‘So, how’s your investigation going? Getting anywhere?’
He ignored the question. ‘You want a coffee, something to eat?’
She waved a hand. ‘No, I’m fine.’ Then, ‘Maybe just a mineral water: still.’
‘Why did you want to see me?’
‘Tell me what all this is about first.’ He sensed an uncompromising glare behind the glasses.
‘Can’t do that.’
‘This meeting seems a bit one-sided then.’
‘We’re worried about Max — that’s all.’
She laughed. ‘Yeah, right. You guys are always worrying about people like us.’
The sore point again. ‘He’s dead.’
‘What?’
‘He was murdered on Friday — stabbed to death in his flat in Trastevere.’
She stared into space for a long time, saying nothing. Then she took a long drag on the cigarette and didn’t worry so much about the smoke this time. ‘You’re saying that someone cut him up.’ She paused, letting it all sink in. ‘In his place.’
‘Looks that way.’
She placed one hand over the other, apparently studying a fingernail.
He willed her to remove the glasses. ‘So what did you want to tell me?’
He noticed a slight tremor in her hand now. She was reaching for the Camels again, lining up a second before she’d finished the first.
‘Listen, forget I called. It was a mistake.’ She suddenly tossed the butt onto the ground, placed the new fag in her mouth, and reached for the bag. She was out of her seat before he had a chance to react. He leaped to his feet and grabbed her by the shoulder, more roughly than he’d intended. ‘Given what I’ve just told you, surely it’s even more important that you talk to me.’ He felt the tremor in her shoulders, felt it spread out across her back. ‘What’s with you?’
She sank back into the seat as if all the strength had been sucked out of her. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know.’
He called the waiter over, and ordered a large brandy and a mineral water.
‘Listen, I’m not going to reveal your identity to anyone, believe me. That’s not how it works.’
They both fell silent for several moments, and then the waiter was back with their drinks. He placed the brandy in front of Scamarcio, and the water by Maria; Scamarcio switched them as soon as he was gone. Maria took a sip, waited for a moment, then took another. She breathed out, leant back in the chair, and seemed to relax slightly. She took a long drag on the cigarette.
‘I was made an offer a while ago — an offer to go into a new line of work. The money was good, but I didn’t like the smell of it. I turned it down.’
‘What kind of work?’
‘No different from now, but with a special kind of clientele and in a nicer location. Everything would be managed by a handler; I’d just take my cut, but the cut would be good.’
‘Rich clientele?’
‘He didn’t go into details — just said they’d be important, influential. He made a big deal out of the fact that only the top girls were selected and that confidentiality was essential.’
‘Who was this guy? How did you meet him?’
‘I’d seen him drive past a couple of times in a Mercedes. He was good looking. I’d taken him for a punter, but he never stopped. I got the feeling that he wanted to, but hadn’t got it in him. Maybe he had a wife back home, kids, guilt complex — the usual.’ She stopped, and took another sip of the brandy.
‘Go on.’
‘I was in the McDonalds one night, about a year ago now — that same McDonalds in Testaccio where you saw us on Saturday. I was in the queue, waiting for them to bring me my burger, when this guy jumps in front of me and I’m about to give him hell when he says he’s paying for my meal, and would I like anything else. I see that it’s the same guy, the guy with the Mercedes. He seems nice enough, so we sit down and start making small talk, and then he comes out with it — asks if I’d be interested in coming to work for this organisation he knows, explaining it the way I told you.’
‘Then what?’
‘I say, thanks, I’ll think about it, I’ll call him if I’m interested. But I never call — I don’t know why. I guess it was cos I don’t like to lose control, I want to be my own boss, and also cos I had a sixth sense that it could be something dodgy and bring me trouble, just when I’d got things straight with you guys.’ She paused and took a long drag on the cigarette. ‘A couple of months later, I needed money real bad and changed my mind. I decided to call him, but I realised that I’d lost his card — I couldn’t find it anywhere. For a while I hoped he’d drive past again, but he didn’t. In the end, I figured it was fate deciding for me. I’d lost his card because it wasn’t meant to be.’
‘And you have no idea who this man was?’
‘None. But, like I say, he was a good-looking guy.’
‘What kind of accent?’
‘Roman, I think. But I’m not good on accents.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Medium height, dark hair, blue eyes.’
‘And you believe this could have something to do with Arthur, or Max as you knew him then?’
‘I have no idea. I guess I just wondered if he’d found him, too, made him the offer and he’d accepted, if that’s why he went — gone on to bigger and better things.’ She looked to her left, to the street beyond: Trastevere was growing busy as lunchtime approached. A striking woman passed them: blonde, tall, Scandinavian maybe. Maria followed her for a while and then returned her gaze to Scamarcio, flicking her hair behind her shoulder. For a moment, he sensed insecurity there.
As if in response, the sun emerged from behind a cloud and revealed the imperfections in her skin: there were small lines around the mouth, and the beginnings of worry lines above the nose.
‘Max was good looking. He stood out, so I wondered if he’d also caught his eye. When someone makes you an offer like that, you don’t tell the others; you keep it for yourself. When you came round the other day, I got to wondering — wondering whether that’s what happened, whether he’d left to work for him. But Max wasn’t a trans, so maybe there was no offer. Maybe I’ve got it wrong.’
Scamarcio watched the answers hover in front of him and then evaporate into nothing, dissolve into the May haze.
‘And this guy told you no more about the work, about what would be required?’
‘No, that was it — just that it was good money, a nice location, top-drawer clients.’
‘Can you remember anything from the card? A name, an address even?’
She looked down, rubbed at a nail, chipping away at the varnish where it needed retouching. ‘I’m sorry, it was a long time ago. There are so many names and faces, I can’t remember them all.’
‘Why were you so uptight before?’
She glanced up, and he saw himself reflected in the lenses of her glasses, leaning in, trying to make contact.
‘Don’t you hear the stories? Some of these rackets: once they get a hold of you, that’s it. Maybe Max wanted out, and that’s why they killed him. And here I am talking to you, and he’s talked to me, and who knows … who knows where it could all end?’
11
SCAMARCIO DIDN’T KNOW what to make of his conversation with Maria. It could be nothing, or it could be everything. He thought of the unknown man who had given her his card, and the unknown man who had handed the photos to the officers. Who were they? Were they one and the same? He walked up Via Marmaggi and crossed into Via Fratte. He wasn’t really sure where he was heading — he just enjoyed the coolness of the shadows, the damp smell of moss on stone. He realised that he was just two streets away from Arthur’s building now, and he suddenly felt the need to walk past, to see the place again, although he didn’t quite kno
w why, didn’t know what it would bring. He felt his pulse quicken, and noticed that his heart was beating so loudly that he could hear it: it was almost a pounding vibration in his ears. Finally recognising the throb of his mobile above the rhythm, he scrambled for it in his back pocket, almost dropping it into the road. He felt a stab of panic as Filippi’s number flashed up. Was he spying on him? Had he seen him make the turn into Arthur’s street?
Best to keep it casual. ‘Oscar, listen. I’m sorry about before.’
‘Don’t sweat it. Thing is, this case is starting to get weird on me, and I need your help.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Where are you now?’ Obstinate to the last.
He thought it best to avoid the truth, so decided to put himself a few streets back. ‘I’ve just met a friend for lunch in Via delle Luce — your neck of the woods. Why?’
‘Good, get down here to the station. I want to show you something.’
The Trastevere station was cool and half empty, but it still carried the usual male undertones of old sweat and cigarettes and something else — Scamarcio couldn’t be sure what —fear perhaps, maybe from the guys, maybe from the perps. Filippi was at a desk by a window that overlooked a courtyard boasting a cluster of healthy palms and an orange tree. It was a nice view, better than Scamarcio’s. If Filippi were to turn in his seat for a rest from his paperwork, he could enjoy his coffee looking out at that view. Scamarcio felt envious for a moment.
‘OK, so what’s all this about?’
Filippi looked up from his paperwork and motioned Scamarcio to the chair opposite.
‘Strange thing, given how much you’ve been sniffing around.’
He opened one of his desk drawers to the right, and pulled out a plastic evidence bag. Scamarcio saw a single piece of paper inside.
‘Take a look — it arrived an hour ago.’
Scamarcio took it from him, and turned it in the shaft of sunlight from the window. Only one side had been written on. The words were scratchy and hard to read, and the spelling looked off. ‘If you are looking into the murrder of Arthur the rentboy you mite care to look again at the “suecide” of Geppo the bookie.’ It ended there, with no date and no name.
‘Where’s the envelope?’
Filippi pulled out another evidence bag from the drawer with an envelope inside, and handed it over.
It wasn’t addressed to anyone in particular — just the Trastevere station. It bore a Rome postmark and had been sent on Saturday, the day after Arthur’s death. Scamarcio glanced up. Filippi was leaning back in his chair, a pencil stuffed behind his ear. He looked like something out of a 1970s cop show. ‘So what am I to make of that? You mind telling me what the fuck’s going on?’
Scamarcio rearranged himself more comfortably, and tried to stay relaxed. ‘Like I told you: I’m doing a favour for a friend, nothing more.’
‘Which friend?’
‘Can’t say.’
‘So why am I being told to investigate the suicide of some two-bit bookie?’
‘No idea. How should I know?’
Filippi leant forward in his chair, rested his forearms on the desk, and studied him. ‘OK, this is how I see it. It seems odd to me, to say the least, that you’ve been snooping around this thing — a case that’s got fuck-all to do with you — and now I get sent this.’ He leant back, and crossed his arms behind his head. ‘Something doesn’t add up, wouldn’t you agree?’
Scamarcio rubbed at a knot in his neck, and eased an elbow onto the arm of his chair. ‘What can I tell you? I’m as much in the dark as you are.’
He surveyed the untidy piles of paperwork covering Filippi’s desk; it seemed like the guy had quite a backlog. ‘You know anything about this Geppo, then?’
Filippi sighed, tired of it all already. ‘Never heard of him. I need to ask around on the street, consult the low-life. Then, if that draws a blank, I’ll be onto Vice, see if he’s somewhere else in this cesspit of a city.’
Scamarcio fell silent. Nothing came to mind; it was all just a blank.
‘But if you’re holding out on me, Scamarcio, I’ll make trouble for you. We’re colleagues — it shouldn’t work like this.’
Scamarcio came to, sensing it was time to cut it short. ‘You have my word: I know nothing of any Geppo. But I can ask around, if you like. You want me to ask around?’
Filippi waved a hand, as though he already knew it would come to nothing. ‘Ask around — ask that friend of yours. I don’t need this extra shit right now.’
‘Geppo the bookie? Is he some kind of major player?’
‘I don’t think so, but we’d need to check with Vice. They haven’t heard of him down in Trastevere, anyway.’
‘Well, that doesn’t mean anything,’ said the chief.
‘I’m worried about Filippi. This case has his attention now.’ Scamarcio was heading towards the centre, his tiredness bone-deep, even though the day was only halfway through.
‘I told you I’ll deal with it. In the meantime, you head up to Milan, and see what you can get out of Limoni.’ He gave him the address for the young officers’ parents, and then hung up.
Scamarcio let his head fall against the wheel. Suddenly, he wanted to stay put. The anxiety was growing steadily, like a tumour, taking root in his gut, pushing into his ribs, filling his lungs. Instinctively, he felt that leaving the city would be dangerous, that it would be too big a step into the unknown, would be severing some kind of umbilical attachment that was keeping him safe, for now.
He eased the car into Via Clementina, and found a space up on the curb opposite a goods entrance. He’d flash them his police badge if it got nasty. The doorway to the Palazzo was open, and he stepped into its marble lobby, glad of the cool and the opulence: the fresh lilies on the desk, the pencil drawings of Rome. He took the stairs, and tried to calm himself and steady his breathing, but felt the tension build with every tread.
He reached the first floor and pressed the buzzer. The glass door released almost immediately, and he saw that it was the pretty brunette on reception. ‘The doctor’s waiting for you — go on through,’ she said. He was relieved. Better this, than too much time with the magazines, too much time to polish his story.
Doctor Salvai was at the window, the light catching her hair. She looked well — there was colour in her cheeks, and her blue eyes were alive.
‘Detective Scamarcio, good to see you. Please take a seat.’
He slouched down into one of her huge leather armchairs, leant back, and considered the ceiling for a moment. She moved away from the window and came to sit opposite him.
‘You look tired. Hard week?’
He moved his eyes from the ceiling and took her in. She was fifteen years his senior, but ever since their first meeting he’d spent many hours imagining them in a whole host of scenarios — none of them professional.
‘Challenging case.’
Neither of them spoke for several moments, then eventually she said, ‘Is there anything you want to share with me today?’
He hated the way she said it; he didn’t like the way the onus was always on him. It didn’t seem rigorous; in fact, seemed deeply lazy.
But he’d play along, like he always did. He might start with, ‘Well, it seems that the prime minister is an old mate of my boss, so now we’re secretly and illegally investigating the murder of an Argentine rentboy who’d been blowing off the foreign secretary, and, to be honest, the whole thing is getting heavy.’ But instead he said, ‘Nothing much — the usual, really.’
‘Talk me through it. It doesn’t matter if I’ve heard some of it before.’
He wanted to roll his eyes, but instead he sank back in the chair, opened his legs, and fixed eye contact. He allowed the impure thoughts to flip around in his mind, knowing that she knew what he
was thinking and that it pleased her.
‘Piocosta came and found me at the bar where I have breakfast. It looks like it’s moved on from simple courtship to an all-out declaration of love.’
She snorted softly. ‘What’s on the table?’
‘Two million.’
‘One-off payment?’
‘Yearly.’
She whistled quietly. ‘Not bad.’ Then: ‘Why can’t he let it go, do you think?’
He sighed, pulling a half-frown: ‘I’m too useful, I guess, plus he’s got some strange guilt-thing going on, some warped sense of duty to my father — he feels like he needs to offer me the kind of lifestyle the old man would have provided.’ He looked away from her, taking his gaze to the window. ‘Those old fuckers are strange — they live in their own tiny worlds.’
‘You’re romanticising it. You’re a useful asset, that’s all.’
She was tilting her head to one side now. He wanted to fuck her there and then — didn’t care who might walk in.
‘What did you tell him?’
He shook his head, tired. ‘I told him I was very flattered, that it was good of him to think of me and all that, but I’ve set my course and I intend to keep to it.’
‘Did he buy it?’
He sighed, rested his head against the back of the chair, and studied the ceiling once more. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if he bought it. Was he using them, or was it the other way around? Should he and could he just cut them off, once and for all? And where would it leave him if he did?
‘He just smiled at me like I was some hopeless kid. He said I’d change my mind soon enough, and that he’d be there when I did.’
‘Could he be right?’
He returned his gaze to her. He wanted to punch her, kiss her, push her down onto her plush white rug. ‘How the hell do I know? I can’t see into the future.’ Then, calming slightly, ‘No, he’s not right. Of course he’s not right.’
She inclined her head the other way, looking at him oddly.
The Few Page 6
