‘What were his thoughts?’
‘He didn’t fancy our chances. But he told me, in his words, to do what you’ve got to do.’
‘Will you? Do what you’ve got to do?’
Garramone leaned back in his chair, barring his arms across his wide chest. ‘You don’t think much of me, do you, Scamarcio?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘It depends on whether you remain working under me or not.’
‘I rather got the impression from our phone call this morning that that was no longer an option.’
‘It depends — on you, Scamarcio. You’re a good detective, one of my best, but I will not indulge you in these outbursts of temper. You simply cannot speak to your superiors like that. And I won’t accept you going behind my back. That’s not the way this works, and it can’t keep on happening. Either you play by my rules, or you get out.’
Scamarcio nodded.
‘So what’s it to be?’
Scamarcio studied his shoes for a moment, not wanting to meet Garramone’s stare. Eventually, he said: ‘Honestly, Sir, I don’t know right now. I need some time to think.’
Garramone eyed him, puzzled. ‘Is this to do with the children? Or is it that we wouldn’t let you play the hero with Stacey Baker, and take the limelight on TV?’
Scamarcio sighed, exasperated. Did the chief still understand so very little about his character? ‘You know I don’t give a shit about that stuff,’ he said.
‘So it’s the case?’
‘Yes. And no.’
The chief leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. ‘Well, take a bit of time — let the dust settle. It’s been an intense few days.’
Scamarcio nodded.
‘In the meantime, how about joining me for a chat with our friendly penitent, Zaccardo? He, at least, has been singing like the proverbial.’
Scamarcio smiled for the first time that day. ‘I’d like nothing better.’
Zaccardo was looking even wirier than the last time he’d seen him. His face was gaunt, and he’d lost some of his tan.
‘So,’ said Garramone, pulling out a seat and throwing down a huge stack of papers. ‘Where were we, Mr Zaccardo? Ah, that’s right, you were about to give me the names of the great and the good who attended these secret soirées. The Few, as I believe they liked to call themselves.’
Zaccardo shifted in his seat, and twitched his shoulders. There was something simian about the man, thought Scamarcio.
‘My deal, is it sorted? You got everything in place?’
‘The wheels are in motion,’ said Garramone calmly. ‘We’ve found you a nice house up north, not too far from Switzerland. We’re working on a new identity now for you. That will take slightly longer, so you will need to bear with me.’
Zaccardo nodded, seeming reassured.
‘So, those names? Care to enlighten us?’
Zaccardo nodded again, quickly, feral like a rat. ‘I can only give you the ones I’m certain on. There could be others, of course.’
‘Of course — just what you know for sure. Hearsay will not hold up in court.’
Zaccardo nodded and slowly began counting them off on his fingers. With each name, Scamarcio made a shaky note on a yellow Post-it. When Zaccardo had finished, neither Garramone nor Scamarcio said a word. The interview room must have been silent for a full minute; the only sound came from the seconds hand of the cracked plastic wall clock and the scratching of Zaccardo’s anxious feet, back and forth beneath the desk. Eventually, he laughed nervously and said: ‘You see now why I wanted witness protection?’
The chief prosecutor was not greatly optimistic. The only one they had talking was Zaccardo, and it was still unclear whether they could compel Ganza to testify about the parties, as there was little they could offer him in return — giving him his wife’s freedom was not an option, and anyway they doubted this would be enough to outweigh his fear. The prosecutor annoyed Scamarcio by telling him what he knew already: namely, that the young man would be their star witness, if only he could be persuaded. As for his video and audio evidence, it would need to be reviewed before they could make a judgement on its value. He said he was worried about the powerful figures implicated — worried that they were untouchables, and that any attempt to go after them would result in dire professional, if not personal, consequences for all involved in the prosecution. Garramone shifted in his seat nervously at this point, unwilling to meet Scamarcio’s eye.
Scamarcio kept his composure, and bade farewell politely to the pair of them when their meeting was over. He decided to head down towards the Tiber; it was a beautiful, bright afternoon, and he wanted to watch the ducks on the water. He made the call to Piocosta as he walked. ‘Can you meet me at the café by Ponte Garibaldi, the Trastevere side? Ten minutes?’
He cut the call, and watched the sunlight etch its way across the yellow stonework of the liberty buildings up ahead. How he loved and hated this city in equal measure. But if he ever left, he knew he’d always be thinking about coming back. He made the turn down to the riverbank, and saw that quite a few people were out and about, enjoying the summer heat. Tourists were taking photos on the bridge; handsome couples were smiling as they walked arm in arm. He headed out along the river, crushing stone and moss underfoot. The balcony of the café was full — waiters hurrying back and forth, children darting around, trailing chaos in their wake. Eventually, he felt a hand on his back, and knew it was the old man.
They both turned to face the water. A mother duck was leading three infants: two were keeping in line, but the last one was speeding off in all directions.
‘So, did you get what you needed in Gela?’
Scamarcio smiled. ‘I’m sure by now you know I did. But thanks — for the trouble.’
‘No trouble.’ Piocosta fell silent for a moment. Scamarcio knew what was coming. ‘You thought some more about my offer?’ asked the old man.
Scamarcio sighed. ‘I’m a bit confused right now. About everything.’
‘You young people today are always confused. Nothing like a war to shake that out of you.’
He sounded just like his father. Scamarcio pulled the paper from his pocket, holding it for a moment so it was buffeted by the wind, but making sure not to let it go.
‘You ever heard of a man called The Priest? That paedophile, who killed all those kids years back?’
Piocosta spat on the ground, and straightened. ‘Disgusting story. He was a beast, not a man. He wasn’t human.’
‘He ever know my pa?’
He felt Piocosta catch his breath beside him and, for a moment, all he could hear was the lapping of the water and the dull roll of bicycle tyres across the bridge. Eventually, the old man said: ‘I never heard that, no. Why would he know your pa?’
Scamarcio didn’t answer for a while, and then said: ‘You ever hear bad stuff about my pa?’
‘What kind of bad stuff? He wasn’t exactly Mother Teresa, Leo.’
‘The kind of bad stuff The Priest was into. You know, little kids?’
This time he felt Piocosta’s whole body freeze. It seemed like minutes passed before he finally said: ‘Leo, why are you asking me these terrible questions? Coming at me with such awful thoughts? Lucio would never have been into anything like that — I swear it on the Madonna and the Baby Jesus. Never, never, never.’ Then, as an afterthought: ‘And, anyway, I would have known.’
Scamarcio nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’
They stood in silence for several minutes, the shouts and laughter from the café dying away on the breeze. A couple of colourful male ducks glided past them, their eyes fixed ahead — miniature sentinels on a secret mission of their own. Eventually, Scamarcio passed the piece of paper to Piocosta.
‘You’ll know these names. They’re no different from The
Priest, but, unlike him, they’re untouchable.’
Piocosta took the yellow Post-it note and nodded. Then the two men went their separate ways.
Contents
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Part I
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
Part II
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
Part III
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
The Few Page 32
