‘From your greeting, it almost sounded like you were pleased to see me,’ said Scamarcio, wanting to shift the conversation on.
Negruzzo sucked on the end of a silver teaspoon then placed it in a plastic pot. He’d been eating a chocolate Danone. He turned and freed another pot from the pack, ripping off the foil seal and licking it. ‘You must be telepathic. I was about to call you,’ he said as he tossed the seal into an overflowing bin.
‘You got somewhere?’
‘I have the cart before the horse. I got into his Facebook, just using one of my brute force programmes, actually. Nothing fancy.’ Negruzzo scoffed several spoonfuls, then wiped the chocolate from his chin using the back of his hand.
‘Anything interesting?’
The Tech chief rolled his eyes. ‘Scamarcio, that’s your job. I’m just the guy who unlocks the door.’
Scamarcio smiled. ‘OK, so do you want to tell me what his password is?’
‘“Caligula2000”. No spaces, “2000” in numbers.’
‘Oh.’ Scamarcio wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but he hadn’t been expecting that. ‘The year 2000 was the year of Borghese’s birth,’ was all he could come up with.
‘And Caligula was a murderous sociopath who slept with all three of his sisters,’ added Negruzzo helpfully.
Scamarcio took a seat on a dirty swivel chair. ‘Borghese doesn’t have sisters.’
‘Thank God for that, then.’ Negruzzo polished off the Danone as if his life depended on it and swung back to his screen. ‘Forgive me, Scamarcio, but I’ve got to get on. I’ll call you about the others. Have fun.’
Scamarcio smiled, but he wasn’t really listening. He was too busy wondering why Borghese had chosen that particular name. Did he identify with the Roman Emperor in some way? Many commentators had declared Caligula insane. Once, when bored at the games, he’d ordered a section of the audience thrown to the lions because he’d run out of prisoners to use. He’d then taken to appearing in public dressed as a god. From what Scamarcio had learned so far, Andrea had been neither tyrannical nor a megalomaniac. Surely, then, it was impossible that he recognised in himself the same degree of insanity. Or was it? The question saddened Scamarcio, yet it also stirred a fire in him. Now, for the first time, he might actually have something to work with.
11
ANDREA BORGHESE’S FACEBOOK FEED was troubling to say the least. It consisted of a melange of blurry pictures of Satanic rituals, posts about the ‘artist’ Marina Abramović and her practice of ‘spirit cooking’ (Scamarcio had no idea what that was), and photos of heavy metal groups: Black Sabbath, Judas Priest, and Megadeth. Scamarcio noticed that many of Andrea’s posts went un-liked, but, occasionally, the same two or three people left a comment or an emoji of some sort. Scamarcio made a note of their names — one girl and two boys — and printed out their Facebook profile photos. Unfortunately, all three of their feeds were set to private. In all, Andrea had thirty followers, but it seemed that most of them never interacted with him. Scamarcio felt slightly saddened by the paltry number, even though he subscribed to the view that your number of Facebook friends was not a true reflection of the fullness of your life — if anything, the two were inversely proportionate.
He scanned Andrea’s private messages. There were just a few from the girl, Graziella, asking how Andrea was doing, and several noncommittal replies back. Scamarcio wondered if she was a girlfriend or had perhaps wanted to be.
He scrolled down the feed and noticed a few more ‘spirit cooking’ references. He plugged the term into Google.
According to various articles in the press, the performance artist Marina Abramović used pigs’ blood as a way of ‘connecting with the spiritual world’, and it was this she dubbed ‘spirit cooking’. Scamarcio came across a video of her using the blood to scrawl various statements on a wall. One read, ‘with a sharp knife cut deeply into the middle finger of your left hand eat the pain’. Further parts of the ritual seemed to involve using menstrual blood, breast milk, urine, and sperm to create a painting. The Nutella tart Scamarcio had enjoyed with his last coffee was rapidly making its way back up his gullet, and he had to swallow several times to keep it down.
He closed his eyes and forced himself to read on. Spirit cooking, he discovered, also referred to a sacrament in the religion of Thelema, founded by alleged Satanist Aleister Crowley. Yet, despite this, in interviews, Marina Abramović denied any connection with Satanism and claimed all this was just her own personal take on performance art. She said that spirit cooking was far more about spirituality than anything else.
Scamarcio looked away from the screen and cupped his chin. Why was Andrea interested in this crap? Did he practise it? Could it be that he was simply acting out the role that had been allotted him — namely, that of a boy who was possessed, and who therefore must be interested in all things satanic?
Scamarcio closed his eyes and rubbed his jaw. If that were the case, it was tragic. He thought of Gennaro Borghese and his anger, and for the first time he understood just why the man was so furious with his wife.
Scamarcio didn’t want to trudge back to Tech and give them two new Facebook passwords to crack, so he decided to try Andrea’s most recent school to see if he could find Andrea’s friends in the real world. When he called the school’s reception, the secretary was infinitely more obliging than the old woman from the Vatican.
‘Yes, all three of those people are students with us,’ she announced once she’d run a computer search.
‘And they’re still attending?’ asked Scamarcio.
‘They’re in their last year and have their exams in June. They’ll be home for the afternoon now, of course, but I can give you their phone numbers.’
‘That would be great, thanks.’
Scamarcio decided to try to visit the girl, Graziella, first. If there was a romantic connection, she might have valuable information.
It turned out that Graziella Feliciano lived just a few streets away from the Borgheses on a road lined with Mediterranean pine and palm trees. Her apartment stood in an elegant pink liberty block with brown shutters. Scamarcio had called ahead and learned that she and her mother would be in and would be waiting for him.
What he hadn’t expected was the six-foot-four meathead who opened the door.
‘Igor Feliciano,’ barked the hulk, locking eyes with Scamarcio. The look said, Don’t even try it, lad.
‘Graziella’s father?’ said Scamarcio, returning the stare.
‘If the police are wanting a word with my daughter, I’d prefer to be around.’
Scamarcio studied the man, taking in his huge shaved grey head, his small rat-brown eyes shrouded by dense brows, and the winter tan on heavy jowls. He looked familiar, but Scamarcio couldn’t place him.
‘You’re thinking you’ve seen me before,’ said Feliciano, as he led Scamarcio into a wide living room. Scamarcio quickly estimated the flat’s value at around three million. Sunshine was bouncing off polished parquet and bronze miniatures, forming rich patterns on the pristine walls. There seemed to be a battle of styles in play: a bizarre clash between achingly chic minimalism and nouveau riche vulgarity. A few tasteful paintings hung on the walls, carefully framed and positioned, but the multicoloured sofas and over-stuffed, gold-tasselled cushions covered in cherubim looked as if they’d been lifted straight out of a Bari brothel. Scamarcio wondered if Feliciano and his wife hailed from different backgrounds and didn’t quite see eye to eye on certain things.
‘Have we met before, Mr Feliciano?’
Igor Feliciano motioned Scamarcio to the sofa, and he took a seat. Feliciano inclined his head proudly to the wall on his left. ‘Take a look over there.’
Scamarcio did as instructed and immediately spotted a framed photo of Feliciano with his arm around Francesco Totti, ex Roma striker and national treasure. There was another picture hanging beneath of
Feliciano with Valentino Rossi, the motor-racing star.
Scamarcio smiled. ‘Feliciano, the sports promoter. Forgive me, my mind’s a little addled. My girlfriend is about to have a baby, and I’m not sleeping.’ Scamarcio thought that it might be helpful to reveal some vulnerability in front of a thug like Feliciano.
Feliciano smiled and lounged back against his strange cushions. ‘No worries, been there myself. It’s a stressful time. Now, listen,’ he leaned forward again, as if suddenly remembering the purpose of Scamarcio’s visit, ‘what does Graziella have to do with the death of that lad. She barely knew him.’
Scamarcio tried to make himself comfortable. He carefully pulled a bulging cushion out from behind him and placed it to his side. ‘Is that what she told you? Where is she, by the way?’
‘She’ll be in in a minute. I wanted a word, first.’ Feliciano was speaking quickly now, and, to Scamarcio, each word felt like a tiny bullet — a quiet threat. ‘I don’t think that boy had many friends; he was strange, peculiar, prone to outbursts. You’re barking up the wrong tree with Graziella. I wouldn’t want you to waste your time, Detective.’
‘That’s considerate of you, but I will need to talk to her. I’m sure you understand that I can’t just take your word for it. You must be familiar with police work.’ Scamarcio seemed to recall that Feliciano had been caught up in a match-fixing scandal some years back.
The jibe found its target, and Feliciano eyed him for a long moment before moistening his thick lips. ‘OK, but don’t upset her. She’s in an odd mood.’
‘Why’s that? The death perhaps?’
Feliciano threw open his arms and rolled his eyes skyward. ‘There is no “why” with Graziella these days. She’s a teenage girl. I’m incapable of understanding her, as hard as I try. And, believe me, I try.’ Feliciano looked helpless for a moment, and Scamarcio almost felt sorry for him.
The big man sighed and heaved his bulk reluctantly from the sofa. Then he turned and headed towards some double doors at the back of the room. ‘One minute,’ he said quietly, as he left.
After ten seconds or so, he reappeared, followed by a glamorous blonde who had to be Graziella’s mother, exquisitely dressed in an array of different shades of taupe. From just one look at her, Scamarcio could tell that she was high society, and that Feliciano, the southern boy made good, had married up. Scamarcio was beginning to wonder where Graziella was when an apparition in black materialised in the doorway. It hovered on the threshold for a few moments, as if deciding whether to enter, then slowly started inching forward, a phantom making its approach.
Scamarcio struggled to disguise his surprise. The girl, if, in fact, this creature was female, had deathly pale powdery skin, heavy kohl-darkened eyes, and lips so red they looked like they might be bleeding. Her hair stood up in glassy black peaks, and her ragged black jumper hung to her knees. Her thin legs, in thick black tights, ended in heavy Doc Martens, silver studs lining the huge soles. In the left side of her nose was what looked like a safety pin, and rows of them ran along both ear lobes. Scamarcio stole a quiet breath and glanced at Mr and Mrs Feliciano, smart and respectable. How could they have produced this?
Mrs Feliciano graciously extended a hand and introduced herself. Graziella hung back.
‘Hi, Graziella. I just wanted a word with you about Andrea Borghese,’ said Scamarcio, not bothering to attempt to shake her hand as he sensed she’d perceive it as an invasion of space.
The girl just nodded wordlessly.
‘If you don’t mind,’ said Scamarcio, turning to both parents.
Mr Feliciano looked torn. Scamarcio guessed he wanted to throw his weight around, but knew it wouldn’t be wise.
‘We’ll be in the next room,’ he muttered, casting Scamarcio an icy stare as he left.
When they were out of earshot, Scamarcio motioned the girl to the sofa. ‘Why don’t we sit down?’
Graziella complied, but said nothing.
‘I wanted to speak with you because you are one of a handful of people Andrea seems to have been in contact with on Facebook.’
‘I can’t believe he’s dead.’ Her voice was low and soft and took Scamarcio by surprise.
‘How well did you know him?’
There was a long silence before she said, ‘He was in and out of school, and I suppose I was one of just a few kids there who actually bothered to give him the time of day.’ She paused. ‘I liked Andrea, he was interesting to talk to. It turned out that we were into the same sorts of things.’
‘How was his behaviour?’
She smiled, seeming to enjoy the memory. ‘He totally lost it in a physics lesson once … started screaming and hurling things at the teacher. The school tried to kick him out.’
‘But you spent time with him when he was normal, so to speak?’
‘He was perfectly reasonable most of the time. Interesting and funny. It’s so stupid that nobody in our school bothered to get to know him. They just wrote him off as crazy and that was it. And, if the herd hates you, then it’s over. No one is brave enough to go against the herd,’ she said bitterly.
‘The herd?’
‘They’re all sheep in my school.’
‘What would you and Andrea talk about?’
She rubbed at her eye, and Scamarcio saw some of the black eyeliner smudge. ‘This and that. He was into the death metal scene. So am I. He was into the occult, so am I …’
‘There’s Satanist stuff on his Facebook feed.’
She smiled again, but it was a different kind of smile — evasive, dissembling. ‘All that was just for fun. He wasn’t really into it, if you know what I mean.’
‘I thought that was what death metal was all about — the songs talk about murder, torture, the devil.’ Scamarcio had done some research before he’d left the office. None of it had been pleasant.
She frowned. ‘Just because you like the music doesn’t mean you have to practise all that other stuff.’
Scamarcio wasn’t convinced. ‘Beasts of Satan started with the music, and then look where they ended up.’
She scratched at the corner of her mouth. ‘Those kids murdered their friends. Andrea would never do anything like that.’ Her voice started to rise, indignation taking over. ‘No one understood Andrea when he was alive, and it seems that nobody understands him now.’
‘Where are we going wrong?’
Another long silence. ‘Andrea was highly intelligent, but he had problems controlling his emotions. His mother should never have got the church involved — it was all bullshit. Bullshit Andrea didn’t need, stress he didn’t need. She was the crazy one in that family, if you ask me.’
‘Did Andrea ever speak about her?’
‘He couldn’t stand her.’
‘What?’ Scamarcio looked up from his notes.
‘He said she was a controlling bitch who made his father’s life hell. She’s an alcoholic, you know. Andrea said that from 5.00 pm she’d be out of it. By 7.00 pm she’d be aggressive.’
Scamarcio took a long breath. ‘What kind of aggressive?’
‘Verbal, I think — Andrea was too big to beat up. But I got the feeling she’d tried when he was little.’
‘He said that?’
‘No, but reading between the lines …’
‘It sounds like you two were pretty close for you to know all this about his mother.’
‘We were …’ The words trailed off, and she looked away.
‘Were you a couple, Graziella?’
She sighed. It was a long, laboured sigh, as if she was trying to drag something heavy to the surface. ‘I don’t think Andrea was interested in sex. He never seemed to want to take things to the next level …’ She looked away, embarrassed.
Scamarcio drew a large question mark on his page and boxed it. Then boxed it again.
‘You never saw him
with anyone else?’
She shook her head. ‘Like I say, most people didn’t want to give him the time of day.’
A small question had been troubling Scamarcio, niggling away at the fringes of his consciousness. Finally, it broke through. ‘Why didn’t Andrea dress like you, if he was into the same things? When we found his body, he was in normal clothes — preppy cords, a striped shirt. He seemed a long way from being a goth.’
She shook her head sadly. ‘He didn’t want his parents to find out about that aspect of his life because he knew they’d make hell for him. He chose to keep it a secret, and just live it out online.’
‘His parents kept him on a tight leash?’
‘He felt totally suffocated by them; he blamed them for all his problems.’
‘But from what I’ve been told, he had serious mental health issues from a young age.’
‘Who’s to say they didn’t cause them?’
Scamarcio wanted to frown, but looked down at his pad instead. He’d never been able to understand how kids from good families ended up hating their parents. He had a valid reason; they just seemed spoiled and naïve.
‘His other friends on Facebook, Castelnuovo and Pombeni — do you know them?’
‘They’re both good guys. They’re the only other people who talked to Andrea at school. I hang out with them sometimes.’
She looked away quickly, and Scamarcio had the feeling that she was trying to make the relationship sound more casual than it really was. The question was, why?
‘Graziella, do you have any idea who might have done this? Did Andrea have any enemies?’
She closed her eyes for a minute, and when she opened them, Scamarcio saw that they were brimming with tears. Her make-up was quickly becoming a mess. ‘Andrea was such a nice guy, such a sensitive soul … I just can’t, I can’t … understand.’
Scamarcio drew in his bottom lip. This was a weird one: her sadness was real, but he felt sure her confusion wasn’t. She had an idea of who might have done it — he could feel it. He could see it in the way she held her shoulders, in the quick movements of her fingers against the hem of her jumper, in the set of her jaw. But experience told him he couldn’t push too early or too hard. He’d talk to the others, and then come back around to her.
The Devil Page 7
