The Hit

by Nadia Dalbuono

  ‘There were other people with that girl on the CCTV — other people we still haven’t identified. If we haven’t found them at Giacometti’s, they have to be from one of the other companies.’

  ‘I don’t know what to tell you, Scamarcio; we can’t find them, and we’re looking hard.’

  ‘There’s got to be something,’ said Scamarcio. ‘Someone we’ve overlooked.’

  Sartori scratched his head and sighed. ‘I think we need to let it go, focus on the missing researcher.’

  He sounded like Mancino’s pet parrot, thought Scamarcio. As is to confirm Sartori’s assessment, Scamarcio’s mobile rang, and Detective Lovoti’s name appeared on the display. Lovoti was one half of the team stationed on surveillance outside Chiara Bellagamba’s parents’.

  ‘Got some movement, Scamarcio,’ he grunted. Lovoti was what HR would call ‘a team player’. He was always the joker, the prankster of the pack. He would have been the kind of boy Scamarcio would have steered well clear of at school — the kind of boy who was way too sure of himself to have been a friend.

  ‘What kind of movement?’

  ‘Well, it’s not the girl per se, but the little brown mouse of a mum has just hurried out the house by the back door, checking all around her that she wasn’t being followed. She’d put on a baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses, but it was definitely her. She was carrying two Unes shopping bags — full, by the looks of it.’

  ‘Were you able to get a glance at what was inside?’

  ‘It’s definitely food, because at one point one of the handles snapped and she was scrabbling around on the pavement trying to get it all into the other bag. Those bags, for life they give you these days, are shite. You’re lucky if they last a month.’

  Scamarcio gritted his teeth. ‘What kind of food?’

  ‘Well, I saw what looked like a couple of trays of Gran Biscotto, some eggs — I think they broke — milk, bread, cheese, some Fanta. Seemed like the staples, really.’

  ‘Interesting to be taking shopping out of the flat, rather than into it …’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Fanta, you say?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘That’s a kid’s drink.’

  ‘That’s why we’ve got a tail on her, Scamarcio.’

  ‘Where’s she heading, then?’ He heard the crackle of radio comms in the background.

  Lovoti stopped to speak to someone for a moment, then was back on the line: ‘As we speak, she’s going north up Viale Giotto.’

  Scamarcio heard more static. He realised his cigarette was almost down to the filter, but he smoked it anyway.

  ‘Now she’s turned right into Viale Baccelli.’

  ‘Don’t lose her. Are you on the tail, or are you still in situ?’

  ‘In situ.’

  ‘Don’t move. I’ll meet you there.’

  Scamarcio managed to slip on the slick pool of egg whites on the pavement outside the Bellagambas’ apartment. The impact with the concrete ripped a tear in the knee of his brown cords, and before he had a chance to get back on his feet and brush himself down, he heard Lovoti and his partner guffawing like two lobotomised apes from the front seat of their grey Corolla.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, keep it down,’ he hissed as he crawled onto the back seat. There was egg on the sleeve of his leather jacket, he realised.

  ‘Sorry, couldn’t help it, boss,’ said Lovoti, his shoulders heaving, his pudgy pink hand bunched into a babyish fist against his mouth.

  Scamarcio thought that Lovoti was probably the kind of guy who got his rocks off watching Strip the News on Channel 5, or one of those endless outtake shows where a fat American dad slips on a banana skin, or a toddler nearly drowns in a paddling pool. Scamarcio had always wondered where the humour was. If the toddler had fallen at a more acute angle, or the dad had gone through a window, they’d both be dead.

  ‘Cunts,’ whispered Scamarcio under his breath.

  ‘Sorry, boss?’ said Lovoti

  ‘Where’s Mrs Bellagamba now?’

  ‘She’s heading north-east towards the centre.’

  ‘Still walking?’

  ‘Still walking?’

  ‘Any sign of the dad?’

  ‘No. He left for work at the usual time.’

  ‘Let’s head north,’ said Scamarcio.

  ‘But we’re the only ones outside their place.’

  ‘We’ll risk it.’

  Lovoti held up his palms. ‘If you say so, but you’ll have to clear it with Garramone.’

  Scamarcio wanted to deck him for that. ‘Will do.’

  Lovoti’s partner, a blond-haired man in his mid-thirties whose name Scamarcio was always forgetting, fired up the ignition, and they slowly pulled away from the kerb, careful not to attract attention. Lovoti punched Mrs Bellagamba’s most recent location into the SatNav, then turned in his seat towards Scamarcio.

  ‘You think she’s taking that food to her daughter — that it’s meant for Proietti’s kid?’

  ‘Could be,’ said Scamarcio, chewing on his bottom lip.

  ‘Is it true that the prime suspect just offed himself in front of you?’

  ‘Good news travels fast.’

  ‘Shit, what a headfuck.’

  Scamarcio couldn’t think of how to respond to that.

  ‘Then you fall flat on your face and rip your trousers. It’s not your day, is it, boss?’

  ‘It won’t be yours, either, if you don’t shut the fuck up.’

  Lovoti swung back around smirking, and they travelled on in silence. Scamarcio had been thinking lately that he should make more of an effort to do something about his reputation in the squad as a loner. But it was encounters such as these that sapped his resolve.

  ‘Domodossola Ancona Bari, Domodossola, Ancona, Bari … All units …’

  Lovoti leant forward and snatched the radio from its hook. ‘Eight here. Status?’

  ‘Subject has stopped outside an apartment block on Via Valle delle Camene. Number 26, opposite the baker’s.’

  Scamarcio knew that street. It was in a better part of town, not far from the Villa Celimontana and its gardens.

  ‘Subject has rung the buzzer and is going in.’

  Scamarcio leant forward and grabbed the radio from Lovoti. ‘Get a man in there.’

  ‘Received. Stay on the line,’ said the officer calmly.

  They heard talking, raised whispers, a car door being gently closed, light footsteps on the tarmac, the buzz of an entry system. A distant female voice purred: ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon, Madam.’

  ‘Stay on the line,’ repeated the officer under his breath.

  Scamarcio heard the man sniff, then there was a short blast of static, then a whisper out in the ether, and then the female voice again. ‘Fourth floor; flat opposite the elevator.’

  ‘Good work,’ sighed Scamarcio.

  ‘You got that?’ said the officer on Via Valle delle Camene.

  ‘We got it. Wait for us; we’ll be there shortly. And radio for backup. We’ll be entering the location.’

  ‘OK.’

  Lovoti’s partner immediately abandoned the cautious act and rammed the accelerator to the floor. Scamarcio had to grudgingly admit that the two of them worked well together, Lovoti providing a fluid, improvised back-of-the hand navigation while his partner manoeuvred expertly around corners, roundabouts, schoolgirls, and strollers. At that speed, anyone else would have collided with the courting Japanese couple or the hippy woman dragging five mangy dogs on a tangle of leads, but not this guy. He took the turn into Via delle Camene at such a speed that, for a moment, Scamarcio thought they would all die. But the correction was so immediate, so swift, so expertly timed and perfectly executed, that he immediately felt ashamed for doubting him.

  They drew up outside the apartment block at a g
entle pace, and Scamarcio stepped onto the pavement feeling like a sailor who’d been at sea too long.

  He soon spotted the uniformed officers parked in their Panther some thirty metres up the street. He made no sign of acknowledging them, and pulled out his mobile.

  ‘Patch me through to the uniform crew on Via Valle delle Camene, please,’ he told Control. ‘It’s Detective Scamarcio.’

  ‘One moment, Detective.’

  After a couple of seconds, he saw the officer in the passenger seat reaching forward for his radio.

  ‘Detective?’

  ‘I’m going in alone for the time being. Keep this line open.’

  ‘Received.’

  On his way up to the entrance, he noticed the plainclothes duo in a white Fiat Punto, and reckoned this must be the officer he’d spoken to moments before. He recognised him as being one of a few new arrivals in the squad. Scamarcio angled himself away from the car and took the steps to the glass door. He tried a few buzzers, being careful to avoid those for the fourth floor. Eventually, someone let him in and he made his way to the stairs. The block might have been in a decent part of town, but inside the décor was pure 1970s faded elegance. Red-veined marble and plasticky brown panelling lined the walls, and the route to the elevator was dotted with dusty houseplants in fake gold stands.

  Scamarcio took the stairs two at a time, first checking that the elevator was clear. By the second floor, he couldn’t be sure if his heart was pounding because he was nervous or because he was out of shape. Probably both, he figured. There’d been no time for the gym lately. And for a long time before, he hadn’t felt like it.

  He made his way up the final steps to the fourth floor and turned to the right. The door to the flat was opposite, just as the female officer had told him it would be. What he hadn’t expected, though, was to find it ajar.

  He quickly reached beneath his jacket for his Beretta and cocked it. He pondered briefly whether to get the uniforms in. Give it a few seconds more, he told himself, you don’t want to blow it.

  He edged his back against the wall and moved slowly over the threshold. The first thing he noticed was that a window was open at the end of the corridor. Its white gauzy curtain had blown through the frame and was being buffeted by the breeze outside.

  Scamarcio turned as he heard a low thud of pop music coming from a room off to the right. The music was interspersed with a series of electronic bleeps and clicks. His mind flipped on the possibility of a bomb, but then a little boy’s voice shouted: ‘Shit, missed it.’

  Scamarcio eased through the doorway, his back still against the wall, his gun held high. A slightly overweight lad of about ten was sitting cross-legged on the living-room carpet. He was surrounded by discarded crisp packets and greasy chocolate foils, a half-empty bottle of Fanta by his side. His left arm was in a sling. Scamarcio scanned the rest of the room and then lowered his gun.

  The boy still hadn’t noticed him in the doorway. Every so often, he’d lift his hand from the joystick to take a swig of the soda, his eyes still firmly fixed on the video game in front of him. From where Scamarcio was standing, it looked like Grand Theft Auto.

  ‘You Antonio Proietti, by any chance?’ asked Scamarcio in as soft a voice as he could manage.

  The boy turned, his eyes falling instantly to the gun in Scamarcio’s hand. But he said nothing, and just turned back to the game, as if this was the sort of thing that happened all the time.

  ‘Where are the ladies who are looking after you?’

  ‘In the kitchen, I think.’ The boy was grappling furiously with the joystick again.

  Scamarcio felt pretty sure the women were no longer in the kitchen, but he checked anyway. As he’d expected, the kitchen and the rest of the apartment were empty. He leaned through the window and saw that there was a fire escape running down to a small ornamental garden and carpark.

  ‘Send two men to the back of the building,’ he said into his mobile. ‘Two female suspects on foot, Chiara Bellagamba and her mother, Rita.’

  ‘Received.’

  ‘Send a man up here to me on the fourth floor also.’

  Scamarcio pocketed his mobile and returned to the living room. He sensed that Antonio Proietti had no idea about the death of his mother. He knew something of the world of suffering that awaited the boy, and the thought of it robbed Scamarcio of words for a moment. The idiocy of adults and the pain they inflicted on children never ceased to infuriate him.

  When he’d finally found his voice, he said: ‘What happened to your arm?’

  ‘It’s just a sprain. I did it when we had the car crash. I wanted to take it out of the sling, as it doesn’t hurt anymore, but Chiara won’t let me. She says it still needs to heal.’

  Antonio spoke so fast that Scamarcio was struggling to keep up. ‘Do you want to see your dad?’ he said after a beat.

  Antonio Proietti sprang up from the floor, almost losing his balance for a moment. ‘Can I? Really? I can’t wait to tell him all about this.’

  Micky Proietti wept like a baby when Scamarcio brought his son into the room. Antonio hugged him fiercely, and Scamarcio got the impression that whatever compassion Micky Proietti might have lacked towards his wife or colleagues, he was considerably more wired in when it came to fatherhood.

  Scamarcio left the two of them for a moment, wondering when and how Proietti was going to break the news about the boy’s mother. He stepped into the corridor and lit a cigarette, realising that he’d probably never quit. This job made it fucking impossible. Frankly, he’d done well not to become a drug addict. He leaned back against the wall and dialled the chief CSI, Manetti, who was now working the scene at the flat where they’d found the boy.

  ‘You guys find anything yet?’

  ‘Ah, so I’ve been promoted from miracle worker to magician now. We’ve been here half an hour, Scamarcio!’

  Scamarcio rolled his eyes heavenward, although there was no one there to see it.

  ‘So far, we’ve got a lot of hair samples, some skin and fibres, and a bit of blood in the bathroom.’

  ‘Blood?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s minimal — might be menstrual.’

  ‘You have the Bellagamba DNA yet?’

  ‘Of course not — it will probably arrive this afternoon. Who else are we matching against?’

  ‘Just Paolo Giacometti at the moment. I’d like to go and swab the entire Rome TV industry, but no doubt Chief Mancino would have something to say about that.’

  ‘Yeah, these VIPs are always well connected.’

  ‘Actually, I was thinking more about the budget, but you’re probably right.’

  ‘I’ll call you if I get any matches, but you’ll need to give me some time with it. It’s early days and, if you ask me, we’ve been chasing our tail on this one.’

  He wondered if the dig was aimed at him. Manetti’s tone seemed neutral, though.

  ‘OK, keep me posted,’ he said as he spied Micky Proietti’s parents exiting the elevator.

  When she saw Scamarcio, Mrs Proietti started running towards him: ‘Have you got him, have you got him?’ Her cheeks were pink, and her watery eyes were searching his, desperate for any kind of answer. Scamarcio cut the call and slid his phone into his pocket.

  ‘Yes, he’s in there with your son.’

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ said Mrs Proietti, looking to the ceiling and exhaling sharply. ‘Oh, Jesus Maria.’ She grabbed Scamarcio by the arm and hurried past. He had the feeling that it was meant as a thank you.

  Her husband stopped for a moment, then took Scamarcio’s hand. ‘Thank you, Detective. We owe you a huge debt.’

  ‘Talking of debt, Sir, I need to ask you: why did your wife call you a murderer when we first met?’

  Mr Proietti’s eyes shifted away from him. He looked down and took a breath. When he glanced up again, something seemed to have
changed in his expression.

  ‘I could lie to you, Detective,’ he said quietly. ‘I suppose that’s what I’d planned on doing, but, given everything that’s happened, I rather feel that there’s no point. Appearance isn’t everything. We’re all human in the end: we all go to the bathroom; we all die.’

  There were tears in the old man’s eyes. Proietti Snr had such a chiselled, polished, steely demeanour that Scamarcio was taken aback.

  ‘I was very fond of my daughter-in-law, and I am deeply sorry that it has ended this way. Frankly, my wife had a point when she called me a murderer. In essence, that’s what I am.’

  The old man’s hands were shaking, and Scamarcio felt an unwelcome buzz of anticipation. He really hoped that he wasn’t about to get a confession. This case could not go off on a new tangent; he was too tired and too worn down for that, and there were already too many different angles to consider, too many fires to keep alight.

  ‘I don’t quite follow, Mr Proietti …’

  ‘There’s no nice way to put this: despite appearances, my son has been a huge disappointment to me. He’s a drug addict and a gambler. He’s frittered away everything he had, everything we worked so hard to give him. My wife was angry because I had the power to bail Micky out of his latest problem, but I chose not to. She thinks if I’d helped our son, the kidnapping would never have happened.’

  ‘You had a spare million and a half to give him?’

  Mr Proietti blanched. ‘A million and a half?’

  ‘That’s the figure.’

  ‘No, you must have it wrong.’ Mr Proietti’s cheeks seemed to have suddenly sunk in on themselves.

  ‘I trust my sources.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Mr Proietti rubbed a gnarled hand across his eyes, then looked up at Scamarcio. ‘Who does he owe it to?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  He sighed. ‘I have my suspicions, but I’ve never been sure. It was my daughter-in-law’s brother, you see, he’s a bit of a … Well, how to put it?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I know all about Davide Stasio and, yes, I think your suspicions are spot-on.’ Scamarcio paused for a moment. ‘But I’m certain that even if you had a million-and-a-half euros to give your son, it wouldn’t have changed anything.’