The Few (10 page)

He ran a tired hand through his hair, kneaded the knot in his neck once more. ‘Listen, I'll try my best, because I can see you're a good kid. But, in return, I will need something from you.'

Limoni was still leaning forward, still locked in. ‘Anything — you name it.'

‘I need you to think back. I need you to remember every detail, every conversation. Are you sure of the way it went? Are you certain, for example, that you'd never seen that man before, or that Rossi had never seen him before?'

Limoni looked down, focussed on an unknown point between floor and wall. He was thinking hard, searching for any scrap to throw him. Scamarcio scanned the street: a Chinese man had pulled up at the kerb in a battered Fiat 500, and had started unloading boxes. From a child's seat in the back, a little girl with pink cheeks, laughing eyes, and hair scraped up in untidy bunches followed his every move.

‘There is something.'

Scamarcio lifted his gaze from the road, considering the boy facing him.

‘I don't know if it's anything — maybe just a hunch — but one night when we were on late and no one else was around, I heard Rossi in the locker room talking on his mobile, talking quietly like he didn't want anyone to hear. He was saying something about the photos, but I thought that it couldn't be Ganza he was talking to, because the conversation was too friendly, too light. And then I had this strange feeling that he was talking to the man, the man who had given us the pictures — that maybe it was all part of some bigger plan.'

He stopped and frowned. ‘I don't know why I thought that, but I did. I asked him about it later, but he told me I was deluded, that he'd never seen that man before in his life. The way he was looking at me scared me, so I just left it. I never mentioned it again.'

13

It is the night of the victory party. They have hired out the top floor of the Principe di Savoia, and ordered in twenty crates of Veuve. His closest friends are there, and his mother has been brought from her home in Lecco. He watches her, holding court in a corner, stroking her hair flat in the same way she has always done: still refusing to admit she has aged, that the best of life is behind her. His youngest daughter is asleep in her lap, cheeks flushed, tiny arms outstretched. He sees his wife working the room — a smile here, a laugh there, making sure everyone is comfortable. This is meant to be the happiest night of his life, the pinnacle of all his achievements. But then he sees him, standing alone in the doorway, waving like an old friend just back from the war.

‘We go back a long time, old friends from Gela', he hears him tell the bodyguards. He freezes for a moment and feels the room freeze with him before he collects himself and returns the wave, a heaviness in his heart, a blackness in his soul. Then the visitor is inside the room, smiling at his guests, helping himself to his champagne, heading towards him.

‘Just wanted to pass on my congratulations, Pino.' He holds out a hand, and he reluctantly takes it.

‘Thank you.'

‘I can't stay long — just passing through.'

‘Of course.'

‘So now you've really made it.' He laughs, raises his glass to him, and downs the drink.

‘Maybe.'

‘You were always a modest guy: Prime Minister Pino. It doesn't get much bigger than that.'

He takes another drink from a passing tray, and scans the room like a bird of prey. ‘Those your daughters? How lovely.'

Pino feels an icy claw in his stomach.

‘Like I say, I just wanted to pay my respects and let you know that we'll be following your success closely. There's nothing you can do that will escape our attention.' He drains his drink, hands him the glass, and then leaves.

THE SLOPES OF TUSCANY
rolled away from him into the darkness. The sky was ripe with stars, and every so often they'd pass a cluster of houses, ghosts of smoke frozen in the air, illuminated crosses punching through the blackness. In two hours he'd be in Naples — back in the south, almost home, whatever that was.

Scamarcio slept. When he woke, the lights of the bay were coming into view, fragile and expectant, reaching out across the water. He couldn't decide whether to visit Rossi tonight or leave it until the morning. Somehow he wanted the answers now; he wanted to understand what he was dealing with. He headed for the taxi stand, running to beat the rush. The remnants of the day still clung to the air, dense and heavy: the heat had already arrived in Naples.

The driver edged the car out into a sea of traffic, but there was nowhere for them to go, no option of a left- or right-hand turn. Scamarcio tasted the pollution in the back of his throat, felt it hit his lungs. He wound up the window, watched the meter ticking over, saw the driver observing him in the mirror. He had switched on the radio: Juventus had just lost to Fiorentina. Again. He turned the problem over in his mind: if Rossi knew the man with the photos, why hadn't they done this in secret? Why pull in Limoni? What purpose did it serve?

The car lurched forward and a horn blared. The taxi driver cursed, wound down his window, and made the Cornuto — Scamarcio wasn't sure for whose benefit. They were moving now, edging along Via Cavour. Soon they would turn right for the dismal suburbs of Secondigliano. He watched as the liberty architecture of the centre gave way to the shabby palazzos of the Spanish Quarter.

Faded washing was strung across foetid alleyways, while kids with the faces of medieval urchins sucked on Luckies or tore up the neighbourhood on stolen motorbikes. Outside a Halal store, a couple of guys in Shalwar Kameez were drinking tea and playing backgammon. He caught a blast of Arabic music — sad and otherworldly, conjuring up the darkness of lost centuries.

The driver drew the car to a halt outside a brown block. It had that shiny bath-tile effect which made it look cleaner, less run-down than all the rest. There were well-kept flower boxes on the balconies, and decent-looking cars on the street — a couple of BMWs, and a Mercedes. A woman passed: tough face, lots of gold. He smelt Camorra; knew it when he saw it.

He paid the driver and scanned the entry panel, looking for Rossi. He found the name on the fifth floor. The front door was ajar, so he decided not to buzz the flat and alert them to his arrival. The elevator was gold panelled, with mirrors to the ceiling, marble on the floor, and none of the external doors to bother with. The journey to the fifth floor was cool and smooth, like in a luxury hotel. He stepped out, and nodded to an old couple who wanted to come in; they were smart, and well kept, and the gent tipped his hat in the old style. Number 54 was off to the right. There was an umbrella stand outside, and a tidy welcome mat. He rang the bell, and imagined the layout: a generous living room with a view onto the street, windows to the floor, flower boxes granting some privacy. He strained to hear better, but it seemed that nothing was stirring inside. He rang the bell again, stood back from the door, and scanned the corridor: still nothing. He knocked this time. ‘It's Detective Scamarcio from Rome. I'm looking for Stefano Rossi.' Silence. Then he heard footsteps away to his right, and the scraping of a door. An old man blinked out at him from the neighbouring apartment, his tiny clam-like eyes exposed beneath bottle-end glasses.

‘They've gone.'

‘Gone?'

‘Cleared out at four this morning. Made one hell of a racket.'

‘Any idea where they were heading?'

‘Well, they weren't off on holiday.'

They both fell quiet for a moment.

‘You know them well?'

‘Did my best to avoid them. ‘

‘Why?'

The old man scanned the corridor furtively, looking like a weasel that wanted to scuttle back to his burrow. ‘Who's asking?'

Scamarcio pulled out his badge. The old man wetted his lips, and pushed his glasses higher up his nose. ‘Clan.' It was almost a whisper.

‘You sure?'

‘Fifty years in this city, and you know the signs.'

The old man scanned the corridor again, stepped back into his hallway, and slammed the door.

14

He opens the envelope. It is the last of today's pile. Early-morning sunlight spills onto the table, catching the cup of roses and the edges of an apple. He sees a still life.

He pulls out a photograph and turns it over. He feels the brioche he has just eaten force its way from his stomach and push back up along his throat.

It's a photo of a naked woman from a hard-core porn magazine, but they've done something with a computer — put the face of his teenage daughter above the neck.

‘What is it, Pino? You look like you've seen a ghost,' says his wife.

He rises from his seat, almost kicking the chair away. ‘It's nothing, sweetheart: just problems at work.' He kisses her and heads outside, where he knows his car and driver are waiting.

TERMINI WAS A SEETHING
mass of people, stale and sweating in the early-summer heat. As Scamarcio picked his way through the crowd, soft currents of cigarette smoke stirred his deprived senses back to life. He spied a tobacconist at the end of the platform, and took it as some kind of portent — a sign that it was meant to be. He could try to give up the weed, deny himself an escape, but surely he could permit himself the pleasure of an uncomplicated smoke? He lined up his change, anticipating the buzz of the nicotine kick, and cast his eye over the towering pile of newspapers. Then he stopped, just stood there, frozen in time. Everything around him ground to a halt, and he felt the world cease to breathe.

The front page of
Il Giornale
showed a picture of Ganza with his wife and kids. The headline read:

FOREIGN SECRETARY IN RENTBOY SEX SHOCK

Graphic photos showing Foreign Secretary and father of three Giorgio Ganza in a drink and drug-fuelled orgy with two male prostitutes have come to light.

The photos, many of which are too shocking to print, show Ganza in various stages of undress as he frolics with the two prostitutes in a Tuscan villa. Ganza, who has always played up his family-man credentials for political gain, fled Rome several days ago. It is understood that he is hiding out at a secret retreat, near Florence. His wife and children have also left the capital and were unavailable for comment.

Scamarcio flipped through the paper, and found the least shocking of the photos on pages two, three, and four. He saw Arthur's young face in two of them, and scanned the article looking for any mention of his name and the killing at his apartment. There was none. How long, though, before they made that connection — before Filippi made the connection, and all hell broke loose? Filippi did not yet know what Arthur looked like, and the corpse was too damaged. But the desk sergeant would remember, and would waste no time in telling him. No doubt, a call would soon follow, asking Scamarcio to pay another visit to the precinct. If not Filippi, then Maria and the girls at Testaccio would hear soon enough, and would put two and two together. His mobile buzzed. It was starting already: all hell breaking loose around him.

It was Garramone. ‘Seen the papers?'

‘I'm looking at
Il Giornale
now. How did that happen?'

‘The editors changed their minds — decided it was too good to sit on. Who can blame them?'

‘But there's nothing about Arthur.'

‘Not yet, but I'm not sure for how much longer.'

‘What does your friend say?'

‘He's furious. Says it's a breach of trust, that there'll be hell to pay.'

‘What are we to do?'

‘He thinks we should cool it for a while — keep our heads down while the storm blows over. Then see where it leaves us.'

‘And you? What do you think?'

‘It all depends on Filippi: if he makes the link to Arthur, the game is up. Then there are those hookers you spoke to down in Testaccio. Not to mention the friend upstairs in Trastevere — she's bound to speak to Filippi.'

‘It's getting to be a long list.'

‘Maybe you should pay the friend a visit, and cut her off before she can get to him.'

‘Yeah, and what do I do about the desk sergeant at Trastevere? How do I persuade him to keep his mouth shut?' This thing was running away from them now; any possible control slipping through their fingers.

‘Forget about the desk sergeant. Think about the friend.'

‘That won't work. If Filippi decides to dig some more, which he will, he'll be back. And if I've been hanging around the friend, it won't look right.'

Garramone fell quiet. ‘Our priority is to find the other guy in the photo. If someone is taking out these people for Ganza, he could be next.'

‘But wouldn't that be a dangerous strategy, now that the story is out?'

‘Whatever. We need to establish his identity.'

‘And Ganza hasn't given your friend the prime minister anything?'

‘For God's sake, Scamarcio, don't speak so loosely.'

They both fell silent a moment before the chief eventually said, ‘Nothing. Ganza says he doesn't remember the guy. He says that photo was taken the first time they'd met, and he never saw him again.'