Mr Borghese gestured towards his wife and looked at her hard as if to say, There’s no way I’m going to take this one.
Mrs Borghese wiped her eyes with a tissue. When the words came, they were very quiet. Giovanna Rinaldi placed a gentle hand on Katia Borghese’s shoulder and asked her to speak up.
‘We’d spent years seeing medical experts. When nothing worked, we decided to try the church.’
‘Can you describe your son’s symptoms?’
Scamarcio felt there was something mawkish about the question, and Mrs Borghese seemed to feel the same way.
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ve given that information to the police, but I don’t see why it’s of public interest.’
Scamarcio noticed Rizzo purse her lips and look down.
Rinaldi selected another reporter from the throng. Scamarcio didn’t recognise him.
‘I wanted to ask Mr Borghese if he has any ideas about who might have done this.’
Gennaro Borghese pinched his nose and looked nervously at Scamarcio. Scamarcio just nodded at him to continue.
‘Because of his problems, Andrea didn’t get out much … he didn’t have many friends. My wife and I are at a loss as to how to explain his murder. It makes no sense to us.’
‘And how do you feel about the cardinal?’
‘How do I feel about him?’
‘Do you suspect him?’
Mr Borghese’s face became pinched. ‘No. I don’t suspect the cardinal.’ He turned to Scamarcio. ‘Can we wind this up now?’ The words rang out loud and clear over the microphone.
‘Just a few more questions,’ said Rinaldi softly, as she scanned the crowd.
Scamarcio’s heart sank when he saw Fabiana Morello take the microphone.
‘Mr and Mrs Borghese, are you comfortable with Detective Scamarcio’s involvement in this inquiry?’
Katia Borghese turned to her husband, who looked equally confused. ‘Why wouldn’t we be comfortable?’
‘Because of his background. Detective Scamarcio has a chequered history, he …’
‘Can’t we move the narrative on, Fabiana?’ said Rinaldi, exasperated. ‘This is about the murder of a young man. Detective Scamarcio’s very distant past has nothing to do with it.’
‘Not so distant, from what I hear,’ muttered Morello into the mike.
Rinaldi rolled her eyes at Scamarcio. Scamarcio frowned back, but, inside, he was wondering what Morello might have in play. Was that comment a first stab at blackmail? Did she have something on him? If anyone did, it would have to be her. Over the years, she’d seemed increasingly obsessed with him, like a dog with a bone. Maybe the dog had been down south, done some digging. The thought made him nauseous. He tried to return his focus to the room.
A Japanese journalist was asking a question about Amato, but Scamarcio hadn’t caught the beginning. He turned to look at the parents and noticed that Gennaro Borghese seemed newly agitated. He was struggling to loosen his shirt collar, thick beads of sweat were coursing down his face, and he was blinking rapidly. Is he unwell? But before the thought had even coalesced, Borghese had sprung from his chair and was yelling at the crowd. ‘You’re parasites, the lot of you! You sicken me, you freaks! Fuck off and leave us to grieve.’
Scamarcio rubbed a hand across his eyes and rose from his chair.
‘That could have gone better,’ he whispered to Rinaldi as she ushered the Borgheses out of the room.
9
SCAMARCIO YAWNED FOR THE fifth time as he made the walk down Via della Giuliana towards the entrance to Cafaro’s offices at the Vatican. He felt shaky, and it was an effort to keep his eyelids from closing. He’d been woken at 2.00 am by Fiammetta, who thought she was experiencing contractions. By 3.00 am, she’d changed her mind, but by then he was so on edge that he’d been unable to fall back to sleep and had spent the next few hours trying to banish all thoughts of devils and demons.
He’d sifted through the sparse facts of the case in his head and had tried to form a picture — draw some kind of outline that would tell him which direction to take, but nothing had come to him. He was still mired in ‘all avenues’ territory, and he needed to get out of the mud, fast. He wanted another meeting with the young priest, Meinero. He had a feeling that exploring his doubts about Meinero — that flicker of fear he’d noticed — would bring him to a turn in the road far sooner than any password on any laptop.
As expected, the chief of the Vatican gendarmerie didn’t seem too happy to see him. ‘Why didn’t you call first?’ said Cafaro, tipping back an espresso. He didn’t offer Scamarcio one.
‘I didn’t think I’d find you in so early,’ lied Scamarcio.
‘Bullshit.’
Uninvited, Scamarcio drew out a seat opposite Cafaro’s desk and sat down. ‘I just need a word with Priest Meinero. Don’t worry about the others.’
‘You suspect him?’
‘I noticed something in his behaviour that I’d like to explore. It may be nothing.’
‘I can’t come with you,’ said Cafaro as if Scamarcio might be disappointed. ‘I have a meeting.’
This was precisely what Scamarcio had hoped for — better to catch the inspector unprepared. ‘No problem,’ he said quietly.
Cafaro threw him a long stare, it was almost a challenge, but not quite. He sighed then turned to study a document pinned on the wall to the left of his tidy desk. He quickly punched a number into the phone. ‘Is Meinero there?’ A pause. ‘Anyone know where he might be? There’s a detective from the Flying Squad who needs to talk to him.’ Another pause. ‘OK. Shall I send him up?’ Silence, then finally, ‘Right you are.’
Cafaro cut the call and checked his watch. ‘I’m running late. If you head up to the first floor of the Sala Rotonda, you should find him. He’s a member of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, and they’re about to meet. I should be free in forty minutes or so. Please report back to me before you leave.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Scamarcio smiled and rose from the chair.
As he left, he had the distinct feeling that Cafaro was flipping him the bird behind his back.
Scamarcio crossed the Vatican gardens, admiring an array of red and purple primroses that had been sown into the lawn to form the Pope’s insignia. He wondered whether he actually liked it. Given his apparent modesty — his refusal to sleep in the Pope’s palace and his choice of a simple Fiat to get about — perhaps such an ostentatious display grated with him.
As Scamarcio rounded a corner, he came upon a loud huddle of nuns carrying huge piles of laundry. He’d read in the paper that the sisters had been complaining of late: there was way too much ironing, and they were having to work ever longer shifts to deal with the backlog.
He entered the huge marble lobby of the Sala Rotonda, and the heavy chemical scent of disinfectant on unmoved air hit him immediately. He took the massive wooden staircase, running his palm along the mahogany and wondering at the perfection of the polish. Although he’d lived in Rome for over a decade, he’d never been inside the Rotonda. Scamarcio wasn’t one to be easily excited, but the dramatic portraits, the centuries of history within the walls, and the intoxicating brew of power and opulence were stirring something in him. He arrived on the first floor and immediately spotted a group of young priests milling about outside a massive oak door, which appeared to be locked shut with a large gold padlock.
‘Is Meinero here?’ he asked the small crowd.
They exchanged glances and shook their heads.
‘He hasn’t turned up yet,’ said Lania, the blond priest from the Veneto whom Scamarcio had interviewed the other day.
‘Actually, he was supposed to play squash with me last night, but he didn’t show,’ a small guy with curly dark hair told the group.
‘Did anyone see him yesterday?’ asked Scamarcio.
They traded quick gla
nces again and shook their heads once more.
‘Now I think about it, I don’t remember him being at lunch or breakfast either,’ said the same curly-haired guy.
What had started as a dull hum of concern was becoming a shrieking alarm in Scamarcio’s head.
‘Do any of you have an idea where he might be? Perhaps he’s had to go away on official business?’
‘We’d know about that,’ said Lania. ‘We’re a group. We do things together.’
‘Is Meinero a member of any other organisations that might have business in Rome — in the city?’
‘He was on the Soup Kitchen Committee, but he left that a few months back,’ said the curly-haired guy. ‘That would be his only reason for being outside the Vatican, but, even then, they make sure their timetable coincides with other in-house congregation business.’
‘Where’s Meinero from originally?’ Scamarcio asked.
‘Piedmont,’ answered the curly-haired guy. ‘The part near Liguria. I forget the name of his town.’
‘Is he still in touch with his folks up there?’
‘He’s very close to his sister, and she still lives there,’ he said.
‘Would you have a number for her?’
The young priest shook his head. ‘You should try our admin office. We have to give the details of our next of kin. They might have it.’
He gave Scamarcio directions to the office, then said, ‘Maybe you should hang around here for a bit, in case he’s just running late.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’re due to go in any moment.’
As if on cue, an elderly priest arrived and began unlocking the padlock.
‘Is Meinero often late?’ Scamarcio asked the group.
‘Never,’ said Lania as he glanced nervously towards the stairs.
It took Scamarcio a long time to find the admin office. It was tucked away behind some steps in a building that appeared to be home to all the Vatican’s maintenance workers and their equipment. From one glance, Scamarcio sensed that the elderly lady in charge would be far less amenable than her younger assistant, who had greeted him politely as he walked in.
‘What is it you want, exactly?’ asked the head secretary as she lowered her half-moon glasses and let them rest on their chain against her thick rollneck sweater. It was stiflingly hot in the office, but the old woman seemed dressed for the outdoors.
Scamarcio pulled out his police ID and passed it to her. She studied it for a few seconds, and then pursed her lips. ‘This is all very nice, but you must understand that you have no jurisdiction.’
For a moment, Scamarcio was lost for words. He couldn’t believe she was going to give him this level of grief. He’d banked on quickly collecting the information without Cafaro arriving and putting a spoke in his wheels.
‘Madam, I’m running a high-profile murder inquiry. You’ve probably seen it on the news. Priest Meinero attended the Borghese exorcism with Cardinal Amato. None of Meinero’s colleagues have seen him for the past twenty-four hours, and I urgently need to speak with him.’
The old woman just shrugged, as if Scamarcio had been complaining about the rain.
‘I need to call Inspector Cafaro. He’s head of the gendarmerie. This sort of thing needs to go through him.’
‘I happen to know that the inspector is in a meeting. I haven’t got time to hang around until he gets here.’
‘That’s your problem.’
‘A young man has been murdered. You’re impeding my attempts to find his killer.’
She just shrugged again. ‘Come back with Inspector Cafaro, and I’ll see what I can do.’ With that, she replaced the glasses and disappeared into her office, the door banging shut behind her.
‘Jesus,’ sighed Scamarcio.
The young assistant looked up.
‘Sorry,’ said Scamarcio. ‘I forgot where I was.’
The young woman smiled, and Scamarcio noticed her light hazel eyes.
‘Wait,’ she whispered.
He frowned, but did as instructed.
She tapped a few keys on her computer, studied the screen, and then began scribbling on a block note. After five seconds or so, she pushed the note onto the counter in front of her and looked away quickly.
When Scamarcio glanced at the piece of paper, he saw two telephone numbers and what appeared to be an address in the province of Alessandria, Piedmont.
He pocketed the note and muttered, ‘Thank you.’ Then he hurried out, without looking back.
10
BOTH NUMBERS FOR MEINERO’S relatives in Piedmont were ringing out, as was Meinero’s cell. Scamarcio replaced the receiver, sank back in his chair, and twiddled a biro across his fingers. His eyes came to rest on the small CCTV camera in the corner of the squad room nearest to his desk. So far, he’d neglected the CCTV element. Sure, he’d done his due diligence on the Borghese’s block, which he’d quickly discovered had no CCTV, likewise the street outside. But now he wondered about the cameras near the Vatican: they might prove of use in explaining where Meinero had gone. But experience told him that, at best, they’d just show he’d turned left or right onto Viale Vaticano or Via di Porta Angelica, and then the hunt would start from there. Sure, they could trawl all the cameras along the surrounding roads, but that was a long job, and he wasn’t sure they were at that stage yet. There was still too much to do, and he needed to stick with the macro approach for now.
Just as he was lifting his desk phone, Sartori, a detective from Rimini he had worked with in the past, strode over, a finger held aloft. Scamarcio set down the phone.
‘You’ve got me and Lovoti. Then two more, once Garramone has decided who they are.’
Scamarcio frowned. ‘You, Sartori, I’m always happy to see, but why the fuck Lovoti? Garramone knows I can’t stand him.’
Sartori rolled his shoulders. ‘I dunno, you’ll have to ask the chief. I think he’s just going with who’s free. Mancino’s probably breathing down his neck because of the media interest.’
Scamarcio sighed. ‘They seem to be all over every sodding case of mine.’
‘I’d take that as a compliment.’
Scamarcio scratched his head. ‘You ready to go? I’ve got something to start you off with.’
Sartori nodded. ‘Knock yourself out.’
‘I need you to set up a city-wide alert for a Vatican priest called Alberto Meinero. He was one of the young priests who assisted Cardinal Amato with the Borghese exorcism. When I interviewed him the day of the murder, he was acting strangely, and now it seems that he’s gone missing. No one has seen him in the last twenty-four hours.’
Sartori pulled out a chair, and then helped himself to a piece of paper and a pen from the pot on Scamarcio’s desk. He wrote down the name, then showed it to Scamarcio. Scamarcio nodded.
‘He’s from a place called Arquata Scrivia, near Genoa. He’s twenty-five, six foot, brown hair, brown eyes, olive skin — good-looking guy. Around seventy-five to seventy-eight kilos, I’d say.’ Scamarcio thought of his own weight and the flab that had started to form around his middle. ‘Maybe eighty. Thin-framed, anyway. I’ll see if we can get hold of a photo.’
Sartori jotted it all down. ‘Sexual preference?’
Scamarcio cocked an eyebrow. He didn’t have time for jokes. ‘No idea.’
‘I hear some Vatican priests like to hang around certain Turkish baths and saunas in this city.’
Scamarcio frowned, then realised Sartori wasn’t joking. And at that same moment, he understood that Sartori was on the road to becoming a sound detective.
‘Yeah, check it out, Sartori. If you have any contacts in those places, use them. On the QT though.’
‘Of course.’
‘Get the city-wide for ASAP. I dunno, but I’ve got a bad feeling.’
‘And we all know where your bad feelings tend to lead.’
Scamarcio pinched his nose. ‘If you see that cunt Lovoti, tell him I don’t need him yet. I’ll come find him when I want something, not the other way around.’
‘Jesus, Scamarcio, he’s not that bad.’
‘I don’t have time to deal with his shit with all this going down.’
‘Yeah, but Garramone wants him in.’
‘I know, but let me sort it my way.’
‘Right.’ Sartori got up and pocketed the piece of paper. ‘If I don’t find you here, I’ll try you on the mobile.’
‘Thanks,’ said Scamarcio. And then, as an afterthought, ‘It’s good to have you on this.’
But Sartori had already walked off and didn’t seem to have heard.
Scamarcio located a photo of Meinero, then tried the numbers in Piedmont a few more times without any joy. He then ran a listless search to see if the police computer network held anything that might connect Gennaro Borghese to organised crime. As expected, there was nothing.
Feeling the need to move, he decided to head down to the Tech pen. He knew Negruzzo would have called had he found anything, but the simple act of leaving the office at least made him feel that he was being proactive.
‘Just the man,’ said Negruzzo as Scamarcio walked in.
The smell had got worse, and several of the guys looked like they hadn’t slept since Scamarcio had last seen them. He spotted Gunbach from the CSI team, who had helped him on the case dubbed ‘The Few’. Just the sight of him turned Scamarcio’s mouth dry, and he wondered why he’d been brought in.
‘You guys making progress?’ he asked Negruzzo.
‘Almost there. It’s been a blinding effort. Those fucks will be left to rot — if they’re lucky.’
‘How many arrests are you looking at?’
‘Eight … probably. But, of course, all the contingent pond life — that’s a different story. That will be left to local forces, and then, God knows …’
‘Sure,’ said Scamarcio. He could feel the frustration coming off Negruzzo in waves, and he understood it, perhaps better than most. Whatever they achieved through days, weeks, and months of solid police work would never be enough.
The Devil Page 6
