The Few (29 page)

He turned to Zanini: ‘You said you had a room we could use?'

‘Sure, I'll show you the way.' The officer headed for the doors, making sure he held them open for Morandi. Borghetti got up and made for the coffee machine. ‘You want one, Scamarcio?'

‘No, thanks. I'm going to take a walk.'

The anger was burning a hole in the pit of his stomach, so he decided to drive out to the nearest stretch of sea to calm his nerves and get some perspective. Everything Ferrera had said made sense. It was just that he couldn't help taking it as a personal insult. He hated the fact that he was forever tied up with the misdeeds of his father, as if they were one and the same. Why did he seem so tainted to everyone? He'd worked hard to clear the slate and to establish a separate identity for himself, but it still always came back to the same thing. Sometimes he wondered if he hadn't actually made an expensive mistake — whether it would have been an easier life on the other side. And who was he kidding anyway? Maybe they were right. Once tainted, always tainted? Evil was in the genes, after all. Shouldn't he have accepted his paternal heritage, gone into the family business, and opted for a simpler life — a life that at the end of the day would have been more honest than the one he was trying to live now, labouring so hard all the time to carve out this fresh identity for himself, an identity that maybe, when all was said and done, wasn't really his to own? He needed a talk with Dr Salvai — well, more than a talk — but right now she was hundreds of kilometres away.

He pulled the battered fag packet from his pocket and lit up shakily; thankfully, there was very little breeze on this stretch of beach, and he was able to take a long drag, drawing the nicotine down deep into his lungs. He exhaled slowly, counted to ten, and took in the scene: through the haze of smoke he watched a trio of gulls dive-bombing a patch of foam a couple of metres away, expertly focussed on the task in hand. To the right, a young family was setting up for the morning, the father fixing the umbrella, the mother tending to their two little girls. Maybe it was time for him to change his life. Maybe finally settling down would help quell all these questions. For the second time, he felt like calling Aurelia; for the second time, he pushed the impulse away.

He took a few more drags until the cigarette was spent, and then he got up, still holding the butt — not wanting to leave it in the sand. He dusted himself down and headed back to the car, thinking through the tasks for the day. He wanted Ratsel cleared up one way or the other. If he wasn't their man, they needed to know about it quickly.

45

‘I HAVE AN UNDERSTANDING
of Italian law, and I know that if you don't find something concrete soon you will have no choice but to release my client.'

Scamarcio pushed his chair back against the wall and took another drag on the fag, surveying the pair of them. Ratsel looked even more battered than when they'd first found him at the hotel. He'd had to share a cell with a man called Quattrocchi, who, according to Borghetti, was the worst of the town drunks and had a passion for the songs of Adriano Celentano, which he would recite word — if not tone — perfectly during his frequent brushes with the bottle. It looked like Ratsel had had to bear the worst of it. According to the desk sergeant, Quattrocchi had not burnt himself out until around 5.00am — late for him. Maybe having an audience had given him newfound confidence.

Ratsel's lawyer appeared to be in his mid-30s, with close-cropped blond hair, constantly blinking brown eyes, and wire-framed glasses. There was nothing to suggest that he had had to be up in the early hours to reach the island by lunchtime. His was a hard-vowelled, brusque efficiency.

‘So then, Detective, I'm asking you: what do you have?'

Right now, if truth be told, Scamarcio had absolutely zero. Barrabino had failed to turn up anything other than the blood, and they were still waiting on the results from Florence. Scamarcio had asked them to do a comparison with Dacian's DNA, but his confidence was low that they'd be able to get it to him in time. So Scamarcio decided to ignore the question. ‘Last night I asked your client what he was doing here on the island, and he was not forthcoming. I think it's in his best interests if he co-operates with us.'

The lawyer gave Ratsel a curt nod. They had obviously planned what he was and was not going to say beforehand.

Ratsel shifted in his seat, uwilling to make eye contact with Scamarcio. ‘Like I told you, the usual tourist stuff.'

‘Could you elaborate?'

Ratsel rolled his eyes, and sank back in his chair with his legs apart. ‘I just wanted a short break in the sun. I couldn't get the time off for a full week, so just decided to take a long weekend.'

‘So you were planning to stay until Sunday?'

‘That's right.'

‘Why come alone? Wouldn't it be more fun with …' Scamarcio was about to say ‘a girlfriend', but wasn't sure in which direction Ratsel's tastes ran, or if he was even interested in adult relationships, ‘… a partner?'

‘Prison is not conducive to long-term relationships, Detective. And now I'm on the outside, it's not been that easy to meet people.'

Scamarcio nodded, resolving to move on. It was never useful to damage a man's pride at this stage. ‘So you decided to take a short break. What was the plan? To hit the beaches, see the sights?'

‘Yeah, basically. But mainly the beach — I just wanted to go home with a tan. Good way to start the summer.'

‘You working back in Germany?'

Ratsel shuffled in his seat again. ‘I've had a few short-term contracts. Obviously, I couldn't go back to medicine.'

‘So what are you doing now?'

‘I've been employed by a pharmaceutical company as a consultant.'

‘They know about your past?'

‘I wasn't required to declare it.'

‘They don't ask you if you have a criminal record there?'

The lawyer placed a hand on Ratsel's arm, and turned to Scamarcio. ‘Detective, how is this relevant?'

‘Never mind,' said Scamarcio. ‘So you just spent the last couple of days at the beach?'

‘Yes.'

‘Which one?'

‘The one right by the hotel. I didn't feel like going far.'

‘Can anyone account for your presence there?'

Ratsel pushed up his lip in a childlike way, shaking his head slightly. ‘Well, I don't know. I suppose it depends on whether they remember me. I'm not sure my face is that remarkable.'

‘Well, we'll try anyway. Did you leave the beach at any time?'

‘Only to go back to my hotel room to use the bathroom.'

‘You ever go to the beach at Fetovaia?'

‘No.'

‘Sure?'

Ratsel scowled. ‘Quite sure. Why?'

‘No matter.'

Ratsel's lawyer placed his hand on his client's arm again. ‘Where are you going with this, Detective? We've both seen the papers. You can't pin that on him — he wasn't even on the island.'

Before Scamarcio could respond, there was a knock on the door. Zanini was clutching a sheaf of documents. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Sir, but I thought you'd want to see these.' He walked around the desk and handed them to Scamarcio without looking at Ratsel or his lawyer. ‘I'll be outside if you need anything.'

To his great surprise, Scamarcio saw that they were the blood results from Florence. The fact they were in already was some kind of miracle. Maybe somebody high up had pushed the green button to look good in front of the Americans. He skimmed through the first paragraphs to the conclusion on the front page: the blood in Ratsel's apartment was that of the boy Dacian. He flipped through the pages to see the confirmation for himself in the columns of figures and symbols comparing the two analyses — the one from the body, and the other from the sample in Ratsel's room. His head was light with excitement. Finally, a breakthrough. His hunch about the boy had been right.

He leaned back in his chair, savouring the moment. ‘You'd better be praying that old Quattrocchi doesn't get too much liquor in him tonight.'

Ratsel looked confused.

‘Quattrocchi, your cellmate from last night,' Scamarcio spoke slowly, as if Ratsel was an imbecile. ‘You're in for another evening's entertainment — quite a few evenings, probably — and, believe me, that will seem a paradise compared to where you'll be heading afterwards.'

Scamarcio watched the realisation slowly dawn. Ratsel shifted violently in his seat, looking at his lawyer pleadingly. All at once, the small interview room was rank with the man's sweat.

‘Are you going to enlighten us, Detective?' asked the lawyer calmly. ‘Or are you just resorting to idle threats now?'

‘No idle threat, Mr Himmel. The blood results confirm that the blood found in your client's hotel bathroom is that of Dacian Baboescu, the boy murdered on the island two days ago.'

‘Mr Scamarcio …' Scamarcio knew that the lawyer was about to argue that the blood could have been left by the previous guest before Ratsel, could have been left anytime; indeed, on such a small sample, that argument might hold its weight in court. But it was a strategic mistake because, instead of concentrating on Scamarcio, the lawyer should have been keeping his client under control, making sure he kept quiet before it was too late. Instead, Ratsel was rocking in his chair, breathing rapidly now. The words tumbled out of him, like coins stolen from a till: ‘He just said it was a small job — a free holiday for me if I helped him sort out a problem. I didn't know it would end up like this. I had no idea.'

The lawyer barked something at Ratsel in German, but he didn't seem to notice. ‘He said this boy working for him had turned traitor — killed an associate and stolen some merchandise. He wanted me to sort it out by talking to the boy, finding out what he'd done with the goods.'

‘Talking to him?'

‘Just interrogating him, threatening him — there was no mention of murder or anything like that.'

‘And these goods, what were they?'

‘He never said. He just called it “the merchandise”.'

‘So if you were just supposed to talk to the boy, why was his blood in your bathroom?'

The lawyer had risen from his chair and was practically screaming at his client. Ratsel gave out an exhausted sigh and used his last strength to gesture at him to sit down again. He looked like a man defeated.

‘He came at me with a knife. I had no choice but to defend myself.' He had his head in his hands now. ‘What a bloody mess. All I wanted was a free holiday.'

46

THE LAWYER HAD ASKED
for a five-minute break. But Scamarcio, while desperate for a coffee, didn't want to leave him alone with his client. He needed to keep Ratsel in full flow.

‘So, this merchandise — you never discovered what it was?'

‘He said I'd find out once I was on the island, but I never got the chance to talk to the boy. He attacked me from the off.' He paused a moment. ‘I think he was scared — someone or something had got to him.'

‘And who is this “he” you keep talking about? Who was it who sent you here?'

‘I met him online.' He began to falter. ‘In a chatroom.'

The lawyer was gripping his client's arm for dear life now. Scamarcio's German was basic, but he thought he understood
Don't go there.

‘What kind of chatroom?'

Ratsel just shook his head. ‘He went by the name of Mr Yellow; that's all I can tell you. He wired me a lot of money for this trip — much more than it would actually cost.'

Mr Yellow, Mr Y
, thought Scamarcio. ‘Payment for the job?'

‘Payment for the job.'

‘And how did you communicate? By phone, email?'

‘No, it was always in the chatroom. He insisted on that.'

‘And you don't have a phone number, an email address, any way to contact him?'

‘No. We'd just arrange what times to talk in the chatroom. I was to let him know when I'd spoken to the boy.'

‘How did he know where to wire the money?'

‘I gave him my details online.'

‘Any sense of where the money had come from?'

‘I think it was a bank in the Netherlands, but I'd need to check my statement.'

‘And what made him think you were right for this particular job?'

‘No idea.' He was shaking his head tightly, and Scamarcio knew that this wasn't the half of it — there was a reason, but he wasn't going to hear it now. Ratsel was clamming up on him; he'd had his moment.

‘So you have no idea who this guy is?'

‘Like I say, we'd never met. It was all done in the chatroom.'

‘If you tell me the name of that chatroom, you will do a lot to reduce your sentence.'

The lawyer had grabbed him by the arm now, and was repeating ‘Nein, nein, nein', and this time Ratsel appeared to listen. ‘I'm saying no more, Detective. That's it.' Then his strength seemed to desert him and he appeared to crumple in on himself, collapsing into the chair. He started sobbing softly, and Scamarcio decided it was finally time for that coffee.