‘How did they find out so fast?’ hissed Garramone.
‘This area is full of media professionals.’
‘Great,’ sighed Garramone, his eyes moving off to the right once more. ‘It just gets better.’
Chief Mancino’s Panther was pulling up behind the truck. After half a minute, the boss of bosses emerged, trying hard to keep his long grey overcoat clear of the drains.
‘Come with me,’ said Garramone, striding towards the car.
Scamarcio took a breath and followed.
Chief Mancino, ever the political operator, had already spotted the TV crew. Scamarcio watched him recompose his initially furious expression into something more measured, observed him tame an unruly eyebrow and smooth down his thick, dark hair.
‘Garramone,’ hissed the chief under his breath. ‘This is a mess. How the hell did we get here?’
‘We believe this is the result of the victim’s brother trying to take matters into his own hands.’
‘And how on earth was he able to do that?’
‘We had him under surveillance,’ Garramone paused. ‘But we lost him, Sir.’
‘That’s not acceptable.’
Garramone said nothing.
‘We can’t have another murder.’ Mancino’s blue eyes had shrivelled to nothing.
‘I understand.’
‘So — next steps?’
‘We’re doing our very best to locate the brother.’
‘And the kidnappers?’
‘We’re following up some final leads.’
‘Still nothing from the motorway CCTV?’
‘Nothing.’
‘That’s impossible. We must have missed something. Go through your final sightings again. Check and double check.’
Scamarcio saw Garramone’s shoulders sag beneath his jacket. He knew he would have done this already. But the mention of the CCTV was triggering something for Scamarcio: he thought back to the video of Maia Proietti, and remembered that it had bothered him, but that he wasn’t sure why. He still didn’t understand the significance of his doubts, but instinct was telling him that the TV angle couldn’t be ignored: that it could be foolish to write off this kidnapping as a purely Calabrian matter now.
He cleared his throat. ‘Actually, there is something, Sir, but until now we haven’t pursued it, due to the legwork required.’
‘Tell me,’ barked Mancino.
‘There is CCTV footage of four people claiming to be a TV crew who used some studios at the location where we traced a call from the kidnappers. Proietti claimed not to know them, so we didn’t follow it up. When Stasio’s Calabrian connections came to the fore, we concentrated on those, but it may now be time to return our attention to Proietti’s television work. I’d like to send some officers around to the television companies Proietti does business with, and try to identify the four people from the CCTV.’
‘But if you traced the call to the studios, they should have been investigated immediately.’
‘As I say, our focus was the Calabrian connection. There were a number of people using the location that day, and the call could have been made by any one of them. It could also have been made by someone who had simply pulled up outside and never entered the lot. It felt like too much of a long shot.’
‘Well, it seems as if long shots are all we have left to work with. Do it — I’ll give you what you need.’
‘Scamarcio, how can we rule out the Calabrian angle, given the wiretaps we have of Stasio?’ asked Garramone. ‘It sounds like Proietti had run up debts; we have video evidence of him confessing as much to Manfredi.’
‘What I’m saying, Sir, is that it’s possible that there are two explanations for this kidnapping, and that they may well co-exist.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I don’t have the finer details yet, but I really think we need to go back to that CCTV and track down those four people.’
Mancino was studying him carefully. ‘Just get me a result. I need something to throw to the lions.’ He cast a furious eye towards a blonde TV reporter who was now standing next to the cordon, adjusting a wire behind her ear. ‘Up until now these kidnappers have run rings around us. We need to start hitting back. We need to stop looking like a bunch of fuckwits.’
29
‘RIGHT, HERE YOU GO,’ panted Sartori, shuffling towards him with a stack of photographic paper. ‘I’m about to distribute them to the officers. I’ll need your list.’
Scamarcio handed over several sheets of paper detailing the names and addresses of the production companies Proietti did business with.
‘You can cross GD Films off that,’ said Scamarcio, taking a printout of the CCTV picture. ‘I’ve already met the mad Mr Giacometti who runs it, and I feel like paying him another visit. It’ll provide some light relief.’ He rubbed a tired hand across his mouth. ‘We’re clear on our officers going in at the same time? We don’t want any of these places tipping each other off.’
‘It will all be synched. They will be entering at 11.00 am on the dot.’
‘That’s when I’ll be paying Giacometti a visit then.’
Sartori jabbed a thumb through the doorway, towards Micky Proietti hunched up in his armchair. It looked as if Proietti was trying to return to the foetal position. ‘Did you get anywhere?’
Scamarcio shook his head. ‘Nothing. He claims to have no idea about who might have killed his wife.’
‘Do you think he’s telling the truth?’
‘I dunno. On the Stasio wiretap, it sounds like he believes the Calabrians have taken his family. But weirdly, when I was with him last night, I got the impression that he really isn’t that sure anymore.’
‘Hmm … What about Stasio? What’s our friend saying on that?’
‘He just won’t go there. Same goes for the conversation with Manfredi on the USB.’
‘But doesn’t Proietti realise that all this could help us find his son?’
‘He’s scared, I think, like a rabbit caught in headlights. Even if he’s no longer sure about the Calabrians being involved, he’s still shitting himself.’
‘What could be scarier than the Calabrians?’
‘God knows. But these doubts of his are wearing him down, confusing him.’
‘So how do we get past all that? Can’t we haul him in? Charge him with obstruction or something?’
Scamarcio shook his head. ‘Garramone thinks that’ll be counter-productive, and I tend to agree. We need to break Proietti, make him realise that it’s time to let go, time to let us handle it. But if the death of his wife isn’t enough to convince him of that, God knows …’
Scamarcio glanced at Proietti once more. He was sitting up now, trying to pour himself a scotch from a decanter. His hands were shaking, and he was spilling a vast quantity of whisky down the front of his jeans.
Sartori tutted at the sorry spectacle. ‘Will he be OK?’
‘Not until he gets his son back. The man’s guilt-ridden. Says it’s time to change his life, devote himself to his kid.’
‘He could start by being straight with us.’
‘I tried that. All he said was that if his boy comes home, he’ll be taking him abroad. He wants to get out of Rome, leave it all behind.’
‘Hmm … can’t see his debtors agreeing to that one.’
A thought resurfaced in Scamarcio’s mind. It was the second time today. But he pushed it aside and checked his watch. ‘Right, off we go then — we’ve got two hours to distribute the pictures and get across town. I’m going to grab some breakfast first.’
‘Lucky you,’ said Sartori.
‘I didn’t sleep last night. While you were comfortably tucked up in bed, I was playing nursemaid to Proietti.’
Sartori raised both palms. ‘All right, calm down. No one’s going to snitch on you.’
Scamarcio wondered how Giacometti would react to him searching his premises for potential kidnappers. Knowing how off-centre the man appeared to be, it was possible that he might actually enjoy it.
Scamarcio glanced at the picture of the TV crew again, and continued his climb of the stairs leading to the offices of GD Films. The elevator was out of order, which was precisely what he didn’t need after being up all night with Proietti sobbing into his shoulder.
Uninvited, an image of Fiammetta di Bondi came up to his mind. Yet again, he asked himself if she was just a troubled girl desperate to accumulate wealth, or whether there was genuinely more to her. The way she told it, she was trapped by her circumstances, but working hard to free herself and build a career she cared about. If this version of her life was true, what was so very wrong with it? If she’d found a way to get where she wanted, who could sit in judgement? He tried to push these thoughts aside, but then felt a fresh stab of guilt as he pictured Aurelia and her new life in Munich. He’d tried to contact her to explain the switch in security, but it seemed that she was still avoiding him. The way she saw it, he’d ruined her life, and the last thing she wanted was to hear from him.
Scamarcio sighed and tried to drag his thoughts back to the investigation. He continued the endless climb — it felt as if Giacometti’s block had the longest staircase in Rome. He was rounding yet another corner when a young, dark-haired woman wearing thick-framed spectacles almost mowed him down. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, bounding down the stairs two at a time.
‘Watch it,’ he shouted behind him, anger flaring.
He climbed a few more steps, then stopped and turned. Jesus, he was a fucking idiot. He knew that girl — he’d seen her before, and recently at that. He hadn’t made the connection because of the glasses.
He swung around and sprinted back down the stairs. ‘Hey, you, stop!’
Several floors below him, he heard the heavy front door release and then swing back shut with a thud. He reached the ground floor in seconds, jamming the buzzer and prising the door back open. He scanned right and left down the busy street — once, twice, three times — but he couldn’t find the girl anywhere in the crowd. It was as if she’d evaporated into nothing.
He reached for his mobile and called base, reeling off a description and requesting that all units in the area keep an eye out, although he knew the chances of finding her were slim. Would she just show up again at work? Could he count on that? Somehow he doubted it.
He began his long climb of the stairs once more, cursing himself for being so slow, so spectacularly unobservant for a detective. When he finally made it to Giacometti’s floor, he shoved the glass door angrily, looking around for someone to shout at. A young man was hurrying past, clutching a white iPhone.
‘Excuse me,’ said Scamarcio, grabbing him by the arm, probably harder than was necessary.
The boy swung around, alarmed. ‘Yes?’ he said, hesitantly.
‘Is Giacometti in?’
‘No, he’s on a shoot up in Trieste. He’ll be away until Monday.’ The boy looked down at his arm, and Scamarcio released his grip slightly.
Scamarcio was infuriated by Giacometti’s absence, but in the next instant he wondered whether the fact that he was away was actually no bad thing. He drew out the sheet of photographic paper and showed it to the boy. ‘Do you know this girl?’
The boy took the photo and studied it, his lips forming a thin frown. ‘Er, yes, of course. That’s Chiara.’
‘Chiara?’
‘Chiara Bellagamba — she works here.’ The boy frowned some more. ‘And you are?’
Scamarcio pulled out his badge. The boy took a quick look and said: ‘Is Chiara OK? Has something happened to her? She only just left …’
‘No, she’s all right. Is there a place we can talk?’
‘I think I should get one of the execs in — I’m quite junior and …’
Scamarcio placed a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘I’d really rather talk to you for now. We’ll bring in the bosses afterwards.’
The boy nodded nervously, and led Scamarcio towards a long meeting room with opaque glass windows. They stepped inside, and Scamarcio saw that the far wall was lined with various framed posters and publicity campaigns for what he presumed were Giacometti’s shows. He drew out a seat at a plastic table.
‘Can I get you a coffee, Detective, water?’
‘No, I’m fine. So, Chiara?’
The boy seemed on edge, but Scamarcio sensed this was more because he was worried about upsetting the management. The lad kept scanning the corridor outside, and rose hurriedly to his feet a couple of times before sitting back down again.
‘She works here, you say?’
‘She’s a researcher, like me. We started on the same day — we’ve both been here a year now.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘Chiara? Well, she’s good, very good, very ambitious, one of the most ambitious people I know, actually. The bosses really like her.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Word is, she’ll make producer soon.’ He didn’t sound that happy about it.
‘What kind of projects does she work on?’
‘She’s been up in Trieste with Giacometti a lot on the Autumn of our Lives series.’
‘Autumn of our Lives? Who’s that for?’
‘Channel One. It will be the centrepiece of their autumn schedule.’ The young man cleared his throat. ‘Detective, can I get one of the bosses in now? I don’t want to …’
‘What’s going on here?’ said a gravelly female voice from somewhere out in the corridor.
Scamarcio turned to see a handsome woman in her fifties standing in the doorway, one hand resting proprietarily on the doorframe. She had perfectly coifed highlighted hair and sinewy, tanned calves. She was immaculately dressed in a beige skirt and jacket, with a cream bow blouse on which was resting a long string of pearls. A pair of bright red-and-orange glasses were perched on the top of her head, pinning back her luxuriant hair. All Scamarcio could think of at this precise moment was that her glasses didn’t quite match her suit.
He rose to shake her hand. ‘I’m Detective Leone Scamarcio from the flying squad. I was asking your researcher some questions in relation to an inquiry. This young man kept insisting I talk to you first, so don’t hold it against him.’
‘So why didn’t you?’
‘Why didn’t I what?’
‘Talk to me first.’
‘I needed a quick answer to a quick question.’
The woman’s hardened gaze seemed to relax slightly. She smiled thinly at the boy. ‘I could never be annoyed with Simo. He’s one of my best.’
The boy looked down into his lap, a flush of red making its way up his neck.
‘So can I ask what this is about?’ she said, pinning Scamarcio with a stare. He had the feeling that she was the dealmaker of this company, and a consummate ballbreaker.
‘It’s the Proietti inquiry.’
‘Really?’ Her face became a furrow. ‘But how can Simo help with that? I don’t think he’s ever met Micky.’ She turned to the boy. ‘Have you met Micky?’
The boy shook his head quickly.
‘But you have, I imagine?’ asked Scamarcio.
‘Of course. Me and Micky go back a long way.’
A doubt surfaced in Scamarcio’s mind. ‘Did Mr Giacometti mention that I’d visited him?’
‘No. When was this?’
‘A few days ago now.’
‘No.’ She paused for a moment. ‘He didn’t.’ She seemed to be thinking something through. ‘Paolo’s been very busy lately. I guess it must have slipped his mind.’ Even she didn’t sound convinced.
Scamarcio was beginning to detect the faintest outline of something; a form was starting to emerge, but its contours remained unclear. He told himself to stay alert.
‘OK, thank
s, you can go now,’ he said to the boy.
The boy rose hurriedly to his feet and scurried out, seemingly desperate to get away.
The woman took a seat in a leather chair next to Scamarcio and carefully crossed her legs, smoothing down her pearls against the bow as she did so. ‘My name’s Diana Delaney, by the way, but you can call me Didi. I’m Paolo Giacometti’s business partner.’ She adjusted her hemline. ‘So what were you asking Simo?’
‘Delaney? That’s not an Italian name.’
‘English father, Italian mother. I grew up in Rome, though, so I’m Italian through and through.’
Scamarcio nodded, and handed her the picture of the girl. After she’d studied it for a few seconds, she said: ‘How does Chiara fit into this?’
He filled her in on the kidnappers’ call from the studio and the four people captured on the CCTV. When he’d finished, Delaney said: ‘Forgive me, Detective. I’m sure you know how to do your job, and I know you guys must be desperate after what happened to Micky’s wife, but it seems to me that you’re clutching at straws.’
Scamarcio ignored her. ‘Have you and Giacometti worked together long?’
She turned in the chair so her body was angled more tightly towards him. ‘We started this company 25 years ago now, although sometimes it feels like 25 days.’
‘You’re doing very well, from what I hear.’
‘We are,’ she said breezily. ‘We’ve put in a lot of hard work, but we’ve also had a fair bit of luck. Of course, you need both for a business to succeed.’
‘Do you often make programmes for Micky Proietti?’
‘He usually commissions his big projects from us — his centrepiece series.’
‘So you have a good relationship?’
He saw a cloud cross her face before she tried to correct it. ‘Yes, we do …’
‘I sense a “but” …’
She coughed, then said: ‘If I’m to be honest, our latest venture has not been going that well. Micky isn’t happy with it — he’s fired the director, and has brought in his own people.’
‘That must be pretty frustrating.’
‘It’s challenging, but I was sure we’d get through it. I know Micky — I thought he was just having a panic.’
The Hit Page 22
