‘Why is that, then?’
‘It’s not a great feeling when you realise your best friend could be a murderer. It’s disorientating. And then I keep thinking about Andrea. That poor guy, his life cut short — and such a difficult life at that.’
Scamarcio exhaled and watched his own warm breath hit cold air. Finally, someone with a soul — or a very good actor. He erred towards the second hypothesis, given the way he’d shopped Frog-boy to Castelnuovo.
‘You knew Andrea?’
‘Not well, but I always felt sorry for him. He was constantly isolating himself from the world with his out-of-control behaviour, then trying to get back in.’
‘The world didn’t seem to make much of an effort to embrace him, as far as I can tell.’
Jacobini shrugged. ‘Some people did; Graziella did.’
‘And that was Castelnuovo’s problem.’
Jacobini nodded. ‘It was.’
Scamarcio wanted to smoke, but knew he’d have to offer Jacobini one, and that wouldn’t look good in front of the coach. He bit down on a dirty stub of nail instead.
‘So, what happened? How did Castelnuovo tell it?’
Jacobini turned to look at him, an earnest sadness in his small brown eyes that actually took Scamarcio aback. ‘Castelnuovo arrives at the apartment, asks Andrea nicely to leave off Graziella. Andrea tells him to go fuck himself.’
‘You think it was nice? The way Castelnuovo asked it?’
Jacobini raised a knowing eyebrow. ‘I doubt it.’
‘Go on.’
‘They get into a struggle. Castelnuovo rams Andrea’s head against the wall, and he passes out. Castelnuovo bends down to check Andrea’s wrist, but he can’t find a pulse.’
‘He rams his head into the wall?’
‘Yes.’
‘And then what?’
‘Castelnuovo freaks — knows he has to get out of there, knows he has to run. Besides, he hears someone in the corridor.’
‘Does he pass them on the way out?’
‘I don’t know, you’d have to ask him. Why, is that important?’
Scamarcio waved the question away. ‘So, he just leaves?’
‘He leaves.’
‘And he doesn’t call an ambulance?’
‘No.’
Scamarcio fell silent.
In a small voice, Jacobini asked, ‘It’s murder, isn’t it?’
Scamarcio sighed. ‘Well, it would have been if he’d strangled him.’
‘What?’
‘Borghese was strangled. That’s how he died.’
‘Oh.’
‘Would Castelnuovo lie about the way he’d killed him?’
‘Well, no … I mean, I don’t know. Why would he, though? What would be the point?’
‘Indeed,’ repeated Scamarcio, his brain stalling, refusing to turn over.
‘So, Castelnuovo was mistaken? He didn’t actually kill him?’
Scamarcio reached for his pack of Marlboros and lit up. He couldn’t give a shit about the coach anymore. He took a long desperate drag, and tracked the thin trail of smoke as it spiralled up into the evening mist. ‘No, he didn’t.’
Scamarcio had worked it hard, and it hadn’t held. Garramone would be delighted, whereas he just wanted to roar at the darkening sky.
28
ALE CASTELNUOVO WAS NOT the same boy Scamarcio had met in the apartment. All the swaggering bravado was gone: the confidence, the jokes, the smirk. He had been reduced to a hunched shadow, small and thin and barely communicative.
‘I want to know exactly what happened in that apartment, and I want to know now,’ said Scamarcio leaning back in the rickety chair. He knew the chairs in the police interview suite were kept deliberately uncomfortable, but he didn’t understand why that rule had to extend to those of the detectives, too. He took a sip from his small plastic cup of espresso and scowled.
‘Why is Jacobini outside?’ asked Castelnuovo in a tiny voice.
‘Because I decided to keep him where I could see him until I’d spoken to you.’
‘The fucker,’ muttered Castelnuovo under his breath.
‘It wasn’t Jacobini who got you into this mess.’
Castelnuovo frowned and angled his rigid body even further away from Scamarcio.
‘We can stay here all night if that’s what it takes. I don’t care, Ale. I really don’t.’
Castelnuovo picked at his bloodied nails and blinked. He was thinking about it. Scamarcio heard the plastic tick of the wall clock marking out the seconds, then the minutes. He looked down at his gaping shirt, his scruffy cords, the scuffs on his shoes. He remembered that he’d got dressed in the dark.
Finally, Castelnuovo said, ‘I was jealous of Andrea, I admit it. I just couldn’t understand what Graziella saw in him. And the worst part was that he seemed totally unfussed, which I guess just made her like him more.’
‘So, you went around to his flat to talk to him?’
Castelnuovo nodded. ‘That’s all I wanted to do — talk. Believe me. I had no intention of getting into a fight. I had no idea he’d even be home alone. I guess I just wanted to say to him that, if he wasn’t interested, could he at least clear the pitch so someone else could have a try. But his reaction was so out of proportion. He just got so angry, so quickly. Started screaming at me, saying how dare I come to his place, intimidate him like this. He seemed furious that I thought he wasn’t interested in Graziella. He kept saying, “Why do you think that? Why do you think I’m not interested? Why do you say that?” His anger was so wild and disturbed, it was more like he was in a panic, like it was out of his control.’
Castelnuovo paused to take a long shaky breath. ‘To be honest, I was getting quite scared. He did really seem crazy. Then, at some point, he got right in my face and put his hands on my neck, and I freaked. I thought he was going to kill me. So I pushed him hard against the wall, and he passed out.’ Castelnuovo hung his head. ‘But I really didn’t mean to kill him. Believe me.’ The last words were almost inaudible.
Scamarcio let out a long breath. ‘You didn’t.’
‘I didn’t what?’
‘You didn’t kill him. Someone else did.’
Castelnuovo’s head jerked up, his mouth open.
‘Did you hear anyone outside when you were in the apartment?’
‘I heard voices, yes — that’s why I was in such a rush to leave. I was freaking out, not thinking clearly. But —’
‘Male or female?’ Scamarcio interrupted.
‘What?’
‘The voices.’
‘Male, I think.’
‘Did you notice anyone on your way out the flat?’
Castelnuovo shook his head slowly, still dumbfounded. Then he stopped and looked at Scamarcio. ‘Yes, I …’ he stuttered. ‘There were two men hanging about by the elevator. They were wearing baseball caps and sunglasses. I thought they might be foreigners, staying in an Airbnb, that kind of thing.’
‘Why?’
‘They were dressed like tourists, and I think one of them was holding a map, but I can’t really remember — it might have been something else. I didn’t stop to take a good look.’
‘Did they get in the lift with you?’
‘I didn’t wait for the lift, I took the stairs. I wanted to get out of there.’
Scamarcio sighed. It was less than useless as there was no CCTV inside the building or on the street that might help match these descriptions to someone.
‘What will I be charged with?’ asked Castelnuovo, his voice shrinking to nothing once more.
Scamarcio narrowed his eyes and raised his chin, defiant. ‘Unfortunately, nothing, because Andrea is in no position to sue you for assault.’
Castelnuovo bowed his head in an attempt at humility.
‘But I sw
ear, Ale, as far as the police are concerned, your card is marked. If you ever try anything like this again, there is no way your arsehole parents are going to be able to pay your way out of it. We’ll be watching, and we’ll have you behind bars way before your dad has time to open his Gucci wallet. Got it?’
‘Got it.’
‘Now fuck off. I never want to set eyes on you again.’
29
SCAMARCIO KNOCKED BACK HIS second cappuccino of the morning and tried to convince himself that he wasn’t exhausted. How would it feel to wake refreshed, for once, ready to tackle the day, rather than to live permanently with the feeling that you were dragging a huge weight around and constantly counting the hours until you could sleep. He knew the answer to his troubles lay in cutting out caffeine, but the thought terrified him — he didn’t think he’d be able to put one foot in front of the other.
He left the bar and made the short walk down the street to the Italian offices of Zenox Pharmaceuticals. He’d told Sartori to leave this one to him. When Sartori had found no link at the Arrow offices between them and Zenox, Scamarcio had deemed it worth his while to visit unannounced.
The beautiful blonde at reception managed to muster an icy smile when he produced his badge. ‘One moment, please.’
He took a seat on an expensive-looking leather sofa and admired the grey-and-chrome lobby. It created an impression of cool efficiency, rather like the woman behind the desk. After a few minutes, a good-looking guy in his early thirties strode over and extended a hand. ‘Morning, Detective. I’m Giuseppe Conti from public relations.’
Scamarcio rose reluctantly from the sofa. ‘That’s all very nice, but it was the managing director I was wanting.’
Conti nodded as if he’d been expecting this. ‘Sure, but can you fill me in a bit first? Our MD is a busy man, and if I walk in there unprepared, he’ll eat me for breakfast.’
Scamarcio smiled. ‘If you put it like that …’
‘Let’s go to my office. Can I offer you a coffee?’
Scamarcio’s mind yelled, No, but he heard himself say, ‘Thanks, that would be good.’
When he was seated across from Conti, opposite a vast window that offered a spectacular view of Parco di Villa Torlonia, Scamarcio said, ‘I’m investigating the exorcist killing.’
‘The thing that’s been all over the news?’ Conti sat up straighter in his chair, more excited than worried.
‘Yeah, that one.’
The guy seemed to suddenly remember his job. ‘But what’s that got to do with Zenox?’
‘Your company’s name came up in the course of my investigation.’
‘Came up how?’
Scamarcio pinched his nose and pulled his notebook slowly from his pocket. ‘Maybe it’s best if we start at the beginning — take things one step at a time.’
Conti opened his palms, as if to say, Go ahead.
‘The father of the victim, Gennaro Borghese, works in marketing for drug companies — his firm is called Arrow Communications. You heard of them?’
Conti scratched his cheek. ‘Yeah, I know Arrow. We don’t use them, though — we have our own in-house marketing team.’
Scamarcio nodded and made a note. ‘Is the name Gennaro Borghese familiar to you? Has he ever been employed by you?’
Conti shook his head. ‘No. I’ve never heard of him, at least.’
‘Hmm,’ murmured Scamarcio. He tipped back the espresso he’d been given. It was excellent.
‘How long has your MD been in the job?’
‘Twenty years.’
‘Ah, finally my luck is changing.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s the institutional memory I need.’
‘Never heard of him,’ said Ennio Burrone, his ski tan glowing in the morning light from his massive window.
‘You quite sure?’
‘One hundred per cent. I have an excellent memory for names.’
‘Do you have a database of past employees?’
‘Yes, but I’m telling you, he hasn’t worked for us.’ Burrone had the look of a predator — his nose was thin and hawk-like, his eyes glassy and dark, and his brows strong and arched. Scamarcio was glad he didn’t have to do business with him.
‘So why is your company’s name coming up in my investigation?’
‘Coming up how?’
Scamarcio said nothing and studied the to-and-fro of joggers and tourists in the park below: the silent interplay of lives, the absurd dance.
‘I want your payroll data.’
‘What?’ Burrone arched a brow so high it looked like it would meet his hairline.
‘Your payroll data.’
‘But that’s pointless — we’ve already told you we don’t know him.’
‘Yep,’ sighed Scamarcio. ‘But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t check. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, Mr Burrone. We both know that I can be back here with a warrant if I have to.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Burrone ran a deeply tanned hand through his flop of silvery hair and picked up the desk phone. ‘Get me the finance manager,’ he said, the words taut with suppressed anger. Scamarcio couldn’t be sure whether Burrone was riled by having his authority undermined in front of the young Conti or whether there was something more interesting at play.
After a few seconds, Scamarcio heard a low crackle on the other end of the line. ‘Marco, can you prepare our payroll data? There’s a detective from the Flying Squad here who needs to see it.’ A pause. ‘It’s a long story — I’ll escort him down myself.’
For a busy man, as Conti had claimed, Burrone seemed to be giving Scamarcio a lot of his time.
The finance manager was waiting in the doorway to his office when they arrived, his all-female team trying to look busy as Burrone passed. Scamarcio got the feeling they’d been told he was the fuzz. The man introduced himself as Marco Quercini. He was a tall dark-haired guy in his late forties. After he’d shaken Scamarcio’s hand, he gestured to a computer with two large screens. ‘Over there, Detective. It’s all yours.’
Scamarcio walked over to the desk and pulled out his notebook.
‘It’s alphabetical,’ Quercini added helpfully, as if Scamarcio couldn’t work that out for himself. Scamarcio had expected he’d be there for the long haul, checking names that might have a connection to the Borgheses, so he had to look twice when he came across ‘Borghese, Andrea’ after just twenty seconds.
‘Andrea Borghese?’ he turned and looked at both men. Burrone seemed more mystified than worried. His finance manager looked like he was trying to trap a fleeting memory.
‘Let me see,’ he said, stepping behind Scamarcio and peering over his shoulder. ‘That’s a red entry, which means it was stipulated by our head office in the States. One moment — I’ll need to ask one of my people.’ He stepped out of the office, and Scamarcio heard him say, ‘Debora, can you come in here, please?’
A short dark-haired woman with glasses hurried in clutching an A4-jotter and pen. She nodded nervously at Burrone before Quercini motioned her to the computer. ‘Do you know anything about payments to an Andrea Borghese? They seem to have been stipulated by HQ.’
The woman squinted at the screen, and then brought a finger to her mouth. ‘That comes out every month, I think — seven thousand each time. It’s a payment Maryland requested.’
‘Do we know what it’s for?’
‘I’ve never asked, to be honest.’
Scamarcio couldn’t believe it worked like this. ‘How long’s it been going on?’ he asked.
She looked up at the ceiling for a moment. ‘Quite a while. I can check my records for you, but I think it’s been at least eight years or so — the whole time I’ve been working here, anyway.’
Scamarcio leaned in closer to the screen. ‘That number, next to the name — is
it his bank account details?’
The woman tapped the screen with a long burgundy nail. ‘Bank account number and IBAN.’
‘But that employee code is wrong,’ said Quercini, leaning over Scamarcio’s other shoulder. ‘It’s only four digits; it should be seven.’
‘It’s always been like that,’ said the woman.
‘Can I have the computer a moment?’
Scamarcio moved out of the way for Quercini. He started pecking and scrolling through various screens. ‘This guy is not an employee. So why is he on our payroll? Why haven’t I noticed him before?’
The woman named Debora just shook her head vacantly. Burrone was starting to look irritated as well as mystified. The three of them were either extremely confused or they were all heading straight for Broadway.
‘Who is this person, anyway?’ asked Burrone. ‘Detective, you mentioned a Gennaro Borghese, not an Andrea.’
Scamarcio thought he picked up a strange undertone in the way Burrone posed the question — it was as if he already knew the answer, but needed Scamarcio to say it.
‘Andrea was the son, the victim. He was strangled,’ he said, suddenly feeling as if he was delivering a line in a play.
A hush swept through the small office, and Scamarcio thought he saw Burrone blink. ‘Impossible,’ he whispered. But his tan lost none of its colour under the halogen lights, and Scamarcio failed to detect any chink in his managerial composure. For someone caught up in the middle of a major murder inquiry, Burrone was displaying remarkable sangfroid. Scamarcio wasn’t sure if it was just art-of-the-deal training — a necessary trait for the job. What he did know, though, was that it bothered him. It had raised a red flag.
30
‘IT’S A MATCH,’ SAID Sartori, studying Scamarcio’s computer screen. Burrone had requested some time to investigate their records and interview staff, but Scamarcio was due back there in an hour. Sartori tapped the screen triumphantly. ‘We’re definitely talking about the same Andrea Borghese. That’s his bank account number. He was with the same bank as his dad.’
‘Fuck,’ muttered Scamarcio. ‘Have they told you how much is in there?’
The Devil Page 18
