The Few (3 page)

He could see that Garramone was watching him carefully, observing how he was responding to whatever experiment he still had in play. ‘The good news is that it looks like the media have been persuaded to keep a lid on it for now.'

‘How so?'

‘They've been told that if they go with it, they will be denied access to certain people, certain stories further down the line. They took a long-term view about whether the story was worth the risk.'

‘And they decided it wasn't?'

‘Seems that way. It's good for us — means things stay calmer for longer.'

‘So now …'

The chief rose from his seat and walked to the window. Passing brake lights etched a ghostly course through his tired skin.

‘Now you need to find out all you can about this Arthur, his relationship with the foreign secretary, other people in his circle. We need to know who killed him and why.'

‘And then?'

‘And then we think about the implications.'

‘But what about Filippi and the Trastevere squad? Won't they make the connection for themselves, start digging?'

‘I've been assured that, as far as they are concerned, he's just another dead hooker.'

‘Who's assured you? How does that work?'

Garramone raised a hand to silence him. ‘Scamarcio, stop asking the wrong questions and start asking the right ones.' He paused. ‘I don't want you in the office — you can work from home. Call me if you need access to any files; I'll get you what you need.'

A knot of anxiety tightened in Scamarcio's chest. Something felt wrong here, and yet again he'd been placed right in the middle of it.

4

There was no trace of Arthur anywhere on the internet. From the information the chief had been able to gather, it seemed that, surprisingly, he was possibly already 20, but unlikely much older, and had gone by the name of José Maraquez during an early life spent in La Quiaca in the north of Argentina where it bordered Bolivia. Google images showed La Quiaca to be a depressed slum town — its muddy alleyways straddled with drooping electric cable, barefoot children, chickens, and rangy dogs playing together in the filth. It seemed that as soon as they were old enough, many of these children would leave for Cordoba or Buenos Aires, where there was at least some small chance of finding work.

According to Garramone, their two blackmailing colleagues had been handed the photos by a man unknown to them. So if Scamarcio was to get any real background on Arthur, he would need to talk to his friends and acquaintances. The problem was that Forensics had found no trace of a mobile. Any address books or letters had been impossible to come by, and the jury was still out on the camera. That meant that, right now, they only had two people who knew the victim: One was the foreign secretary, now safely ensconced in his retreat; the other was the second young man in the photo, whose identity remained a mystery. He would need to call someone in Vice — probably Carleone. Their paths had crossed once or twice, but he would need to tread carefully.

‘Carleone.' It was the voice of an unhappy man, clearly put out to be troubled on a Saturday.

‘It's Leone Scamarcio. Sorry to disturb you at the weekend.'

‘Weekend? I haven't seen a weekend in a long time.'

‘You got a case on?'

‘Got a bust coming — hours of overtime. Seems like we'll never see the back of it.'

‘Been there, got the T-shirt. Listen, I was wondering if you could help me out.'

‘As long as it's quick.'

‘It's a hookers' thing: I was wondering about the gay scene. The rentboys. If you were looking for one — good looking, youngish, not the rough trade at Termini — where would you try? Do they have a street where they hang out?'

Carleone laughed: a dirty, dry little laugh. ‘It's come to that, has it? Want me to draw you a map?'

‘Yeah, yeah, whatever. I just need a way in.'

Carleone's tone grew marginally more serious. ‘This for work?'

‘Yeah, but I can't go into it.'

He yawned down the line, registering his lack of interest. ‘I know a couple of people who'll see you right. Hang on.'

Scamarcio heard typing, the whirr of a fan, some distant laughter in the background.

Carleone came back on. ‘The first is quite something — Maria, formerly known as Raffaele. She's interesting because if you didn't know the truth, I don't think you'd be able to guess.' He paused for a moment, maybe remembering the first time he'd seen her: ‘It's quite a thing to behold.' Scamarcio wondered whether Carleone had ever blurred the lines between his professional and private life.

‘You'll find her down in Testaccio, along with a few girlfriends. Next to the McDonalds by the bridge is the main pick-up point, and they're there most nights. I've got a number for her, if you want.' Scamarcio took it and hung up.

Testaccio had none of the charm of Trastevere. If anything, it looked like a grim Naples suburb, a malignant growth hidden within the sumptuous folds of the eternal city. The girls were on the corner by McDonalds, all decked out in knee high-boots, zips, and PVC, just as Scamarcio had expected.

‘Hey, gorgeous, you look cold.'

‘Want someone to snuggle up to?'

Carleone was right. One of them was stunning, and there was nothing to suggest that she could be anything other than female. The other three were slightly tougher to digest.

Scamarcio pulled out his badge, which triggered a group sigh of exasperation. The beautiful one, who he presumed was Maria, took a step forward and grabbed him by the wrist. It was a strong grip.

‘Listen, we got all this straight with Carleone. We been through it hundreds of times.'

Scamarcio raised a palm to calm her. ‘I'm not here for that. I was hoping you could help me with an inquiry. No trouble for any of you — no repercussions.'

‘How do we know you're straight?'

‘Check with Carleone.'

Maria flipped open a mobile, pressed a number on speed-dial, and distanced herself from the group. He reckoned that she was almost his height. Her hair was long, lustrous, and dark, and left to hang loose. It framed almond eyes of a startling blue, a shade so intense that he felt sure it was artificial — the result of coloured contact lenses, or some such trick.

She finished the call and flipped shut the phone, pulling a cigarette from a pocket as she did so. She rooted around for a lighter and lit up, shielding her face from the wind and the damp.

‘Carleone says you're clean. What is it you want?'

Scamarcio pulled the photos from his shoulder bag, and passed them around the huddle.

‘Do you know these boys?'

Maria rejoined them now, and leaned in to get a better look. He could smell her scent. It was familiar to him, and a memory stirred: a summer evening by the sea in Gallipoli, and a girl from Salento — a girl he had cared for.

They had cut the foreign secretary out of the picture, and had made singles of the two young men.

‘That one.' Maria tapped a red fingernail against the photo of Arthur. ‘I think that's Max — I knew him once.' She scanned the faces of her friends for confirmation. One of them, an older, too-tall blonde, nodded. ‘Yes, it's him, but he's changed a bit. Looks like he could have had some work done. As for the other one, no idea.'

Scamarcio tried to read her, to make sure she wasn't playing him. ‘You sure it's Max, because we know him as Arthur?'

‘It's definitely Max. Maybe he changed his name — it happens. Perhaps it's his new working name.'

‘When did you see him last?'

The two women exchanged glances. ‘It's been a long time — maybe a year, maybe more. He used to hang with us here.'

‘Then what happened?'

Maria shook her head. ‘No idea. He just stopped turning up for work, and then he didn't return our calls. We thought he'd gone on to bigger and better things.'

‘Bigger and better?'

Maria glanced at her colleague again, and he thought he saw something strange pass between them. ‘It's just an expression. I have no idea what happened to him.'

‘And you?' Scamarcio turned to the other prostitute.

‘Ditto. It happens. Girls and boys get lucky and are able to take themselves off the street, or they get unlucky and fate decides for them.'

‘So you would never call in a missing colleague?'

Maria laughed ‘Back then, no. Now things have settled, maybe. But it's not like you guys would care. A dead hooker is low down enough on the list. But a foreigner? I don't think we'd get five minutes, do you?'

He pushed on, unwilling to be drawn in. ‘What did you know about Max when you did work with him?'

Maria shrugged. ‘Not a lot. He wasn't here for long. I think he said he was from Argentina, that he came here some years before. He'd wanted to be a dancer in clubs, but that hadn't worked out, so he'd ended up on the street. He was a looker, Max, as you can see. He got a lot of attention.'

‘Was he underage?'

‘No idea. I don't think so. He was a wise soul.'

That meant nothing, thought Scamarcio. ‘Any family back home?'

The two women traded glances again, conferring, waiting for the other to speak.

The older prostitute went first: ‘He never mentioned anyone. I got the feeling that he'd left on bad terms — traditional family, couldn't accept what he'd become. The usual story.'

‘Did he seem happy?'

Maria took a long drag on her cigarette. It trailed an amber wake in the darkness, and melted into the sodium of the street-lamps. ‘Hell, who's happy? But he was making enough to eat and pay the rent. And, yeah, he was always cheerful — upbeat, if that's what you mean. He had what you'd call a sunny disposition.' There was a bitterness in the way she said the words.

‘Were there any particular punters who liked him — regulars, returning customers?'

‘I'm sure there were, but I couldn't tell you who. It was far too long ago.'

‘No one among your current clients?'

‘Of course not.' She seemed almost put out. ‘We were completely different types. Obviously.' Scamarcio wasn't sure he agreed. If you took away the long hair, the Latin look was the same, and the doe eyes quite similar.

‘Could you ask around the punters, and see if anyone remembers him?'

The two women shook their heads while others in the group sighed. ‘What tree did you fall out of?' said Maria. ‘Questions are bad for business.'

Scamarcio sensed his time was up, but knew that Maria was holding out on him — maybe not because she didn't want to talk, but maybe because she didn't want to talk here. He pulled out a few business cards.

‘If you remember anything, please give me a call. Any time.'

‘Any time?' one of them tittered.

The blonde flipped the card, and frowned. ‘What's this about? Has something happened to Max?'

His eyes met theirs as he pulled up his collar against the wind, tightening his scarf about his neck. But he said nothing and just turned, saluting them gently as he left. The huddle fell silent.

5

The dog was completely still now. Marco Moltisanti sat on some rocks, drawing patterns in the sand with the bloodied stick. His little brother was some way away, skimming stones across the water. He could still hear its whimpers, its howls; he could still feel the full force of Marco's punch when he'd tried to stop him. It was the end of September. There was a slight chill in the breeze, a hardness to the sand, a silence in the birds that spelled the close of summer. He knew that this day marked the end of something: something that had been inside him but had left; something that was never coming back.

Scamarcio slept fitfully that night, his dreams troubled by strange creatures: half-man, half-woman, faces distorted to a bloody mess, eyes missing. He had called off his date for Saturday evening. He figured that breaking it up early to go and visit some transgender hookers was probably worse than cancelling. He'd need to make it right, though. He needed a second life to distract him — needed it like air.

He opened the blinds and got back into bed. He observed the milky sunlight soak its way through the brickwork of the building opposite, and watched a couple of pigeons stand in companionable silence on the ledge above, surveying the ant-like activity of human life below. He longed for a joint. If there was still a point in going over to the bookshelf, extracting the tin, flipping the lid, and lighting up, he'd now be enjoying the calm sweep over him: the sweetness, the rest, the emptiness of the moment. But the cupboard was bare: there was nothing in the house — his attempt at some kind of self-preservation. He sank back into the pillows, studying the ceiling and its intricate rings of damp. He wasn't sure how long he could maintain this particular battle of the will — it was tougher than he had anticipated.