‘What does Mr Giacometti say?’
‘Oh, Paolo feels the same way. We’ve learned to put up with Micky over the years, ride out his tantrums. In the end, he always comes back to us.’
‘And you and Mr Giacometti are on good terms? You get along?’
‘Oh, of course — it wouldn’t work otherwise. We’re great friends.’
‘That must make for a positive working environment.’
‘Oh, yes. We have our bad patches, of course. Paolo can throw his toys out of the pram on occasion. He’s the creative in the partnership, so I put up with it.’
Scamarcio said nothing for a moment while he cast around for the right phrase. After a beat, he said: ‘I must say, I found Mr Giacometti a little eccentric.’
Delaney snorted. ‘Paolo does the mad-genius act pretty well, but underneath it all he’s a steely operator. Don’t be fooled — he might be the creative, but he has an excellent business brain when he wants to.’
‘He must have to have helped you make this company such a success.’
‘Yes, but we also have Paolo’s boyfriend to thank for that. He’s our CFO. He’s been excellent at ensuring we never grew too quickly, didn’t overstretch ourselves. That can be crucial for a business at the beginning.’
‘Have they been together long?’
Scamarcio wasn’t really sure why he’d asked this, but some instinct was nudging him down this road.
Delaney’s forehead bunched in surprise. ‘Almost ten years now, but, sadly, they’re about to split.’
‘Oh?’
She sighed and pushed the strange glasses higher up her head. ‘This is of zero relevance to your inquiry, but Paolo doesn’t know how to keep it in his pants. It’s a crying shame, because his partner is the loveliest man you could hope to meet. I wish I could find a man like that.’ She looked down, and Scamarcio sensed she’d immediately regretted saying it. He wondered suddenly if she’d been having an affair with Micky Proietti. Chiara Bellagamba, the researcher, worked for her as well as Giacometti, surely? So the lead from the studio lot came back to Delaney, as well as to Giacometti. In theory, it made sense; but looking at Delaney now, he didn’t get the sense that she was romantically involved with Micky Proietti. She didn’t seem emotionally invested — perhaps in the past, but not now.
‘Paolo has met someone else, so it’s all very nasty and complicated,’ Delaney added quickly. ‘The new guy is in the public eye, so that makes it even trickier.’
‘Who is he, this new guy?’ asked Scamarcio, his instincts about Giacometti still needling him.
She sighed and shook her head. ‘In all my years of friendship with Paolo, he’s never kept a secret from me, but this time he just won’t tell. I can honestly say I have absolutely no idea. Frankly, it’s driving me mad.’ She fell silent, then said: ‘Why all these questions about Paolo? There’s no way he could have anything to do with this. I mean, we’re talking about a murder now.’
Scamarcio tuned her out. He sat back in his chair and ran his fingers across his forehead. He sensed that there was something here: the form was drawing nearer, its outline gaining definition. But he didn’t know how to give it breath, bring it to life.
Diana Delaney had claimed that she didn’t recognise any of the other faces on the photo from the CCTV. And a tour of Giacometti’s offices had confirmed it. Unfortunately, none of the searches at the other production companies had produced a result either. Delaney had assured Scamarcio that if Chiara Bellagamba showed, she’d contact him immediately. She’d provided him with an address for her, but when he’d tried the bell, there was nobody home.
Scamarcio was weighing up the value of a trip to Trieste to speak with Giacometti. But, after brief consideration, he pushed the idea aside, telling himself that he wasn’t even certain to find the producer there. When he’d called the crew shooting in the city, they claimed not to have seen Giacometti for 48 hours. His Rome staff might have believed he was up north, but the possibility remained that he’d stayed down in the capital. If there was the smallest chance he was somehow tied up in the business with Proietti, he’d need an excuse for staying away from the office, and Trieste would provide that.
Scamarcio decided that the best thing he could do for the moment was to have a word with Giacometti’s soon-to-be ex. On his way to the address in Trastevere, he called Garramone to update him.
‘But this vague outline of an idea, as you call it, I don’t really follow how it hangs together,’ said the boss after he was done.
‘The girl on the CCTV from the studios works for Giacometti, so that’s the first point of contact, the first link. The second element is that Giacometti is secretly involved with a VIP — that might also prove significant.’
‘Or it might not.’
‘It’s another potential connection to Rome’s showbiz set.’
‘A flimsy connection.’
‘But what else have we got to go on right now? Where are we with Stasio, for starters?’
‘Nowhere,’ sighed Garramone. ‘Fucking nowhere.’
‘Exactly — let me chase this one down, see if it brings us any further.’
‘Chief Mancino’s got the team going back through all the CCTV from the motorway,’ said Garramone, sounding as if his heart was breaking at the wasted budget.
‘Politics.’
‘He wants Forensics to sweep that studio lot again.’
‘But Manetti didn’t find anything the first time! And God knows who’s been in there since.’
‘I know.’
‘He might just as well have set fire to a huge bundle of cash. ’
‘Call me if you get anywhere with this hunch of yours,’ said Garramone absently, his mind clearly already turning on something else.
The line went dead, and Scamarcio slumped down on a nearby bench. Chief Mancino was right; they were looking like a bunch of chimps, and Scamarcio’s failure to come up with anything down in Calabria probably hadn’t done him any favours either. He thought of Dante Greco and the fact that he’d heard nothing from him. He needed it to stay that way.
There was a mossy, post-rain musk emanating from the paving stones on Giacometti’s street. It seemed that he owned an apartment in one of Trastevere’s most desirable medieval buildings, its tiny diamond windowpanes and wandering ivy creating the impression that they were hundreds of kilometres from the capital. Opposite the address was one of the area’s more famous restaurants, and Scamarcio wondered if Giacometti ever did any cooking. He could probably afford not to.
Giacometti’s soon-to-be ex was a tall, good-looking man with foppish, streaky-blond hair, fashionable turquoise glasses, and a tawny complexion. He showed Scamarcio through to the living room, and politely offered him a coffee.
Scamarcio declined, and took a seat on a wide leather armchair. The place had a minimalist modern feel, with a few designer pieces carefully positioned. He took in angular chrome lamps, asymmetrical bronze mirrors, and multi-coloured Afghan rugs.
Giacometti’s partner introduced himself as Sebastiano.
‘But I don’t understand what Paolo could possibly have to do with the Proietti thing,’ he said after Scamarcio had explained the reason for his visit. ‘I mean, he isn’t mad on Micky, but he respects him. Micky gives the company a lot of work; frankly, we’d be nowhere without him.’
Scamarcio nodded. ‘I’m going to need to ask you a few difficult questions, Sebastiano, but I have to explore every angle, especially in the light of what happened yesterday.’
‘What happened yesterday?’
Scamarcio glanced up in surprise. ‘You haven’t seen the news?’
‘I don’t really watch TV.’
Scamarcio pulled out his notepad. ‘Proietti’s wife was murdered. They threw her body outside his flat last night.’
Sebastiano placed a hand over his mouth. ‘My G
od.’
‘I’d presumed you’d heard.’
‘There’s absolutely no way Paolo would be involved in that.’ He took a seat on the sofa and took a few hurried sips from a bulb-shaped tumbler of what looked like water.
‘Well, I can’t say I see him doing something like that, either, but I do want to find out why one of his staff was at the exact location at the exact same time we traced a call from the kidnappers.’
‘Couldn’t it have been coincidence?’
‘I don’t believe in coincidences. Police work soon teaches you that.’ Scamarcio paused for a moment. ‘Paolo’s business partner told me that you guys are splitting up. I’m very sorry to hear that, but I’m afraid that I do need to ask about it. Do you know who Paolo is seeing now? It might be important.’
Sebastiano was shaking his head, looking at the parquet. ‘I just don’t see why any of this is relevant.’
‘I know it seems odd, but bear with me. So, this new guy? Do you know him?’
Sebastiano looked up, rolled his eyes at the ceiling, and sighed. ‘No. At first, I thought it was just one of Paolo’s fads, a stupid fling, but then I realised that he was really obsessing.’
‘Obsessing in what way?’
‘Changing his behaviour, his habits.’
Scamarcio was about to steer him back to the identity of the mystery man, but then decided to just let him follow whatever train of thought he was on. ‘How did Paolo change?’
‘He became interested in his physique, started going to the gym. Paolo has never been into sport. It was all I could do to get him off the sofa sometimes.’
‘What else?’
Giacometti’s former partner dropped his shoulders, his mouth folding into a frown that made his irritation plain. ‘He started reading a lot, but not the usual stuff — he’s always been a fan of crime novels, Carrisi, Camilleri, all those guys. But I noticed that he started buying things like The Odyssey, The Iliad, The Decameron. It was as if he was trying to better himself, to reacquaint himself with the classics.’
Scamarcio didn’t feel as if he was being brought along any further. ‘Anything else?’ he asked, trying to disguise his impatience.
Sebastiano barred his arms across his chest. ‘No.’
‘And this new man?’
‘No idea.’ The tone was icy now.
‘Giacometti’s business associate says he’s a VIP.’
Sebastiano’s expression morphed through surprise, then alarm, and then outright distress. ‘Really?’ He took another sip of water and then set the glass down slowly. ‘News to me.’
Scamarcio felt no sympathy. He wanted to punch something or someone — he was getting nowhere.
30
HE TOOK THE LIST OF TELEPHONE numbers that had been handed to him.
‘There are only a few hundred Bellagambas in Rome. One of them must know her,’ said the junior officer desperately.
Scamarcio mumbled an unconvincing thank you.
He didn’t feel like heading out of the office straight away, so he ran a web search for Giacometti’s Autumn of our Lives series. There had been a flurry of pre-publicity, and it seemed that there were a handful of big stars involved, the biggest of which were Enzo Fernando, Zac Dandini, and Mario Pepe — all household names. He realised that this was what Giacometti had been watching on his laptop when they’d first met. Scamarcio wondered if these national institutions were all up in Trieste shooting, or whether he might catch any of them down in Rome.
After a few calls to their agents, he learned that the big three were still in Trieste, but Matteo Bini, an up-and-coming young actor, had already completed some filming and was on a four-day pause in Rome to shoot a commercial. If Scamarcio needed to speak to him, he could be found at Cinnecittà, the friendly agent informed him. Scamarcio wondered if she’d misunderstood the nature of his call, so helpful was she, but he quickly jotted down the details, deciding it might be worth a shot.
The prospect of observing a commercial being made was considerably more appealing than a visit to Chiara Bellagamba’s parents, who had soon been located in Testaccio, but Scamarcio knew it had to take priority.
As he’d somehow expected, the Bellagambas lived in a drab block just off the main Ostiense arterial.
When Scamarcio told them why he was looking for their daughter, the portly father just looked confused and said: ‘But why would Chiara be involved in anything like that?’
‘We don’t know for sure that she is, but it’s something we’re looking into.’
‘But we haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks now. She’s been up in Trieste for work.’
‘I saw her at her office here in Rome just this morning.’
‘Really?’ The father turned to the worried, pale-faced mother. ‘Did you know she was back?’
She shook her head. ‘I haven’t heard from her. I did call her yesterday, but she didn’t pick up.’ She looked up at Scamarcio. ‘Should we be concerned?’
‘Like I say, I saw her just this morning. I think she may be trying to avoid me. Please let me know if you hear from her.’ He handed over his card, and the mother studied it for a moment, mouthing the words.
‘Is Chiara happy in her work?’ asked Scamarcio.
The father nodded emphatically. ‘Oh, yes. She enjoys meeting the actors; she enjoys the technical side. She wants to be a director one day — she’s been into films since she was little. She used to have her own little cinecamera, and would shoot anything and everything that moved.’ He stopped for a moment. ‘In my heart of hearts, I wanted her to have a proper job — you know lawyer, accountant, something solid. But then I told myself, if this is what’s she’s into, if this is her passion, then maybe she’ll make a good fist of it.’
‘They really like her there,’ the mother chipped in. ‘She was told by her boss that she’s in line for promotion to producer.’
‘This boss — what’s his name?’
The mother brought a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, I forget. She talks about him all the time, what is it now …’
‘Paolo Giacometti?’
‘Yes, that’s it,’ she said. ‘Chiara thinks he’s a genius. Says he’s the cleverest person she’s ever met.’
Again, Scamarcio felt like he was getting nowhere. He thanked them for their time, and reminded them to call as soon as they heard from their daughter.
Matteo Bini was standing in front of the camera, holding up a bottle of mineral water and grinning gormlessly. His face was covered by a thick layer of foundation, and every few minutes two women with an array of brushes and mirrors swinging from their belts would magically appear and readjust his hair or eyeliner. Scamarcio was quite fascinated by the fact that Bini was wearing eyeliner. He knew that it wouldn’t look like it when the commercial aired, and he wondered why that should be the case. After spending far too long contemplating this, he told himself to focus.
They seemed to be shooting the same thing over and over again, and Scamarcio couldn’t believe the director wasn’t satisfied. A number of times, Scamarcio was tempted to scream ‘cut’ himself and release Bini from his misery. Yet he had to admit that he was impressed by the actor’s professionalism. He seemed able to maintain the same pose and absurd expression minute after minute, and never once complained when the lighting was adjusted or the lenses changed for the fifty-fifth time. No doubt, being paid a small fortune helped.
Eventually, someone shouted ‘Break,’ and Scamarcio rose quickly from his chair. He felt for his badge and made his way towards the perspiring young star.
‘Sorry to bother you at work, Sir,’ he said, holding up the ID for Bini to read.
Bini narrowed his eyes as he scanned the badge, the foundation caking into dusty craters around his laughter lines. ‘Oh, God, is everything OK?’ he said, looking up at Scamarcio. ‘Has something happened to my wife?’
‘Oh, really? God, it’s a dreadful business. I couldn’t believe it when I heard about Maia.’
There was a level of recognition in Bini’s eyes when he said the name that felt slightly off to Scamarcio.
‘Did you know her?’
‘No, not personally,’ Bini ran a hand across his forehead. ‘I knew of her. I’d seen her at a few things with Micky.’ Bini made towards the edge of the studio and collapsed into a foldout chair. A minion handed him a small bottle of water. Scamarcio noticed that the brand was different from the one the actor was pushing.
‘Can we offer you anything, Detective?’ said Bini, motioning to the pretty girl who had given him the bottle.
‘A water would be good. Watching all that has made me thirsty.’
The girl passed it across and hurried off.
Bini extended his long legs like a spider unfolding, and took a few sips from the bottle. ‘So how do you think I can help?’
Scamarcio parked himself on a rickety bench and tried to ignore the make-up caking the man’s face. Bini was a handsome guy, but the trowelfuls of foundation made for an unsettling look beneath the harsh studio glare.
‘I hear you’re working on The Autumn of our Lives series.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you’ve been shooting up in Trieste.’
‘Correct.’
‘Has Paolo Giacometti been around much?’
‘Er, Paolo was there for a few days when I was filming, then I think he headed back to Rome.’
‘When was this?’
‘The first half of last week — I think he left on the Wednesday.’
‘You sure?’
‘Not 100 per cent. It does all tend to blur into one after a while.’
‘I bet.’ Scamarcio pulled out a notebook and jotted down the dates. ‘Have you worked with Paolo before?’
‘On a few things. We did a series last year for Channel One again. It was about a family who ran a vineyard in Alto Adige.’
The Hit Page 23
