‘I’ll need names.’
‘I don’t have any.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I’m telling you, I don’t know. I left all that to En …’ Dandini just stopped in mid-sentence, and after repeated attempts it was clear to Scamarcio that he was never going to get him to confirm the involvement of Enzo Fernando.
It riled Scamarcio that Fernando was just going to dust himself off and walk away from this unscathed. Scamarcio’s instincts told him that Fernando was involved; that he’d been a part of it, maybe a key part. But there wasn’t a single scrap of evidence to pin on him. Pepe bothered Scamarcio less: perhaps because he was a quieter, less assuming type; perhaps because he wasn’t quite as much the star. Scamarcio sensed that if Pepe had been privy to this conspiracy, it would have been to a lesser degree. Fernando was the one Scamarcio really wanted to nail, the huge TV name he needed to make an example of. You couldn’t go around kidnapping someone’s family just because you didn’t like the way they did business. And you couldn’t arrogantly assume you’d get away with it.
When Scamarcio had called him to the station, Fernando had suggested that they meet at an up-scale wine cellar in Trastevere instead. At first, Scamarcio had wanted to tell him to go fuck himself and haul his arse down to Via San Vitale, then he had thought it through for a moment and changed his mind. He figured that if they were going to do this in a more casual environment, Fernando wouldn’t be bringing his lawyers. And, for the time being, that suited Scamarcio just fine.
When Scamarcio arrived at the wine bar, Fernando seemed to be several rounds ahead. He was resting his massive shoulder against the wall, his eyes drooping. How many Brunellos would it take to bring a prizefighter like this to his knees, Scamarcio wondered.
He drew out a chair opposite. ‘So, Maia Proietti and Zac Dandini — did you know?’
‘No idea, news to me, nothing to do with it,’ muttered Fernando into his wine, as if he were choosing default responses from a checklist.
Scamarcio rubbed at his eyes and sighed. He was dog-tired. On impulse, he decided to toss out the rulebook and order himself a large glass of Amarone. He’d play this one on Fernando’s terms. Who knew? It might get him somewhere if he could stay lucid. Fernando studied him with the drunk’s lopsided gaze while they waited in silence for the waitress to return. Every so often, Fernando would shift his eyes from Scamarcio back to his glass, deep in thought. Scamarcio preferred to just let him get on with the drinking, and hopefully give him enough rope to hang himself. When Fernando’s attention switched back to his wine yet again, Scamarcio glanced in his pocket to check that the recording light on his mobile was on. Whether anything he captured would hold up in court was another story.
When the waitress was back with the Amarone, Scamarcio took a long drink and waited for the buzz to hit. After a few moments, he felt ready for a second approach.
‘So, you really didn’t know that Maia Proietti and Dandini had been having a relationship? That seems odd to me — I thought you and Mr Dandini were close.’
‘Appearances can be deceptive.’
‘So, you don’t get on?’
Fernando rolled his eyes. ‘I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that I didn’t know he was screwing her. Dandini has always been one to keep his cards close to his chest. Unlike me — I wear my heart on my sleeve.’
Scamarcio didn’t exactly share this analysis. ‘And the Aconi thing?’
‘No idea,’ said Fernando, rolling his eyes again. Scamarcio wondered if, rather than exasperation, it was the drink taking hold.
‘Weird thing is that both Giacometti and Dandini say other people were involved in this kidnapping plot.’
‘Very weird,’ said Fernando, rubbing beneath his nose. He slowly held up a hand and snapped his fingers, his elbow wobbling on the table. The pretty young waitress hurried back over.
‘Hello, my angel, be a love and bring me another bottle of Brunello, will you?’
Scamarcio was irrationally pleased with himself that he’d guessed Fernando’s poison.
‘Biondi Santi 2008 again, Sir?’
‘Of course.’
A bottle of that wouldn’t leave you much change from a 100. Scamarcio wished he hadn’t ordered the Amarone now.
‘Do you see Proietti often? Do your paths cross?’ he asked.
Fernando scratched below his ear and narrowed his eyes. He waited a few moments before replying. ‘Not much. He’s the commissioner at the channel, so he stays in his ivory tower. I’ve met him at a few awards ceremonies, at the odd party, that kind of thing.’ He looked away, appearing to remember something. ‘I’ve never seen him on a shoot, though. Some commissioners do pop down to check how it’s going from time to time, but Micky — never. That should tell you something.’
‘What should it tell me?’
Fernando just shook his head slowly from side to side, and frowned at Scamarcio as if he were an idiot.
‘What do your colleagues think of Proietti — the other big players like yourself?’
Fernando sighed. ‘It might surprise you to learn that we don’t sit around talking about him all day. We have far more interesting things to discuss.’
Scamarcio was beginning to lose hope. The only result he would come away with from this encounter would be a hangover. He drained his glass and asked: ‘What are you working on next?’
A smile began playing on Fernando’s lips. Scamarcio realised that the actor was very drunk now; too drunk to be useful, perhaps. He thought about leaving, trying again tomorrow. But he didn’t feel quite ready to give up, and, besides, he wanted to try the Brunello.
‘My next project?’ said Fernando, breaking out into a full smile now, several gold fillings sparkling under the lights. ‘Oh, it’s a good one.’ Then, as an afterthought: ‘Would you like to hear the outline?’
Scamarcio had been about to decline, but then some instinct told him to shut up. ‘Sure. Go ahead, Mr Fernando.’
Fernando coughed and sat up straighter. He slowly moved his massive palms through the air in an arc as if he were opening an imaginary stage curtain.
‘Scene One: It’s a beautiful spring afternoon; a silver Mercedes is racing down the motorway towards Sperlonga. A successful executive is up front, his chauffeur at the wheel. The executive is at the pinnacle of his career: his work is going from strength to strength, and he has a beautiful wife, a lovely young son, and a string of stunning mistresses, to boot. On this particular afternoon, it seems that life just couldn’t get any better.’
Suddenly, Fernando smashed both palms on the table, sending wine glasses and cutlery rattling. The bar fell silent, and customers turned and looked. Fernando leant in towards Scamarcio, commanding his attention, spearing him with his stare.
‘All at once, a car comes round the bend on the wrong side of the road; it’s doing way more than 160, heading straight for them. In an instant, the successful executive knows it’s not going to stop, that they’re all about to die, that this is it, the end, the end of everything he’s worked so hard for.’
Fernando brought his palms together into a loud clap, prompting yet more customers to turn and whisper. Scamarcio noticed a man who might have been the manager hovering near their table. It seemed as if he were wrestling with the question of whether it was wise to ask a VIP of Fernando’s magnitude to keep the noise down.
‘Kapow! There’s a dreadful, dreadful crash, and the car is a wreck. A helpful stranger just happens to be passing, and calls an ambulance.’
Scamarcio swallowed and didn’t say a word.
Fernando shook his head slowly. ‘That was a role I’d have liked to play — the helpful stranger — but I’m too well known.’ He sighed. ‘The price of fame.’
The waitress arrived with the Brunello. Scamarcio quickly took the bottle from her and refilled their glasses. He took a long si
p, rolling the wine around his tongue a few times. Fernando nodded sagely, appreciating Scamarcio’s enjoyment.
After he’d emptied his glass, Fernando steepled his hands and dipped his head lower, his voice a whisper now.
‘The poor man goes to the hospital, but there’s no sign of his family. He tries other places, but there’s no sign of them there, either. So begins eleven days of hell; eleven days when this man can finally start to reflect on who might have done this, on who might want revenge, on who he might have hurt on the way up. Finally, he starts to understand what a total shit he’s been to those around him; to those who made him soar, to those who brought him so much success.’
Fernando had hunched slightly, and was now tracing patterns with his gold-ringed finger in a small puddle of wine. His mood seemed to have shifted. The exuberance was gone. He was doing melancholy reflection now.
‘Micky Proietti was a bastard; he was cruel, thoughtless, mean-spirited, and vindictive. We made ratings winners for him year after year. And year after year, the money got tighter and the hours got longer. There was never any gratitude, never any acknowledgement, never any praise.’ He took another long drink and closed his eyes. ‘Some people just need to be taught a lesson.’
‘So that’s all this was, the teaching of a lesson? A woman died, for Christ’s sake!’
Fernando opened his eyes and looked at Scamarcio, but conveyed no discernible emotion. The actor just heaved his bulk slowly from behind the table and threw down a handful of notes. From where Scamarcio was sitting, they looked like 100-euro bills.
‘The Brunello is on me, Detective. Knock yourself out.’
39
‘SO,’ SAID GARRAMONE, ‘Will we ever find the elusive Davide Stasio, so we can charge him for his sister’s murder?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Scamarcio. ‘My guess is that he’s down south somewhere, and that he’s being well hidden.’
Garramone ran the tips of his fingers across his desk. ‘By whom? I thought those guys were after him for the money?’
‘Allegiances shift,’ said Scamarcio, a dull blade of anxiety probing his stomach.
‘Do they?’ asked Garramone, his eyes narrowing to tiny slits.
‘I’m just theorising.’
‘Hmm,’ said the boss. He tapped his pen on the notepad in front of him. ‘In terms of an eventual case against Proietti, do we have a paper trail that shows the money coming in and out?’
‘Sartori lifted the files from Proietti’s office, but the forensic accountants tell me it’s murky. They’ll need a lot of time with it, and there’s no guarantee they’ll be able to paint the picture at the end. ’
‘That’s what we pay them 500 euros an hour for?’
‘I’m just the messenger.’
‘What about Stasio’s files?’
‘We’re having trouble locating those.’
‘What about his friendly accountant?’
‘We’re having trouble locating him, too.’
‘Should we be worried?’
‘I don’t think so. Word is, he’s taken a job in London, that he wanted to get away.’
‘Will he testify?’
‘I don’t know. Let’s see what the forensic accountants give us, and then we can let the prosecutor worry about the rest.’
‘We have the video that culture secretary Manfredi made, where Proietti talks about his debt,’ said Garramone, almost to himself.
‘Yeah, but the prosecutor seemed to think that it won’t be enough without the paper trail.’
Garramone let out a long breath through his nose. ‘What a bizarre case — all these self-obsessed people with their strange little agendas.’
‘They might be strange, but they’re cunning: it seems that Giacometti didn’t tell the others about his real reasons for hurting Proietti. My guess is that Fernando and Pepe thought they were just teaching Proietti a lesson for being a shit, and that the family would be returned. They had no idea that Giacometti and Dandini had their own very personal motives for getting at Proietti. It looked like the sky had fallen in on his world when Enzo Fernando found out about the footballer.’
Garramone smiled tiredly. ‘I don’t know who I prefer — the politicos or the media types.’
‘They’re all cut from the same cloth, if you ask me,’ said Scamarcio.
‘What did the lawyers say about your little recording?’
Scamarcio didn’t want to go through it again. It had soured his mood all day. ‘They’re not that hopeful. Fernando is drunk — we’re not at the station — and he chooses his words carefully.’
‘It was worth a try. We’ll get him down here.’
‘Yeah — like that’s going to bring a result. His lawyers will only let him open his mouth to confirm his name. I don’t see him giving up the others.’ He paused. ‘But if I can pin down an identity for the fake driver, we could go back through his mobile-phone records. On the few stills we grabbed from motorway CCTV, he’s wearing sunglasses, but if we do manage an ID and can link him to Fernando et al, we might be able to demonstrate conspiracy. But it’s a big if.’
Garramone sat up straighter in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. Scamarcio found the formality of it unsettling.
‘It’s very good to see you back on your game, Scamarcio. You’ve done well on this. Keep it up — I have high hopes.’
The comment took Scamarcio by surprise. It sounded like some kind of promise, and Scamarcio slowly felt something lift in him. As he left the office, he reflected that the boss was right; it was good to be back in the game.
As Scamarcio stepped out into the mild April sunshine, the ripe-green haze on the trees and the vivid purples of the window boxes consolidated his mood. He began making his way briskly down Via San Vitale, then stopped and looked behind him: he had the unmistakable sense that he was being observed. He scanned the road, but couldn’t see anyone. But then his attention was drawn to the pavement, and he realised that a dusty black-and-grey mongrel was scurrying towards him, his eyes trained on him. The dog soon caught up with him and flopped down tiredly at his feet.
‘I wondered what had happened to you,’ said Scamarcio, rubbing its ear. The dog allowed itself to be stroked for a few moments, then got up and padded back in the direction it had come. Scamarcio watched it trot off the road and edge its way beneath some bushes opposite headquarters.
Scamarcio smiled and carried on down Via San Vitale. Yet again, he thought about paying Fiammetta di Bondi a visit, asking her if she felt like a walk. Maybe he just needed to bury his cowardice and take a risk. Otherwise, what was waiting for him: an empty flat and an empty weekend? He’d always do his best to protect Aurelia, but it was clear she’d moved on. Perhaps it was time he tried to do the same.
‘So, it’s all wrapped up?’ di Bondi asked, taking a hearty swig from a bottle of beer.
It seemed as if the whole of Rome had come out for a stroll by the Tiber: Scamarcio saw swarms of toddlers, battalions of elderly couples, hordes of tourists posing for photos and losing ice-creams from cones.
‘As wrapped up as we can get it for now.’
Scamarcio wondered if di Bondi would make some excuse to leave; whether, with the investigation winding down, whatever reason she may have had for trying to get close to him had now passed. He was curious as to how it would play out. He’d park his emotions elsewhere for the time being, until he’d got a feel for the situation.
Di Bondi sighed and said: ‘Poor Micky. I bet this has really pulled the rug out from under him.’
‘Maybe that’s what he needed.’
‘What goes around comes around.’
In his mind’s eye, Scamarcio saw Piocosta lying dead in his villa. He smelt the gas, heard the screams, felt the endless ricochet. Then he closed his eyes and tried to push the images away. He turned to the woman sitting next to him
. Di Bondi really was the definition of beautiful. Yet there was an ephemeral quality to her beauty, a subtle evanescence, which somehow made it more powerful.
‘I heard Micky wants to emigrate,’ she said, as she watched a couple of giggling toddlers scampering on the riverbank.
‘That’s what he says, but there could be a case to answer. He won’t be allowed anywhere until that’s settled.’
‘His poor boy — what a mess.’ She ran a hand through her hair and pulled it behind her ear. Scamarcio liked the way her ears stuck out slightly.
He leaned back in his chair, trying to put a safer distance between them. ‘What about you in all of this? One minute it’s you and Micky, then it’s you and Manfredi, then it’s you and Aconi — then, suddenly, it’s none of it.’
‘I told you what that was all about.’
‘I don’t get why it all came to an end so quickly.’
‘Micky’s family was kidnapped, Manfredi was murdered, and Aconi had had enough of the whole scene — as had I, by that point. It came to an end because we wanted it to, because I wanted it to.’
She folded her arms across her chest and looked peeved.
Scamarcio couldn’t think of a response. He wasn’t sure he believed her.
‘Isn’t it time you left all this showbiz shit behind, that you gave your attention to your studies, Fiammetta?’ He regretted his tone immediately. He sounded like a patronising uncle.
‘Seems like you want me gone.’
He rubbed at his stubble. ‘You’re frittering your life away with this showgirl crap. If money is the problem, I can help.’
Di Bondi surprised him by going completely still. She looked down into her lap for a long time, and began folding and unfolding her hands. Eventually, she said: ‘Back to being the prostitute.’
This was not the reaction Scamarcio had expected. ‘I don’t need to pay women for sex,’ he snapped.
‘Feel sorry for me then?’
‘For fuck’s sake! How many ways are there to say it? I want you to be happy because I like you. Jesus, Fiammetta, you don’t make it easy.’
The Hit Page 29
