‘I’m so sorry.’
She said nothing.
‘You should rest.’
She nodded and laid her head back on the pillow. He picked up his daughter and returned to the chair. He was exhausted, physically and mentally. He felt as if he’d looked into the abyss, but had been pulled back right at the last moment, and now euphoria and anxiety battled it out for supremacy. As he shut his eyes, his mobile rang, and he reached for it reluctantly. The intrusion felt obscene.
‘Congratulations, Scamarcio. I’m made up for you,’ said Garramone sounding like he really meant it. ‘Now you can get on and enjoy the life you deserve. My wife has bought you something from the two of us. But don’t blame me if you don’t like it — you know how her taste can sometimes be weird.’
Scamarcio smiled, remembering how Garramone’s wife had once turned up at a squad summer party in pink wedge shoes, the soles of which glowed in the dark. It had been particularly striking because the rest of her outfit had been perfectly normal.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I can’t wait to see a photo. Will you send me one?’
‘Of course.’
‘How’s she doing? Everything hunky-dory?’
‘Seems so, yes. We’re very lucky.’
‘Kids are such a blessing, Scamarcio. They’re your treasures, and nothing will ever change that.’ Scamarcio had never heard Garramone speak so sentimentally and felt newly disorientated. He heard the boss stop to take a breath. After a few seconds, he said, ‘Look, I don’t like bothering you with work, but we need to wind things up, and I need to know whether to ask someone else to bring the ship to shore.’
Through his haze of happiness, Scamarcio’s mind flashed on Lovoti, and he heard himself say, ‘No, don’t do that.’
The baby shuffled and sniffled in his arms, startled by the change in volume.
‘You want to come in?’ Garramone sounded surprised.
‘I want to see it to the end.’ Scamarcio thought of Greco. ‘For a whole load of reasons.’
Garramone exhaled. ‘OK, but I think you should put Fiammetta and the baby first — just until things settle.’
‘I will put them first. I’ll just drop in for a few hours, then I’ll be back at the hospital.’
‘Right you are, then.’
Scamarcio thought he heard a smile in Garramone’s voice.
As Scamarcio made his way to the squad room, he pondered whether a father would really have it in him to kill his own son, illegitimate or otherwise. To Scamarcio, it seemed so abominable as to be incomprehensible, but he knew he couldn’t allow his current emotions to cloud his intellect. The question was, could the cardinal have commissioned a crime of that magnitude? Scamarcio wondered why the lab was taking so long to provide the DNA comparison between the two bodies. He’d chased Manetti several times in the last few hours, but he’d claimed there’d been some kind of bureaucratic hold-up with the processing: budgetary issues and reassessed priorities, it seemed. Scamarcio’s jaw clenched at the thought of it. They were in the middle of a major inquiry that had massive global attention, and they were still forced to deal with this shit.
The bottom line was that he couldn’t rule out the possibility, as disgusting as it was, that Cardinal Amato had Andrea killed in order to take his secret to the grave. Just because they’d threatened Gennaro with punishment, it didn’t necessarily follow that Zenox had murdered the boy. And there was something else playing at the corners of Scamarcio’s mind about the cardinal: why the hell had he seemed so scared about Scamarcio going after the men he’d hired? Why was that more frightening than the prospect of prison?
Scamarcio took the stairs to the squad room, exhaustion a lead weight in his chest. How was he going to find out who Amato had used? That calibre of inside knowledge could only be found in a minefield ringed by high voltage fences. He couldn’t consult his old sources now that Piocosta was gone. And had the old man still been around, Scamarcio had a feeling even he wouldn’t have been able to produce a name.
He pushed the swing doors to the squad room. He knew from bitter past experience that the Cappadona sometimes took out Vatican rubbish. What were the chances they were involved in this? Their horrific reputation might explain the cardinal’s considerable fear. That said, they were hardly alone in their talent for instilling terror in their ‘clients’.
Scamarcio was on his way to his desk when a disturbing volley of claps swept through the room. It was probably the most genuine round of applause he had witnessed in the bearpit, and he was alarmed to feel a small lump forming in his throat. He tried to suppress it and offered a weary salute as he drew out his chair, willing them all to get back to work.
‘Congratulations, Scamarcio,’ said Sartori, slapping him on the back. ‘We’re chuffed to bits for you. There’s been a whip-round — I’ll bring the present over later. How are they both doing?’
‘Well. Really well.’
‘Great.’ Sartori slapped him again. ‘I’m kind of shocked to see you here, but, then again, I’m not.’
Scamarcio smiled. ‘I just wanted to tie things up — you know.’
‘Sure.’
Scamarcio folded his arms across his chest. ‘Any news?’
‘Negruzzo got nothing from the laptop, but there were a few things on the USBs — looks like a kind of ledger of monies paid to our dirty head honcho at the pharmaceutical service. There are drug names in brackets by some entries, but not all. Generally, there’s not as much evidence as we might have hoped for, but Garramone doesn’t really care, given Borghese’s testimony.’
‘Right.’
‘The cardinal’s said nothing more since he arrived. He may be waiting for you.’
‘OK.’ Scamarcio paused. ‘Listen, I’m still waiting on the DNA comp — we need to see if we can pin Amato or whoever he hired to both these murders.’
‘I’ve heard nothing from Manetti.’
‘What the fuck is going on down there? Are they all dead or something?’
‘Want me to shake his tree?’
Scamarcio thought about the ‘welcome to fatherhood’ conversation he’d now have to have with the chief CSI if he talked to him himself. ‘Yes, do that. It’s way too late in the game to be waiting on this kind of info. Obviously we’re looking for any kind of match: it doesn’t have to be Amato, it just has to be someone.’
‘Got you.’
Scamarcio decided to wait before speaking to Cardinal Amato. If there was any new evidence to be had, he wanted to enter the interview room armed.
Probably bowing to pressure from a now irate Garramone, Manetti finally produced the goods two hours later.
‘Congratulations, man, I hear you’ve pulled a blinder,’ said the chief CSI as soon as Scamarcio picked up. ‘It’s such lovely news.’
‘… Is that it?’ Scamarcio asked warily.
‘What do you mean?’ Manetti sounded offended.
‘I was expecting some wisecrack about Fiammetta’s fidelity or my nappy changing skills.’
‘God, Scamarcio, there’s a time and a place.’
Scamarcio reminded himself that Manetti was actually known for showing real emotion at times.
Manetti paused. ‘I have a gift for you — well, two actually. One for the baby and one for you.’
‘Oh, thanks, Manetti — I’m touched, really.’
‘Good,’ said the chief CSI briskly, as if he, too, was now uncomfortable and wanted to return to their default setting. ‘You want your present now?’
‘You downstairs or something?’
‘It’s a gift I can deliver by phone.’
Scamarcio finally cottoned on. ‘Ah — hit me with it.’
‘I got your match.’
Scamarcio wanted to shout ‘About fucking time’, but instead he said calmly, ‘You never disappoint.’
<
br /> ‘I do what I can,’ said the chief CSI, all faux modesty. ‘I had to really sing for my supper on this one, cos the lab guys were breaking my balls — if anyone says the words backlog or budget again today, I swear I will poison them and make it look like suicide. Anyway, I got fuck all off the body — the priest’s. The match came from a hair on the shower curtain in his hotel bathroom and a hair on Andrea Borghese’s trousers. No stone left unturned — praise be to my team. Make sure you pass that up to the old bastard, won’t you? He just roasted me for ten minutes when it wasn’t even my fault.’
‘Sure,’ said Scamarcio.
Manetti was talking so fast that Scamarcio wondered for a moment if he was on something. Then he wondered if he was simply putting on a show to distract from his responsibility for the delay. He should have put a bomb under the staff at the lab; he certainly had the power, and Scamarcio wondered what had held him back. Office politics, probably. In Scamarcio’s experience, that particular fungus lay at the root of every inefficiency, crap decision, and festering grudge in the squad.
‘Any takers in the system?’ Scamarcio asked, knowing this was probably expecting too much.
‘One, and you’re going to love it.’
‘Fuck, Manetti, I hope you’re not shitting me.’
‘Would I?’
‘Yes.’
Scamarcio heard the chief CSI rattle some pens in a pot — he seemed to be aiming for the drum-roll effect.
‘Vincenzo Candiolo.’
‘Should that mean something to me?’
‘Well, it didn’t to me until the database told me he was Gianfranco Becchi’s boy.’
Scamarcio frowned. ‘You’ve lost me, Manetti …’
‘According to the latest intelligence, Becchi took over from Papa Cappadona’s replacement after all that fuss last year you were caught up in. So, I mean, if you were looking for a Cappadona link, you’ve got one loud and clear, bells and whistles.’
Scamarcio felt an icy stab of paranoia. ‘Did Sartori tell you I was looking at them for this?’ He didn’t think he’d even mentioned it to Sartori.
‘No, Sartori didn’t say anything along those lines. I just meant …’
Scamarcio came to his senses. ‘Oh, don’t sweat it. You’re right, I was wondering about them, given their past work, so all this is topnotch. Invaluable, in fact.’
‘So,’ said Manetti. ‘Who were they working for? Don’t tell me the cardinal?’
‘I think so.’
‘Fuck a duck.’
Scamarcio sighed. ‘It’s a riot, this one. I don’t think even the papers could have made it up.’
‘Is it me or is murder getting stranger?’
Scamarcio tore the plastic off a fresh pack of Marlboros he’d bought outside the hospital. He took out a cigarette and admired the way the rest in the pack were perfectly aligned, just waiting to be lit. But he wouldn’t smoke around his daughter. He could never do that. ‘It’s Satan’s work,’ he said, patting his pocket for his lighter.
‘You buy into all that?’
‘Maybe just a little. Cardinal Amato was fighting the devil,’ Scamarcio paused to take a long toke, ‘… but in the end, after more than forty years, he lost.’
Scamarcio thought of Greco’s advice, and his heart turned cold. ‘What that means for the rest of us, God only knows.’
45
CARDINAL AMATO’S EYES WERE closed when Scamarcio stepped into the small interview room. The silence rattled his nerves and made him uneasy. It felt like the moment before something terrible happened: the last charged seconds before a bomb exploded or an earthquake struck.
Scamarcio drew out a chair and took a seat opposite the cardinal, expecting him to open his eyes or move. But he didn’t. Scamarcio leaned forward. Was he asleep? He leaned in a little closer. Then, just when his head was mere inches away, Amato’s eyes sprung open, and Scamarcio jolted back in shock.
‘Christ, you scared me.’
The cardinal looked bemused. ‘I thought you were a hardened detective.’
Scamarcio ran a hand across his forehead, and it came away damp. ‘What are you playing at?’
The cardinal stared at him — Scamarcio read detachment and irritation, then something dark and primal he found hard to define. All he knew was that he’d seen it before.
He took a long steadying breath and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Let’s begin.’ He went to push the button on the recording unit, but the cardinal’s wizened hand sprung out to stop him. The force of his grip took Scamarcio by surprise.
‘No, let’s wait a minute,’ said Amato quietly, his pupils tiny pinpricks in the light.
‘Where’s your lawyer?’ asked Scamarcio.
‘I didn’t call him.’
Scamarcio blinked.
‘What’s the point? The money would be better off going to charity. Lawyers can do nothing for me now.’
Scamarcio shifted in his chair. ‘Listen, Amato, the more difficult you make things, like not allowing me to record this conversation, the harder it will be later.’
‘I’m not convinced.’
‘OK, let’s try this another way: is there something in particular you wish to tell me off the record?’
The cardinal nodded, looking up to the ceiling, perhaps for cameras. He was right to wonder.
Scamarcio opened his hands. ‘Please, go ahead.’
Amato leaned forward in his seat and rested his long arms on his lap. Scamarcio noticed that his robes were dragging on the ground. It seemed undignified and, strangely, he found himself hoping the floor had been cleaned.
The cardinal started to cough and seemed to lose control of it for a few seconds. He brought a pristine white handkerchief to his mouth and dabbed shakily at his raw lips. After a few moments, he said, ‘It’s a difficult story to tell, but I shall try.’
He said nothing more for a long time, and Scamarcio willed himself to be patient. His own breaths seemed distractingly loud, and he tried to make them quieter.
Amato shifted in his chair, then said softly, ‘Twenty years ago, the devil came to my door. He appeared in the form of three men. He said that if I ever spoke out about a certain story, a certain dreadful case, he would visit me in the night and murder me. My death would be silent, but it would be painful.’
Scamarcio saw Amato’s hand flutter to his heart and then return trembling to his lap. He coughed again, and Scamarcio heard phlegm release.
‘He also said that if I ever found myself in difficulty, I should call on him and he would assist me. It was in his interest to make sure I did not have any troubles of my own with the police.’
Scamarcio frowned.
‘Many years went by, and I almost forgot about that awful day. But then, just over a week ago, I faced a dreadful dilemma, and, in my weakness, I called on him. I asked him to help. He said it was as important for him as it was for me that I remained inside the church with my reputation intact.’
‘Did this devil have a name?’
Amato looked up. ‘What’s in a name? The devil has many names.’
Scamarcio said nothing.
‘Maybe you know the name already,’ whispered Amato.
‘I need you to say the name.’
Amato looked away to the wall. ‘You will know them as the Cappadona.’
‘And this terrible story they wanted you to keep quiet?’
‘You will know it as the Cherubini case.’
Scamarcio’s hand brushed over the mobile in his pocket. He glanced up to check Amato was still staring at the wall and switched the phone’s voice recorder to ‘off.’
He leaned over and activated the recording unit in the room.
‘Cardinal Amato, you are charged with two counts of murder … The first charge relates to the murder of your son, Andrea Borghese, the second char
ge relates to the murder of Alberto Meinero.’
As Scamarcio said the words, a small piece of the puzzle finally fell into place. He recalled how Meinero had used the cardinal’s ID when checking into the hotel and realised that the dead priest had been trying to give him a clue. He’d feared he was going to be killed and had gone to great trouble to send Scamarcio a message from beyond the grave. But Scamarcio had been too slow to comprehend.
‘Andrea was my boy — my favourite,’ said Amato quietly. ‘I would never have killed him.’
‘Getting other men to kill him is the same thing.’
‘I didn’t ask them to kill him,’ Amato shouted, a thin fist trembling. ‘I asked them to kill Meinero. They killed Andrea as a warning — to make sure I never spoke about Cherubini again. They’re monsters, worse than any demon I have ever known. Theirs is an evil that knows no bounds. They’re Satan in his purest form.’
Scamarcio swallowed. It all made sense now: there was a terrible logic to it. Meinero was the principal murder, and Andrea’s death had been secondary to that. It was just the timings that had sown confusion.
‘How did they know Meinero would be at the hotel?’
The cardinal shrugged, almost disinterested now. ‘They had been following him, I suppose.’
‘Andrea was my punishment from God,’ added the cardinal quietly.
Scamarcio looked up from his thoughts. ‘What?’
‘I broke my vows for the first time when I slept with Katia. The devil was borne from our union. It all started there — the evil started there.’
‘You know,’ said Scamarcio, his voice rising as he thought of Andrea and the difficult life he had lived. ‘It seems to me that that poor boy was never given a chance. He had a few problems early on and was then overmedicated for years. He suffered adverse reactions to a drug, but unfortunately for him, he was surrounded by people who just wanted to turn it into something else, tell some other story. All that boy really needed was love and attention.’
Amato shook his head. ‘You will never understand, Detective. You wouldn’t be able to recognise the devil. Your soul is lost — I could sense that right from the beginning. There’s a darkness in you.’
The Devil Page 29
