The Few

by Nadia Dalbuono

  22

  SCAMARCIO OPENED HIS EYES one at a time and assessed the level of sunlight in the room. He could barely make out the Fattori above the chest. He had no idea what time it was. He’d fallen asleep when he’d returned to his flat — maybe because of the stress of the encounter in the alleyway, or maybe the small shard of resin he’d found at the back of the kitchen cupboard. The low buzz of the telephone persisted, and he reached for it slowly, like an astronaut in a state of weightlessness, the dull cannabis ache deadening his temples.

  ‘Scamarcio.’

  ‘Sorry to wake you.’ It was Garramone. He didn’t sound sorry at all.

  ‘I wasn’t asleep.’

  ‘Whatever. Listen, I’ve got a lead on the other guy in the photo. I need you to go to Florence.’

  Scamarcio pulled himself up against the pillows. Now he was straight, he realised that it was a powerful headache starting at the base of his neck and reaching around both temples. He rubbed the thinning skin under his eyes.

  ‘Florence?’

  ‘Perfect opportunity to get you out of Rome for a bit. And the lead is solid — he’ll be there.’

  ‘What? Now?’

  ‘He may not hang around. The lead just came in.’

  Scamarcio sighed, and sank back into the pillows. ‘Listen, boss, I’ve got a lead myself. I went down to Via Nizza to check out this Geppo the bookie character, and some guy practically knifes me in an alleyway and tells me the answer to all this can be found on Elba — there’s something going down on the island that’s apparently connected.’

  ‘On Elba? Nothing ever happens on Elba.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  Garramone fell silent a moment. ‘Let me see what I can find out. I’ll call you back.’

  The phone rang again five minutes later. Scamarcio hadn’t moved from his position on the pillow. He couldn’t ever remember feeling more exhausted.

  ‘An American child has gone missing from one of the beaches. The local cops are running around like headless chickens, and a media circus is on its way.’

  Scamarcio felt a tightness in his chest. This investigation was getting too big for them, crossing boundaries it was better to avoid.

  He knew the answer before he asked. ‘So I check it out?’

  Garramone sighed. ‘Yeah, you check it out.’

  Although it was just a little past 10.00am, the June heat already had the day in its stranglehold. Through the haze he could make out the island police waiting for him on the tarmac, their orange siren morphing lazily. Scamarcio braced himself for the usual friction, and watched as the door of the battered Fiat opened and a young lad stepped out, all arms and legs, a spider unfolding. As he made his way towards them, the young guy turned and spotted him.

  ‘Welcome.’

  ‘Detective Scamarcio, pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Likewise.’ The young guy led him back to the car, silent.

  In the driver’s seat was another officer, maybe a few years older. He nodded, also saying nothing. Scamarcio climbed in the back and they pulled away. A blur of dense palm trees and pastel cottages sped by, and in the distance he could make out the first traces of blue. He felt glad to be out of the city, away from the smog for a while.

  ‘Talk me through it. It was the beach at Fetovaia, right?’

  The younger officer was the first to respond: ‘Yes. It’s a popular spot, but it was pretty deserted on Tuesday; there were only three other families, and none of them seems to have seen anything.’

  ‘What about the parents? What did they tell you?’

  ‘The mother is hysterical, cries all the time — it’s hard to get anything out of her. The father is very silent, doesn’t say much, just broods. They have no idea how it happened, seem completely in the dark.’

  ‘What do they do for a living?’

  ‘The father’s an engineer in Maine. The mother stays home, cares for the kid, used to be a lawyer, apparently.’

  They were descending a steep hill, and the blinding azure of the sea came into view, framed by tumbling red-and-white bougainvillea. Scamarcio had been to Elba once before, many years ago with an old girlfriend. The fragments of a song came up to his mind — a song by an English band he used to listen to when he was a teenager, something about not loving someone as much as you used to.

  He didn’t remember a great deal about the trip, except that they had argued almost constantly and had split on their return. But it wasn’t a split that he remembered feeling particularly cut up about.

  ‘Here we are,’ said the younger officer. ‘The boss is waiting.’

  As he got out of the car, Scamarcio spied a squat man, florid in the face, kneeling at the water’s edge. He looked up, their eyes locked, and in that instant Scamarcio knew there would be trouble between them.

  ‘Morning.’ Chief Genovesi, head of the Elba squad, assessed him dispassionately for several moments before returning his gaze to the sea. ‘I don’t know why they sent you,’ he said. ‘We might be a small force, but we can handle this ourselves.’

  Scamarcio tried a smile, but Genovesi didn’t notice. ‘They have every faith in you and your men. Perhaps it wasn’t explained properly, but I’m here because it might tie in to another case I’m following down in Rome. Besides, you know what it’s like when the press takes an interest. It’s useful for us to be seen as pulling out all the stops.’

  The chief tossed a broken shell into the water. ‘You’re all the stops, are you?’

  ‘No. But you know what I mean.’

  ‘No, Scamarcio, I don’t. But I know you and your reputation, and I could have done without it. I don’t want a circus.’

  The detective shrugged. ‘These days, it’s hard to avoid. You know the press would have come whether I was here or not.’

  Genovesi snorted. ‘Whatever. I’m not running this for the media. It’s the chief of police in Florence I work for. Anyway, what’s your case in Rome? Another missing kid?’

  ‘No. Right now, it looks like a child-porn inquiry.’

  ‘Well, it is or it isn’t, surely.’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  Scamarcio scanned the beach, his eyes settling on the line of blue police tape as it danced in the breeze. ‘Was the scene secured straightaway?’

  ‘What do you take us for — yokels?’

  It was not unheard of for hours to pass before a scene was sealed off, particularly with the less-experienced rural forces. Many a murderer had escaped jail thanks to their shortcomings. Scamarcio said nothing, letting Genovesi defend himself.

  ‘It was secured as soon as we arrived.’

  ‘And you found nothing?’

  ‘Nothing — as empty as a nun’s you-know-what.’

  Scamarcio felt a sudden desire to be back in Rome. ‘Show me where they were sitting.’

  Genovesi started towards the rocks at the far right of the bay, his portly frame wobbling across the sand. It was a smallish stretch of beach, no more than 250 metres long, flanked by wooded hills at either end. The sand was pristine, and he decided that the aquamarine waters were on a par with Cala Capreria — maybe better. As they approached the tape, Genovesi waved the two officers over. ‘Zanini and Borghetti were the first on the scene,’ he announced, panting slightly.

  He gestured to a spot by the rocks where the sand was flat and smooth. ‘The American family was sitting here. They had their towels spread out on the rocks to dry; the little girl was playing in the water with her bucket and spade, and had started to build a castle. The mother decided to sunbathe on her front for a few minutes. When she looked up, the girl was gone.’

  ‘A few minutes?’

  ‘Well, that’s what she says. She could have lost track of time.’

  ‘Or fallen asleep and been too asham
ed to admit it. And what was the father doing?’

  ‘He at least admits that he was sleeping. He’d been reading a book and had nodded off under the umbrella.’

  ‘So that’s possibly both parents out. They could have been asleep for ten, twenty minutes — who knows? And no cry from the little girl?’

  ‘They say they heard nothing.’

  ‘Whoever took her may have drugged her,’ said Scamarcio. ‘Any other families on the beach?’

  ‘Just three. We’ve spoken to them all, and none of them saw anything useful.’ Genovesi’s tone implied that he was quite capable of assessing the intrinsic value — or lack of it — of any potential evidence.

  ‘I’d like to talk to them after we’re done with the parents.’

  ‘You’d just be wasting your time.’

  Scamarcio kicked some sand from his shoe. ‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ he said.

  23

  THE AMERICANS WERE STAYING in a four-star hotel carved into the cliffs above the bay. It sprawled across the rock face, all pine and glass, its vast decked terrace looking out to the sea. The lobby was busy with the arrival of a party of Germans, tanned and athletic, all in their sixties or older. Scamarcio wondered if his police pension would stretch to such a comfortable retirement.

  Genovesi opened his badge for the receptionist. ‘We’re here for the Bakers. Remind me what room.’

  The receptionist darted a look at the Germans, and lowered his eyes. ‘We’ve moved them. All the crying and screaming was upsetting the other guests.’

  ‘Screaming?’

  Scamarcio traded glances with Genovesi, and then noticed Zanini’s attention shift. He followed his gaze to a blond man seated at the bar. Even though it was still early, he appeared to be nursing a scotch.

  ‘Mr Baker,’ explained the officer.

  Baker was muscular with that handsome, generic all-American face that you saw on baseball players or fire-fighters. But with his golden tan and sun-streaked hair, he could also have passed for a surfing pro. Scamarcio realised that he had been expecting someone older and uglier.

  ‘Bit early for the strong stuff,’ observed Genovesi.

  As they approached, Scamarcio saw that Baker’s face was deeply lined. He’d put him at over forty now, older than his initial assessment. Sensing their approach, Baker looked up from his drink. His eyes were glazed over — maybe alcohol, maybe exhaustion, maybe tears, probably all of the above.

  ‘What do you want?’ He was slurring his words already.

  ‘My name’s Scamarcio. I’m with the police in Rome.’

  Baker closed his eyes and rubbed at the lids, saying nothing.

  Scamarcio leaned against the bar. ‘How are you holding up?’

  Baker said nothing for several moments, and then replied, ‘My wife’s making it all a lot worse.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s just very worried,’ offered Genovesi.

  Baker took a long drag on the scotch. ‘We’re all worried, but there’s no need for hysteria. I think she needs a shrink.’ He fell silent, studying the contents of his glass.

  ‘Come now,’ said Scamarcio. ‘Any mother would struggle in a situation like this.’

  ‘I need her to keep it together. I need a partner.’ Scamarcio silently added … not a problem, finishing the sentence for him. He’d said that himself to a girlfriend once. He let the silence breathe for a while, and then asked, ‘Have you seen her like this before?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Hysterical.’

  Baker looked up from his drink, his eyes suddenly alert. ‘That’s a strange question.’

  Scamarcio met his gaze but didn’t respond.

  ‘Are you suggesting that my wife might have something to do with Stacey’s disappearance?’

  Stacey. Scamarcio didn’t like the name. It reminded him of his time in the States, and conjured up images of flabby girls and greasy diners.

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything of the kind.’ He wondered why Baker had jumped on that. It was an unusual reaction.

  Baker stared into the middle distance, taking in the array of bottles. ‘Stacey is her life, her everything.’ He breathed deeply, studying the muddled reflections playing on the surface of the bar. ‘She was a much-longed-for baby — we had been trying for years, but without success. So then we went through IVF, and Stacey was conceived. Jane was so relieved, so contented, and Stacey became her focus from then on in. After she was born, she decided to give up work and devote all her time to our daughter.’ He paused. ‘Whether that was the right thing to do, who knows?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When I met Jane, she was a high-flying young lawyer — she would stop at nothing to get ahead, make partner. When Stacey was born, all that changed.’ He took another sip of his drink, and asked for a refill. ‘As the cliché goes, she was no longer the woman I’d married.’

  Scamarcio helped himself to a handful of peanuts. Then he remembered that nuts at a bar were said to bear the traces of urine from five different men. He put them back in the bowl.

  ‘So you felt a little left out? It happens.’

  Baker sat straighter on the bar stool, and ran a hand through his hair, pulling it neater behind his neck. ‘I love my little girl, more than anything.’ He swished the ice around in his glass. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Scamarcio.’

  Genovesi looked impatient, as though he wanted to shift the conversation onto more useful ground. Baker leaned his elbow on the bar and rested his forehead on his hand in a way that only a drunk would do. ‘I slipped up. It started a few months before we came out here — a young intern at the firm.’ He closed his eyes at the memory of it. ‘Made your heart stop, just looking at her. In the end, I couldn’t fight it. Sometimes it’s just bigger than you.’

  ‘It seems to me that none of us are hard-wired for fidelity,’ said Scamarcio. He’d been grappling with this question for as long as he could remember. Genovesi nodded, and the two younger officers followed suit.

  ‘Indeed,’ sighed Baker.

  ‘Did your wife find out?’

  ‘A month before we came away. Sarah sent me a text, even though I’d told her never to contact me on that phone. Jane found it, and I had to confess the whole thing. At the time, I figured that denial would have been worse.’

  ‘And she still agreed to come on holiday with you?’

  ‘She was threatening divorce, kick-arse lawyers — the whole deal. I was panicked. But then, when she calmed down, we agreed that Stacey was still so young that we had to try to make it work. This holiday was our attempt to patch things up and move forward. Jane had always wanted to come to Tuscany, so it was kind of my “forgive me” gift.’

  ‘So the “hysteria”, as you call it, is about many things, not just your daughter.’

  ‘I guess so, yes.’ Baker rubbed his eyes again. Scamarcio saw moisture there. ‘Maybe all this is my divine punishment.’

  24

  FULLY AWARE OF GENOVESI’S growing impatience, Scamarcio pulled out a seat next to Baker.

  ‘Can you tell us what happened — everything you can remember? I know you’ve already been through it, but it’s useful for me to hear again.’

  The American hunched over his drink, refusing eye contact now. ‘We got to the beach around two. We’d had lunch at that fish place in town — I forget the name, but the one with the green awning, on the piazza.’

  ‘Da Claudio,’ offered Genovesi.

  ‘Da Claudio. We had lunch there, and then we decided to go to the bay for the afternoon. We’d been visiting the other beaches, but we wanted to be near the hotel, as Jane and I were tired, and thought we might go back inside for a siesta at some point.’

  ‘Did you notice any of the other customers at the
restaurant?’

  Baker scratched his head. ‘No, I can’t say that I did.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I think there was a big group at one end maybe, quite loud: locals, not tourists.’

  Scamarcio turned to Genovesi. ‘Have the customers at Da Claudio been checked?’

  ‘We’ve had our hands full.’

  ‘We need to talk to the proprietor as soon as possible.’ He turned to Zanini: ‘Can you get on it — I want a full report, every detail that he can give. And we need to run a check on all the other places the family has visited since they first arrived on the island.’ He tried to make eye contact with Baker. ‘Had you visited anywhere more than once? Places where someone watching might have formed an idea of your routine?’

  ‘We don’t really have a routine; we’re on holiday. We were trying different restaurants every night — and the same goes for the beaches. We never went to the same place twice.’ He stopped, and looked up finally. ‘Well, except the bay, actually — we went there the first afternoon we arrived.’

  ‘And when you got to the beach, who else was there?’

  ‘Just the three families. I believe you’ve already spoken to them.’

  ‘Describe them.’

  Baker sighed, turned his head to look at the three of them, and then turned back to the bar.

  ‘There was the European family — mum and dad and two little boys, German or Scandinavian maybe. Then a young couple who I think might have been Italian, and then the retired English couple.’

  ‘How do you know they were retired?’

  ‘He was reading the international edition of the Times, and I asked him if I could borrow it.’

  ‘Did you talk to him for long?’

  ‘Maybe five minutes; maybe less. Just small talk — where they were from, where they had visited, where they were staying. He seemed like a nice-enough fellow.’

  ‘And the wife?’

  ‘I didn’t really speak to her; she had her head in a book. We just said hello and goodbye.’

  ‘Did you return the paper when you’d finished with it?’

  Genovesi cast Scamarcio a look that said: ‘It’s confirmed, you are an idiot.’