The Few

by Nadia Dalbuono

  ‘Right now, I’d aim for five days before the girl disappeared. I don’t reckon they would have been on the island much longer than that, but we can take the search back further if we need to. And bring it right up to yesterday, when the boy Dacian was murdered. I’ve a feeling someone came to the island to meet with him before killing him.’

  ‘But what about Fabio Ella? He was killed earlier,’ said Zanini.

  ‘You’re right, but we’re not sure yet that the two are connected. Just bring it up to yesterday to be on the safe side.’

  Zanini nodded and pushed back his chair.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Down to the ports — it’ll be too slow trying to get them to do what we want over the phone. It doesn’t work like that here.’

  Scamarcio nodded.

  Borghetti got up to join his colleague, still refusing to meet Scamarcio’s eye.

  ‘Good luck to the both of you — I know you’re capable officers, so I’m sure we will come up with something.’ He tried a smile, which seemed to ease the tension slightly. The two men nodded and went on their way.

  Scamarcio sighed and slid back down in his chair. Zanini was right: it was a huge if not impossible task, but they had to try. The Priest seemed to have been on to something with Dacian, so the chances were that his final tip-off would also hold weight.

  He eyed the telephone, dreading the call he would have to make to Barrabino.

  He picked up the receiver and dialled the number that Borghetti had written neatly on his note. Barrabino answered on the first ring, allowing him no time to formulate a counter-attack. However, his tone was surprisingly neutral. ‘Ah, Detective, good. I think I’ve got a few pointers for you.’

  Barrabino spoke quickly. He seemed caught up in his work now, too enthused by it to make jokes: maybe this many murders were finally giving him the experience he craved. ‘Time of death was 8.00pm, so two hours before he was found. His throat was cut with a hunting knife, expertly done. I would hazard a guess that the attacker was medically trained.’

  ‘Surgeon?’

  ‘Could be, or a veterinarian.’

  That could prove a useful piece of information in narrowing down the trawl of the manifests.

  ‘Any joy in locating the weapon, Scamarcio?’

  Given that the two officers hadn’t mentioned it, Scamarcio presumed not. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘Right, well let me know — it seems similar to the one used on Ella.’ Barrabino rattled on: ‘Death by exsanguination, obviously. Other than that, he was pretty fit — all the organs were in good nick.’

  ‘Had he put up much of a struggle?’

  ‘Didn’t look like it: seems like his attacker took him by surprise from behind, and placed one arm across the neck while the other made the slash. But he was a bit of a weedy boy, not much muscle on him, so the assailant wouldn’t necessarily have needed to be that strong.’

  ‘Did he die there?’

  ‘I think not. It looks to me like he spent some time on a tiled surface before being moved — maybe a bathroom or a kitchen floor.’

  ‘Thanks, fast work.’

  ‘Want to drive down, see the body?’

  ‘No time, I’m afraid.’

  He was still half-waiting for a pop about last night, but none came. ‘OK, you’ll have my report within the hour.’ The doctor hung up.

  As soon as Scamarcio had put the phone down, it rang again.

  ‘Can I speak to Detective Scamarcio?’ It was a female voice, husky, slow. There was something affected about the way she hesitated before she said the name, something insinuating. His guard went up.

  ‘Who is calling?’

  ‘Fabiana Morello, crime desk la Repubblica.’

  He knew the name. She’d written a grim profile piece on him when the news about his father had first come out. The young detective Scamarcio as a living metaphor for the country — could the goodness of youth triumph over the evil of old? Vomit-inducing stuff. He’d resolved never to speak to her again.

  ‘He’s out right now. Can I take a message?’

  An affected laugh tinkled down the line. ‘Come, come. I’d know that Calabrian accent anywhere.’

  ‘Listen, I’ll tell him you called.’ He hung up. Childish, he knew, but he really didn’t have the time. Then a thought struck him: if Morello knew he was there, the chances were that the rest of them were also now on to it. He got up from the desk and headed to the window. As if on cue, down in the square several TV crews were setting up, their satellite vans parked up to the right. A huddle of some of the national print guys he recognised were comparing notes on the front steps. Morello was down there with them, dressed like a southern tart, as usual, the legs decent but the face battered by years of sun and nicotine abuse. He sighed, reaching for the fags in his pocket that he’d restocked that morning. It hadn’t taken them long — the circus was in town, just as Genovesi had predicted. Indeed, Genovesi seemed to have responded to some kind of telepathic message and was now standing in the doorway of his office, watching him watch the reporters. He joined him at the window, and after a quick glance muttered: ‘Fucking brilliant. That’s all we need.’

  He shuffled back into his office and slammed the door.

  Scamarcio took a long drag on his fag, savouring the moment, and then made for the espresso machine. It would be good if they offered one with a whisky kick, he mused. It would take the edge off the day.

  He had decided to head back to the camp, pay his respects, and ask some more questions. But it had been a wasted trip. The boy’s father had been inconsolable, grief-stricken anew, and nobody claimed to know what Dacian had been involved in. But to Scamarcio, not all the pleas of ignorance rang true. Surprisingly, there was something in the eyes of Pety that troubled him — a slight move to the left that betrayed him, that showed he was using the part of his brain responsible for invention, for lies. But Zanini had called, saying they were back with the records, and he’d decided it would have to wait.

  Now back at the station, they’d been slumped over the database for the past two hours with nothing to show for it, save a conviction for petty theft that Scamarcio had deemed irrelevant. Even with all the children and teenagers eliminated, the manifests still amounted to several thousand names. They had decided to start simultaneously on passengers from the day before as well as those from five days back, so as to tackle the problem from both ends.

  Zanini yawned, and stretched his shoulders.

  ‘The reward is in the hard graft,’ said Scamarcio, sounding like his father. It was a strange comment, he’d always thought, coming from someone who had never done a day’s honest work in his life.

  They laboured on in silence, interrupted by the phones every five minutes or so. They’d scheduled a press conference for the next day to get the journalists off their backs for a few hours — the calls coming in to the squad room had been relentless, and it seemed the only way to win some peace. Florence was dispatching a media-relations unit, but they wouldn’t be with them until the day after tomorrow, which Scamarcio deemed ridiculously late. He turned from his monitor to the window, and watched a milky light descend outside. He sensed the heat of the day ebbing away, and regretted that he’d been unable to feel the sun on his skin for a few minutes, to taste the early summer. The days on Elba just seemed to be disappearing into night almost before he was aware of them.

  Borghetti shifted in his seat. ‘I think this might be something.’

  Scamarcio got up from his desk and headed over to the young officer, now hunched over his terminal.

  ‘Ernst Ratsel, a German national, entered the island yesterday, the day of the boy’s murder. He’s 53 years old, has two convictions for GBH and sexual assault on a minor, and was released from Preungesheim prison in Frankfurt five years ago.’

>   ‘Any other background?’ asked Scamarcio.

  ‘It says here that he was a practising surgeon for ten years at the city’s Krankenhaus Nordwest until he was arrested for the sexual assaults.’

  ‘That could be him,’ said Scamarcio. He placed a hand on Borghetti’s shoulder. ‘Good work.’

  He returned to his chair, stretching his legs up on the desk. ‘Now we need to ring around the island, and find out where he’s staying, if he’s still here — Borghetti, that’s your job. Zanini, go through today’s departures, and see if he’s already hot-footed it out.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Could he have got on a boat last night after the murder, presuming the boy was killed around 8.00pm?’

  They both shook their heads. ‘Last boat is at seven,’ said Zanini.

  Scamarcio felt uncomfortable about the closeness of the timings, but decided to take it no further for the time being. ‘OK, get to it. Borghetti, I’ll help you with the hotels.’

  Borghetti told him there were more than 150 hotels on the island, but that he could narrow it down by choosing the ones near the beaches. Wasn’t it possible that Ratsel might try to combine business with pleasure? Scamarcio agreed, and they hit the phones. After around 30 tries, Borghetti got lucky again. He scribbled something on a piece of paper before saying: ‘What room?’ Then he hung up before he could be put through.

  ‘OK, he’s at the Hotel Valle at La Guardia — a decent place, four stars.’

  Scamarcio gathered up his things, and Zanini ended the call he was on.

  ‘Let’s go. No time like the present.’

  43

  THE HOTEL VALLE had an infinity pool that melted away into the sea. Gentle music was playing by the bar, and a series of green, blue, and yellow lights were pulsing under the waters, throwing an ever-changing light on the palm fronds above. It was a nice effect, and Scamarcio decided if he ever made it out of Rome, he might try it in his own place one day. The loungers were all empty at this hour, the guests no doubt showering before coming down for dinner. If Ratsel was still there, they would be lucky.

  They walked into the lobby at a brisk pace, not wanting to run in case the German spotted them and tried to escape. Scamarcio kept his voice low. ‘Can you tell me what room Ernst Ratsel is in, please?’ The boy on reception eyed Borghetti’s uniform worriedly before muttering ‘55. Is everything OK?’

  ‘We might have a situation,’ said Scamarcio. ‘Could you or a colleague accompany us up there?’ If Ratsel tried to do a runner, it would be useful to have someone with them who knew the layout. The boy’s eyes danced briefly with excitement before he said: ‘Just one moment.’ He went out back and then returned almost immediately with a pretty brunette who took his place at reception.

  ‘Have you got the master key behind there somewhere?’ asked Scamarcio.

  ‘Sure.’ The boy took it from a drawer beneath the desk and showed them the way to the lifts.

  ‘You think he won’t open up for you?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. What floor is 55?’

  ‘Fifth.’

  ‘Could he jump out of the window from there if he wanted to get away from us?’

  At that moment the lift arrived to reveal a group of buxom, middle-aged German women laughing raucously. They stepped aside to let them out before entering. ‘Not without a broken leg or neck,’ answered the boy.

  ‘Good.’

  They made their way slowly to the fifth, Scamarcio feeling frustrated by the lumbering elevator and the dire muzak. When the doors finally opened, a thin man in a Hawaiian shirt was standing there nervously, huge sweat stains under his arms. His thinning hair was pasted to his forehead, and his eyes seemed filmed over. In his left hand he carried an overnight bag. The receptionist confirmed Scamarcio’s instincts and said: ‘Ah, Mr Ratsel.’ Ratsel gave Borghetti’s uniform the quickest of glances before turning on his heel and speeding down the corridor behind him. But Borghetti was quick, and after just a few seconds had wrestled him to the ground.

  Scamarcio ran up, towering over the pair of them. ‘Mr Ratsel, as it appears you have already worked out for yourself, we’d like to ask you some questions about a murder that happened here on the island yesterday.’

  The man’s English was faltering. ‘I know nothing about it. I want, er, I want my lawyer.’

  ‘All well and good,’ said Scamarcio. ‘Can we go into your room for a moment and discuss this there? It’s all a bit too public out here in the corridor.’

  Borghetti pulled Ratsel up from the ground while the receptionist opened the door to Room 55 with his key card. Borghetti followed behind, pushing Ratsel in before him.

  The room was in almost perfect order, and Scamarcio had the sinking feeling that if there was any evidence to be found, Ratsel had scrubbed it away by now.

  ‘So, Mr Ratsel, tell me what brings you to Elba?’

  Scamarcio took a seat at one of the tables by the window. Ratsel slumped down onto the huge double bed.

  ‘I’m a tourist like everyone else — isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘I’m not saying anything else without my lawyer.’

  ‘Why do you need a lawyer if you’re just an ordinary tourist?’

  Ratsel looked away in disgust, saying nothing.

  ‘Borghetti, can you call Barrabino? I want this place checked for prints, blood, what-have-you. I need him asap.’

  Borghetti nodded and left the room to make the call.

  ‘What do you think I might find?’ asked Scamarcio.

  ‘Nothing is what you’ll find.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’

  The two men sat in silence for what seemed like several minutes until Scamarcio said: ‘You know how these things work. According to your records, you’ve been around the block a fair bit. Sexual assault on a minor is pretty bad — makes you the lowest of the low, really. Were you on the nonces’ wing at Preungesgheim? Or did you have to sweat it out with the other prisoners? Give you a hard time, did they?’

  Ratsel’s eye burned with rage. ‘Fuck you, you Italian piece of shit. Fuck you.’ He barred his arms across his chest, looked away into the wall. Scamarcio figured that he wouldn’t turn violent; the man realised it was too late for that.

  ‘So, tell me, what do you know about the boy Dacian?’

  Ratsel shook his head slowly, as if Scamarcio were talking nonsense. ‘No idea who you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yes you do — the boy who was helping you with whatever disgusting scheme you had conjured up after being released from prison.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Do you have the American girl? Where is she? Is she here?’ Scamarcio jumped up and took a quick look in the bathroom, and then opened the wardrobes, without expecting to find anything.

  Ratsel was shaking his head faster back and forth now, his chin jutting out as if he were grinding his teeth. ‘You are wasting my time with this bullshit.’ He shouted the word.

  ‘Somehow I don’t think so, and, as I’m sure you’re well aware, if you co-operate now it will be that much easier for you later down the line. The game’s the same here as it is back home in Germany.’

  Ratsel sighed, leaned back against the wall, and closed his eyes for a moment. But when he opened them, all he said was: ‘I want my lawyer.’

  44

  SCAMARCIO SLEPT WELL that night; he put it down to pure exhaustion rather than any sense of calm from the inquiry, which seemed to be complicating itself further by the day. They had thrown Ratsel in the slammer for the evening, but would have nothing to hold him with past the morning — not unless the tiny traces of blood in his hotel bathroom that Barrabino had found came back as a match on Stacey Baker or the boy Dacian. Genovesi, for once, hadn’t needed a lot of persuading that it would be worth the extra cost of
rushing the blood through processing. He knew that if it led them to the girl in the next twenty-four hours, it would be a huge feather in his cap with the chief in Florence.

  As Scamarcio was driving to the station, Garramone called from Rome: ‘I had that email translated — the one you sent me from the boy.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit cryptic, but basically he seems to be telling her that the job opportunity that had come up for him has got complicated; he was told to do something, which he did, but now the boss has gone quiet on him and he doesn’t understand why. He’s worried that the whole thing could go wrong, that they might get found out.’

  ‘And he never says what this thing is?’

  ‘No. He just keeps repeating that he’s worried, but that if it does all come off OK, he and Irina — that’s the girl he’s writing to — can start a new life somewhere. He’s desperate to leave that camp and his father, apparently.’

  Garramone was already up to speed on the boy’s death. After a pause, the chief asked: ‘How long after this was sent did he die?’

  ‘About nine hours.’

  ‘And you believe this is connected to Stacey Baker’s disappearance?’

  ‘That’s my hunch, yes.’

  Garramone didn’t question his use of the word; he knew how important hunches often turned out to be. ‘I spoke to my contact up in Florence. The other guy in the photo with Arthur and the foreign minister goes by the name of Simon. He used to work as a rentboy in the area, and then went quiet. He was strangled, apparently, before he was attached to the light fitting to hang.’

  ‘So they’re mellowing? It seems a bit kinder than stabbing someone to death.’

  ‘If they’re one and the same …’

  ‘What? You think they’re not?’

  ‘We can’t be sure yet, but my contact tells me he was involved with some local drug dealers, so it’s not clear whether his death was directly connected to Arthur’s.’

  ‘Seems odd, though, that the story breaks, and then both guys in the incriminating photo are murdered.’