‘Well, I think he was black?’ It was a question, as though she was waiting for him to provide the answer.
‘You think?’
She threw down the lighter. It rolled off the bed, landing on the floor. ‘For Christ’s sake, how am I supposed to know? Paul took her to get the ice-cream, not me.’
‘You were still sunbathing?’
‘Yes.’
‘With your eyes closed?’
‘Do you know anyone who sunbathes with their eyes open?’
‘Didn’t you get hot? Maybe want to escape under the umbrella for a bit?’
‘I have naturally dark skin — Cherokee great-grandparents.’
That explained the strong cheekbones and the deep-brown eyes.
‘Where are you heading with this? Are you suggesting I’m an unfit mother?’
‘Your words, not mine.’
‘A mother is entitled to a rest once in a while, and Paul was looking after her.’ She ran a shaky hand through her hair and raised her head to the ceiling, looking for help from someone up there.
Scamarcio rocked back in his chair and took a breath. There was a stillness in the room, and he registered Zanini watching him closely, rather like a lion cub waiting for its father to make a kill.
‘Mrs Baker,’ said Scamarcio, his expression neutral. ‘Did you fall asleep that afternoon on the beach?’
Her eyes registered fury, then misery, and then finally defeat. Her perfect features collapsed into themselves, and she began to sob, her head in her hands.
Genovesi coughed and got up to open a window.
‘There’s nothing to be ashamed of.’ Scamarcio felt that it would be inappropriate to lay a hand on her shoulder, although he wanted to. ‘It could happen to anyone. You’re on holiday — you have the chance to wind down. You can’t be expected to watch your daughter constantly.’
Mrs Baker was still crying, not responding.
‘All we need to know is how much of that time you think you were asleep for. That information could really help us.’
She sniffed and wiped her eyes and nose with her hand. The gesture jarred with the grace she had shown before. Her eyes were now red and shining.
‘I honestly don’t think I slept that much at all — maybe I just dozed for a few minutes, you know. I remember Stacey coming back with the ice-cream, and having to get her cleaned up. Then she went off with her bucket and spade. But she was where we could see her, at the shore, just a few metres away.’
‘And then what did you do?’
‘I just went back to sunbathing.’
‘On your front or on your back?’
She hesitated for a moment. ‘I think I may have turned onto my front.’
‘How could you see your daughter if you were sunbathing on your front?’
He saw something like contempt in her eyes. ‘I turned my neck so I could see what she was doing.’
‘How often did you do that?’
‘I don’t know, I wasn’t counting.’
‘At a guess?’
She was rubbing at her temples, her eyes closed. ‘Many times, probably every minute.’ Her eyes remained closed, and he saw the perfect skin along her cheekbones flush slightly.
He coughed. ‘Would you mind if I use your bathroom?’
She looked up, confused. ‘Sure, go ahead.’
Genovesi was looking at him as if he had lost his mind, and so were the two young officers.
He stepped into the bathroom and locked the door. The room still smelt of her scent. He ran the cold tap and splashed some water onto his face. There was a small mirrored cabinet attached to the wall above the basin. He slid back the doors and looked through the bottles — bottles of all shapes and sizes, colours, and textures — but he couldn’t find what he was looking for. He glanced down, and clocked a red-leather vanity case beneath the sink; it was one of those things you saw glamorous women carry onto aeroplanes.
He pulled down the toilet seat and sat, carefully placing the case on his lap. The lid opened easily. He reached for a catch on the side of the box, and two layers of make-up and creams sprung out. He saw that there was a third drawer beneath that had remained shut. He tried pulling at it, thinking it would be locked, but to his surprise it popped open immediately. Inside were two small, brown medicine bottles. He lifted them out one at a time, handling them carefully. On the label of the first bottle was written ‘Diazepam: Valium 10mg — to be taken as directed’. The label on the other bottle said ‘Fluoxetine: Prozac 20mg — to be taken twice a day’. He returned the bottles to the drawer and closed the upper layers. Then he shut the case and returned it to its original position beneath the sink.
He looked at himself in the mirror and frowned at the shadows beneath his eyes. He was right about what had happened: Mrs Baker had been out cold. The girl had been snatched while both her parents were sound asleep.
26
GENOVESI MIGHT HAVE had many faults, but he knew where to get a good lunch quickly. Scamarcio had chosen squid-ink spaghetti with clams, on Genovesi’s reluctant recommendation, not knowing quite whether to trust him; but, as it turned out, it was a sound suggestion. It seemed that Genovesi was big enough to call a truce where the serious matter of food was concerned.
‘So, the supermodel mother: what’s the story there?’ A creamy ribbon of tagliatelli hung from Genovesi’s fork, and Scamarcio wondered whether he might find the space to try that, too.
‘She’s on Valium and Prozac — I found them in the bathroom. She would have been fast asleep when the girl was taken.’
The two Elba officers eyed him suspiciously. Genovesi’s eyebrows bunched in confusion. Evidently, the women on Elba didn’t resort to such measures, however humdrum the island life, however Neanderthal their husbands.
‘You sure?’
‘I found them in her cosmetics case. I think it likely that she was in a very deep sleep for much of that afternoon.’
Genovesi thought for a moment. ‘So the child could have been taken at any point — the parents might have been out for quite some time?’
‘Yes.’
‘What a mess,’ said the Elba chief as he piled more pasta onto his plate.
Scamarcio’s mobile rang. It was Garramone, so Scamarcio stepped outside to take the call.
‘How’s it going?’ said the chief.
‘Slowly — the usual half-arsed approach. They’ve only just got around to taking proper statements.’
‘Well, do what you can. Listen, you’ll hear soon enough, but the Ganza thing has just gone off the scale.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Il Messaggero have the Arthur death. They’re running it on their front page tomorrow.’
‘Shit.’
‘The guys down at Trastevere are in for a shock.’
‘You think they’ll make a link with what happened to Filippi?’
‘There is no connection.’ The way he said it troubled him.
‘Probably not, but to outside eyes it might look odd.’
Garramone fell quiet. ‘Don’t worry. Just try to concentrate on whatever Elba might give you.’
‘OK, but what about Ganza? What will happen now?’
‘The eyes of all of Italy are upon him, and tomorrow they’ll be wondering if he killed that young man. The chief of police will probably appoint his own guys to run that investigation. The fact that you and I were there first shouldn’t come to anyone’s attention. Understood?’
‘But is that it? You just want me to walk away from it? Like nothing happened? Is that what the PM wants?’
‘Oh, Scamarcio, what choice does he have? What choice do I have?’
‘So what now?’
‘Just carry on with what you’re doing, and I’ll let yo
u know.’ He hung up without saying goodbye.
27
THEY HAD ARRANGED to meet the Italian couple at a café across from the restaurant. Once he’d calmed down properly, Genovesi made it clear that he wanted to regain control of the interviews, insisting that he be the one to make the introductions. Scamarcio hadn’t the energy to fight, feeling too troubled by what was happening down in the Capital.
They were an interesting couple — intellectuals, artistic types, from Rome. The young man had shoulder-length dark hair and a strong nose and jaw, but his eyes were too small, almost rat-like.
The girlfriend was petite, blonde, and blue-eyed, with a delicate, round face. He worked for the press department of a political party that Scamarcio had recently lost patience with. She was finishing a PhD in global migration patterns. Scamarcio never ceased to wonder at the range of obscure subjects you could study these days. He considered whether, as a student in Palermo, he would have chosen differently had these choices been available to him then. He could be working for the UN, getting involved in international politics, changing history. It would have made more sense than chasing around after the dead. But he reminded himself that Stacey Baker might still be alive. Even though she wasn’t the focus of his investigation, if they found her in time this would be one of those rare occasions when his job actually made a difference, when he could feel that he was on the right path. He didn’t want to leave this inquiry just yet, and wondered how long it would be before the chief put pressure on him to return.
The girlfriend downed her espresso. Zanini was watching her, a venal absence in his eyes.
Scamarcio watched the boyfriend watch Zanini.
Genovesi cleared his throat, resting a hairy arm on the table.
‘The American family told us that there was an ice-cream seller on the beach.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said the boy matter-of-factly.
‘Why didn’t anyone mention this before?’ the chief asked, averting his eyes from Scamarcio.
The couple exchanged glances. ‘We didn’t think of it,’ said the girl. ‘It was all such a rush when we spoke to you at the beach.’
Genovesi rubbed a hand across his balding pate. ‘What did he look like, this man?’
‘Black, tall,’ said the boy.
‘He was wearing African robes,’ said the girl. ‘With one of those hats. And he seemed dignified. He had a handsome face — strong bones.’
‘What else?’ Genovesi sounded bored, exasperated. He wanted them to know that they weren’t giving him what he wanted.
‘The Americans bought something from him, I think,’ said the girl.
Genovesi had shifted his gaze, and was now watching the young barista serve drinks to a group of teenagers who were obviously underage. The girl seemed confused by the drift in his attention.
‘Was there anything that struck you as unusual, out of place, that day?’ asked Scamarcio from his standing position.
She threw a searching look at her boyfriend. He looked away for a moment.
‘He was swimming with her in the water,’ he said, finally meeting Scamarcio’s eye.
‘Who?’
‘The ice-cream guy. I remember seeing them both in the water.’
‘What? Together?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re telling me the ice-cream guy was with the little girl in the water?’
‘Yes.’
‘Didn’t you find that odd? Where were the parents at that point?’
‘I think they were asleep.’
The young man scratched at the base of his skull. ‘And, yes, it was a bit strange, but then he kind of swam away from her, and I realised they weren’t swimming together. He’d just been swimming near her.’
‘And then what happened?’
‘He just kept swimming away. And then she got out and went back to her parents.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Very sure, because I remember being relieved somehow to see her get out. I felt that I could continue with my book, that I didn’t need to watch her anymore — if you know what I mean.’ He looked into his lap awkwardly.
‘But you didn’t mention this before?’
He scratched again — his chin this time. ‘When I first spoke to you guys on the beach, I did remember it, but because he swam away from her and she got out, I kind of thought that was that, that was the end to it, and it wasn’t worth mentioning.’ He paused. ‘I guess I’ve been stupid.’
Genovesi tut-tutted, shaking his head now.
‘No,’ said Scamarcio. He could see Genovesi’s shoulder blades tighten beneath his shirt.
‘When the man swam away from her, what direction did he take?’
‘He went around the rocks at the end of the beach.’ He paused. ‘To the left of where the family was sitting.
‘So he went out of sight?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did you see him again after that?’
‘No, that was it. And not long after that, the mother started to scream.’
‘How long after?’
‘No more than half an hour, I’d say.’
28
ON THE BEACH at Fetovaia, a man was selling sarongs. They were all colours of the rainbow, and he had them laid out across a wooden rail that he carried over his left arm. Scamarcio imagined that it must be heavy, that it would bear down on his neck and shoulders after a while. The heat was intense, and he watched the man wipe his brow with a handkerchief that he kept in his pocket. He took it out every minute or so, then stuffed it away again while he hitched the rail higher up his arm. No one seemed to be buying from him, and after a while he walked to the back of the beach and rested the rail against the wall. From behind a stone he retrieved a battered bottle of water and sank down beneath a meagre scrap of shade thrown by several mangy palms.
Genovesi and his officers had returned to the station to follow up the remaining witnesses, leaving Scamarcio to track down the ice-cream seller. This was how he wanted it; he could work better alone. They’d got him a hire car, the latest Cinquecento, a boxy little thing that he’d parked above the bay. He was making the steep descent towards the beach by foot now, his jacket draped carefully over one arm. The sarong man noticed him walking towards him, looked to his right and then behind him to see whether Scamarcio might be heading for anyone else, realised he wasn’t, and shifted uncomfortably, making as if to move. But it was too late — Scamarcio had him in his sights. No doubt he was working without a permit. They all worked without permits now; it was the only way to survive. Scamarcio drew up alongside him, taking a seat to his right beneath the shade.
‘How are you doing?’ he said, trying to make eye contact. On closer inspection, the man seemed more like a teenager. His skin was perfectly smooth, although his young eyes had a deadness behind them, as though he’d seen too much of life already.
‘Are you going to arrest me?’ said the man/boy.
‘Arrest you? For what?’
He said nothing for a moment, and then: ‘You’re a cop, aren’t you?’
‘Might be.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Information.’
The boy’s features relaxed slightly, and then the suspicion returned: ‘What kind of information?’
‘I’m looking for a guy who was selling ice-cream here on the beach yesterday. Tall guy, long robes.’
‘Is he in trouble?’
‘I don’t know yet. I just need to speak to him.’
The boy gazed out across the sea. It seemed as though he was trying to find something out there.
‘If I help you, what will you give me?’
Scamarcio could have come on all aggressive, blackmailing him with the permit, threatening to send him ho
me. But he saw something in the boy’s eyes that stopped him — made him feel that he didn’t deserve the usual low-life treatment.
‘I can help you with your permit, if that’s what you need. Try to get things cleaned up for you.’
The boy nodded slowly, and studied the sand beneath his feet awhile. ‘I think I know who you mean. That’s Billy. He works this beach, and he would have been around yesterday.’
‘Where’s he from?’
‘The Congo. Djibouti.’
‘Where’s he staying now?’
‘Where we all stay — the flats behind the port.’
Scamarcio took his wallet from his pocket, pulled out a crisp 50-euro note, and handed it to the boy. He looked uneasy, unsure whether to touch it.
‘If I give you this, will you take me to the flats, show me where he lives?’
The boy accepted the note gingerly, as if afraid the paper would disintegrate on contact with his skin. ‘Deal.’
It was a grey concrete block, washed out and dilapidated. The windows were tiny slits, like the hollowed-out eyes on a corpse, thought Scamarcio. Washing was strung between the rusting balconies, and a group of barefoot children were playing out front on a burnt-out strip of grass. There was nothing to suggest that they were in walking distance of a prime tourist destination.
Scamarcio followed the boy inside. An overwhelming blend of smells hit him: cooking, dirty nappies, sweat, urine, and something else — something old and musty that he couldn’t quite place, like the week-old odour of wet dog.
The boy didn’t bother with the elevator and headed straight for the stairs, hoisting the rail onto his shoulder as he made the climb. When they reached the second floor he turned and told Scamarcio to wait while he unlocked a door to his left and carried the rail inside. Within seconds he was back, heading for the stairwell again. They climbed two more flights, the smell intensifying. The boy marched down the corridor before stopping in front of a door halfway down on his left.
‘Here,’ he whispered. ‘But don’t tell him I brought you. Let me leave first.’
Scamarcio nodded, and the boy ran back down the corridor, heading for the stairs again. Scamarcio leaned against the wall for a moment, the hum of cicadas rising up from the bushes below. He wondered again about the smell. How could people breathe this in, day after day? Maybe, after a while, you stopped noticing.
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