‘Thanks, Graziella. I appreciate you talking to me.’
She looked up, surprised. ‘Is that it?’
‘For now, yes.’ Scamarcio rose from the sofa. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
She just stared at him, worry etched across her forehead, her eyes wide, and he knew he had her exactly where he needed her.
12
IT WAS GETTING LATE, and the scarlet light had long since faded from the sky, but it was just two streets’ walk to Alessandro Castelnuovo’s house, so Scamarcio decided to make one last push before heading home to Fiammetta.
The address from the school secretary brought him to a stop outside an impressive glass and chrome block, palms lining the walkway to the entrance. He scoured the list beside the intercom for the surname, and then tried the buzzer. A nervous female voice with a foreign accent told him to come up to the fifth floor.
Scamarcio was greeted by a maid with South American features, who led him into a vast living and dining area, divided in two by a wide arch resting on two pillars. Spotlights lined the ceiling. The furniture was contemporary and expensive, and the pine floors were covered with bright rugs in modernist designs. Tall windows ran from floor to ceiling, offering a glimpse of an illuminated balcony crowded with potted palms and ferns.
The maid asked Scamarcio to wait a moment, and then hurried back down the corridor, knocking on several doors until she found somebody in. The young Castelnuovo eventually emerged from a cloud of smoke and slammed the door loudly behind him. From the looks of him, he modelled himself on Robert Smith from The Cure. What is it with these privileged kids that they all have to dress up like the living dead? wondered Scamarcio. Castelnuovo was whistling a gentle tune, as if he hadn’t a care, and was walking slowly, ever so slowly, as if he’d never had to rush for anything in his life. If he was in any way cut up about Andrea’s death, he was doing a great job of disguising it.
‘Alessandro Castelnuovo?’ Scamarcio asked as he stepped into his path.
‘You’re the police?’ The boy looked him up and down, but seemed untroubled.
Scamarcio produced his card and handed it over. ‘I’m investigating the death of Andrea Borghese.’
‘Of course you are, of course you are,’ said Castelnuovo in a tone that let Scamarcio understand that he considered himself rich and untouchable.
‘Where are your parents?’
‘Still down at the parliament, I expect. Probably drinking with friends by now.’
Scamarcio frowned, while Castelnuovo smiled. ‘You must know who my father is? You will have done your research …’
That settled it. Castelnuovo was an arrogant little shit, and Scamarcio was going to make him sweat, crackle, and burn like a pig on a spit, whether or not he actually had anything to do with Andrea Borghese’s death.
‘Oh, sure, now the penny drops. Your father’s the leader of that pitiful crew of politically correct fuckwits who have no idea how most people live.’ Scamarcio cast a long look around the living room and shook his head. He knew he shouldn’t be allowing himself to get so angry, but domestic politics had been enraging him of late.
Castelnuovo took him by surprise and laughed warmly. ‘That’s a solid analysis, Detective. Right on — fuckwits they are.’
He threw himself down onto the sofa and pulled a pack of Camel Lights from the top pocket of his black shirt. He tore off the plastic and waved the pack at Scamarcio, who nodded reluctantly.
When Castelnuovo had lit up for the pair of them, Scamarcio said, ‘You’ve heard about the death of Borghese?’
‘I saw it on the news. I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you didn’t look too pleased to be involved.’
‘I just hate the press, that’s all.’
‘We have that in common.’
Castelnuovo spoke like someone older than his years. Scamarcio wondered if growing up hearing his father’s cumbersome speeches had taken its toll.
‘How well did you know Andrea?’
‘Let’s be quite clear, Detective, we weren’t great friends. But I felt sorry for him. I could see that he was deeply troubled, and that he was lonely.’
Scamarcio studied the boy sitting across from him: floppy dyed-black hair, wide brown eyes, and pouting lips. If it hadn’t been for all the goth crap, he’d probably be considered attractive.
‘Did you speak to him much?’
‘I’d usually sit with him at lunchtime because I could see he was on his own. My father always taught me to be kind to the weak and the vulnerable.’ There was no pomposity or bravado to the words, but Scamarcio’s initial assessment of Castelnuovo remained unchanged.
‘Once I got talking to Andrea, it became clear that he was very intelligent. He’d read all sorts of books, and he was really interested in physics and the universe. He quoted that man in the wheelchair — what’s his name … Stephen something — all the time. He’d read all his work.’
‘And the goth stuff?’
‘Well Andrea had a penchant for death metal, but I don’t think he’d totally embraced the goth scene. He dressed pretty normally, you know.’
‘I listened to some death metal earlier. Cannibal Corpse, I think they were called. I don’t know how you can stand it. It’s the musical equivalent of a car crash.’
Castelnuovo just shrugged, unimpressed. ‘What do you old guys listen to?’
‘Old guys?’
Castelnuovo’s expression remained neutral.
Scamarcio frowned. ‘Depeche Mode, Modest Mouse, a bit of LCD Sound System on occasion.’
‘Never heard of any of them,’ said Castelnuovo.
‘You’ve never heard of Depeche?’
Castelnuovo sniffed. ‘So, what’s the score with Andrea? Who do you people think did it?’
‘You don’t seem that upset …’
‘Like I say, I didn’t really know him.’
‘Still, a school friend murdered is a big deal.’
‘Bad things happen in Parioli. It wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘It’s hardly the Bronx.’
‘Those mums pimping out their daughters a few years back — that was quite a shocker. Then the Circeo slayings …’
‘The Circeo case was decades ago.’ Scamarcio paused. ‘You take an interest in crime?’
‘I like to read the odd novel. I’m an admirer of James Lee Burke — you know him? Dixie City Jam is a masterpiece.’
Scamarcio muttered a ‘no’ and tried to drag the interview back into focus. ‘So, you can’t think of anyone who might have been angry with Andrea?’
‘Angry enough to kill him?’
Scamarcio didn’t answer.
‘Andrea didn’t hang out with many people. When he wasn’t doing the crazy act, he kind of faded into the background — you wouldn’t even notice him. I can’t really think of who he would have aggravated to that level. But, you know, maybe he had a whole other life I wasn’t aware of.’
‘What about Graziella? She seemed quite close to him.’
Scamarcio watched a cloud cross Castelnuovo’s features, it drew in his brows and darkened his eyes. His hand rubbed behind his neck, and he blinked several times. ‘I think Andrea wanted them to be close, but she wasn’t interested.’
‘Funny, she gave me the opposite impression.’
‘How do you mean?’ Castelnuovo sucked down hard on his Camel Light.
‘It was Andrea that didn’t seem interested in taking things to the next level.’
‘She told you that?’
Scamarcio nodded wordlessly and observed the boy. He couldn’t take his eyes off him, now. He watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, watched as the Camel shrunk to the filter and Castelnuovo continued to chug away, as if it was providing oxygen, watched as his right foot began to jiggle while he rubbed his wet palm slowly along the thigh
of his drainpipe jeans.
‘Yes, Graziella told me that,’ continued Scamarcio. ‘I got the impression that she was very keen on Andrea and extremely cut up about his death.’
Castelnuovo rooted around in his shirt pocket for the fags and lighter, tossed the spent butt into a chunky marble ashtray, and lit up again. He bit down on his lip, scratched below the corner of his left eye, and blinked. If he didn’t say another word, that would be fine.
13
THERE WAS A SPRING in his step and a song in his heart as Scamarcio rounded the corner to Via Boncompagni. It was an intoxicating moment when that sense of floundering around in the dark was finally replaced with the firm knowledge that you had a direction: a motive. Its presence alone was enough to throw everything else into some kind of relief.
It was par for the course that your initial suspect would have to be the son of a powerful politician, and that your balls would be broken by every one of your superiors on your journey to the truth, but Scamarcio’s years in Rome had taught him that nearly everyone was entangled and compromised, and, whoever your suspect, eventually you’d come up against a connection that would prove tricky to navigate. Scamarcio wouldn’t go so far as to claim that he relished the challenge, but it no longer disheartened him like it used to. The way he saw it, it was like a computer game. You had to deftly manoeuvre your way to the next level, and there was always a certain satisfaction in the simple act of trying.
‘Honey, I’m home,’ he shouted sarcastically as he tossed his jacket onto a chair full of old newspapers and took in the severe chaos that was now his flat. Scores of Fiammetta’s shoes lined the corridor, and a couple of large plastic bags of dirty shirts and jackets blocked his path to the living room. Fiammetta had said she’d take the shirts to the drycleaners, but she must have forgotten. She often forgot.
He rounded the corner and saw his girlfriend lying on the sofa, a generous bowl of chocolate ice cream on her lap. She was watching the evening news.
‘Hi, darling,’ she said without looking up.
Her blonde hair was scraped up into an untidy bun, and she wasn’t wearing a scrap of make-up, but she still looked beautiful.
‘This new vaccine law is a shitstorm.’
‘What?’ he murmured, coming up behind her and planting a kiss on her cheek.
‘Cinque Stelle are saying they’ll abolish it. Looks like they’re going to pick up a shedload of votes for that.’
‘Are there that many people against?’
‘Many more than they say on the news, I reckon.’
‘But who could possibly be against protecting their kids?’
She turned to look at him, her expression grave. ‘It’s not that simple, Leo. Sure, vaccines are important, but this law ignores the fact that not every child is born identical. MMR may be perfectly fine for most, but there are always going to be a few who have an adverse reaction — whose bodies can’t take it. And if that’s the case, you simply cannot make it compulsory. You’re forcing parents to give something to their child that might not be right for them. Sure, the rich will find private day care or alternative arrangements if their unvaccinated kids get kicked out of a nursery, but what about the single mum from Taranto who has no spare cash and has to work? Maybe she had some doubts, maybe she wanted to space out her vaccines, do singles, or none at all. With this new law, she’s forced to do it all in one go. It’s a disgrace, Leo. It’s blackmail. The parent must be allowed to choose what’s right for their kid. It can’t be forced on them by the state.’
Scamarcio sighed. ‘Maybe the state felt it had no choice. Maybe they were just trying to prevent an epidemic.’
‘An epidemic of what, Leo? Measles? They tell us measles is so deadly, but I had measles and I was fine, my sister had measles and was fine. Did you have measles?’
‘I don’t remember …’
‘I’m sure you did, and you lived to tell the tale. And, anyway if they are so bloody worried about measles and its complications, then offer it as a single jab. At least give parents a choice! This is the first step on the road to fascism. Our government is for sale, and the sooner people wake up to the fact, the better.’ Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were burning with an anger Scamarcio had rarely seen.
‘Jesus, what’s got into you?’
She put the bowl down on the floor, and the spoon fell out, leaving a creamy trail on the parquet.
‘If the Italian military takes eighteen years to conduct an investigation into illnesses afflicting their soldiers stationed abroad and comes to the conclusion that no soldier should have more than five vaccines at a time, then why the fuck are we giving our kids eight in one go? Eight, Leo!!’ She paused to draw breath. ‘I’m about to have a child — we’re about to have a child. I’m not going to let some corrupt fuck tell me how to manage my baby’s health. I’m not stupid: I went to liceo scientifico, I graduated cum laude. I will not let myself be dictated to by people who are at best ignorant, at worst compromised.’
There was even more colour in her cheeks, now, and he watched a vein throb in her slender neck. He wasn’t sure it was a good idea for her to get worked up like this, but just watching her now reminded him of why he’d fallen in love. What had first attracted him to her was not what had ultimately won his heart. Her fierce intelligence and strength had only come to the fore later on. But, unhelpfully, right at that moment, his mind, ever disobedient, flashed on the chance meeting with Aurelia the day before, and he struggled to push the memory away, eradicate it.
He stroked Fiammetta’s huge stomach and closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Do you think it’ll be soon?’
‘He or she are still quiet.’
‘I don’t like this waiting.’
‘Leo, you’ve just caught a case — the case of the moment, if the news is anything to go by.’ She turned to look at him. ‘Sorry, but you looked like shit on the TV. I thought you were about to punch those reporters.’
‘I nearly did.’
‘Yeah, but shouldn’t you try to hide all that?’
‘Why? They know how I feel about them. What’s the point in lying?’
She smiled and shook her head in mock despair. ‘You solve your case as quick as you can, and then I’m sure our child will put in an appearance. Maybe they’re just waiting for you to make a breakthrough.’
‘I can really sense it today — it’s going to be a boy,’ said Scamarcio, looking away so she couldn’t see his face.
‘Hmmm,’ murmured Fiammetta, noncommittal.
The more Scamarcio thought about it, the more it had to be a boy. The threat seemed bigger with a girl, the vulnerability greater. At a certain point, a boy could fight back, defend himself from attack. But a girl? Could she really? He knew that Fiammetta would be furious with that analysis — she’d deem it sexist — but Scamarcio was from the south, and he knew how it worked. A boy, his boy might be able to wrestle his way out of this mess, eventually drag himself free. But a girl? With a girl, the dangers were many, and they were more acute.
It was going to be a boy. It had to be.
When Scamarcio woke the next morning, a thin patch of blue was visible above the curtains, and the birdsong was louder and more spirited than the half-hearted chorus of days past. He felt hopeful. A few hours of sunshine would give him the psychological boost he needed to hone down his theory. Namely, that the politician’s son Alessandro Castelnuovo was in love with Graziella Feliciano and deeply jealous of Andrea. Whether that jealousy had led to murder was a different question, but at least Scamarcio had a place to start. At some point today, he’d fix up a meeting with Pombeni, the third Facebook friend. Perhaps Pombeni would be able to fill in some missing detail.
As he entered the squad room, Sartori waved him over, a telephone clamped to his right ear. He switched the receiver to the other ear so he could scrawl something down.
‘OK,’ Sartor
i was saying. ‘Yep, got it. We’ll be there ASAP. Don’t let the CSIs leave before they’ve spoken to us. Who’s lead?’ A pause. ‘Don’t know him.’
‘What the fuck is going on?’ asked Scamarcio, not caring that Sartori was on the line to someone else.
‘One second,’ said Sartori to the voice on the other end. He clamped a hand across the mouthpiece. ‘An adult male has been discovered dead in a room at the Hotel Ducale on Via Caselli in Testaccio. Hanged himself. Your missing priest’s ID has been found on the corpse.’
‘Priest Meinero?’
Sartori nodded.
‘Fuck,’ said Scamarcio, scrambling to get his brain into gear. ‘Tell them I’m on my way.’
‘I just did.’
‘Can you call Manetti. Get him to come?’
‘It’s a different CSI.’
‘I know, but I want Manetti to see the corpse. Make the call.’
‘OK.’
Scamarcio hurried back down the stairs, his mind racing in a thousand different directions at once. What had seemed, a few minutes ago, like the beginnings of clarity, now felt like a morass.
When he arrived at the hotel, a CSI was already loading up the van with gear, and the mortuary truck was parking up outside. Scamarcio grabbed the nearest uniform and asked for the floor number.
‘Don’t move the body yet,’ he shouted as he ran into the room. ‘This may tie into a case I’m working. I need to take a look.’ He turned to the CSIs present. ‘Who’s in charge here?’
A young guy stepped forward who Scamarcio hadn’t seen before. ‘Gianluca Pizzotto.’ He extended a damp hand that smelled of soap and plastic.
‘Where’s the body?’
The CSI motioned over Scamarcio’s shoulder. ‘In the bathroom.’
Scamarcio turned. He saw part of the corpse before he crossed the threshold. A leg, seemingly suspended from above, was hanging over the side of the bath. As Scamarcio entered, the naked body came into view, muscular, but now lolling limp and white from the shower fitting, a noose around its neck. The face was pale and drained, but Scamarcio immediately recognised the young priest. Meinero. The faintest hints of decomposition were already peppering the air.
The Devil Page 8
