I’m going to come out of this with both legs intact?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Manfredi, quickly. ‘But I’ll need a couple of days.’
With that, Manfredi moved slowly towards the laptop and eased it shut, his eyes on Proietti all the while.
As he drove, Scamarcio started to dial Garramone, high on his discovery. But before the call could connect, the display on his phone came to life, and the squadroom number flashed up.
‘We’ve got a body,’ said Garramone quietly.
Scamarcio blinked. He wondered if he’d misheard. ‘Sorry, boss, can you repeat that?’
‘We’ve got a fucking body, Scamarcio.’ The words were too loud, and Scamarcio had to hold the phone away from his ear for a moment. He had rarely heard Garramone lose his composure like this.
‘Where?’
‘Outside Proietti’s. It’s the wife — she’s been shot through the lung.’
Scamarcio took a breath. This made no sense; it was so far from what they’d been expecting, it simply wasn’t possible. ‘What the fuck?’ he whispered. Then: ‘Is she alive?’
‘No.’
‘They killed her?’ He couldn’t process it.
‘We’ve fucked up.’
‘I’m heading to Proietti’s now.’
‘I’ll see you there.’
There were at least twenty officers and around ten CSIs on the thin strip of grass outside Proietti’s apartment block. A junior officer was erecting a cordon to prevent the tight knot of neighbours from pushing in any closer and trampling the scene.
Scamarcio spied the chief CSI, Manetti, stooped over a twisted form at the edge of the lawn. The body’s right arm was extended, while the left was bent strangely at the elbow. The wrongness of the angle turned Scamarcio’s stomach. As he drew nearer, he saw that Maia Proietti’s eyes were closed. Apart from the beginnings of a blueish tinge to her skin and the disquieting lie of her limbs, she could easily have been sleeping. With her long, blonde hair fanned out beneath her, her delicate, arched eyebrows, and sharp cheekbones, she reminded him of a fairytale queen in repose. He pictured her ghostly face trapped beneath a sheet of ice, its ephemeral beauty finally captured, frozen in time.
‘She was thrown from a moving vehicle,’ said Manetti by way of hello. ‘This bruising on the arms is post-mortem.’
He pulled up the sleeves of the man’s coat that Maia Proietti was wearing, and showed Scamarcio the bluey-grey patches of skin.
‘Garramone said she was shot.’
‘Yeah, single bullet through the lung. Strange choice. I don’t know why they didn’t just go for the heart.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t an expert shot.’
‘Or they didn’t mean to shoot her,’ said Manetti, looking up at him, his eyes full of meaning.
‘You think it could have been a mistake?’ asked Scamarcio.
‘Might have been — I can’t see any other kind of wounding, and it’s only one shot. If they’d wanted to kill her and only got the lung, they’d try again, surely?’
‘Good point.’ Scamarcio thought it through for a moment. ‘Couldn’t she have survived a shot through the lung?’
‘Yeah, if she’d received medical attention quickly enough. From a first look, I’d say she bled out. But I’ll let you know for sure in a few hours.’
Scamarcio nodded. ‘Why didn’t they take her to hospital, I wonder?’
‘Perhaps they were too scared.’
‘Yeah, but they could have just dumped her outside A and E. These two things don’t add up — not meaning
to shoot her, but then not doing anything about it.’
‘Well, we don’t know for certain that it wasn’t intentional — I’ll need some time with it.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘Scamarcio, hold your horses.’ Manetti sighed. ‘I need to get her on the table for that.’
‘No, I mean when was the body thrown here?’
‘About forty minutes ago, but your boys will be able to give you the spit and cough.’
Scamarcio thanked him and turned to look for Garramone. Then, after a beat, he swung back around. ‘Can you see if you can lift any prints off the coat she’s wearing?’
‘Of course,’ said Manetti in a Don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs tone.
What was eating him, Scamarcio wondered. Perhaps this death had got to him. Probably, given there was also a little boy involved.
He felt a grip on his arm. Garramone had come up alongside him. ‘Proietti is a jibbering wreck,’ he said. ‘He’s convinced the son will be next.’
‘I guess that’s what we’re all thinking,’ said Scamarcio.
‘Chief Mancino is heading down here now.’
‘Way I see it, Stasio decided to take matters into his own hands, and it all went tits up. Is he still at the villa?’
‘We lost him.’
‘What the fuck.’ Scamarcio kicked at a piece of rubble on the grass, which set other stones tumbling.
‘Careful,’ said Manetti, helpfully. ‘Could be evidence.’
‘The tap went dead, and when we went to investigate, there was nobody inside. Our guys on the outside didn’t see him leave,’ said Garramone.
‘Shit.’
‘He’s gone to ground. I reckon he sees himself as the lone warrior now.’
Garramone spotted something to his right and grimaced. When Scamarcio followed his gaze, he saw a white satellite truck pulling up at the kerb, marked with the Sky TG24 logo. A young man jumped out and walked around the back to open the doors. After a moment, numerous silver boxes began appearing on the pavement.
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