‘You sure?’
‘Fifty years in this city, and you know the signs.’
The old man scanned the corridor again, stepped back into his hallway, and slammed the door.
14
He opens the envelope. It is the last of today’s pile. Early-morning sunlight spills onto the table, catching the cup of roses and the edges of an apple. He sees a still life.
He pulls out a photograph and turns it over. He feels the brioche he has just eaten force its way from his stomach and push back up along his throat.
It’s a photo of a naked woman from a hard-core porn magazine, but they’ve done something with a computer — put the face of his teenage daughter above the neck.
‘What is it, Pino? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ says his wife.
He rises from his seat, almost kicking the chair away. ‘It’s nothing, sweetheart: just problems at work.’ He kisses her and heads outside, where he knows his car and driver are waiting.
TERMINI WAS A SEETHING mass of people, stale and sweating in the early-summer heat. As Scamarcio picked his way through the crowd, soft currents of cigarette smoke stirred his deprived senses back to life. He spied a tobacconist at the end of the platform, and took it as some kind of portent — a sign that it was meant to be. He could try to give up the weed, deny himself an escape, but surely he could permit himself the pleasure of an uncomplicated smoke? He lined up his change, anticipating the buzz of the nicotine kick, and cast his eye over the towering pile of newspapers. Then he stopped, just stood there, frozen in time. Everything around him ground to a halt, and he felt the world cease to breathe.
The front page of Il Giornale showed a picture of Ganza with his wife and kids. The headline read:
FOREIGN SECRETARY IN RENTBOY SEX SHOCK
Graphic photos showing Foreign Secretary and father of three Giorgio Ganza in a drink and drug-fuelled orgy with two male prostitutes have come to light.
The photos, many of which are too shocking to print, show Ganza in various stages of undress as he frolics with the two prostitutes in a Tuscan villa. Ganza, who has always played up his family-man credentials for political gain, fled Rome several days ago. It is understood that he is hiding out at a secret retreat, near Florence. His wife and children have also left the capital and were unavailable for comment.
Scamarcio flipped through the paper, and found the least shocking of the photos on pages two, three, and four. He saw Arthur’s young face in two of them, and scanned the article looking for any mention of his name and the killing at his apartment. There was none. How long, though, before they made that connection — before Filippi made the connection, and all hell broke loose? Filippi did not yet know what Arthur looked like, and the corpse was too damaged. But the desk sergeant would remember, and would waste no time in telling him. No doubt, a call would soon follow, asking Scamarcio to pay another visit to the precinct. If not Filippi, then Maria and the girls at Testaccio would hear soon enough, and would put two and two together. His mobile buzzed. It was starting already: all hell breaking loose around him.
It was Garramone. ‘Seen the papers?’
‘I’m looking at Il Giornale now. How did that happen?’
‘The editors changed their minds — decided it was too good to sit on. Who can blame them?’
‘But there’s nothing about Arthur.’
‘Not yet, but I’m not sure for how much longer.’
‘What does your friend say?’
‘He’s furious. Says it’s a breach of trust, that there’ll be hell to pay.’
‘What are we to do?’
‘He thinks we should cool it for a while — keep our heads down while the storm blows over. Then see where it leaves us.’
‘And you? What do you think?’
‘It all depends on Filippi: if he makes the link to Arthur, the game is up. Then there are those hookers you spoke to down in Testaccio. Not to mention the friend upstairs in Trastevere — she’s bound to speak to Filippi.’
‘It’s getting to be a long list.’
‘Maybe you should pay the friend a visit, and cut her off before she can get to him.’
‘Yeah, and what do I do about the desk sergeant at Trastevere? How do I persuade him to keep his mouth shut?’ This thing was running away from them now; any possible control slipping through their fingers.
‘Forget about the desk sergeant. Think about the friend.’
‘That won’t work. If Filippi decides to dig some more, which he will, he’ll be back. And if I’ve been hanging around the friend, it won’t look right.’
Garramone fell quiet. ‘Our priority is to find the other guy in the photo. If someone is taking out these people for Ganza, he could be next.’
‘But wouldn’t that be a dangerous strategy, now that the story is out?’
‘Whatever. We need to establish his identity.’
‘And Ganza hasn’t given your friend the prime minister anything?’
‘For God’s sake, Scamarcio, don’t speak so loosely.’
They both fell silent a moment before the chief eventually said, ‘Nothing. Ganza says he doesn’t remember the guy. He says that photo was taken the first time they’d met, and he never saw him again.’
‘None of the hookers down in Testaccio knew him either.’
‘There must be others you could ask.’
‘That means going back to Vice. I don’t think that’s wise — not with this all over the papers.’
He heard a radio in the background of wherever Garramone was calling from. An old song by Mina was playing. The chief exhaled like a man who knows his time is up. ‘What happened up north? The boy give you anything?’
‘He thinks Rossi might have known the man who handed them the photos — that they might have been in it together. But when I went down to Naples, his family had done a runner — at four in the morning, according to one of the neighbours. He has them for Camorra, by the way.’
‘That right?’ He could hear the chief sinking back in his chair. Scamarcio imagined him gazing into the middle distance, no longer sure where to take this thing. Eventually, Garramone said, ‘See what you can get on the second guy in the picture. Then I think you need to leave town for a bit while we calm things down. I’ll find you another case — move you off somewhere while it blows over.’ He paused. ‘If it blows over.’
15
THE NEXT CALL was from Aurelia D’Amato. ‘Come to the morgue as soon as possible,’ was all she said. Scamarcio sensed an uneasiness stirring in his chest, creeping out along his nerve endings.
She was sitting at a table out back, finishing some paperwork. He felt momentarily glad to see her like this, spared awhile from all the blood and body fluids. When she saw him walk in, she laid down her pen and scratched at the loose hair behind her neck. She was framed in a thin splinter of sunlight, and as he drew closer he saw a series of fine horizontal lines across her forehead, and the beginnings of crows’ feet around her eyes. But she was still beautiful.
‘Take a seat,’ she said, as if he had come for a job interview. There was something in her eyes that he didn’t like — a mixture of fear and something else.
He perched on a battered plastic chair, not sure that it would take his weight.
‘So?’
From under her papers, she produced the morning newspaper and pushed it towards him across the desk. ‘You seen this?’
‘Yes,’ he said, not bothering to pick it up.
‘This have anything to do with Filippi’s rentboy?’
His insides tightened slightly. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘Just a hunch.’ She locked eye contact, uncompromising.
He stared back. ‘A hunch?’
She looked away, seeming suddenly disgusted. ‘I would have
expected you to show a little more remorse, to be honest.’
‘Remorse? What have I got to be remorseful about?’
‘You’re a cold bastard, Scamarcio.’ She was shaking her head now, her arms barred across her chest.
Slowly, he felt the hairs shift along his spine. He had no idea where this was going, but had a sense they were heading some place he didn’t want to be. ‘I don’t understand what I’ve done, Aurelia. I just asked you for an opinion on a corpse. I know it was Filippi’s case, but it’s not the end of the world.’
‘Maybe not for you, but it’s hardly looking good for Filippi, is it?’
‘What?’
She studied him. This time, it was her turn to be confused. ‘Haven’t you heard?’
‘Heard what?’
‘Filippi’s been shot. Two .22s through the chest, drive-by on Via Pelliccia, 8.00am today.’ She sighed. ‘Right now, he’s in a coma. You’ll find him at the Borghese, if you can spare the time to visit.’
16
SLEEP ELUDED HIM. He had tried so many times to cross that boundary to a place where his thoughts no longer connected, to feel his body become heavy before floating away into weightlessness. Finally, he gave up, walked to the moonlight at the window, and stared out at the rooftops across the city, the tiny lights of a thousand apartments blinking in the distance. Far away, a horn sounded, and then, as if following some kind of hidden sequence, the rhythmic thud from a nearby bar ceased and young laugher spilled out across the alleyway.
He had told Garramone about Filippi — had told him that the detective had received the anonymous letter, and was now alerted to the case. And now Filippi was in a coma. What kind of mechanism was in play here? Why had the PM called Garramone? What did he want from him? If he was running a cover-up for his errant ministers, why get the police involved? And where did it leave him, Leone Scamarcio, already tainted by an inconvenient past, already less than clean?
He went to the kitchen, poured himself a whisky, returned to the lounge, and switched on the TV. He selected Sky News 24, hoping to lose himself in someone else’s miseries, and reclaim some kind of perspective. It was a blonde newsreader, with the same look as all the rest: cheekbones too high, eyes too sharp. Why couldn’t anyone look like themselves anymore? They were running pictures of Andrea Spezzi, as a teenager and a young man. Spezzi was the 34-year-old heir to the eponymous construction empire. He had never held down a proper job, had lived in New York for a while, and had dabbled in the film business as a producer without ever attaching his name to anything of note. He’d hit the headlines a couple of years back when he’d been taken to hospital after overdosing on cocaine during a night spent with a male prostitute in Milan. Another one, thought Scamarcio. It’s all the rage now. The tracker under the picture said, ‘Attempted suicide.’
Scamarcio turned up the sound. Spezzi had been taken to Tiberina hospital after slashing his wrists, the reporter said. No one understood why: he had everything, no money worries, a new French girlfriend of six months, an apartment he had just bought in Paris, where he intended to settle. It was all a complete shock to the family, etc etc. Money doesn’t buy you everything, thought Scamarcio. Well, his own mother had borne testimony to that.
He cradled the whisky, surveying the pelt of hair on his stomach, the dense muscles above his knees, and the toenails that needed a clipping. He was slowly aware of a thought forming, thick and troubling like the first smoke from a house fire: Spezzi had been into the rentboy scene — was known for it. Then the Ganza story breaks, and a few hours later he tries to kill himself. Could there be a connection between the two episodes, past and present? Or was Scamarcio finally losing his grip, seeing patterns where there were none?
17
SCAMARCIO WALKED UP the ramp to the main entrance of the hospital on Isola Tiberina. There were a cluster of reporters milling around in the gardens; a young woman was delivering a piece to camera. He saw a unit of local police arrive, and unload a rope and poles from the back of their van — erecting a cordon, no doubt, to keep the press at bay.
He flashed his badge at the girl on the desk. ‘I’m here for Spezzi.’
She looked around to check that no one was listening: ‘Third floor, last room on the right as you leave the elevator.’
He thanked her and followed the signs to the lifts. Despite the press outside, it was strangely quiet in the corridors, as if all the action was to be found up on the third floor.
He entered the elevator, relieved to see there was no one else inside. He wondered what state he’d find him in, whether he’d be up to conversation.
After less than a minute, the doors opened and he caught an early glimpse of a knot of good-looking women in black hovering outside Spezzi’s room. The nearest one had a BlackBerry clamped to her ear. She looked up as he approached and then raised a palm to stop him. He flashed his badge again. She cut short the call, and lowered the BlackBerry.
‘He’s not to have visitors.’
‘Whose orders? Yours or the doctor’s?’
‘What do you want?’
‘We were hoping he could help us with an inquiry.’
‘What, right now? After what’s just happened?’
‘Especially after what’s just happened.’
She sighed, stepped towards the door, and knocked tentatively, her ear against the wood so she could hear the great man’s response. After a moment, she entered, slamming the door firmly behind her so he couldn’t catch a glimpse inside. The remaining two assistants eyed him coldly. Spezzi had an impressive harem.
She was back after a few moments, her precarious heels clicking across the tiles. ‘He doesn’t want to see you,’ she said with a note of triumph.
‘He doesn’t have a choice.’
She sighed again, rolled her eyes, and spun dramatically on her heels. He watched the muscles slide in her calves as she pushed the door open. A low murmur of voices came from inside, and then the door opened again: ‘A few minutes only — he’s very tired.’
The room was wide, carved up by sunlight. Dust motes danced above Spezzi’s head like a thousand tiny angels come to claim him. Spezzi was low down in the bed, his head resting on a single pillow. He was deathly pale, his eyes red and swollen. His curly brown hair was standing up in tight tufts, making him look like an aged cherub. His gaze remained fixed on the window and its view of the Fabricio Bridge: pedestrians and cyclists, nuns and businessmen, gulls screeching as they dive-bombed for fish.
‘Valentina, please give us a moment.’
She threw Scamarcio a look, tapping at her watch face with a finger. Spezzi remained motionless, keeping up his surveillance of the bridge.
‘What do you want?’ His voice was cracked and reedy, as though he needed water.
‘I’m here about a young man called Arthur — got into a spot of bother with the foreign secretary.’ He pulled the newspaper article from his jacket pocket, and placed it gently on the bed. Spezzi didn’t move.
‘Why now?’ His hand was shaking where it rested on the blanket. He transferred it beneath the sheets, but Scamarcio could still see it moving.
‘Seemed like a good time.’
For several minutes, neither man spoke. Eventually a siren cut through the silence as an ambulance pulled up at the gates below.
Spezzi’s head turned slowly. His lips were parched and dry; the skin around his mouth, flaking. He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them again. Scamarcio saw moisture there. He felt a fleeting pang of guilt. He shouldn’t be bothering this troubled man on a whim. Suddenly, it felt like a bad idea.
The words came slowly and heavily, seeming to require a superhuman effort: ‘You are young, like me. So leave it alone.’ He was short of breath, like an asthmatic, or perhaps because he had lost a lot of blood. The last words were almost a whisper: ‘Leave it alone,
because it isn’t worth it. Not in the end.’ He sank deeper into the pillow, and his eyes closed again.
18
SPEZZI’S WORDS PLAYED in his mind over and over: they had suggested the presence of something bigger, bigger than the both of them. Was it big enough to make someone try to take his own life? Scamarcio felt the anxiety return, felt it twist and flip in his gut. He couldn’t stay still — he needed to move, to press on. He clearly wasn’t going to glean any more from Spezzi in his current state, so he decided to pay Filippi a visit up at the Borghese. It was to be a day of hospitals.
When he arrived, he found a couple of fellow officers outside Filippi’s room, their faces sombre.
‘Any change?’ he asked.
‘No, nothing. The doctors don’t know when he’ll wake up — if he’ll wake up.’
‘Can I go in?’
‘Sure.’
Through the porthole of the door he caught a first glimpse of Filippi surrounded by complicated-looking machines and wires of every colour. His chest was moving up and down in strange, automatic movements, and his face was ashen. Scamarcio pushed the door and stepped inside. The room smelt of surgical cleansers, warm plastic, and human waste.
Scamarcio walked closer to the bed and looked down at his colleague. His chest was heavily bandaged, and there was strange bruising on his arms. Another spike of guilt: if he hadn’t complained about Filippi to Garramone, the chances were that Filippi would be safe and well now, back home with his wife and kids. Had the PM had him taken out? And why? Or was there another, simpler explanation? Was there a small chance that this didn’t have anything to do with the investigation into Arthur? That it was tied in to another of his cases? Filippi worked a difficult beat — that was well known. He dealt with drug dealers, Mafiosi, and pimps on a daily basis. The chances were good that this might be about another matter entirely, which didn’t involve Scamarcio. This was something he needed to know if he was to have any peace with this case, if he wasn’t going to be constantly watching his back.
The Few Page 8
