The Devil

by Nadia Dalbuono

  Scamarcio leaned down to examine the ring. ‘Funny, it looks like a wedding band.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ mumbled Giangrande absently.

  ‘Did you take a photo, Manetti?’ asked Scamarcio, still examining the ring.

  ‘Of course we took a photo,’ Manetti shot back.

  Scamarcio let go of Borghese’s hand and straightened up stiffly.

  ‘You no longer hitting the gym?’ asked Manetti, but Scamarcio ignored him.

  Giangrande pulled up the sheet and pushed the body back into its compartment, then shut the door. ‘Er, Scamarcio.’ He sounded strangely nervous.

  Scamarcio was surprised to see that Giangrande was glancing uncomfortably at Manetti, as if he wished he wasn’t there. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said the doctor. ‘It’s nothing.’

  The full force of Giangrande’s ‘nothing’ hit Scamarcio as he was leaving the mortuary. Aurelia was striding towards him up the path. Her hair was cut short in a new modern style which made her look younger and, if such a thing were possible, more beautiful, and she was talking into her phone and laughing. At the sound of her laughter, Scamarcio’s mouth turned dry and his heart skipped a beat. He felt a strange warmth spreading through his lungs, a toxic mixture of joy, excitement, and anxiety. He couldn’t tell which was winning. It was as if, after months of stasis, every cell, every fibre in his body, was suddenly coming to life. He willed her to look up.

  When she finally did, something dark crossed her features. She muttered a few words into her phone, then pressed a button and pushed it quickly into the back pocket of her skin-tight jeans. She glanced around furtively, as if she was perhaps searching for an exit, but the path through the gardens led in only one direction. Scamarcio stood his ground. She had no choice but to face him.

  Once she’d reached the steps, he leaned down to kiss her on both cheeks. He’d been about to say that it was good to see her, but he changed it to a neutral ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good,’ she said, avoiding eye contact.

  ‘I didn’t know you were back.’

  ‘Why would you?’

  She finally looked at him and frowned. ‘You look tired, Leone.’

  ‘Not sleeping well.’

  ‘You weren’t sleeping last time I saw you.’

  Does she know about the baby? he wondered. He didn’t want to be the one to tell her.

  ‘How was Munich?’

  ‘Interesting. I learned a lot.’ He’d heard she’d been seeing someone. Maybe they’d split.

  ‘Are you back for good?’

  ‘Until a better opportunity comes along.’

  ‘You didn’t feel like staying?’

  She turned to him, and he watched her eyes burn with a sudden anger. ‘Why? Would that have been more convenient for you?’

  His first thought was that she did know about the baby, then he wondered if it was all just resentment about what had happened with the Cappadona. And, really, who could blame her? He worried about her being back here now, right under their noses in Rome. Then again, he’d heard that the leadership had changed and priorities had shifted.

  His voice fell to a whisper. ‘I’m so sorry, Aurelia. About everything. I’ve missed you, you know. And seeing you …’ The words trailed off. He didn’t know how to phrase it; he didn’t understand his own mind.

  She saved him the trouble by holding up a palm and pushing straight past him.

  ‘Aurelia!’

  But the doors swung shut behind her, and his voice was lost in a sudden shower of rain.

  6

  SCAMARCIO WAS STANDING ACROSS the street from the Borghese’s apartment building, feeling low and confused, when he spotted Gennaro Borghese getting into a black Porsche Panamera and speeding away. Again, Scamarcio figured that marketing must pay far better than he had first imagined. He made a mental note to ask Mr Borghese more about his work. He also wondered where the man could be heading in such a hurry. Surely his company would have granted him compassionate leave? Perhaps he was dealing with his son’s funeral arrangements.

  When Mrs Borghese greeted Scamarcio in the doorway to the apartment, she looked destroyed: her eyes were red and swollen, her face pale, and her brown hair lank and unwashed.

  ‘Please excuse my appearance, Detective. I just can’t get it together.’

  ‘You don’t need to apologise, Mrs Borghese.’

  ‘Please, call me Katia.’

  She walked over to the huge TV. ‘I found the DVDs of the sessions. I hope they’re useful.’ She grew pensive for a moment, then said, ‘Do you want me to watch them with you?’

  ‘It might be good to get your input, but if it’s painful …’

  ‘No, I want to. There could be something there. You never know.’

  She slumped down on the sofa. ‘Is there any news? From the post-mortem?’

  Scamarcio talked her through Giangrande’s findings.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she whispered when he’d finished. ‘Who would do such a thing to Andrea? And why?’ She hung her head, then started to cry softly, and Scamarcio could do nothing but look on and watch.

  When her sobs were a little quieter, he said, ‘Those are the questions I’m exploring. The pathologist and the chief crime-scene investigator both feel that this murder shows signs of professional involvement. The speed of the attack, the level of pressure exerted — they lead us to believe the killer knew exactly what they were doing, and that he or she had perhaps done this before.’

  Katia Borghese looked up. Her face had grown even paler. ‘What?’

  ‘You know what a professional hit is?’

  ‘Of course I know what that is.’ She shook her head. ‘But it makes no sense. Why would Andrea be targeted? I just don’t understand …’

  ‘And when you said yesterday that he had no enemies?’

  ‘Like my husband said, Andrea didn’t really have a social life. His schooling had been intermittent, he hadn’t formed any real friendships …’

  ‘What about an online presence? Did he use Facebook, Twitter, social media at all?’

  She rubbed her eye tiredly. ‘He spent a lot of time on the computer, but it was mainly gaming. I don’t think he was big on Facebook and all those things.’

  ‘But you’re not sure?’

  ‘No, that was private, really. His private world.’ She looked uncomfortable. ‘Andrea had so little independence, I always thought that we should grant him what small freedoms we could. I didn’t ask him too much about the computer stuff.’

  Scamarcio was surprised. He felt that, given Andrea’s problems with anger, his parents ought to have kept across his online activities. But instead he just smiled understandingly. ‘I’m going to need to look at Andrea’s computer and other devices — tablet, phone, etc.’

  ‘He just had a laptop and a cell.’

  ‘Did the team take them yesterday?’

  ‘No, they’re still here. You want them?’

  ‘Yes, if you could.’ Scamarcio was disgusted that the CSI team hadn’t bagged them. Leaving the devices would have given either parent ample time to wipe valuable data. He didn’t really like either of the Borgheses for suspects, but the case was still very new. He’d have a word with Manetti about the oversight. It couldn’t happen again.

  While Mrs Borghese was retrieving the devices, Scamarcio took the opportunity to look around. A few tasteful landscapes lined the walls of the living room, and the parquet was strewn with elaborate Moroccan rugs. The sofas were a rich tan leather, on which a few embroidered cushions were carefully placed. Scamarcio struggled to imagine the chaotic madness of Andrea’s condition fitting into all this perfection. He wondered about the cushions: what mother, in the throes of grief, would think to plump and neaten her cushions? Or maybe they’d been like that since yesterday. Or perhaps they had a cleaner? Perhaps tidying was a
coping mechanism.

  ‘Do you have a cleaning lady?’ he asked as Mrs Borghese came back into the room.

  She looked surprised. ‘No.’ She coughed. ‘We did for a while, but Andrea was vile to her, so we had to let her go.’

  ‘Why didn’t he like her?’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t personal. Andrea didn’t like anyone who encroached on his space, his routine.’

  A distant bell was ringing for Scamarcio — the memory of a friend’s son. ‘Did any of the doctors you saw ever mention autism?’

  ‘Oh yes, it often came up. But then they couldn’t make some of Andrea’s other symptoms fit. It was like he had a bit of autism, a bit of epilepsy, and then a whole load of other stuff. No one seemed to know quite where to place him.’

  Scamarcio decided he’d better read up on these conditions when he had a chance. It might give him a clearer picture.

  ‘Here you go,’ said Mrs Borghese, handing over a laptop and cable, then an iPhone.

  Scamarcio thanked her. ‘Are they password protected?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that. They may be — but if they are, he never told me the codes.’

  Scamarcio pulled some plastic CSI gloves from his bag and put them on. Then he perched the laptop on his knees and fired it up. It was locked. Unsurprisingly, it was the same story with the phone. He closed the laptop and laid the devices carefully on the coffee table. He removed the gloves and rolled them into a tiny ball which he popped in his pocket.

  ‘Might your husband know how to get in?’

  ‘We can call him.’ She reached for a cordless phone.

  ‘Where is he? I saw him driving off as I arrived.’

  ‘He’s gone to see his mother. She’s taking all this terribly badly.’ She shrugged as if she couldn’t understand why.

  ‘It would be hard for any grandmother.’

  ‘Yes, but she never really gave Andrea the time of day. She’s a snob, very concerned with appearances. Andrea was a big embarrassment.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  ‘Not nice to say, but that’s the reality.’ She pressed the dial tab on the phone.

  The image of Gennaro Borghese speeding away in his black Porsche flashed into Scamarcio’s mind once more, and he held his hand out to stop Mrs Borghese. ‘Actually, can we hold off on the call a moment?’

  Mrs Borghese looked up, surprised. ‘OK.’

  Scamarcio cleared his throat, trying to buy himself some time while he formulated the thought. ‘Mrs Borghese, given this case shows signs of professional involvement, I have to ask: might your husband have links to organised crime?’

  Mrs Borghese blinked several times. ‘Wow, that was not a question I was expecting.’ She paused. ‘No, I can assure you that Gennaro has nothing to do with the mafia. In fact, he detests them — never misses an opportunity to complain about them. He thinks the mafia mentality has spread north and corrupted us all. He blames them for everything.’

  ‘I think the same, to be honest.’

  They both smiled weakly, and a few seconds of awkward silence followed. Scamarcio wondered if Mrs Borghese had been told about his past. He shifted his weight on the sofa and said, ‘Let’s make a start on the films. I have a feeling they’re going to give me some valuable insight into Andrea and this case.’

  ‘Of course.’ She set down the phone and reached for a long remote. She pressed a few buttons, and the huge screen came to life. Scamarcio saw a frozen image of Andrea Borghese flanked by three young men in dark clerical robes.

  He threw a quick glance at Mrs Borghese. She was biting her fist and closing her eyes. He couldn’t begin to think how hard it must be for her to see her dead son brought back to life like this.

  The freeze-frame shuddered, and then began moving smoothly. Andrea was shouting something, but Scamarcio couldn’t quite make out the words. The three young priests were pinning his arms back, trying to prevent him from striking at Cardinal Amato, who was standing a few metres away. In comparison to Andrea, who must have been at least six foot, Amato seemed like a tiny wisp of a figure. Scamarcio noticed a battered leather book shaking in his gnarled hands. He felt sure it was the same book he’d seen on the cardinal’s desk.

  ‘Neverrrrr,’ hissed Andrea, as he thrashed against the grip of the priests. ‘Get away! Get away!’

  All at once, he managed to break free from their hold. He grabbed a tall wooden chair and, with tremendous force, hurled it towards the cardinal. Amato was able to duck out of the way just before the chair broke against the wall behind him. Andrea reached around him frantically and soon found a glass vase, which also went over Amato’s head, crashing and smashing against the wall, and sending small shards scattering across the floor. The cardinal was crouched down and took several moments to assess the situation before rising gingerly to his feet.

  ‘RECEDE IN NOMINE PATRIS!’ yelled Amato, in a voice that was entirely new. It was deep and powerful and didn’t seem to belong to him. The cardinal was striding towards Andrea, determined now, far less afraid. The dramatic change brought moisture to the back of Scamarcio’s neck. It wasn’t the bravery that shocked him, but the brute force of the words. This was a different man. It was as if the cardinal were someone else — as if he, too, were possessed.

  ‘SANCTISSIMO DOMINE MIGRA,’ Amato boomed as he stepped closer to Andrea, who in turn now seemed cowed and intimidated. He was looking all around him for an escape, but appeared to be rooted to the spot by fear.

  ‘CEDE! CEDE!’ screamed Amato as he backed Andrea into a corner. The young priests moved in and grabbed the boy’s arms once more. The camera shifted shakily to find a better angle on Cardinal Amato’s face. He looked furious — raging, even. His eyes were on fire. The transformation was total, and Scamarcio knew in that moment that he needed to take a step back and reassess: the contours of this case were different from what he’d first imagined. Cardinal Amato was not to be underestimated.

  Andrea was quivering now, like a young bird fallen from a nest. The priests were leading him to a chair and trying to coax him to sit. The boy was whispering something over and over.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Scamarcio asked Mrs Borghese. He noticed that she had opened her eyes now and was watching the screen.

  ‘“Leave him,” probably. That was something he used to say a lot. It was the devil talking — challenging the cardinal.’

  ‘You really believe that?’

  Mrs Borghese froze the image and looked Scamarcio hard in the eye. ‘It’s the only thing that can fully explain Andrea’s behaviour over the years. It was our mistake that we didn’t recognise it sooner and that we wasted so much time and money. It was only once Andrea started seeing the cardinal that we saw any improvement at all.’

  ‘Does your husband feel the same way? Did he agree with the decision to approach the church?’

  Katia Borghese cleared her throat and looked into her lap. ‘My husband and I have always had a different opinion when it comes to matters of faith. I have a strong faith; I come from a family with a strong faith. My husband is the son of atheists, and, unfortunately, he has inherited their cynicism.’

  ‘So, it was your decision to approach Amato?’

  She glanced up. ‘Yes, but what could Gennaro say? Nothing else had worked, so it was worth a try. Even he could see that.’

  She returned her gaze to the TV and pressed play. Andrea was still whispering, but he seemed tired. He was resting his head against the wall, and his eyes were starting to close. The cardinal had placed a hand on his leg and was also now speaking in a whisper. The boy’s eyes stayed shut. To Scamarcio, there was something disconcerting about the scene, but he couldn’t pinpoint why. After a few seconds, the screen turned black.

  ‘Is that it?’ he asked.

  ‘I stopped filming because the session ended there. It was a particularly good session because Andrea calmed much
earlier than normal. Cardinal Amato hadn’t even reached the end of his rites.’

  Scamarcio rubbed a palm across his forehead. ‘You were able to film this? It must have been hard for you.’

  ‘Actually, I found it easier to watch though a lens than witness with my bare eyes, as strange as that may sound.’

  ‘I guess the camera removes you from the action — there’s something between you and reality.’ Scamarcio paused. ‘How was Andrea after these sessions?’

  ‘After that particular session, he was calm. He slept for a long time. After other sessions, he’d sometimes settle for a bit, only to get fired up again a few hours later.’

  ‘Fired up?’

  ‘He’d become aggressive again: start swearing, throwing things.’

  Mrs Borghese went over to the TV and kneeled down to remove the disc. She slipped it into a plastic case.

  ‘Did you film all of them?’ asked Scamarcio.

  She rose wearily to her feet and sighed. ‘Just three or four, I think. I wanted a record of his progress — for when my husband tried to deny it all later.’ She smiled sadly. ‘And as I say, it was easier to watch through a lens.’

  ‘Can I have the other ones? I’ll make copies and return the originals.’

  ‘Of course.’ She reached beneath the TV and retrieved a few plastic cases. Scamarcio took them and slipped them into his jacket pocket.

  ‘Shall we call your husband now?’

  Mrs Borghese nodded and picked up the phone. She dialled the number, and then she must have put it on speakerphone, because Scamarcio heard it ringing. After a moment, the line crackled, before Mr Borghese said, quite calmly, ‘Leave me alone, bitch.’

  Mrs Borghese didn’t seem in the least bit surprised. She simply ended the call and laid the phone on the table, before folding her manicured hands in her lap and staring off into the middle distance.

  ‘Is that normally how he greets you?’ asked Scamarcio quietly.

  She laughed bitterly, her eyes empty. ‘He blames me. He thinks all this is to do with the church. If we hadn’t approached Amato, Andrea wouldn’t be dead.’