The Few

by Nadia Dalbuono

  There was no reply for a few moments, and then a woman’s voice with a strange accent came on. ‘Of course, please drive up to the main entrance.’

  He couldn’t quite place it — maybe Dutch or Swedish.

  The gates rolled open slowly and he got back behind the wheel. The red in the sky was now pink, and what little light remained pooled dimly through the palms marking his approach to the villa. He pulled onto a gravel turning circle and realised that the house was even more extensive than he had first thought. He counted at least 12 vast windows on the upper floor: there were six huge bedrooms, from the looks of it.

  As he stepped out of the car, the front door opened and a tall blonde stood there, smiling at him. She had the typical Scandinavian look: long, iron-straight hair, endless legs, exquisite blue eyes, and a strong mouth. He found himself hating Barrabino anew.

  ‘He’s in his studio,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘I’ll show you the way.’

  He wondered at this. Barrabino wasn’t an architect or an artist, so ‘studio’ seemed like an odd choice of word for a doctor and pathologist. But maybe it had just got lost in translation.

  He followed her across a spacious lobby into a long living room with three immense floor-to-ceiling windows that displayed a spectacular view of the gardens. They passed though a dining room, where he noticed several impressive pieces of art, and into a conservatory that looked out onto the swimming pool. The woman he presumed was Mrs Barrabino unlocked a door into the gardens, and they took a small flight of steps that led to a path around the house to the back. There was a smaller bungalow off to the right in the same style as the main house.

  ‘He’s in there,’ she said. ‘Forgive me if I don’t come any further, but there are certain aspects of my husband’s work which I would really prefer to avoid.’ She gave an ironic smile.

  ‘I completely understand,’ said Scamarcio, smiling back.

  Their eyes locked for a moment before she headed back to the house.

  He took the path to the bungalow and knocked on the door. There was no reply, but then he heard the sound of tapping against glass, and turned to see Barrabino’s face at a window to the right. He was holding up gloved hands and signalling for him to let himself in.

  Scamarcio pushed the door and entered a dark hallway. Off to the right, a door was open onto a large tiled area. Strip lighting ran along the length of the ceiling, and at the end of the room Scamarcio saw Barrabino stooped over a body, presumably that of Fabio Ella. He was finishing sewing shut an incision in the chest as Scamarcio approached. Another man in a suit was standing off to the right, observing the work with a mixture of horror and fascination.

  ‘Good evening, Detective’, said Barrabino, without looking up. ‘Excuse me if I don’t shake your hand. May I introduce my colleague, Dr Verdone? He is Porto Azzurro’s best dentist, and I thought his expertise might prove helpful to us with regards to the bite marks.’

  Scamarcio walked around the bottom of the table to shake Verdone’s hand. He was a tall, thin man, his studious eyes magnified by thick glasses. Scamarcio took a position next to him as Barrabino continued his show. With a flourish, he finished the stitching in the chest, expertly doubling back on himself and extracting the needle in a single swift, fluid motion. Scamarcio had to admit to himself that he was impressed. For someone who did not get much practice, Barrabino seemed adept.

  The doctor tossed his bloody gloves into a plastic bin behind him and put on a new pair from a box by the table. Then he reached for a large magnifying light overhead, positioning it over the left forearm of the corpse. ‘Both of you come and look at this for a second.’

  They shuffled over to the slab, like med-school students at a dissection. Verdone was the first to take a look through the lens. ‘That’s a very definite impression,’ he said. ‘Looks to me as if one of the upper-left teeth is missing — maybe number 3 or 4. If that matches the records, that gives us a pretty clear ID.’ He turned to look at Scamarcio. ‘Did you bring them?’

  Scamarcio waved the envelope in his right hand. Verdone stepped away from the lens a moment and gestured for him to take a look. The impression from the bite shone purplish under the light, the teeth marks neat and tiny — clearly those of a child.

  ‘Can you tell anything about the age from this?’ he asked the dentist.

  ‘I would say six, maybe seven — very young. But the records will tell us what we need to know.’

  To the right of the table, Scamarcio saw a long desk running along the wall. ‘May I?’ he asked Barrabino.

  ‘Be my guest.’

  He carefully lifted the documents from the envelope, taking care to keep the photographs straight. Verdone had come up behind him and now stood at his shoulder. He scanned the photostats quickly, and then turned to the American dentist’s written notes. After 30 seconds or so, he pointed to a paragraph of text: ‘See this passage here?’

  Scamarcio read it: ‘Upper left 3 knocked out by a tennis ball at nursery. That must have been quite some hit.’

  ‘Milk teeth are more fragile,’ said Verdone.

  Scamarcio sighed. ‘So it’s her, then?’

  Verdone tut-tutted quietly to himself. ‘I’m afraid it looks that way, Detective.’

  ‘You are a glutton for punishment,’ said the guard Erranti as they shook hands at the end of The Priest’s corridor at Longone.

  ‘I guess so.’ It was cold in the prison tonight, and Scamarcio wished he had brought a warmer jacket along.

  ‘He hasn’t been himself since you were last here — much quieter than usual, and has barely touched his food.’

  ‘I heard that he was ill.’

  ‘Yes, cancer. Sorry if we didn’t tell you before, but we weren’t sure it was relevant — didn’t feel like he needed any sympathy, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have got it from me.’

  As soon as the words had left his lips, Scamarcio found himself wondering at that. After everything, Pugno was still a human being, so didn’t he deserve some compassion? Scamarcio wasn’t sure. He felt conflicted between his immediate impulse, which would have been to throw him to the lions of the prison, to show him no mercy, and something new, something less absolute. He wondered if this was his mother’s character fighting his father’s in him.

  ‘He will probably be moved to the infirmary tomorrow,’ said Erranti as they made their way to the cell. ‘But for now, the same procedure as before.’

  When the door was opened, he saw that Pugno was in bed this time, under the covers. He seemed surprised to see him.

  He coughed as he tried to sit up straighter in the bed. Eventually, when he had got his breath back, he said: ‘I didn’t think you would come, Detective, not after last time.’

  Scamarcio shrugged and pulled out the chair he had used before. ‘You have a good priest.’

  Pugno nodded sombrely. ‘I am fortunate in that.’

  Silence descended between them, and for a moment Scamarcio was unsure what to say. He ran a hand through his hair and leaned back in the chair.

  ‘So your priest tells me you are still wanting my forgiveness?’

  Pugno nodded.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘What?’ the old man whispered.

  ‘I said OK. You have it. You have my forgiveness.’ Scamarcio tried to make it sound as sincere as possible, but was struggling to flesh out the words, to make them real.

  Pugno nodded again, but would not meet his eye. Scamarcio noticed that his hands were trembling, and in that moment he couldn’t stop himself from feeling a fleeting sympathy for the man. The silence returned, and Scamarcio wondered if that was it, whether his visit had been in vain.

  But after many seconds had passed, and just as he was thinking about leaving, Pugno finally found his voice. It was weaker and raspier than last ti
me, and Scamarcio had to lean forward to make out the words.

  ‘I appreciate your decency in coming here,’ whispered the old man, his words interrupted by another coughing attack. ‘It took guts and great understanding, after everything that has happened to you.’

  After everything that has happened to me? ‘What are you talking about? Nothing has happened to me.’

  The Priest sighed, a deep sadness contorting his features. ‘Let’s not dig up old pains; there is no point.’

  Scamarcio tried to speak, but the old man held up a palm. ‘In return for your kindness, I would like to give you some help. I just want you to know that instead of looking at who has been leaving the island, you should be watching who has been coming onto Elba in the last twenty-four hours.’

  Again he tried to speak, but again The Priest barred him with his hand. ‘There is no point asking me my sources. I will never reveal them.’ The coughs came again in rapid fire, and it sounded now as if he was coughing up his soul itself. ‘There’s no point putting the pressure on — we both know I no longer have anything left to lose.’

  With that, The Priest suddenly reached below his covers, and Scamarcio caught the glint of something metallic. Instinct told him it was a gun, and in the very next moment he felt a burning heat course through him. He sprang up from his chair, but it was too late. Pugno had placed the barrel against his own forehead, and before Scamarcio could get any words out he had fired.

  41

  THE COMMOTION AT THE jail had been as bad as he would have expected. There were all the predictable questions from the governor about how the gun had got there, whether Scamarcio had brought it in — How could he have? They had signed him in as usual, and taken his firearm off him as the rules dictated — who said what to whom, who did what to whom, did Scamarcio provoke him? Etc, etc. Then the bureaucratic machine had groaned into action, and because they were in Italy, and worse still not even on the mainland, this was just the start of a process that would be achingly slow and cumbersome, and would require him to sacrifice God knows how much of his time to endless interviews and statements. Barrabino had seemed both surprised to see him again so soon and also rather delighted that the circumstances appeared so troubling. He had managed to throw in a few of his — by now, signature — observations on how death seemed to follow on Scamarcio’s tail, or, better still, how he appeared to invite it in. Scamarcio didn’t know if his patience would hold out long enough to prevent him from punching the man in the face, so he had resolved to separate himself at the first opportunity. He couldn’t have a Category-A prisoner kill himself in front of him only to then end up with a GBH charge against the police pathologist.

  It was almost midnight when he made it back to his car. Dense clouds were passing across the moon, and the lamps along the harbour were no longer strong enough to mark a path to the Cinquecento. He used the central locking to locate it, again rueing his decision to go out in such light clothes. He climbed in and coaxed the struggling engine to life, swinging the car into reverse while tuning the radio to one of the island stations. It was the usual dire stuff: what they called 1980’s ‘classics’ — cheap euro trash that had been unremittingly crap the first time around. Scamarcio reached in his top pocket for his smokes, but couldn’t find them. This night couldn’t get any worse.

  His mobile buzzed on the seat beside him. ‘Scamarcio,’ panted Genovesi. It sounded like he was in the middle of a long climb. ‘Listen up.’

  ‘I’m listening’.

  ‘Your boy Dacian — we’ve found him.’

  ‘Really, where?’

  ‘A farmer called it in, up in the hills above Capoliveri.’

  ‘Called it in?’

  ‘Yeah, doesn’t look like he’ll be doing much talking.’

  Scamarcio’s stomach turned over anew. ‘Dead?’

  ‘Very, by the looks of it.’

  ‘I’ll be right there.’

  Genovesi rattled off some directions and then hung up.

  Genovesi and two unknown officers he presumed were from another station were huddled around the body. It was in a storm drain not far from some picnic tables. As he’d passed, he noticed a man slumped at one of them. He appeared to be in a state of shock. The farmer, he guessed.

  The boy’s throat had been cut — a clean red necklace of blood was visible above his T-shirt. It looked to have been a swift and efficient slash, professional. The red was dramatic against the boy’s white skin in the moonlight.

  Genovesi gave him a nod. ‘We’re just waiting for Barrabino. Don’t know what’s keeping him.’

  Scamarcio decided not to enlighten him. ‘When was he found?’

  ‘About forty minutes ago. The farmer, Mr Ronco, didn’t have a mobile phone, so had to go home to make the call — that took him about ten minutes. We came after that.’

  ‘No sign of the murder weapon?’

  ‘None, but we need to get some more men out for the search.’ Genovesi straightened. ‘Any idea what’s going on here?’

  ‘The Priest tipped me to the camp on the island. I notice this young guy — he seems worked up about something. I follow him — his emails suggest he’s got in above his head, is asking someone for help, doesn’t know what to do next …’

  ‘A hunch, then?’

  ‘Yes, a hunch, but we know where hunches often lead. Besides, now he winds up dead, it’s our second body in as many days, and the last corpse had some dodgy pictures on his computer — all this against the backdrop of a girl gone missing. There has to be something in it.’

  Most of this Genovesi already knew. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit up, without offering Scamarcio one.

  ‘Can I have one?’

  Reluctantly, Genovesi reopened the packet and handed him the lighter.

  ‘Why do you think The Priest wants to help us?’

  Scamarcio looked away for a second. ‘I think he was trying to make amends, compensate for his past in whatever small way he could.’

  ‘But how did he even know about the camp, the case? He seemed to have the low-down on Stacey Baker as soon as it happened.’

  ‘It’s a small island — people talk.’

  Genovesi wasn’t impressed. ‘Elba is not that small, and I run a tight ship. My men know to be discreet.’

  Scamarcio shrugged, unable to offer an explanation.

  ‘I’ve a good mind to go up to Longone myself, get that bastard to explain himself.’ Scamarcio figured that now was probably the right time to fill him in, but thankfully Genovesi’s mobile began to ring.

  Over the next few seconds he watched the colour gradually deepen along the man’s neck until it reached his jaw, where he thought he saw a vein begin to twitch. ‘Why am I only learning about this now?’ There was a pause. ‘Why would he have told me?’ Then another: ‘You what? You’re kidding me.’ He slammed the phone shut. His whole face was dangerously red now. He has to get that blood pressure down, thought Scamarcio, or he won’t make his pension.

  ‘Just what are you playing at, Scamarcio?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Don’t play the dumb ass with me. Why didn’t you tell me about Pugno?’

  ‘I was just getting to that when your phone rang.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ Genovesi jabbed a finger at him. ‘I’m sick of Rome trampling all over this investigation. This is a Tuscan case on Tuscan soil, so why the hell are you here? I’ve had it up to here with your attitude and your methods, Scamarcio. I’ll be calling your boss tomorrow to get you moved off.’ With that, he hurried off in the direction of the picnic tables, the unknown officers looking on nervously.

  42

  GARRAMONE HAD FINALLY phoned from Rome mid-morning, offering no explanation for his recent silence. Instead he said that Genovesi had been tranquilised and that Scamarcio was to proceed as before.
When he’d asked how this had been achieved, Garramone had not been forthcoming; he’d said it was just a question of the usual political manoeuvring. A promotion promised, a favour granted, figured Scamarcio.

  Back in the squad room, Genovesi had shut himself in his office and pulled the blinds down, which was a relief. Zanini and Borghetti both looked up as Scamarcio walked in.

  ‘Barrabino called,’ said Zanini. ‘He has a time of death on the boy, but wanted to talk to you first.’

  ‘I’ll call him in a moment.’ Scamarcio had not hung around for another noisome ribbing from the doctor last night; he had figured that whatever he had to say could be left to the morning. Besides, Genovesi had given him his marching orders, which provided him with a useful cue to leave the fat man to deal with the aftermath. Scamarcio had, however, stopped for a chat with the farmer on his way out, who did not have anything useful to add.

  Scamarcio pulled out the chair from the desk he had been using and laid down his papers. ‘We’ve got a lot of work to get through today.’

  The two officers nodded in unison like those ridiculous dogs he’d seen stuck to the back windscreens of the cars of stupid people.

  ‘I want you to contact all the ferry operators servicing the island. We are interested in who has been coming onto Elba in the days before Stacey Baker’s appearance, as well as who has been leaving. I want you to get the operators’ manifests, and run their names through the national and international criminal databases.’

  ‘All the names?’ said Borghetti. ‘We’re probably talking about thousands of people here.’

  Scamarcio slammed his hand down on the desk to silence him. ‘I don’t give a shit. This is a little girl’s life.’

  Borghetti hung his head in shame. Scamarcio didn’t care if he’d upset the boy, but he softened his tone slightly, nevertheless, remembering his management training. ‘It’s a big job, and we’ll work through the night if we have to. You need to get on the phone to the ports straight away, and get those records.’

  ‘How many days back are we talking about?’ asked Zanini.