Aconi looked across at him, not following. ‘Sure, but …’
‘I’m guessing you knew she was seeing Micky Proietti — otherwise you would have asked me why I’m here.’
Aconi rubbed his nose and studded his bare feet against the tiles. He must have been at least a size 48. That would explain his magnificent record as a striker, Scamarcio figured.
‘Yes,’ said Aconi slowly. ‘I did know that she’d had a thing with Proietti, but Fiammetta was about to end it. She’d been trying to call him to tell him, but then the kidnapping happened, and the timing no longer felt right.’
Scamarcio took a silent breath and blinked. These were almost exactly the same words he’d heard from the culture minister, Manfredi. Had Fiammetta been spinning them all a line? Had she told Proietti the exact same thing?
‘Can you describe your relationship with Miss di Bondi?’
Aconi looked down at his feet once more and said nothing for a few moments, then:. ‘I guess you could say that I have very strong feelings for her. She’s a remarkable person — highly intelligent. We can talk about all sorts of things.’
Scamarcio wanted to ask what they talked about, but stopped himself.
‘I suppose you’re wondering if I wanted to get at Proietti, if I was jealous,’ said Aconi.
‘Well, obviously it’s something we need to consider.’
‘I admit that there was some of that, yes. I’d seen him on the party circuit over the years, and never liked him. He’s arrogant and rude. But I know he’s very bright, very educated, and I imagined that that would appeal to Fiammetta. I could see why the two of them would hit it off. Fiammetta can also be pretty obtuse when she wants to be. She’s not really one for social niceties either. I guess I was worried that she’d maybe found a soul mate in Micky.’
Scamarcio was taken aback by the man’s lack of confidence. He was stunningly good-looking, he was the country’s star striker and a household name, but he didn’t deem himself good enough for Fiammetta di Bondi.
‘You know I got a 108 in my Laurea,’ said Aconi, almost under his breath.
The comment came from nowhere, and Scamarcio had no time to disguise his surprise. The fact that Aconi had a degree was a revelation; the fact that he’d scored so highly was astounding, given his long-cemented reputation for keeping his brains in his feet.
‘What did you read?’
‘Philosophy.’
Scamarcio blinked again. He was struggling to come up with a response.
‘You’re wondering why nobody talks about it?’
The man was a mind reader as well as a genius. ‘Yes, to be honest.’
‘My agent doesn’t think it’s good for the image.’
‘Why?’
The footballer shrugged. ‘I dunno — she thinks it would be too alien from the core fan base, that it might risk some sponsorship deals.’
Scamarcio pondered this for a moment, then tried to drag his mind back to the interview.
‘So you were jealous of Micky Proietti?’
‘Yes, slightly I guess, but I would never go around harming his family — that’s not the kind of person I am. Besides, even if I did want to do something appalling like that, if I ever got found out, it would be game over. Literally.’
‘And Fiammetta was going to leave him anyway …’
Aconi shrugged once more and opened his palms. ‘Things were going my way. I had no reason to harm Proietti, did I?’ He paused. ‘The strange thing is that I’ve actually got Micky to thank for introducing me to Fiammetta.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘We were drunk at a party one night — well, he was drunk, and I wasn’t, because I was in training — and he said I must introduce you to this girl, you’ll love her.’
‘So he wanted to hook the two of you up?’
‘He was pissed, and I think he wanted to do me some kind of favour — maybe he wanted something in return. Anyway, he introduced us there and then, and kind of gave me a nudge and a wink.’
Scamarcio nodded, just willing him to keep talking.
‘But I could tell that the next day he regretted it. He called me, and asked me all about it, what I thought of her, what she said to me, etc etc. He seemed quite panicked. I got the feeling he wanted me to back off.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I really liked her; I wanted a shot with her, so I kind of behaved like I wasn’t that bothered one way or another. I just wanted him to leave me in peace, quit worrying.’
‘And did he?’
‘No. He started putting the pressure on Fiammetta. She told me that he wouldn’t stop calling, texting, started dropping by at all hours. I admit the whole thing did make me jealous, but, like I say, I’d never have done anything to hurt Micky’s family. That would have been crazy.’
That was exactly what Manfredi had said. But what if Aconi or Manfredi grew to suspect di Bondi had just been spinning them a line, playing them for fools? What then?
Scamarcio coughed. ‘Did you know Fiammetta was also seeing Gianluca Manfredi, the politician who just died?’
Aconi nodded somberly. ‘I did know about that, but it finished some time ago.’
‘I met with Mr Manfredi the day before he died, and he was under the impression that Fiammetta was about to move in with him.’
‘What?’ Aconi leaned forward, his face tightening with fury. ‘No way!’
‘That’s what he told me. He may have misunderstood her, of course.’
The footballer got up from the bench and hurriedly started pulling on his shoes. Where were his socks? Scamarcio wondered. He noticed that Aconi’s bottom lip was quivering, his mouth a tight line of anger. The huge blue eyes had become dark slits. He was reaching for his holdall already.
‘Where are you going?’ Scamarcio asked.
‘None of your fucking business.’ Aconi grabbed the bag from the bench, and smashed it hard against the wall as he left. Scamarcio thought he heard something break inside.
16
SMALL SHARDS OF ELECTRIC BLUE punctured the darkening sky as Scamarcio approached Proietti’s street. His high-flier neighbours were returning from work, dismounting tiredly from their mopeds, struggling with heavy shopping bags and briefcases.
Scamarcio’s problem was that he didn’t want to be spotted by any of his police colleagues. He preferred to follow his semi-hunch alone, to see where it took him. He pulled out a plastic chair at a pavement bar opposite Proietti’s block and lowered his baseball cap. He checked his watch. It was ten minutes to nine. He unfolded the edition of La Repubblica he had just bought, and turned to the sport. But there was no time to pretend to read — because out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Proietti emerging from the doorway, making a swift left down the street. He was early.
Scamarcio slid the paper under his arm and crossed the road, keeping an eye out for any officers coming or going. He fell into step behind Proietti, who was moving surprising swiftly for someone who seemed to spend most of his day in an alcoholic haze. Proietti strolled quickly up the road, then took a left into a smaller street of equally desirable properties. Sprays of purple wisteria emerged every so often between a hodgepodge of art deco and liberty buildings. Scamarcio noticed palms, orange trees, and white roses jostling for space in their immaculate gardens.
There was a small intersection up ahead, and he felt sure that Proietti was about to turn again, heading for the park, but instead he came to an abrupt stop outside a large cream villa with green shutters. Scamarcio immediately ducked into a garden to his left, certain that Proietti would now check behind him to see if he was being followed. Indeed, Proietti scanned the street several times, then, satisfied he wasn’t being observed, walked up to the front door and rang the bell. Scamarcio carefully detached his jacket sleeve from a rose bush, then stepped back onto the street in the hope he could see who
had answered the door. Proietti was now some metres away, but still close enough for Scamarcio to observe a heavy-set middle-aged man pushing him inside. Somehow he felt sure this was Davide Stasio.
Back in the squadroom the next morning, Scamarcio gave Garramone the details of the property. He hadn’t wanted to head straight back to Proietti’s apartment last night, because he knew that sharing his discovery with the team would change the atmosphere there and risk spooking Proietti that something was amiss. Garramone had agreed that they’d try to find out if Stasio was living in the building. One they’d established that, they’d wire the place to kingdom come.
Scamarcio leant back in his chair and surveyed Via San Vitale. There was still no sight of the stray. It must be dead, he told himself. It wouldn’t just disappear. He felt low again, and resolved not to spend too much time back at base. The depression seemed to lift when he was out on the road. There was something about being at his desk that sucked him back into the void, consumed him.
After a few moments, he sensed someone looking at him, and glanced up. The tableau before him was both banal and apocalyptic, innocent and devastating. The image of a whale on a beach came into his mind. It was logical that the whale might end up there, but the sight of it was so very wrong. The same applied to this scene: Piero Piocosta, his father’s old lieutenant, was standing in the middle of the squad room next to the desk sergeant. The sergeant was saying something, but there was a ringing in Scamarcio’s ears, and the sergeant’s voice was disembodied, as if coming from a distant shore.
Scamarcio closed his eyes, trying to breathe. He exhaled slowly, then counted to five in his head. ‘Sorry, Sergeant — I didn’t quite catch that.’
The desk sergeant was eyeing him with concern. ‘I was saying that this gentleman here needs a quick word. Are you feeling all right, Sir? You look very pale.’
Scamarcio sat up straighter in his seat, forcing his mouth into a smile. ‘No, I’m fine, just tired.’ He motioned Piocosta over to his desk. He couldn’t get up; his legs were jelly.
‘Thanks, Sergeant. I’ll take it from here.’
The man nodded and left. Scamarcio scanned the room, but there were only two detectives in, and they were over on the other side. Scamarcio thanked a God he didn’t believe in.
Piocosta pulled out a seat, leant back, and stretched out his short legs in front of him.
‘What are you doing here?’ whispered Scamarcio.
‘Seemed like the only way to get your attention. You need to learn to answer your phone, Leo.’
Scamarcio swallowed, and tried to put himself somewhere calm. ‘I need you to leave right now; we’ll talk about this later.’
‘Yes, we will,’ said Piocosta. ‘When you answer your phone. I’ll be calling at eight tonight.’ The old man’s eyes were mean cracks of light, his mouth a dark gash. ‘Understood?’
‘Understood,’ hissed Scamarcio. ‘Now get out.’
‘Is that any way to treat your father’s best friend?’
Scamarcio grabbed his cigarettes and turned his eyes to the street.
He had intended to use the rest of the morning to try to root out the illegal gambling dens frequented by Micky Proietti, but Piocosta’s visit had scrambled his brain and left him unable to concentrate. All Scamarcio felt capable of was staring at the complicated web of cracks lining his desk and wishing that he might disappear inside. But then his landline rang, forcing him back to reality.
‘We’ve had another video,’ said Detective Caporaso darkly.
‘What are they saying?’
‘It’s the little boy. He’s very quiet, subdued.’
‘What fucker would use a kid?’ asked Scamarcio.
‘Whoever they are, they’ve really got it in for Proietti. They’re torturing him.’
‘What’s the son telling us?’
‘He says he’s OK, but that he’s worried about his mum. He doesn’t know where she is, and he wants to see her.’
He doesn’t know where she is, Scamarcio repeated to himself. They’d separated them; the situation was degenerating. Surely seeing his son like this would finally persuade Proietti to open up, to share what he knew or at least suspected.
‘What’s Proietti’s reaction?’
Caporaso sighed. ‘He’s just gone back to the bottle. He’s clammed up — he’s barely speaking.’
Scamarcio drummed a finger against a tooth. In what situation would a father, seeing his family suffer, choose to remain silent? Why would he not tell the police what he knew? Micky Proietti was an arsehole, but from what Scamarcio had seen so far, he was not a monster. The man was clearly extremely worried. So why wasn’t he talking?
Scamarcio’s thoughts switched to Piocosta, and in that exact moment he finally understood Micky Proietti. The kidnappers already had Proietti over a barrel. They’d already set out their terms in a deal the police had not been privy to. Proietti was being blackmailed, and right now he was sitting it out, playing for time while he worked out his next move. Scamarcio’s mind flashed to the man in the doorway, and he wondered yet again whether Davide Stasio was Proietti’s friend or foe.
17
SURVEILLANCE HAD TOLD THEM two things: the first was that the middle-aged man who had answered the door to Micky Proietti was living on the third floor of the villa; the second was that he was indeed Davide Stasio. Establishing this had not been easy, as they had been unable to trace any passport or ID card records. It had taken numerous attempts at a photograph before Scamarcio had an image clear enough to show the Calabrian TV producer Francesco Bruno.
‘Yep, that’s him. He’s put on a fair bit of weight, though. He used to keep himself in better shape.’ Bruno paused, then asked, ‘Why the surveillance shot?’
‘Long story,’ Scamarcio had replied, hurrying for the door.
Garramone had ordered Stasio’s place wired ‘to kingdom come’ as promised. They’d had to wait seven hours until Stasio finally went out and they could send in a team of six to install listening devices in all the rooms. Normally, this kind of job would have been done by a crew of three, but Garramone sensed the squad had very little time to play with and needed to finish as quickly as possible. He’d been right — after just forty minutes, Stasio was spotted approaching the house, and they’d had to hot-foot it out of there. Unfortunately, the first hours’ recordings offered meagre pickings. Stasio spoke only to a cleaner who delivered some shopping. He made no telephone calls and received no visitors. Scamarcio wondered if he had them sussed already. If that were the case, though, Stasio would have abandoned the villa and moved on elsewhere, surely? Scamarcio hoped they’d get lucky when Proietti called by for his evening chat, but his instincts were beginning to tell him otherwise. Davide Stasio already seemed one step ahead.
As there were several hours to kill before Proietti’s next stroll, Scamarcio decided to head back to Stasio’s production company and wait for the accountant to leave for the day. It was time for a full and frank discussion.
He realised with dismay that he’d have to drive, as there’d be nowhere to sit it out otherwise. The area was a wasteland, and he hadn’t noticed any bars nearby on his last visit. He reckoned the journey across town would take him the best part of an hour.
This turned out to be an optimistic estimate. It seemed that nearly every road in the city had been ripped open for urgent maintenance. After an hour and a half stuck in one dusty traffic jam after the other, Scamarcio finally pulled up outside the industrial estate, sweating and furious. He hoped that the accountant wouldn’t emerge just yet, because he couldn’t trust himself not to lose it. He counted to ten slowly in his head, and watched his chest move in and out as he did so. He tried to imagine himself on a beach, tropical breezes whispering through the palms.
Inevitably, Piocosta interrupted his thoughts yet again. He would be calling in two hours. Scamarcio’s back was against the
wall. There was no room left for manoeuvre. He sighed, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief that had once belonged to his father. What would he have made of all this? How would he have felt about his old friend now?
When he opened his eyes, Scamarcio saw the secretary exit the building and make for a red Fiat Punto. He edged down lower in the seat and covered his face with La Gazetta dello Sport. He heard the Punto’s engine fire up and, a few seconds later, the little car passed his.
From behind the newspaper, he saw a few other people emerge. He recognised several faces from his visit to the office the day before, but he couldn’t spot the accountant in the group. He heard central locking being released, doors slamming, a blast of ‘I’m a Barbie Girl’. A fly kept throwing itself against his windscreen, its exhausted buzzing slowly winding down like the dying battery on a child’s toy. A couple of cars passed him, and, when their engines had finally melted away, he peered out from behind the newspaper once more. The accountant was exiting the building, making purposefully for a blue Lancia parked up the kerb on the right. He was wearing another checked shirt — green and white, this time — and appeared to be in a hurry. He was walking so fast he seemed about to break into a run. It was now or never.
Scamarcio stepped out the car and headed straight for him. ‘Sir, may I have a minute?’
The guy turned fast, and for a moment it looked as if he was about to bolt. Scamarcio recognised the look of the hunted in his eyes. But then the man just stopped dead as if he’d been stunned by some kind of weapon. Scamarcio watched as he blinked rapidly, his brain turning over, trying to calculate his best move.
As Scamarcio drew closer, he noticed him wipe the sweat from his forehead with the cuff of his shirt. For a fellow so neatly turned out, it seemed an incongruous gesture. He was clearly in a panic.
Scamarcio extended a hand. ‘I passed by the office the other day. I saw you hard at work.’
The accountant wiped a palm against his trousers and accepted the handshake. ‘Yes, Detective. How can I help you?’
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