‘Sorry to startle you. I’m Detective Scamarcio from the Flying Squad down in Rome.’ He quickly drew out his badge, although he knew the man would not be able to see anything in the darkness. The man put down whatever it was he’d just picked up and came back out onto the threshold to get a better look at him and his approaching ID. After he’d had time to examine the photo and make a quick appraisal of whether Scamarcio still constituted a threat, he said: ‘Sorry about the dogs. I put some of them in the pen at night to keep the foxes away. But there are another two in here, so just hold on a second while I calm them down.’
The door swung shut in his face, and he could hear the farmer speaking softly to somebody inside before he was back again. He held open the door: ‘Come in, Detective.’
The room was small and very warm. A roaring fire was alight in the grate, and the flames danced shakily across the bare, stone walls. In front of the fire were two Alsatians, sitting like sentinels instead of lying, soaking up the warmth — which Scamarcio guessed was what they were doing before he’d arrived. Zilli gestured him to an armchair opposite the fire, one of two placed there.
‘Can I get you anything to drink? I’m enjoying a grappa myself.’
‘Thank you, but no.’
‘Of course, I forgot. You can’t drink when you’re working.’ Zilli sank into his chair by the fire and took a sip of the grappa from a glass placed beside him on the hearth.
He was a handsome man with clean, even features and a strong jaw. Scamarcio noticed several photos of an equally handsome woman of about the same age lining the mantelpiece. Zilli spotted him looking. ‘That was my wife. I lost her last year, to cancer.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear that, ‘said Scamarcio, slightly taken aback. After a beat, he said: ‘I lost my mother to the same thing.’
‘Ah, then you know,’ said the farmer, and took another sip of his drink. ‘So, Detective, how can I help you?’
Scamarcio talked him through the disappearance before he asked: ‘The Romany on your land — have you ever had any problems with them?’
The farmer looked up from his glass. ‘You think they have something to do with it?’
‘We’ve not reached any conclusions yet, but we’re exploring all the avenues, as we always must.’
Zilli was shaking his head. ‘Well, Detective, I can honestly say that that’s one place you don’t need to look. I’ve never had any issues with them. They work for me as fruit pickers, and do a good job, and in return I let them stay on my land and I pay them a small wage. They’ve been here five years now, and there’s never been any trouble. They have always treated me with respect and vice versa.’ He paused a moment before going on: ‘I know there was that terrible incident down in Rome recently, but I think it’s just bad apples. The people here are peaceful and honest.’
Scamarcio nodded slowly. ‘Well, thanks for setting me straight.’ He reached for a card from his wallet again, and handed it over. ‘If you hear anything, could you let me know?’
The farmer took it without studying it, instead eying Scamarcio quizzically. ‘What’s the Rome Flying Squad doing on Elba? Seems a bit far from home.’
‘That, Mr Zilli, is a long story, I’m afraid.’
The farmer smiled and said: ‘Are you quite sure about that grappa, Detective?’
32
HIS HEAD WAS SPINNING slightly as he descended back towards the sea: the lights of Porto Azzurro seemed to separate and dance in front of him before coalescing again and bleeding into one.
The phone rang on the seat beside him, and he knew it was Garramone. ‘They’re pushing for his resignation — no let-up,’ he said by way of a hello.
‘Ganza?’
‘Who else?’
‘My friend is very anxious. He’s worried it could bring down his government — he’s turning up the heat on me.’
‘Well, he’s a survivor, your friend. There aren’t many people who could withstand forty votes of no confidence.’
‘Scamarcio, you don’t know him. He’s a good man. I wouldn’t be doing this otherwise.’
Scamarcio knew that wasn’t strictly true. If you were the chief of the Flying Squad in Rome, and the PM asked for help with a personal inquiry, you were likely to say yes if you valued your career.
‘Any news from Florence?’
‘Not that I know of. I don’t want to call them up asking.’
‘Filippi?’
‘Still out, thank God.’
Scamarcio grimaced slightly at the callousness.
‘What about you? My friend, when he finally made contact, didn’t seem best pleased to learn you were on Elba — thinks you’re enjoying a holiday at the taxpayers’ expense.’’
Scamarcio couldn’t give a shit what his friend thought. ‘Remember The Priest?’
Garramone paused a moment, and then said: ‘The child killer?’
‘Yes, the child killer.’
‘Actually, isn’t he on Elba? At Porto Azzurro prison?’
‘Correct. He called me at the station — well, one of his prison guards called me — saying he wanted to speak with me. When I went up to Porto Azzurro to see him, he told me that the answer to the girl’s disappearance lies with the gypsies on the island.’
‘What?’
Scamarcio brought him up to speed. After a while, Garamone said: ‘But how did he know you were even here? How did he know what you were looking into?’
‘Beats me.’
They both fell silent again before the chief said: ‘Be careful. You may have a leak among the yokel squad, which would make me think you might actually be onto something. The Roma — have you spoken with them?’
Scamarcio filled him in on his visit to the camp. He could hear Garamone hitting something repeatedly, but couldn’t tell whether it was his foot, or his hand, or a ball on a racket. ‘Well, keep at it,’ said the chief. ‘We shall see where it all takes us. But get me something concrete soon. We need this to be the making of us, not the end.’ Then he hung up.
Scamarcio pondered the words: the making of him or the end of him. If it was the end of him, he wasn’t sure whether he would mind so much. A few days ago, even a few hours ago, he would have said no — the force was where he needed to be. Now he was no longer quite sure: the points of reference seemed to be shifting subtly around him. He felt overwhelmed by a string of conflicting thoughts and emotions — no longer sure where felt right, or where he fitted into it all.
33
BORGHETTI WAS COLLECTING coffee from the machine when he walked in the next morning.
‘Sleep well, Detective? You want one?’ He held up a plastic cup.
‘No and yes: in that order.’ Scamarcio flung his bag down onto the desk and yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth with his hand. ‘That hotel is a rat hole. Couldn’t you have got me a room in one of the tourist places?’
Borghetti frowned, seemingly put out. ‘I’m sorry — we thought you’d want to be near the station.’
‘I’ve got my stuff in the car. I’m going to move tonight, maybe to that nice place where the Bakers are staying.’
‘You’ll be lucky to get a room at this time of year.’
‘Well, when one of you has a minute, can you try?’
Borghetti set the coffee down on his desk, along with a few sachets of sugar. ‘No problem, I’ll get somebody on it right away.’ He disappeared out into the hall for a few moments, and Scamarcio sank back in his chair to enjoy his espresso. As he did so, he noticed some papers on the desk to his right: there was a missing person’s form on top, and when he looked a bit closer he was surprised to see that it wasn’t made out in the name of Stacey Baker, but for someone called Fabio Ella.
Borghetti came back into the room and sat down at the same desk, reaching for a pen, and drawing the
missing person’s sheet towards him. ‘Sorry, Detective, I just need to finish this, and then I will be with you. The desk sergeant is seeing to your hotel.’
‘You guys get a lot of missing persons on the island?’ asked Scamarcio as Borghetti painstakingly entered details on the form.
‘Are you talking about this one?’
‘Couldn’t help spotting it.’
‘As far as I know, it’s our first — well, along with Stacey Baker, but this one came in earlier, I believe.’
Scamarcio sat up straighter in the chair, and tossed the used cup into the overflowing rubbish bin by his desk.
‘You’re telling me you’ve never had a missing person’s report before, and now you have two?’
‘Well, I guess so, yes. This one was called in a few days before Stacey Baker, I think.’ He scanned the form again. ‘Yes, four days before, but we’re not taking it that seriously.’
‘Why not?’
‘It was some hysterical Milanese woman who kept calling, saying her husband had just vanished into thin air.’ Borghetti gave him a knowing look. ‘We all know what that means — it happens all the time. And then she told us she was heading back to Milan, so, you know, we thought we’d leave it to those guys. And, anyway, then the Baker case came in, and we had to put this one on the backburner.’
Scamarcio got up from the desk, walked behind Borghetti, and snatched up the sheet, scanning the details: ‘Why wasn’t I told about this?’
Genovesi bustled into the office. ‘Told about what?’
‘The disappearance of Fabio Ella.’
Genovesi waved the thought away. ‘Why do you care about that?’
Scamarcio calmed himself by imagining Genovesi’s fingers in a vice.
‘Can we have a word in your office?’
Genovesi pulled a look of faux confusion: ‘By all means.’
When they were safely out of earshot, Scamarcio said: ‘Two disappearances in a matter of days, on an island that has never before seen one! Didn’t this strike you as odd?’
Genovesi filled a small plastic jug with water from the dispenser in the corner of his room, and then proceeded to see to several dusty plants lining his filing cabinets.
‘No, it didn’t strike me as odd. And, anyway, it’s not correct to say we’ve never had a disappearance on Elba. In 1974, a farmer vanished while herding his sheep.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He was found several days later. Turned out he had a fancy woman in another town, but hadn’t got around to telling his wife.’
Scamarcio sighed, he suddenly felt achingly tired.
‘Look, I think we need to check out Fabio Ella — there may be a connection to Stacey Baker.’
Chief Genovesi turned around from his plants. Little drops of water were falling from the spout of the jug onto the cracked linoleum below, gently marking time in the momentary silence between the two men.
‘Do as you wish, but we have limited resources, so I won’t hesitate to complain to your bosses in Rome if it turns out you are time-wasting.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll see to this one myself.’ He sprang out of the chair and slammed the door, leaving Genovesi standing there with his water jug.
Zanini and Borghetti were speaking in whispers when he got back to the desk. It was obvious that they had been trying to follow the conversation inside their boss’s office.
Scamarcio ignored them and sat back down, reaching for the phone. He scrolled through the address book on his BlackBerry, looking for Cepparo’s details in Milan. It was a contact he’d made at a police conference the year before, which might turn out to be useful now.
He dialled the number, and was about to give up when a breathless voice finally came on the line.
‘Cepparo.’ He’d been running in or out of somewhere.
‘Cepparo, it’s Leone Scamarcio. We met at that get-together in Naples last year.’
‘Ah, Scamarcio, of course. You drank me under the table.’
Scamarcio smiled. ‘Was it that bad? I don’t really remember.’
‘Well, of course you don’t. How can I help you?’
‘I’m on a case, and it’s got some links to a disappearance on Elba — a guy from Milan called Fabio Ella.’
‘He went missing from the island?’
‘Yeah, a couple of days ago. He’s a resident of Milan. I’ve got his fiscal code and address here. I was wondering whether there was any chance of you looking into him for me — seeing what you can find out?’
‘What are you hoping to discover?’
‘No idea, Cepparo. I just think it might be worth talking to the wife who reported him missing, and also worth searching the apartment if you can get permission without having to go through all the usual crap.’
‘Leave it with me. I’m busy on something right now, but I can give it some time later today.’
‘I owe you one.’ Scamarcio read him the relevant details from the sheet before hanging up. The two officers had stopped what they were doing, making no attempt this time to disguise their interest.
‘You really think there could be something in this Ella thing?’ asked Zanini.
‘It’s worth a try,’ said Scamarcio. ‘It’s always worth a try.’
He was about to talk them through the plan for the day when his desk phone rang. He didn’t think he’d given anyone the number yet.
‘Detective Scamarcio?’ the voice was hesitant, male, and somehow familiar.
‘Who’s speaking?’
‘It’s Officer Erranti from Porto Azzurro prison. We met yesterday. I was the one who first called you about The Priest.’
‘Ah, yes, of course.’
‘The thing is, he wants to see you again.’
‘Again?’
‘He says he has something more for you. I don’t know if he was any use to you yesterday, but I thought I should call, and let you know at least.’
Scamarcio felt confused, then irritated. He wasn’t a puppet to be summoned at The Priest’s beck and call.
‘Thank you, officer. Any idea what he believes he has for me this time?’
‘No, he wouldn’t say.’
‘I see.’ Scamarcio sank back in the chair, cradling the phone in his chin. He could hear voices in the square down below, children shouting.
‘There’s one other thing.’ Erranti was hesitant again. ‘He wants you to come at midnight tonight — he says no other time will do. And you must come alone, apparently.’
Scamarcio yawned. He knew when he was being played. A night-time trek to the prison was the last thing he needed, but of course he had to go.
34
THE YOUNG OFFICER from the day before was waiting for him on the shore with a speedboat when he arrived. The normal boatmen must have gone home for the night.
‘I was told to collect you,’ he said. ‘We didn’t expect to see you back again so soon.’
‘Neither did I,’ said Scamarcio, tucking his coat around him as he took a seat in the boat. He saw that there were plastic-covered cushions this time, providing much more comfort than yesterday’s ride.
As they pulled away from shore, the officer said: ‘The Priest has mythical status among the sex offenders, you know — it’s sick.’
‘What about the other prisoners?’
‘Oh, we don’t mix them, of course. We keep the sex offenders together on the same floor for their own protection.’
‘For their own protection.’ Scamarcio considered the words. And what about the protection of the children? If it was up to him, he’d let the natural laws of the criminal jungle take their course, and leave The Priest and his like to the murderers, robbers, and wife beaters. This imperfect justice that was supposedly a marker of our civilised world —
how bizarre it seemed to him sometimes.
The stars weren’t visible tonight. A bank of cloud had pushed in from the east during the late afternoon, and now he could feel the first sharp spots of rain against his skin.
They travelled on in silence, the only sounds coming from the soft lapping of the waves against the hull or a melancholy gull cry echoing out across the water. Eventually, the officer killed the engine and they drew up alongside the tiny harbour, yellow splinters of light visible in the prison walls above them.
‘We’re a skeleton staff at night, but we’ll be watching out for you, don’t worry,’ said the officer as they made their way to the gate. Scamarcio felt his pulse rise again; this time, though, the rush of blood in his ears felt more intense, more difficult to control.
Officer Erranti and another younger man he hadn’t seen before were waiting for him outside The Priest’s cell when they arrived.
‘Erranti, we meet again,’ said Scamarcio, nodding to the unknown officer. ‘Thanks for the speedboat.’
‘Not at all, Detective. We’re glad to be of help. I just hope he’s not wasting your time.’
A slightly strained silence descended before Erranti said: ‘You ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’ Scamarcio took a deep breath, and then they repeated the day before’s procedure, with Erranti going in first.
The Priest was on the bed again, but dressed differently this time in a thick, knitted brown jumper and threadbare pyjama bottoms. He was no longer wearing eyeglasses. It was warm in the cell, so Scamarcio wondered why he needed the jumper.
‘No funny business, Pugno, I’m warning you,’ said the officer, pointing a finger before stepping back into the corridor. Scamarcio heard chairs being drawn up outside the door.
The Few Page 15
