The other man had stopped beside a wooden caravan that seemed more dilapidated than the rest. Outside were a pile of dirty cooking utensils, rusty pots and pans, and a camping stove. Some partially cleaned plates were stacked in a rubber bowl; next to them were several empty liquor bottles. The man was shrugging his shoulders once again. Scamarcio noted that he had a drinker’s nose.
‘Can I have a look inside?’ he asked.
Pety mumbled a few words to the man, and he pushed open the door, standing back to let Scamarcio go ahead. The caravan was more spacious than he had imagined from the outside. The room was divided by a curtain into two sleeping areas, with two single mattresses on the floor. Tacked to the wall above the mattress to the right were some ragged magazine photos of a good-looking woman whom Scamarcio didn’t recognise. The air was musty and damp, and he thought he could smell some kind of fungus.
‘Just the two of you live here?’
‘Him and his son,’ explained Pety.
‘What happened to the mother?’
‘She ran off with another man last year. The boy didn’t take it too well.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He’s been drinking a bit too much. But that will pass. We all go through these phases as teenagers. I’m sure you did the same at some point?’
His eyes settled on Scamarcio, uncompromising again. There was something about the quiet dignity of this man that he liked.
‘Oh, worse,’ he said. ‘Any chance the boy could be hiding out here in the camp?’
‘I doubt it. As you can see, it’s a small site. But take a look if you want.’
They headed back out of the caravan into the warmth, the promise of a stifling midday heat already heavy on the breeze.
‘Has he done this before? Gone off like this?’
Pety smiled. ‘He’s a teenager, so of course he does his own thing sometimes, but we’re sure he will be back sooner or later.’
They strode along a row of caravans, and Scamarcio stopped to take a peek inside and underneath them all, sometimes picking up on the same fungus smell again. They headed back towards the fire, and he checked the caravans around there as well. Finally, they strolled around the fence area, and he searched the bushes where he himself had hidden out earlier.
‘Do you have a mobile?’ asked Scamarcio.
‘Yes, but I’m down on credit.’
Scamarcio pulled a 20-euro note from his pocket and handed it over. ‘Can you let me know when Dacian gets back? It’s important.’
Pety pocketed the money in an almost invisible gesture. ‘So what do you think Dacian has done?’
‘I don’t know. I just want to talk to him, that’s all. It’s probably nothing.’
They headed back towards the gate, a group of men following a few paces behind them now. For the first time, Scamarcio felt slightly menaced by their presence.
‘For nothing, you’re putting in a lot of effort,’ said Pety, turning back towards the men and leaving him alone at the gate.
38
BACK AT THE STATION, Zanini and Borghetti were changing out of their overalls. There was a hushed excitement in the air, and Scamarcio could tell that the experience of their first corpse had made a big impression on them.
‘News?’ he barked at neither one of them in particular.
‘The doctor is with the body now,’ said Zanini, cleaning something or other off his shoe. ‘He called a bit earlier, saying he’d collected some trace evidence from under the nails that he thinks might be of interest. He wants to send it for analysis.’
‘What kind of trace?’
‘He didn’t say — said he’d explain it all to you when he saw you.’
‘Where is he doing the autopsy?’
‘In his back room.’
‘His what?’
‘He has a surgery room in his house,’ offered Borghetti helpfully. ‘He is doing it there.’
‘He must have a very understanding wife,’ said Scamarcio.
The two officers exchanged glances. ‘You should see her,’ said Zanini. ‘She’s something else.’ Scamarcio wasn’t quite sure what that meant.
‘Where’s Genovesi?’
‘With the English couple.’
‘Ah, so they finally got back from their cruise?’ Scamarcio would have preferred to have gone along for the interview. Genovesi couldn’t be trusted to ask the right questions — that much was already clear.
One of the phones on the empty desks started ringing, and Zanini went to take it. ‘He’s just arrived,’ he said, waving at Scamarcio. ‘It’s the doctor again.’
Barrabino sounded pleased with himself. ‘Scamarcio, finally I reach you.’ There was a hint of reproach in there as well.
‘What have you got?’
The doctor paused for a moment, as if affected by his rudeness. ‘Well, death from exsanguination, as was pretty obvious at the scene. There were five stab wounds in all, and one of them caused extensive damage to the heart and blood vessels. It was a short, thick blade, the kind you would find on a hunting knife. By my reckoning, he died sometime in the early hours of the morning. Those flies had only just started to lay eggs when we arrived. There’s the beginning of an impression against the skin on his back — this slight indentation, surrounded by gravity-pulled blood, makes me think he was put on his back on a floor for a short time after death before being moved to the beach.’
‘Anything else? The officers here mentioned some trace?’
‘Yes, two interesting pieces: Skin samples under the nails — I imagine they must be from the assailant, collected in the struggle — and bite marks down his right arm.’
‘Bite marks?’
‘Yes, quite a few. And they look like they have been made by small teeth — infant teeth. You and your colleagues need to think about where he might have got those. And get me dental records, if you can.’ Barrabino knew full well that a young girl had gone missing from the island, so why didn’t he just come out and say it? And of course Scamarcio would get the dental records. He didn’t need some local quack telling him how to do his job. ‘Sure. And the skin samples, where do we process those? I can’t imagine there’s anyone on the island who can handle that.’
‘Ah, you’d be surprised, Detective, but in this instance we should probably send them to Florence for analysis. Obviously, it will take a few days.’
‘We need to send them today.’
‘It needs to be signed off by Chief Genovesi.’
‘Right. I will make sure that happens asap.’ Then: ‘Thank you for the fast work.’ He knew that by thanking him he could put him back in his place for a moment.
The bite marks were highly troubling, although it was impossible for Stacey Baker to have stabbed Ella to death. Scamarcio picked up the phone to Mr Baker, knowing that the request for dental records was going to set a thousand alarm bells ringing for them. He would head that off at the start by making it clear that they hadn’t found a body. As it happened, Baker was much calmer than he expected — he sounded drugged out on lack of sleep — but promised to have the records faxed over as soon as possible.
The rest of the afternoon was taken up with calling Ella’s widow in Milan and arranging for her to come down for the ID, processing the evidence from the corpse, and asking Genovesi for the relevant signatures. The chief seemed beleaguered when Scamarcio walked into his office; he was trying to persuade someone on the other end of the phone that he didn’t need help with his investigation.
‘No, we have it under control,’ he was saying. ‘Important leads have come in today that look likely to take us to the little girl.’ He fell silent a few moments, listening to the response.
‘Well, that is your decision, Sir, but I assure you it’s not necessary.’ There was another pause before eventually he s
aid, ‘Of course, Sir, I understand. I will let you know immediately.’
He replaced the phone in its cradle and let out a yawn before resting his head in his hands and running his fingers wearily through his thinning hair. He looked at Scamarcio as if he was an extra irritation he couldn’t handle right now.
‘I’ve got Florence on my back,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘They’re talking about sending in the big guns. They’re worried about bad publicity.’
Scamarcio shrugged and took a seat opposite, uninvited. ‘Well, it might be no bad thing to have some reinforcements.’
‘You say that now, but they’ll make my life and yours hell, I guarantee it. They’ll have you off the case quicker than a rat’s fart.’
‘Well, I guess my boss in Rome would handle that.’
Genovesi sighed. ‘Yeah, leave it to the big men — we’re just the pawns in their power games, after all.’
Scamarcio smelt the years of stunted ambition and absent opportunity. ‘I need to send those samples to Florence.’ He pushed the paperwork across the desk.
‘Great,’ yawned Genovesi, pulling the forms towards him. ‘This investigation is going to eat up most of our annual budget. Let’s hope nothing else happens on Elba in the next six months.’
Just as he said it, Scamarcio’s mobile rang, and he stepped out to take the call. It was Pety at the camp.
‘Listen, Detective, Dacian has not come back all day. We’re getting worried about him.’
Scamarcio glanced at his watch. It was 6.00pm. When he looked outside, he could see the light beginning to fade from the sky.
‘So no one has seen him since I was there?’
‘No one. It’s not like him to go off for so long — an hour or two, yes, but not the entire day.’
‘OK,’ said Scamarcio, making a decision. ‘Leave it with me. I will get back to you as soon as I have some news.’
Chief Genovesi’s budget was about to take another hit.
39
AFTER WHAT HE HAD witnessed in the café that morning, Scamarcio had calculated that it was best to let the boy Dacian return to the camp in the course of the day, rather than use precious resources tracking him down. But now that they were nearing the evening and there was still no sign of him, Scamarcio realised they would have to mobilise all the forces on the island to find him. It was possible he could lead them to the missing girl. Had it been Dacian who had stabbed Fabio Ella? Had they both been involved in the abduction of the American girl? Ella could no longer provide the answers, but Dacian could. Or was looking for the boy a complete wild-goose chase that had nothing to do with either of the cases that Scamarcio was investigating? For now, he resolved to keep his doubts to himself.
Genovesi had mustered officers from the other two small stations on the island, and they had organised a search of their towns, bars, and internet cafés. Scamarcio reckoned it was unlikely they would find Dacian on one of the tourist beaches. They had also put out alerts at Elba’s two ports to make sure the boy couldn’t leave the island undetected.
Scamarcio was at his desk, waiting for news and waiting for Stacey Baker’s dental records to come in. If those bite marks belonged to her, he wasn’t sure what he would tell the parents. Could he get away with not telling them? If they brought Dacian in tonight and put him under duress, maybe they could get to her in time. But who knew what had happened to her since she’d been taken? Even if she was alive, they might still be too late. He felt a pang of anxiety twist in his gut, and the last words of The Priest came back up to his mind like a haunting. He deserved to rot, the crazy freak. Scamarcio found himself hoping he’d be in Longone a good while yet, and that death wouldn’t offer an easy way out anytime soon. Instinctively, though, he knew that Pugno’s time was near. The red circles under the eyes and the sweating brow had attested to a serious illness of some kind. Scamarcio felt sure it was that which had prompted the midnight confession.
The fax bleeped three times, signalling the imminent arrival of a message. He went to the coffee machine and pulled an espresso, and then another. The bin was full to overflowing with the tiny plastic cups. Did no one ever clean this place?
Scamarcio added his two to the toppling pile and went over to the fax. The second page was indeed Stacey Baker’s dental records from the States — the dentist had been efficient. Scamarcio would take them over to Barrabino himself.
The light had almost completely disappeared from the sky now; only a few fragile traces of red clung tentatively to the horizon. The air was still heavy with the heat of the day, and the breeze carried the warm scent of honeysuckle, mellowed by the sun. As he strolled past the little park, he noticed the pink-and-white proteas nodding gently, responding to the soft currents moving up from the sea down the road.
He realised that he had left his car keys in the office and turned around, heading back in to get them. As he did so, he noticed a small, elderly man hovering nervously by reception. The desk officer was nowhere in sight.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked the man.
‘Thank you. I am looking for a Detective Scamarcio, from Rome.’
‘I’m Detective Scamarcio.’
The old man seemed greatly relieved: ‘Oh, good. Do you have five minutes, Detective?’
Scamarcio looked down at the dental records in his hand and knew he really didn’t, but something about the old chap made him curious.
‘I’m a bit pressed right now, but I can probably manage five minutes, yes. Do you want to come up to the office?’
The stranger nodded, and Scamarcio led the way. When the man was seated in Zanini’s chair, Scamarcio offered him a coffee, but he waved a hand, dismissing the idea by saying: ‘You’re very kind, but no.’
Now they were under the halogen lights, Scamarcio noticed that the fellow had piercing blue eyes. They were the kind of eyes that had seen a lot and would not be lied to — the eyes of a real priest. And, in fact, when the man took off his shawl, Scamarcio immediately saw the dog collar and wondered what this was all about.
As if reading his thoughts, the stranger said: ‘I will get straight to the point, Detective, because I can see you are a very busy man. I know that a little girl went missing from Elba a few days ago, and I can’t begin to think of the hell her parents must be going through, so it’s important you get back to that as soon as possible.’
Scamarcio was about to respond, but the old man pressed on. ‘I am the priest at the prison of Longone. Last night I saw Mario Pugno in his cell, as I am wont to do several times a month. I’m not sure whether anyone has informed you, but Mr Pugno has cancer and may not survive the week. He has been asking to see you one final time — he says it’s very important, and can help with the disappearance of this child.’
Scamarcio sighed and pushed back his chair. ‘Has anyone told you about how much of my time he’s wasted already? I’ve been there twice now, and he hasn’t told me anything useful. The last time he seemed to think I was you, he was asking me to forgive him for his crimes.’
The blue eyes fixed on him, unblinking. The voice was soft and measured. ‘No, he was under no illusions, Mr Scamarcio. It was you he wanted forgiveness from. I am sorry if you feel he has wasted your time, but I do sense that he has something for you which could prove important. Maybe it’s just that until now he has found it difficult to release the information; maybe he needed your forgiveness before he felt able to do so.’
‘But why? What have I got to do with him and his crimes?’
‘Only Mr Pugno can answer that.’
Scamarcio sighed again. Was this going to happen on a daily basis now? Was he going to be forever summoned to the prison at Longone to bear witness to the madness of this man?
‘Why do you bother with him? As an emissary of God, how can you spend time with a creature so deeply evil?’
The blu
e eyes were unwavering: it still seemed as if he hadn’t blinked. ‘Evil is not an absolute, Detective. It is always tempered by some kind of goodness from within, some kind of light. It’s the light that we work with, try to make stronger.’
Scamarcio shook his head. ‘And you’re honestly telling me that you believe there is some kind of light in him?’
‘Oh, I am sure of it, Detective. Quite sure.’
40
SCAMARCIO TOLD THE PRIEST that he would think about Pugno’s request to see him one last time. Now, driving to Barrabino’s, the same thoughts kept circling: just why did The Priest keep coming back to him? What was it he believed he had on him? Why the acquaintance with his father? The whole affair made him increasingly uneasy, and he felt the need to speak to someone familiar back in Rome. Why hadn’t Garramone replied to his messages? What scheme did he have in play? Had something happened to him? His silence just fed Scamarcio’s disquiet. And there was something else, too: the need for a friendly face, an easy chat. He thought about calling Aurelia, considered the implications, and then pushed the idea to the back of his mind. He surveyed the darkening sky as it sped past, and felt a new isolation from the world, stuck out here on this rocky outcrop, working alone, his presence known to just a few. Yet again, his instincts told him that it would not end well.
He had been told that Barrabino’s house could not be missed. Apparently, it was the sprawling pastel-pink villa on the edge of town where the eastern-coast road began. And indeed he spotted it straight away: tall, iron gates offering a glimpse of a Mediterranean garden beyond, two lines of palms leading to an entranceway shrouded in wisteria, purple against pink creating an impressive effect. There was a hint of blue through the trees, and he guessed that there had to be a swimming pool off to the right somewhere. There was no way that a doctor’s salary could have bought all this. Maybe the wife had money? Maybe Barrabino was dirty? Perhaps both.
He pressed the buzzer, and it crackled into life. ‘Scamarcio here.’ Then, as an afterthought, he said: ‘For Dr Barrabino.’
The Few Page 18
