‘I met him,’ said Scamarcio after he’d drained his glass and refilled it.
‘You met The Priest?’ asked Greco, seemingly wrong-footed for once.
‘It wasn’t as a child; it was last year, when I was conducting an investigation on the island of Elba.’
‘Did he realise who you were?’
‘He told me he knew my father.’
Greco smiled tiredly. ‘There you go — we can forget the generous analysis.’
‘What happened?’ asked Scamarcio. He didn’t know if he could handle the truth, but every fibre of his being willed him to ask.
Greco took another drink. ‘Piocosta needed some favour from The Priest to do with a land deal. The Priest held some kind of influence over one of the interested parties. In return for him swinging it, Piocosta gave him access to the well — the kids.’ Greco pursed his lips in disgust.
Scamarcio wanted to vomit. He noticed that even Greco looked pale.
‘Jesus,’ Scamarcio whispered.
‘I suppose just because The Priest said he knew him doesn’t mean Lucio was involved. They could have met socially, something like that.’
Scamarcio wasn’t really listening. He was thinking back to that summer’s day on the Tiber when he’d asked Piocosta about The Priest; he recalled Piocosta’s heartfelt denials, so passionate, so convincing.
‘So?’ asked Greco, the tone still soft and unobtrusive.
Scamarcio just looked at him.
A door suddenly swung open and a blast of cooler air rushed in. An extremely tall, stunningly beautiful brunette entered, her blue eyes and pale skin definingly un-Italian. She took a seat next to Greco and cupped her perfect chin in her hand while she studied Scamarcio, her gaze direct and unabashed. He sensed danger, but didn’t care. His stomach was churning, his mind still trying to process the story of the well.
‘Who is this man, Dante?’ she asked in a thick Russian accent, her cobalt eyes pinning Scamarcio with a stare.
‘This is a business matter,’ said Greco, his tone neutral.
‘You’re not going to introduce me?’ Her eyes were intelligent and alive, unforgiving.
Greco remained motionless for a moment, then said: ‘Vladlena, can you leave us?’
‘Don’t patronise me, Dante.’
Greco rose from the table slowly and placed a gentle hand on her elbow. ‘Come with me.’ He led her out of the dining room, and as they left she threw Scamarcio a fiery look. He wasn’t sure what that look was supposed to convey; whether it was anger or interest, or something else.
He had expected to hear raised voices, but no sound came. His mind caught on the image of a seal pup being silently slaughtered, its blood slowly pooling on the ice.
After a couple of minutes, Greco was back. There was a flush of red running up his neck, but his demeanour was unchanged.
‘So,’ he said, ‘I need Piocosta to enter that restaurant alone.’
Scamarcio knew he was properly part of this now; there was no going back, and he didn’t want to. ‘I’m not sure how to ask him to drop his protection, without putting him on his guard,’ he said.
‘What if you tell him that you need to talk in private — that it’s personal?’
‘I doubt he’d buy that.’
‘Tell him you’ve found out something about him and your mother.’
‘My mother?’
‘Piocosta betrayed your father in every way.’
After the revelation about The Priest, this felt like nothing. Anyway, Scamarcio had always suspected something along these lines since he’d walked in on his mother and Piocosta shortly before his father died. There had been nothing immediately wrong with the scene: his mother had been sitting on the sofa, a book open in her lap; Piocosta had been pouring himself a vodka from the bar. However, it was the atmosphere that had troubled the young Scamarcio; it was too charged, too tense, too far from daily mundanity. After his father had died, he’d tried to ask his mother about it, but she’d just left the house and driven off, not returning until several hours later.
‘Right,’ said Scamarcio. He was starting to resent having his strings pulled.
‘When this is all over,’ said Greco soothingly, ‘we can go our separate ways. You head back to Rome and get on with being a policeman. I’ll go about my business down here, unfettered.’
It seemed an odd choice of word, and it had been delivered with an unnecessary emphasis. Scamarcio had wanted to say that there was nothing he could do about whether Greco’s business went uninterrupted or not. But he felt that even the act of articulating this would create some kind of precedent, some kind of understanding. It was better left unsaid. He thought of Aurelia; about her protection in Munich. Once Piocosta had gone, there’d be no more help; no more safe haven from the Cappadona clan. Scamarcio resolved to fund her security himself from now on: he didn’t know how long he could maintain it, but he did know that he couldn’t be beholden to Greco.
Scamarcio took in the powerful man in front of him, noticing the coldness of his stare, the plasticity of his skin: ‘I’ll try the personal line. I’ll text you Piocosta’s arrival time. All being well, I’ll see you at the restaurant.’
Greco nodded and took a small sip of wine. ‘Sleep tight, Leone.’
26
GARRAMONE CALLED AT ELEVEN the next morning. ‘Any progress?’ he asked testily.
Scamarcio had almost forgotten that he was supposed to be finding out more about Davide Stasio.
‘Yes, but I can’t talk now. Could I ring you back later?’
Garramone huffed and puffed like the big bad wolf, then muttered: ‘Make sure you do.’
Scamarcio pocketed the phone and waited for Piocosta’s train to roll in. It was supposed to be the high-speed service, but, as usual, it was running late. Several more minutes passed, and Scamarcio’s anxiety grew.
When the train finally pulled up to the platform, Scamarcio scanned the faces of the passengers spilling out, tired and harried, excited and beaten, but he couldn’t find the old man. The anxiety was now a burning sensation between his shoulder blades. He pinched his nose and tried to breathe. Piocosta was always the gentleman; maybe he’d been polite and let a few people pass in front of him. Scamarcio checked his watch, then looked up once more. He tracked the battered, care-worn faces — the nuns, the salesmen, the whores, the grandfathers — but still he couldn’t locate Piocosta. He felt a primal warmth at the back of his neck, and turned to look behind him. But he couldn’t spot anyone who seemed to be paying him particular attention. As he returned his gaze to the passengers, the disposable mobile he used for Piocosta rang.
‘Change of plan,’ said the old man chirpily. ‘I decided to take the car.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me before? I’m at the station.’
‘A couple of my boys are outside. They’re going to drive you to a place where we can talk.’
‘Where?’ Scamarcio knew it was a pointless question.
‘Don’t worry about that.’
Scamarcio figured that the worst thing he could do now was tell Greco that plans had changed. He needed to get the measure of Piocosta first; work out what he knew or at least suspected. He would only contact Greco once he’d got a handle on that.
‘Where are your crew?’ Scamarcio asked, trying to sound calm.
‘In a grey Dacha Duster outside the main entrance. They know you — they’ll spot you first.’
It sounded like a threat.
One of Piocosta’s meatheads was waiting for him by the car. When he saw Scamarcio, he raised a palm, his face expressionless. Scamarcio recognised him. When he’d had some trouble with an investigation last year, Piocosta had brought this man along to help clean up.
‘Morning, Scamarcio,’ he said, opening the back door for him. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Not bad,�
�� said Scamarcio, scanning the car to see who else was inside and what weapons they might be carrying. There was just one other, the driver. As only the back of his head was visible and he didn’t turn to greet him, Scamarcio couldn’t tell whether they’d met before.
The meathead jumped in the passenger seat, and they sped away from the station and joined the mid-morning traffic. After they’d swung a left, he turned and said: ‘Sorry, Scamarcio, but the old man wants you lying down for the rest.’
‘What?’
‘You know what he’s like. Don’t shoot the messenger.’
‘He doesn’t trust me?’
‘Piocosta doesn’t trust anyone.’
‘OK,’ sighed Scamarcio. ‘I guess I could do with a nap.’
The meathead grunted and turned on the radio. The news was reporting another boatload of migrants from Libya who had drowned off the island of Lampedusa. Women and children had been among the many dead.
‘Dreadful business,’ tut-tutted the meathead. Scamarcio opened his eyes.
‘Don’t be soft,’ said the driver. ‘They’re ruining this country. We should bomb those boats before they have a chance to dock.’
‘You’ve got a wife and kids. How would you feel if they drowned?’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
Scamarcio closed his eyes again. More and more, he felt as if he was inhabiting a surreal dream, drifting aimlessly from one incongruity to the next.
‘Way I see it, there isn’t anything left in this country to ruin,’ continued the meathead.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake! All the way down from Rome we’ve had to listen to this shit.’
Scamarcio wondered why Piocosta wasn’t with them — why he’d gone ahead to the location.
The driver turned up the radio, and the conversation died. Scamarcio felt the sun burning through his eyelids, and smelt the chemical musk of hot plastic. He wished he could just drift off to sleep and forget — wipe the disc clean and reset to ‘normal’.
After ten minutes or so, the car slowed, and he heard the tyres beneath him crunch over gravel. The guy in the passenger seat started whispering something that Scamarcio couldn’t make out, and then the car came to a stop. But, for some reason, the driver waited a few seconds before killing the engine. Scamarcio could hear birds high up in the trees now, and the impatient hum of cicadas. In the distance, a church bell marked out midday.
He lay quite still and waited. His blood was pounding in his ears, mocking the rhythm of his heart with a taunting, merciless tattoo. He waited for the doors to open, but no movement came. The two men ahead just sat in silence like guard dogs turned to stone. There was a new tension in the car, and he sensed it wasn’t down to the argument of before.
More minutes passed, and then Scamarcio heard boots on gravel. The car shook slightly as the trunk behind him sprung open. Someone shouted, there was laughter — Piocosta’s laugh. Then the voices retreated and the footfalls died away. The two men in front remained motionless. For a crazy moment, he wondered if they’d been shot.
‘Can I get up now?’ he asked.
‘No, just sit tight,’ whispered the driver. He sounded on edge.
Scamarcio counted to ten in his head. Burning tendrils of panic were spreading through his chest, reaching out and encircling his heart. He knew that if he didn’t get ahold of the fear, he was lost. He wondered whether to call Greco now, and sound the alarm. But how could he do that with these two listening in?
Suddenly the door behind him opened, and a blast of hot air hit him. He inhaled jasmine, wet roses, the metallic heat of the bonnet baking in the midday sun.
‘OK, you can come out,’ said a voice he didn’t recognise.
Strong arms helped him to his feet, and he smelt expensive cologne. They were outside a modern white villa. Dense bougainvillea framed the wide front door, where two men with Kalashnikovs were standing guard. Piocosta’s Catanzaro home, he figured.
He looked up at the man holding him. He was well muscled, but he didn’t look like one of Piocosta’s typical foot soldiers. He was wearing a dark suit, and had the air of a lawyer or accountant about him.
‘This way,’ he said, leading Scamarcio up to the house.
He suddenly wanted to bolt, to make a run for it. Every instinct told him that Piocosta had discovered the truth, and that he was about to pay for it. Scamarcio took in the armed men at the doorway, the two men behind him. He knew he’d die trying. In that instant, he saw himself from a great distance, a tiny speck shuffling off this mortal coil, following his father down and down, deeper and deeper. He had grown up believing he was free, but he wasn’t. All his efforts, all his principles, had been worthless, pointless; a ridiculous nothing.
He took the stone steps, timing his exhalations with each tread. He counted ten breaths.
They entered a luminous lobby tiled with pale granite slabs, and passed through a wide oak doorway into the lounge. Piocosta was sitting on a long tan-leather sofa, his legs crossed, watching TV. Scamarcio scanned the room for his men, but it seemed that he was alone.
‘Thanks, Stefano. I’ll take it from here,’ said Piocosta, not looking up.
The man escorting Scamarcio nodded and left the room, closing the doors behind him.
‘Leo, sorry about the change of plan,’ said Piocosta, his eyes still on the TV.
‘Don’t be.’
‘Take a seat. You want a coffee?’ He motioned him to an armchair next to the sofa and finally looked at him. Scamarcio couldn’t read anything from his eyes.
‘I’m good, thanks.’
‘So what did you want to talk to me about?’
He hadn’t practised this scenario in his mind. He’d figured that Greco’s boys would have saved him the trouble. How stupid.
‘This job you want done,’ he said, recalculating. ‘We need to discuss details. I’ll need more backup; I’ll need help with a couple of things on the inside.’
Piocosta nodded, his expression neutral. After a moment, he said: ‘So you brought me all the way down here for that?’
‘Like I said, I was feeling nervous up in Rome.’
Piocosta leant towards the coffee table and picked up a lit cigar from a silver ashtray. He eased back slowly against the sofa and took a long drag, rolling the smoke around in his mouth for a while. He stared at Scamarcio through the haze, unblinking.
After what seemed like an eternity, Scamarcio said: ‘Would you be able to provide me with a couple of men then, for help on the inside?’
Piocosta just carried on staring, the back of his non-cigar hand against his mouth now. He said nothing, the dark pinpricks of his eyes sucking in all the light. The game was up, Scamarcio realised, a cold blade of fear pricking his spine.
‘You idiot,’ hissed Piocosta.
‘What?’
‘You think you can come down here and stir up a hornet’s nest, and that word’s not going to get back? Shit, you’re even more of a fool than your father.’
Scamarcio sprang to his feet. ‘Don’t you fucking dare! I could have you inside on a murder charge in two seconds.’
Piocosta’s laugh was cold and cruel. ‘With what evidence? Hearsay? The senile ramblings of a few old duffers? Give me a break, Leo.’
Scamarcio wanted his gun. He wanted to tear a hole through Piocosta’s chest. He wanted to see the sky through it.
Piocosta leant towards the coffee table and pressed a button on a small console. Scamarcio heard a flurry of footfalls, then a cluster of Piocosta’s heavies scrambled into the room. The tight knot of men pulled Scamarcio to his feet. He smelt sweat and breath mints, and felt his legs go weak.
‘Take him to the shed. I need to know what kind of shit he’s been stirring.’
They nodded, and pushed Scamarcio towards the d
oor. They made him think of Siamese quadruplets, joined at the hip, sharing a brain.
As they approached the doorway, he suddenly felt feverish, and couldn’t work out if he was really getting sick or whether the stress had tripped some kind of switch in his nervous system. Was ‘shed’ a euphemism? Would they be taking him elsewhere? A nearby scrap yard or warehouse? Piocosta probably owned a heap of business interests that he used as and when required. Scamarcio knew that Piocosta was pernickety, fastidious. He wouldn’t want the blood spilled in his own backyard. If they had to travel, there was hope, thought Scamarcio; there still existed the smallest chance of …
All at once, there was an explosion behind him. He heard a huge quantity of glass cracking and splintering, shattering to the floor. He turned to see the massive window to Piocosta’s left dissolve into a million tiny fragments. Next to Piocosta on the sofa was a small smoking canister. After a couple of dazed moments, Piocosta started to cough — short, dry coughs to start with, which soon became desperate, heaving rasps. Scamarcio tried to run for the front door, but his eyes were burning and his chest felt tight. He stumbled, and as he tried to get up he was overcome by dizziness, and vomited. His vision was failing, and he could no longer make out the contours of the room. He was trying to stand, trying to find the wall, when he felt legs push past him, and arms shove him aside. It felt like they were running towards the smoke, rather than running away. But he’d lost his bearings and couldn’t be sure.
Then all at once the air around him erupted into gunfire — a terrifying, relentless bombardment that shook the walls and rattled the doors. Volley after volley, it came; salvo after salvo. He lay flat, trying to shield his head with his arms, trying to protect his ears. The floor beneath him was trembling, pictures and ornaments tumbling and shattering. He counted to ten, twenty, thirty, but still the firing continued, louder and louder, growing in intensity. Past fifty, he thought his sanity might desert him, but then at seventy the noise suddenly ceased. There was no coughing, no begging for mercy, no croupish last breaths. It was a total, all-encompassing silence, dark and conclusive, chilling in its finality. He twisted his head to the side, and the stench of sulfur, iron, and excrement hit him. He wanted to retch again, but then he felt arms beneath him pulling him to his feet, propping him against a wall.
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