‘Desert Orchid,’ answered a sing-song foreign voice. She sounded Asian — Thai, maybe, or Filipina.
‘Are you a restaurant?’
‘No, darling, not a restaurant.’
‘A shop?’
‘Depends on your definition of shop.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘I think you are having wrong number, darling.’
‘No, wait, don’t hang up.’
‘You just embarrassed maybe?’
‘Ah, yes, that’s it. I’m embarrassed. A bit shy.’
‘Don’t worry, darling, many are. You want to make appointment?’
‘An appointment, yes.’
‘What for, darling?’
‘What are the options?’
‘There’s whole night, three hours, an hour, thirty minutes. All depends on what you’re looking for?’
‘Blow job,’ Scamarcio chanced.
‘Oh, OK — for that you can just walk right in.’
Scamarcio sighed and cut the call.
The next number appeared to be a telephone banking service. The bank was the same as the one they had for Borghese, so no surprises there. Scamarcio tried the third number. ‘Giovanni De Luca’s office,’ answered a woman with a Milanese accent.
‘Oh, excuse me, I’m not sure I have the right number. Could you tell me where I’ve come through to?’
‘This is the office of Dr Giovanni De Luca, director-general of the National Pharmaceutical Service,’ said the woman impatiently.
Scamarcio frowned. ‘The pharmaceutical service of the Ministry of Health?’
‘Yes.’
‘Here in Rome?’
‘Yes. Who is this?’ Her irritation was plain.
‘I’m sorry, I do have the wrong number. Apologies for wasting your time.’
He hung up and stared at the wall. Why had Borghese been calling the National Pharmaceutical Service so often? Was it for work?
He looked back at the sheets of paper. Sartori had obtained records going back six months. Scamarcio studied the dates of the calls to the pharmaceutical service. They all seemed to fall around the beginning and the middle of each month. He went further and further back, checking whether the pattern held. It did.
He dialled Sartori. ‘I need you to get Borghese’s call history for the last five years.’
‘Five years?’
‘I’ve seen something. Get onto the phone people ASAP — ask them if they can send the stuff digitally. Soon as, Sartori.’
Scamarcio hung up. There was one number left to try — a mobile. He dialled. The office was quiet, and his pulse hammered in his ears as he waited for whoever it was to pick up.
‘Benedetti,’ snapped a gruff voice.
‘Sorry, is this Lorenzo Benedetti?’ Scamarcio tried.
‘Eugenio Benedetti. You’ve got the wrong number.’ He hung up.
Scamarcio opened Google and typed in the name, but he already knew who he’d just spoken to — his instincts were telling him it was so. The first result was a Wikipedia entry. Scamarcio clicked on the link.
‘Eugenio Benedetti, Italian Secretary of State for Health. DOB: 24 July 1967. Member of the Partito Democratico.’
Scamarcio returned to the list, his fingers running down the numbers. He checked the times against the calls to the director-general of the pharmaceutical service. The calls to Benedetti were made on exactly the same day, and were also twice monthly. They didn’t last long — no more than five or ten minutes. The ones to the pharmaceutical service ran to fifteen, twenty minutes sometimes.
Scamarcio rested his head against the back of his chair and ran his biro-stained fingers through his hair. Why would someone doing drug-marketing have a direct line to the health secretary? That they might call the pharmaceutical service seemed slightly more probable, although the fact that Borghese seemed to be speaking to the director-general himself gave him pause for thought.
Scamarcio brought a fist to his mouth. A picture was starting to form that he didn’t much like. It was the spider’s web again: fine and intricate; taut and deadly. It would only spell trouble for him and the department.
34
SCAMARCIO WAS DIALLING NEGRUZZO in Tech, when, over his shoulder, someone said, ‘Isn’t telepathy wonderful?’
Negruzzo was standing there in a wash-faded Comic-Con t-shirt with a flaky picture of Chewbacca on the front. He seemed pleased with himself.
‘Have you guys mastered teleportation as well now?’ said Scamarcio, slightly unsettled.
‘Nearly there, give or take a few months.’
‘I was just about to ring you.’
‘Yes, I saw you dial. Hence my comment about telepathy.’
‘I’m about to get five years of mobile records. I’ll need to run a search through them, looking for two numbers. But I need to be fast.’
‘Piece of piss,’ muttered Negruzzo, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He seemed to want to move onto something more interesting. ‘You could do it yourself from here.’
‘What brings you out of the cave, then?’
‘I cracked your vic’s iPhone.’
Scamarcio had almost forgotten about the phone. ‘Oh, good work.’
‘Not really, it took me longer than anticipated.’
‘Don’t sweat it. I’m not even sure it’s crucial.’
‘You may want to rethink that.’
‘Don’t tease me, Negruzzo.’
‘I’m not.’ He handed over Andrea Borghese’s phone and said, ‘The password was “Sexypriest”.’
‘Was what?’ Scamarcio swivelled round in his chair to face him.
‘“Sexypriest”. Seems to me that if you’ve got a cardinal and a dead priest involved in this inquiry, that particular choice of wording may yet prove significant.’
‘Jesus.’
‘“Caligula”, “Sexypriest” … there’s a story there.’
‘The only priests Andrea saw were men.’
‘The only priests in the Catholic church are men.’ Negruzzo scratched at a temple. ‘I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but I think you may need to consider the possibility that your victim was gay.’
Scamarcio closed his eyes. ‘Of course. He never wanted to take things to the next level.’
‘What?’
Scamarcio’s mind flashed on Meinero’s anger during the exorcism. He’d already picked it for jealousy, it just hadn’t occurred to him that Andrea might reciprocate Meinero’s feelings. It had been there all along, but he’d missed it. He wanted to punch the wall.
Negruzzo was observing him, rather like a scientist might observe a rat during an experiment. ‘Scamarcio, you can’t be expected to know everything from the get-go. That’s why you have a team. That’s why it’s called detective work. Cut yourself some slack.’
Scamarcio pulled his Marlboros from his pocket and waved them at Negruzzo, who glared at the pack as if it were radioactive.
‘Don’t touch the stuff.’
‘Good for you.’
‘When you get those numbers, send them my way and I’ll sort it.’
‘Thanks. And thanks for this.’ Scamarcio hefted the iPhone in his hand.
‘You don’t actually look grateful, Scamarcio.’
‘It’s just another new layer of complication, isn’t it?’
‘Nature of the game.’
‘Nature of the game,’ Scamarcio conceded.
His journey through the contents of Andrea Borghese’s phone had given him a full-blown headache. Scamarcio reflected that it was not the kind of sharp headache you got from the exhaustion of a successful search, but the persistent, dull, throbbing kind that came from over an hour’s worth of frustration.
Despite the promise of the password, the phone itself
seemed to hold little of interest. Andrea’s emails were mainly of the circulars kind — he hadn’t seemed to communicate with anyone who was actually a human being. Another insight into Andrea’s life that saddened Scamarcio. Andrea’s Instagram and Twitter accounts were largely inactive and his documents dull and schoolwork-related, although Scamarcio did come across an interesting essay on Caligula. The boy’s photos were mainly of the family cat, an obese mud-brown creature that seemed to smirk sarcastically, with a couple of the girl Graziella holding it. Scamarcio wondered if she came to the house often, and if she’d visit when the parents were out. He checked the Google Drive for further photos and documents, but as expected, Andrea had left nothing there — he was either worried about privacy or didn’t have anything to store. He laid down the phone and was about to step out to the pharmacy to buy something for his headache when his mobile rang.
‘Some woman thinks she spotted Gennaro Borghese in a bar on the outskirts of town.’ Sartori’s heavy breathing on the line made Scamarcio worry. ‘That was almost twenty-four hours ago now.’
‘What’s he playing at?’
‘Maybe he’s done something awful and is hiding out.’
‘We’ve not heard about something awful.’
‘The connection might not be obvious yet.’
‘Anything awful happened in Frascati, Sartori?’
‘No’.
‘Or there’s another possibility,’ said Scamarcio.
‘What’s that?’
‘Maybe he’s scared. Maybe he’s worried the same people who killed his boy will come for him.’ Scamarcio started drumming the edge of his desk with a cracked biro. ‘You guys need to find him — we can’t have another death.’
‘We’re trying, Scamarcio, believe me.’
Scamarcio’s email pinged. ‘The phone records are in.’
‘They’re quick, I’ll grant them that.’
Scamarcio opened the email from the phone company and started downloading the attachment. When it had loaded, he said, ‘If my pattern holds, we’re looking at trouble.’
‘Care to fill me in?’
‘Just let me talk to Garramone first.’
Sartori tutted like an old Rimini fishwife. ‘Jesus, Scamarcio, I don’t get the need for the cloak-and-dagger all the time. We’re on the same side.’
‘I don’t trust Lovoti.’
‘Then I won’t tell him.’
‘I can’t take that risk, Sartori.’
Scamarcio hung up — he didn’t have time to be pussy-footing around people’s feelings.
‘I can see you now,’ shouted Garramone from his office doorway. Scamarcio patted down his jacket, which he’d tossed across the back of his chair, and extracted his fags and the pack of ibuprofen he’d just bought at vast expense. The price of drugs never ceased to appal him. In the US, it would have cost him 70 per cent less, but, then again, they had this thing called ‘competition’ over there. Years ago, Italian pharmacists had neatly formed themselves into a hermetic little lobby, which allowed them to charge the earth for the most basic of medicines. Scamarcio popped out another tablet from the blister pack and washed it down with cold coffee.
‘Coming.’
He shut the boss’s door gently and threw the huge bundle of phone records onto his desk. Normally, this point in a case would have marked a moment of triumph, but Scamarcio just felt debilitated and anxious.
Garramone seemed to pick up on his mood and said quietly, ‘Take a seat.’ He steepled his hands in front of his mouth and studied Scamarcio carefully. He didn’t look impressed by the wine-stained cords. ‘Why do I have the feeling you’re not bringing me good news?’
‘Experience.’
Garramone sighed and drained the last of the water from the plastic cup on his desk. He tossed it expertly into the bin, and then leaned back in his chair. ‘OK, hit me with it.’
‘I’ve got five years of phone records that show Gennaro Borghese was calling first the director-general of the pharmaceutical service and then the secretary of state for health twice a month. I’ve got a stack of bank records that demonstrate that, despite an annual salary of less than 100k for his entire career, Borghese has managed to squirrel away over one and a half million euros in cash savings and shares — all in his son’s name.’
Garramone pulled out his top lip and stared at Scamarcio hard.
‘I’ve got monthly payments of seven thousand euros passing to our victim, Andrea Borghese, from Zenox Pharmaceuticals, going back at least eight years, but I suspect longer.’
‘Any connection between Borghese’s marketing company and Zenox?’
‘None that I can find. And I’ve checked thoroughly.’
Garramone stroked his chin. ‘So, what exactly are we looking at?’
‘Perhaps you know what we’re looking at; perhaps you’ve seen it before.’
When Garramone said nothing, Scamarcio continued: ‘Gennaro Borghese was doing some kind of clandestine work for Zenox; they were paying him on the side for something that had to do with the health secretary and the pharmaceutical service.’
‘He was moonlighting?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Zenox might have had a hand in Andrea’s death?’
‘It’s a possibility we need to consider.’
‘But why?’
‘Maybe they needed Gennaro to keep a secret. Maybe they wanted to send him a warning of some kind.’
‘What drugs do they make?’ asked Garramone, unmoved.
Scamarcio consulted one of his print-outs. ‘In Italy, they sell medicines for epilepsy, prostate problems, heart conditions, and cancer. They also make a flu vaccine, I believe.’
‘Have you found any negative press around any of these drugs?’
‘None to date, but my search hasn’t exactly been extensive.’
Garramone flopped his head against the back of his chair and studied the ceiling. ‘I’d like to tell you that you’re clutching at straws …’ He fell silent. ‘But the money and the calls — undoubtedly there’s something there, the question is what.’ He frowned. ‘As much as I want to, I don’t think we can walk away from it.’
‘Neither do I.’
Garramone let out a long sigh and placed a hand on his desk phone. ‘I’ll need to inform Chief Mancino, and then I’ll probably have to alert the financial police.’
‘How will they want to proceed?’
‘They may want to do a wire tap first, they may not. If a judge is convinced, and if they can find one that isn’t bent, I imagine they’ll be raiding the homes and offices of the health secretary and his pal at the pharmaceutical service. It’s probably wise for you to give Borghese’s place the once-over first to see if there’s any extra evidence there. That might help matters with the judge.’
‘Aren’t you going to use your usual guy?’
Garramone shook his head firmly. ‘No, it’s time to cut him loose. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him on this. Besides, the finance police probably have their own judge on call.’ He paused for a moment to scrawl something on the notepad in front of him. But the biro wasn’t working and he had to root around in his desk drawer for a new one.
‘What you and your team need to do now is compile a comprehensive list of which Zenox drugs are licensed in Italy and when they were licensed. Does the timing match up in any way with the calls placed by Borghese? We also need to look at whether the licenses are proportionate to Zenox’s usual market share in other countries — are they somehow getting a bigger slice of the pie in Italy? These will all be elements we need if we’re to build a convincing case.’
‘Sure,’ said Scamarcio, feeling overwhelmed by the scale of it all.
‘This needs to be a tight ship, Leo. Not a word to anyone for the time being.’
‘Of course.’
Garramone bowed his head sadly. ‘When will it ever end?’
Scamarcio wanted to say ‘It won’t’, but really, what was the point? Garramone knew. The tumours would just keep multiplying; corruption was not a disease you could cure overnight, or in one generation, or even two. They could all dance around the subject as much as they liked, but the bottom line was, they were fucked. Unless the people bothered to get off their backsides and take to the streets, Italy was fucked. Anyhow, the way Scamarcio saw it they all deserved to be screwed. Apathy was the greater sin here.
‘Regarding our other victim — Father Meinero,’ he said, attempting to tune his mind to more productive thoughts, ‘I’m working on the theory that he perhaps saw something he shouldn’t have — maybe he’d left something at the flat, had gone back to retrieve it, and had walked in on the killers? That would explain his fear and hesitancy when I met him.’
‘Would it explain why he was murdered?’
‘Yes, if they wanted to keep him quiet.’
‘But that strange hanging?’
‘Don’t forget the banned drug in his system. The Zenox people would have ready access to substances like that.’
‘Hmm. Good point, but doesn’t organised crime sometimes use dodgy meds? They sell contraband.’
Scamarcio remembered that Giangrande had mentioned the same thing. ‘On occasion.’ He paused. ‘There’s one other discovery I’ve made, and it doesn’t exactly slot nicely into all this.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I think Meinero had the hots for Andrea Borghese, and it may have been reciprocated.’
He watched Garramone’s thick eyebrows merge in surprise.
‘Tech cracked Andrea’s iPhone password — it was “Sexypriest”.’
‘And from that you deduce that he was in love with Meinero?’
‘No, not just from that. But I’ve got a girl who was keen on Andrea saying that he never showed any interest in her. I’ve also got Meinero caught on camera during the exorcism session looking extremely jealous.’
‘You need more than that.’
The Devil Page 21
