The Devil

by Nadia Dalbuono

  ‘I dunno, I still feel like I’m left with a few grey areas. That’s why I’m here — I can’t move on until I shed these last doubts.’

  Cafaro studied him over his tumbler. ‘Why do I sense it’s all about to come back to bite me?’

  Scamarcio sank deeper into the sofa and realised that the springs had gone. A throw came away, revealing a threadbare cushion beneath. He suddenly had the feeling that most of Cafaro’s salary went on caring for his son.

  ‘Has the cardinal ever been in any trouble in the past?’ Scamarcio asked, wishing that Cafaro had put some ice in the glass. ‘You ever had to clean up after him?’

  Cafaro rubbed the crown of his head and fell silent. Eventually he said, ‘I thought we went through this the other day.’

  ‘We skirted around the edges.’

  After a few moments Cafaro said, ‘It’s a problematic question for me, Scamarcio. You understand my difficulty?’

  Scamarcio felt like singing ‘Hallelujah!’

  ‘I do, Cafaro, but I also know that, despite our different positions, you are a decent man who appreciates the seriousness of this inquiry and the importance that we exercise the law to the best of our abilities.’

  At the words exercise the law, Cafaro cocked his head to one side. ‘You threatening me?’ Then he muttered, ‘Again.’

  Scamarcio scowled. ‘I wouldn’t do that, Cafaro. Especially in your own home after you’ve just poured me an excellent glass of Scotch.’

  Cafaro narrowed his eyes.

  Scamarcio looked away for a moment. ‘Just tell me if there’s any smoke — anything I need to know. Like you say, I’m nearly there. I just need to make this last push.’

  Cafaro studied him for a few seconds, then slowly set down the glass and rose from his chair. Scamarcio thought he was about to show him the door, but instead he headed for a wide desk to the right of where they’d been sitting and pulled out a drawer. Cafaro placed a small leather book on the desk and leaned over to flick through a few pages. When he’d found what he’d been looking for, he reached for a yellow block note and scribbled something down with a felt-tip pen. He tore off a sheet, then walked back to the sofa and sat down.

  Cafaro picked up his glass and took a large mouthful, as if the act of writing had caused considerable stress.

  ‘Many years ago, when I was still relatively junior, Amato came to my boss Battaglia’s office. I think Amato wanted me to leave, but Battaglia insisted I stay. He then got called away, and I was left to deal with whatever problem the cardinal was bringing us.’

  ‘What was the problem?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you.’

  Scamarcio opened his palms in exasperation.

  ‘But it might interest you to know, Detective, that Cardinal Amato thought I was dirty. After he’d unburdened himself of his problem, he said that if I dared tell anyone about our conversation, he’d make it known that I was involved in the Cherubini disappearance.’

  Scamarcio felt the air leave his lungs. ‘He said that?’

  ‘Before you get too excited, I wasn’t involved. I knew nothing about it. But now, all these years later, I suspect that the rumours about my boss Battaglia may have been true. I think that, because I was Battaglia’s protégé, Amato kind of lumped the two of us together and presumed I must have had an interest.’

  ‘Did you ever tell anyone that you suspected Battaglia?’

  ‘I haven’t, as yet. I saw Cherubini’s brother on TV again the other day, and it did make me think. I may take my suspicions to someone soon. Before I die, at least.’

  ‘Are they just suspicions?’

  ‘There are a few elements that are a little bit more concrete, so to speak.’

  ‘Wow,’ Scamarcio murmured quietly as he swilled his Scotch and watched the amber splash against the sides of the tumbler.

  ‘Amato brought his problems to Battaglia, and Battaglia helped him sort them. There was a mutual understanding. A pact.’

  ‘But you’re not going to tell me what these problems were …’

  ‘No.’ He rose tiredly and handed Scamarcio the scrap of paper. ‘But this man will. Don’t go tonight — he’s old and ill. Head over in the morning.’ He’d seemed about to say more, when a woman in a blue nightie appeared in the doorway. She gave a start when she noticed Scamarcio.

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, the detective just needed to talk to me about something,’ said Cafaro.

  The unusual tenderness in his voice threw Scamarcio slightly.

  ‘It’s OK, I’m leaving,’ Scamarcio said, quickly getting to his feet. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you so late.’ He folded the piece of paper, placing it in his pocket.

  ‘Tread carefully, Scamarcio,’ said Cafaro as he escorted him out. ‘Amato might seem old and frail, but there’s a well-oiled machine behind him — and it can be brutally efficient.’

  41

  SCAMARCIO CLIMBED INTO BED beside Fiammetta, trying to keep as quiet as possible.

  ‘Do you even remember who I am?’

  Scamarcio switched the light on.

  ‘You haven’t called all day.’

  ‘I called this morning.’

  ‘That was over twelve hours ago, anything could have happened since then.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Fiammetta. I’m close to the end now. I’m trying to wind up the case as fast as possible in time for the baby.’

  ‘That doesn’t stop you from taking five minutes out to make a call.’

  ‘It’s not as easy as it sounds,’ he said, but he knew she was right. He needed to get better at concentrating on more than one thing at a time.

  She pulled out a pillow and punched it against the headboard with what seemed like unnecessary force. When she was finally comfortable, she said, ‘I feel like I’m losing you.’

  He stroked her hair. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘It’s just something I can sense. Like an instinct.’

  ‘Well, your instincts are wrong.’ He thought of Aurelia and felt a warmth spread across his abdomen. He needed to see her.

  The next morning the sun was bright and confident and, for the first time in a long time, Scamarcio thought he could actually smell spring. Sure, it was cold, but there was a warmer undercurrent, a floral breeze from different climes that whispered through the pines and made him think of the coast. It stirred hope. Whatever happened, he felt that things would be OK. Everything would work itself out.

  A few seconds later, he gave himself a mental kicking — self-delusion was for arseholes.

  The old man was in a care home on Via Porcari near Vatican City. Scamarcio imagined it would be a church home, probably one of those run by nuns. As he approached the address, he spotted a couple of matronly sisters in blue habits descending from bicycles. He wasn’t that happy to have his guess confirmed — nuns could spell trouble.

  The one on reception wasn’t too impressed by his police ID. ‘Cardinal Acatte is ninety-six years old.’

  ‘That doesn’t necessarily mean he can’t communicate or remember things. Or are you telling me he has Alzheimer’s?’

  ‘No, he’s as sharp as a button.’ She smoothed out some papers on her desk. ‘But, physically, he’s very weak. You shouldn’t stay more than ten minutes.’

  ‘I’ll try to be as quick as I can.’

  She called for another nun, who led Scamarcio down a corridor that smelled of broiled beef, then up a steep flight of stairs that smelled of bleach. ‘The elevator is always occupied at this time of day,’ she panted as she struggled her way to the top. They reached another musty corridor that smelled of lavender detergent, and she knocked on a door to her left.

  ‘Come!’ boomed a loud, confident voice. Scamarcio imagined that it couldn’t possibly belong to Acatte.

  But as he entered the small room, he changed his mind. A tall m
an was standing by the window, looking out at the street below. He was only very slightly stooped, and his head was full of grey hair. He was repeatedly bashing a fist against the glass. ‘These fucking pigeons. They drive me mad,’ he said as he turned.

  ‘Cardinal Acatte, please mind your language. You have a visitor.’

  ‘Adele, I’m not blind — yet. I can see I have a fucking visitor.’

  Scamarcio brought a fist to his mouth and smiled behind it.

  ‘No need to be so moody, Cardinal.’

  ‘Adele, why don’t you fuck off.’

  The sister rolled her eyes at Scamarcio, then turned. ‘No more than ten minutes,’ she whispered as she left.

  ‘He can stay as bloody long as I want,’ shouted the cardinal.

  Scamarcio hovered in the middle of the room until the cardinal said, ‘Sit down. You look exhausted, Detective.’

  ‘How did you know I’m a policeman?’

  ‘I can smell it on you — and then there’s that look of quiet desperation in your eyes.’

  Scamarcio smiled again and took a seat. ‘Aren’t you going to sit?’

  ‘No, I’m fucking not. I spend twenty-three hours a bloody day sitting down. For at least an hour of my day, I’d like to see the world.’ He punched the glass again. ‘Fucker,’ he shouted.

  ‘Careful, you might break it.’

  ‘You’re fucking joking, aren’t you? They have it reinforced, probably three times over, to keep us inmates in.’

  ‘I’ve never met a man of the cloth who swears so much.’

  ‘I didn’t start swearing until retirement. It was one of the perks — the only perks. I did screw a bit, too, but it wasn’t much cop. Overrated. Maybe it was the whores I chose — big girls from far flung places — a bit of a shock to the system. Kind of put me off.’

  Scamarcio swallowed. When he’d got his breath back, he said, ‘I’m here about Cardinal Amato.’

  ‘That old cunt? Don’t tell me he’s dead. Actually, on second thoughts, do.’

  ‘Er, no. The cardinal’s still alive.’

  ‘I saw the old fucker on the news the other day. Some kid died who he was doing his hocus-pocus on.’

  ‘Hocus-pocus?’

  ‘Surely you don’t believe all that shit?’

  Scamarcio swallowed again. ‘I take it that you and the cardinal didn’t get along?’

  ‘We hated each other. Still do.’

  Scamarcio wondered why Cafaro had sent him here. Was it some kind of joke? ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘He was a fucking hypocrite — like so many of our old bastards in the church.’ He raised his middle finger at a pigeon. ‘I can’t abide hypocrisy.’

  ‘Why do you think he was a hypocrite?’

  ‘Didn’t practise what he preached, did he?’ Acatte smashed a palm against the glass again.

  ‘I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘At least it wasn’t little kids.’

  Scamarcio felt a thumping in his chest. ‘What?’

  ‘Women,’ said Acatte decisively. ‘Amato loved women. He slept with hundreds of them.’

  ‘You’re joking. The cardinal?’

  ‘Do I look like I’m joking?’ Acatte paused to check the ledge outside was finally clear. ‘He didn’t have a type: fat, thin, black, white, Chinese — he’d shag them all.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I had a room on his corridor for years. If you ask me, he brought back all that skirt, ’cos he liked to rub it in our faces — show us his power. Cunt.’

  ‘Blimey,’ muttered Scamarcio quietly.

  Acatte walked away from the window and leaned down to pull something from a bedside drawer. ‘You want a smoke?’

  Scamarcio did a double-take. The cardinal wasn’t holding up a packet of cigarettes, but a fat spliff, expertly rolled. Scamarcio swore softly. ‘Did you make that yourself?’

  ‘Yes, I’m quite the expert.’ Acatte waved the joint in the air. ‘Do me a favour, lad, and get up on that chair there — I need you to deactivate the smoke alarm.’

  ‘You do this every day?’

  ‘Only when I have someone who can sort the alarm for me.’

  Once Scamarcio had obliged, Acatte took a seat wearily in an ugly armchair by the bed. It was the first sign of tiredness Scamarcio had seen in him. The cardinal took a long tote and closed his eyes. ‘Nice,’ was his only comment.

  Scamarcio coughed. He would dearly have loved to partake, but there was a time and a place. Acatte opened his eyes and seemed to remember that they were in the middle of a conversation.

  ‘Do you suspect the cardinal of being involved in the death of this boy, Detective?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘What does “not really” mean?’

  ‘It’s still complicated.’

  Acatte shut his eyes again and took another long smoke.

  ‘The skirt’s not really the story you should be interested in, though. That’s not the half of it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Word is that Amato’s got kids everywhere … and I mean everywhere. He’s sown those wild oats far and wide.’

  ‘Now you are joking.’

  ‘Nope, deadly serious. He used to keep pictures of them in his rooms — he may still do. That’s brazen if you ask me.’ Something at the window prompted him to scramble hurriedly out the chair and smash the pane with the back of his hand. He quickly grasped his bony fingers and grimaced. ‘Fuck off and die!’ A pigeon was frantically bashing its wing against the glass as it tried to take flight.

  Scamarcio was about to ask whether this was just rumour or whether Acatte had seen the photos for himself when the old man said, ‘The problem with Amato is that he’s obsessed with his reputation. He seems like this unassuming old codger, dedicated in his mission to rid the world of the devil, but the truth is that he’s got an ego the size of St Peter’s. The cardinal’s abiding concern is what people think of him. Me, I’ve reached an age where I couldn’t give a shit — and there’s something very liberating about that — but if you ask me, Amato will never arrive at that point.’ He took a hurried toke, as if he’d heard footsteps in the corridor. ‘It’s sad.’

  But Scamarcio wasn’t listening. He no longer needed to ask if it was all just rumour, because of course he’d seen the photos for himself — Andrea as a toddler, Andrea as a young man.

  Amato had to be his father.

  42

  KATIA BORGHESE WAS WATERING the plants on her terrace when Scamarcio walked in. She looked slightly more rested than the day before, and there was a certain focus and determination in the way she went about her task that led him to think she hadn’t been drinking. That may or may not prove to be a plus, he told himself.

  ‘Katia.’

  She turned and set down a large green watering can. She was wearing tight jeans and a white shirt. Scamarcio realised how attractive she must have been as a young woman. No doubt Amato had found her hard to resist. But how did their paths cross? he wondered.

  ‘You look like you have yet more bad news, Detective.’

  ‘You heard from your husband?’

  She nodded sadly. ‘He called me from the station, told me that the two of you had spoken …’ Her eyes searched his.

  ‘OK,’ said Scamarcio, tentatively. How was he to frame this? ‘Mind if I take a seat?’

  ‘Of course.’ She walked in from the terrace, closing the sliding door behind her. ‘You still look like you have bad news.’

  ‘Katia.’

  ‘Now you’re really making me nervous. How much worse can it get?’

  ‘Sit down.’

  She did as instructed.

  ‘Listen, there’s no easy way to say this, but I need to know: did you have an affair with Cardinal Amato, years ago?’
/>   It was as if someone had pierced a vein and was draining her blood. Scamarcio had never seen anyone pale so quickly. Katia Borghese remained quite still and stared at him hard. The force of her gaze was almost too much to take. It felt as if she was trying to kill him with it.

  ‘Who the hell told you that?’

  ‘Nobody. It’s just something I pieced together.’

  ‘Well, you pieced it together wrong.’

  ‘Katia, give it up. It’s time to be honest. There’s too much at stake.’

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again. After a few moments, she murmured, ‘I just need to know how you got there.’

  ‘It was the photos of Andrea in Amato’s room, coupled with some rumours I heard.’

  ‘Give me a second, I just need to fetch something from the kitchen.’

  ‘Don’t get a drink, Katia. We can do this without alcohol.’

  ‘You might be able to, but I sure as hell can’t!’

  Scamarcio rubbed a palm over his mouth and waited for her to return. He tried to guess what she’d poured and felt no satisfaction when she came back with a vodka, proving him right.

  ‘No, it’s not water,’ she said, defiantly slamming the tumbler on the table.

  Scamarcio said nothing.

  She took a long slug, almost draining the glass, then sank back against the sofa. ‘I was young, just twenty-five. Amato must have been in his early fifties. It might be hard for you to believe, but he was a very good-looking man. There was a twinkle in his eyes, and he had such strength, such power.’

  Scamarcio had been about to ask how they’d met, but now he had a feeling he already knew.

  ‘I’m still not sure what happened, but, in my twenties, I started to experience what you might call an existential crisis. I was sick of everyone, everything. I began to hate my parents and the way they stifled me, hate my life, my studies, my friends. I became very angry with the world … very angry with those around me.’

  ‘Rather like Andrea?’

  She nodded slowly. ‘That was part of my problem with him — he reminded me so much of myself that I just couldn’t stand it.’

  Scamarcio wasn’t quite sure he understood, but he smiled as if he did. ‘So, this crisis — what happened? Did things get worse?’