The Few (26 page)

As soon as the words had left his lips, Scamarcio found himself wondering at that. After everything, Pugno was still a human being, so didn't he deserve some compassion? Scamarcio wasn't sure. He felt conflicted between his immediate impulse, which would have been to throw him to the lions of the prison, to show him no mercy, and something new, something less absolute. He wondered if this was his mother's character fighting his father's in him.

‘He will probably be moved to the infirmary tomorrow,' said Erranti as they made their way to the cell. ‘But for now, the same procedure as before.'

When the door was opened, he saw that Pugno was in bed this time, under the covers. He seemed surprised to see him.

He coughed as he tried to sit up straighter in the bed. Eventually, when he had got his breath back, he said: ‘I didn't think you would come, Detective, not after last time.'

Scamarcio shrugged and pulled out the chair he had used before. ‘You have a good priest.'

Pugno nodded sombrely. ‘I am fortunate in that.'

Silence descended between them, and for a moment Scamarcio was unsure what to say. He ran a hand through his hair and leaned back in the chair.

‘So your priest tells me you are still wanting my forgiveness?'

Pugno nodded.

‘OK.'

‘What?' the old man whispered.

‘I said OK. You have it. You have my forgiveness.' Scamarcio tried to make it sound as sincere as possible, but was struggling to flesh out the words, to make them real.

Pugno nodded again, but would not meet his eye. Scamarcio noticed that his hands were trembling, and in that moment he couldn't stop himself from feeling a fleeting sympathy for the man. The silence returned, and Scamarcio wondered if that was it, whether his visit had been in vain.

But after many seconds had passed, and just as he was thinking about leaving, Pugno finally found his voice. It was weaker and raspier than last time, and Scamarcio had to lean forward to make out the words.

‘I appreciate your decency in coming here,' whispered the old man, his words interrupted by another coughing attack. ‘It took guts and great understanding, after everything that has happened to you.'

After everything that has happened to me?
‘What are you talking about? Nothing has happened to me.'

The Priest sighed, a deep sadness contorting his features. ‘Let's not dig up old pains; there is no point.'

Scamarcio tried to speak, but the old man held up a palm. ‘In return for your kindness, I would like to give you some help. I just want you to know that instead of looking at who has been leaving the island, you should be watching who has been coming onto Elba in the last twenty-four hours.'

Again he tried to speak, but again The Priest barred him with his hand. ‘There is no point asking me my sources. I will never reveal them.' The coughs came again in rapid fire, and it sounded now as if he was coughing up his soul itself. ‘There's no point putting the pressure on — we both know I no longer have anything left to lose.'

With that, The Priest suddenly reached below his covers, and Scamarcio caught the glint of something metallic. Instinct told him it was a gun, and in the very next moment he felt a burning heat course through him. He sprang up from his chair, but it was too late. Pugno had placed the barrel against his own forehead, and before Scamarcio could get any words out he had fired.

41

THE COMMOTION AT THE
jail had been as bad as he would have expected. There were all the predictable questions from the governor about how the gun had got there, whether Scamarcio had brought it in —
How could he have? They had signed him in as usual, and taken his firearm off him as the rules dictated
— who said what to whom, who did what to whom, did Scamarcio provoke him? Etc, etc. Then the bureaucratic machine had groaned into action, and because they were in Italy, and worse still not even on the mainland, this was just the start of a process that would be achingly slow and cumbersome, and would require him to sacrifice God knows how much of his time to endless interviews and statements. Barrabino had seemed both surprised to see him again so soon and also rather delighted that the circumstances appeared so troubling. He had managed to throw in a few of his — by now, signature — observations on how death seemed to follow on Scamarcio's tail, or, better still, how he appeared to invite it in. Scamarcio didn't know if his patience would hold out long enough to prevent him from punching the man in the face, so he had resolved to separate himself at the first opportunity. He couldn't have a Category-A prisoner kill himself in front of him only to then end up with a GBH charge against the police pathologist.

It was almost midnight when he made it back to his car. Dense clouds were passing across the moon, and the lamps along the harbour were no longer strong enough to mark a path to the Cinquecento. He used the central locking to locate it, again rueing his decision to go out in such light clothes. He climbed in and coaxed the struggling engine to life, swinging the car into reverse while tuning the radio to one of the island stations. It was the usual dire stuff: what they called 1980's ‘classics' — cheap euro trash that had been unremittingly crap the first time around. Scamarcio reached in his top pocket for his smokes, but couldn't find them. This night couldn't get any worse.

His mobile buzzed on the seat beside him. ‘Scamarcio,' panted Genovesi. It sounded like he was in the middle of a long climb. ‘Listen up.'

‘I'm listening'.

‘Your boy Dacian — we've found him.'

‘Really, where?'

‘A farmer called it in, up in the hills above Capoliveri.'

‘Called
it
in?'

‘Yeah, doesn't look like he'll be doing much talking.'

Scamarcio's stomach turned over anew. ‘Dead?'

‘Very, by the looks of it.'

‘I'll be right there.'

Genovesi rattled off some directions and then hung up.

Genovesi and two unknown officers he presumed were from another station were huddled around the body. It was in a storm drain not far from some picnic tables. As he'd passed, he noticed a man slumped at one of them. He appeared to be in a state of shock. The farmer, he guessed.

The boy's throat had been cut — a clean red necklace of blood was visible above his T-shirt. It looked to have been a swift and efficient slash, professional. The red was dramatic against the boy's white skin in the moonlight.

Genovesi gave him a nod. ‘We're just waiting for Barrabino. Don't know what's keeping him.'

Scamarcio decided not to enlighten him. ‘When was he found?'

‘About forty minutes ago. The farmer, Mr Ronco, didn't have a mobile phone, so had to go home to make the call — that took him about ten minutes. We came after that.'

‘No sign of the murder weapon?'

‘None, but we need to get some more men out for the search.' Genovesi straightened. ‘Any idea what's going on here?'

‘The Priest tipped me to the camp on the island. I notice this young guy — he seems worked up about something. I follow him — his emails suggest he's got in above his head, is asking someone for help, doesn't know what to do next …'

‘A hunch, then?'

‘Yes, a hunch, but we know where hunches often lead. Besides, now he winds up dead, it's our second body in as many days, and the last corpse had some dodgy pictures on his computer — all this against the backdrop of a girl gone missing. There has to be something in it.'

Most of this Genovesi already knew. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit up, without offering Scamarcio one.

‘Can I have one?'

Reluctantly, Genovesi reopened the packet and handed him the lighter.

‘Why do you think The Priest wants to help us?'

Scamarcio looked away for a second. ‘I think he was trying to make amends, compensate for his past in whatever small way he could.'

‘But how did he even know about the camp, the case? He seemed to have the low-down on Stacey Baker as soon as it happened.'

‘It's a small island — people talk.'

Genovesi wasn't impressed. ‘Elba is not that small, and I run a tight ship. My men know to be discreet.'

Scamarcio shrugged, unable to offer an explanation.

‘I've a good mind to go up to Longone myself, get that bastard to explain himself.' Scamarcio figured that now was probably the right time to fill him in, but thankfully Genovesi's mobile began to ring.

Over the next few seconds he watched the colour gradually deepen along the man's neck until it reached his jaw, where he thought he saw a vein begin to twitch. ‘Why am I only learning about this now?' There was a pause. ‘Why would
he
have told me?' Then another: ‘You what? You're kidding me.' He slammed the phone shut. His whole face was dangerously red now.
He has to get that blood pressure down,
thought Scamarcio,
or he won't make his pension.

‘Just what are you playing at, Scamarcio?'

‘Sir?'

‘Don't play the dumb ass with me. Why didn't you tell me about Pugno?'

‘I was just getting to that when your phone rang.'

‘Bullshit!' Genovesi jabbed a finger at him. ‘I'm sick of Rome trampling all over this investigation. This is a Tuscan case on Tuscan soil, so why the hell are you here? I've had it up to here with your attitude and your methods, Scamarcio. I'll be calling your boss tomorrow to get you moved off.' With that, he hurried off in the direction of the picnic tables, the unknown officers looking on nervously.

42

GARRAMONE HAD FINALLY
phoned from Rome mid-morning, offering no explanation for his recent silence. Instead he said that Genovesi had been tranquilised and that Scamarcio was to proceed as before. When he'd asked how this had been achieved, Garramone had not been forthcoming; he'd said it was just a question of the usual political manoeuvring.
A promotion promised, a favour granted
, figured Scamarcio.

Back in the squad room, Genovesi had shut himself in his office and pulled the blinds down, which was a relief. Zanini and Borghetti both looked up as Scamarcio walked in.

‘Barrabino called,' said Zanini. ‘He has a time of death on the boy, but wanted to talk to you first.'

‘I'll call him in a moment.' Scamarcio had not hung around for another noisome ribbing from the doctor last night; he had figured that whatever he had to say could be left to the morning. Besides, Genovesi had given him his marching orders, which provided him with a useful cue to leave the fat man to deal with the aftermath. Scamarcio had, however, stopped for a chat with the farmer on his way out, who did not have anything useful to add.

Scamarcio pulled out the chair from the desk he had been using and laid down his papers. ‘We've got a lot of work to get through today.'

The two officers nodded in unison like those ridiculous dogs he'd seen stuck to the back windscreens of the cars of stupid people.

‘I want you to contact all the ferry operators servicing the island. We are interested in who has been coming onto Elba in the days before Stacey Baker's appearance, as well as who has been leaving. I want you to get the operators' manifests, and run their names through the national and international criminal databases.'

‘All the names?' said Borghetti. ‘We're probably talking about thousands of people here.'

Scamarcio slammed his hand down on the desk to silence him. ‘I don't give a shit. This is a little girl's life.'

Borghetti hung his head in shame. Scamarcio didn't care if he'd upset the boy, but he softened his tone slightly, nevertheless, remembering his management training. ‘It's a big job, and we'll work through the night if we have to. You need to get on the phone to the ports straight away, and get those records.'

‘How many days back are we talking about?' asked Zanini.

‘Right now, I'd aim for five days before the girl disappeared. I don't reckon they would have been on the island much longer than that, but we can take the search back further if we need to. And bring it right up to yesterday, when the boy Dacian was murdered. I've a feeling someone came to the island to meet with him before killing him.'

‘But what about Fabio Ella? He was killed earlier,' said Zanini.

‘You're right, but we're not sure yet that the two are connected. Just bring it up to yesterday to be on the safe side.'

Zanini nodded and pushed back his chair.

‘Where are you going?'

‘Down to the ports — it'll be too slow trying to get them to do what we want over the phone. It doesn't work like that here.'

Scamarcio nodded.

Borghetti got up to join his colleague, still refusing to meet Scamarcio's eye.

‘Good luck to the both of you — I know you're capable officers, so I'm sure we will come up with something.' He tried a smile, which seemed to ease the tension slightly. The two men nodded and went on their way.