The Few (32 page)

He approached the table. ‘Mrs Ganza? Leone Scamarcio. Thanks for seeing me.'

She seemed surprised, as if she hadn't been expecting him, and then quickly composed herself and held out a hand. They shook, and he took a seat. There were fine lines around her eyes and mouth, but the rest of her skin was smooth and even: for a woman in her mid-forties, she was in impressive shape. He guessed she'd had help with that.

‘Would you like a coffee, Detective?' Before he'd answered, she'd waved over the waitress in that way that people who had always had money felt comfortable doing. She was the daughter of an oilman, he seemed to remember; she was much richer than Ganza himself.

‘Caffè latte, thanks.'

She placed their orders and then looked down at the table, delaying the moment when they would have to make eye contact.

After a few seconds, she lifted her gaze to him and said: ‘I'm sorry, but I fear I'm not going to be of much help to you, Detective.'

There was a deadness behind her eyes, and he wondered if it was exhaustion, both emotional and physical.

‘I just need to ask you a few basic questions — we're crossing the t's and dotting the i's, really.'

She nodded, seeming to steel herself.

‘How long did you know about your husband's relationship with Arthur?'

She shook her head gently, and cast her eyes down again. Her voice was low and tired. The words came slowly. ‘It was a complete surprise. I had no idea.'

‘So he never said anything?'

‘Well, would
you
?'

The comment threw him slightly, and he was momentarily lost for words. Thankfully, the waitress was back with their coffees. He pulled the caffè latte towards him and took a sip, and then asked: ‘So all seemed well in the marriage?'

‘We had been married for 17 years, Detective. A marriage like that takes a lot of work. There were the usual ups and downs.'

‘But nothing that led you to suspect he could be having an affair?'

She carefully replaced her cup on the saucer, turned it around so the handle was pointing to her right, and then looked up, fixing him squarely in the eye. ‘Detective, it was not an affair. He was a whore. He used him for sex.'

Scamarcio decided not to push it for now. ‘So when those photos appeared in the press, it was the first you had heard of it?'

She sighed, exasperated. ‘No, my husband had warned me the night before that they were about to come out. He'd told me we all needed to get out of Rome for a while.'

‘Did he explain what had gone on between him and Arthur?'

She laughed — a defeated, bitter little laugh. ‘It's funny how you keep calling him that.'

‘Why?'

‘Well, I'm sure that's not his name.'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘What Argentine calls their child Arthur?'

He smiled, playing along. ‘So did your husband explain the nature of their relationship?'

‘He just told me what I've told you. He was a whore, and he paid him for sex.' She paused a moment. ‘Why the gay stuff? Well, he didn't go into that and, frankly, I wasn't in the mood for asking.'

‘Did he have any idea who had killed him?'

She shook her head. ‘No, none at all.'

‘Do
you
have any ideas?'

She exhaled, leaning back against the wall. ‘Why would I know? I didn't even know of this … this person's existence until a few days ago.'

Scamarcio nodded and then said: ‘How did your husband seem? When he heard about Arthur's death, I mean?'

She fell silent for a moment and then said: ‘He's scared.' She paused. ‘He's not saying, but I can tell.' There was something strangely triumphant in her tone.

‘Why do you think he's scared?'

‘I guess because he's worried that you lot will think he's responsible.'

‘Do
you
think he's responsible?'

She went to bar her arms across her chest, and then seemingly thought better of it and placed her hands on her lap under the table.

‘My husband is a selfish, deluded fool, Detective, but he's not a murderer. Seventeen years with someone, and there are certain things you know about them.'

‘You didn't know he'd been having sex with men.'

She flashed him a look of anger. ‘That's very different.'

Scamarcio decided to change tack. ‘Do you think he'd be capable of hiring someone to commit murder on his behalf?'

She didn't hesitate this time. ‘Certainly not. In his mind, it would amount to the same thing, whether he did it himself or not. He has a logical mind — he's always been a highly rational thinker.'

To Scarmacio, there was nothing very rational about setting up a rentboy and his friend in two apartments in Trastevere; nothing very rational about attending the kind of parties that Ganza did. Maybe that's what happened to exceptionally rational people, Scamarcio reflected — they were inevitably prone to moments of breathtaking irrationality. Base nature would always triumph over intellect.

‘Do you think your husband has any idea who might have done it?'

She sighed, exasperated again. ‘You would need to ask him yourself. He's never said anything to me. But I guess Arthur, as you call him, inhabited a dirty little world where dirty little people do dirty little things.' It was clear that this was a world that, for Mrs Ganza, was as distant as Venus.

‘I'd very much like to talk to your husband, but it seems quite difficult to reach him right now.'

She smiled bitterly again, fixing him with a hard stare. ‘I'm sure that when he leaves the retreat, you'll be the first person he calls, Detective.'

51

HE FILLED IN GARRAMONE
about the fruitless meeting with Mrs Ganza. Reflecting on it, as he headed down to Naples the next morning, he wondered about the deadness in the eyes, considered anew if, like Mrs Baker, she was also on some kind of medication to ease her pain. Now he thought back, when she turned her head a certain way, the light revealed a plasticity to the skin. But that could be the botox, rather than any anti-depressant drug. He thought about the Moltisanti, wondering about their connection to Ganza and his world.

Although it took just an hour and a half by car to get from Rome to Naples, the heat in the city was far more cloying than in the capital. There was a rank intensity to it that made Scamarcio desperate to leave the place almost as soon as he had arrived. The foetid miasma of two weeks' worth of garbage hung over Rossi's street, and as he entered the building he saw the ribbed red tail of something feral disappear between some broken bin bags. A resident held the front door open for him, and he took the lift to the fifth floor, figuring that the family had to be home, that they couldn't hide out forever. He left the elevator and stepped out into the corridor. This time there were no neighbours around. He found the door, pushing the square buzzer on the wall to the right. He waited, but once again there was no sound of footsteps from inside, no TV murmur, no chatter. He tried the buzzer once more, but he was greeted by the same silence. He was about to turn away when, from nowhere, a tattooed arm reached over his left shoulder and placed a large, hairy hand on the door in front of him.

‘Who wants them?'

Scamarcio turned to see a tall, muscle-bound man with close-cropped hair, over-tanned skin, bulldog features, and a gold stud in each ear standing directly in front of him, barring his way to the elevator.

‘And you are?'

The man pushed him in his chest, throwing him against the door. It caught the back of his head.

‘I ask the questions, arsehole.'

Scamarcio rubbed at his skull and tried to straighten up. The meathead barred his huge arms across his chest, setting his feet apart. The message was clear: Scamarcio wasn't going anywhere for the time being.

‘I'm looking for Officer Rossi. I'm a colleague of his from Rome.'

The man shook his head. ‘As far as he tells it, his colleagues sold him down the Swanee.'

‘It's not that simple.'

‘What do you want with him?'

‘Just to talk.'

‘Well, he's not here.'

‘When is he coming back?'

‘That's none of your business.'

‘Now listen, Mr …?'

‘Again, none of your business.'

Scamarcio decided he'd had enough. He looked to his right a moment, as if he'd seen something alarming approaching down the corridor, and when the idiot turned to follow his gaze, he rushed forward and kneed him in the groin, spinning him around to the left so that, from behind, he could push his arm across his neck and Adam's apple, holding it hard under his chin. He tightened the vice and pulled the man down towards the floor while, with the other hand, he twisted his balls.

‘It's time to be polite.'

The man began whimpering like a baby.

‘It's actually very simple. I want you to tell me where Rossi is, and I want the truth, otherwise you'll be looking at losing a testicle — maybe two.' He twisted harder, and the man screamed.

‘Could you manage without them, do you think?'

The man screamed again.

‘Spit it out.'

Scamarcio's heart was pounding, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could resist the push of the man's huge thigh muscles against his arm.

‘He's in their summer house … in Scala.' The meathead gasped, and Scamarcio pulled harder. ‘The hills above Amalfi,' he spluttered. In one movement, Scamarcio prised his arm free from between the man's legs, and swung it around to his left-hand jeans pocket, where he grabbed his cuffs from their usual place. He then opened them with his teeth, and attached one to his left wrist and the other to the man's right, where he was trying to prise Scamarcio's arm from his neck. Scamarcio then quickly swung the right half of his body free. The lout was too slow to follow what he was doing and react.

‘You're going to take me there,' said Scamarcio.

As he was bundling him into the elevator, the numbskull spat in his face.

‘Didn't you hear what I said?' asked Scamarcio. ‘I have a new set of knives that I'm dying to try out.'

The colour seemed to drain from the man's face, and they rode down to the lobby in silence.

Once outside, he pushed the man into the passenger seat of his car, detaching the cuff from his right wrist and transferring it to the door handle on the passenger side. He swung the door shut on the blockhead and walked around to the driver's side. He got in and pushed the car into gear, scrabbling for his fags in the tray under the radio. He found his lighter in his shirt pocket, and lit up.

‘Sorry, I should have asked you if you wanted one.'

The man just looked away in contempt.

They left the garbage-strewn suburbs, and headed off in silence along the A3 towards Salerno. Scamarcio only asked the man for directions as they neared the city. He grunted a few rights and lefts until they were ascending a steep hill with the Amalfi coast spread out beneath them. Scamarcio thought he could spot the spires of Positano cathedral glinting in the sun, silver fishing boats dancing in the harbour below. Eventually, the road became dust and, above it, low stone walls appeared, studded with cacti and bougainvillea. Small farms branched off to either side, their red shutters baking in the sun.

‘Next left,' spat the man.

Scamarcio turned onto a long track. Fields ran alongside it, and at the end of the drive stood a large white villa; terracotta pots lining the paved entranceway to the porch, and pink bougainvillea framing the front door. A couple of black Labradors yapped as they ran up and down the gravel.

There was only one car parked in front of the garage — a black Suzuki jeep. Scamarcio took that as a good sign. It might mean that there weren't too many of them home.

‘Give me your mobile,' he said to the man.

‘It's in my right-hand pocket.' He rattled his wrist in the cuff to show he couldn't get to it.

Scamarcio reached over. ‘Sit up a second.'

The man did so, and Scamarcio managed to pull it from his pocket and place it in his own. He opened the car windows slightly and killed the engine before stepping out into the afternoon heat. He clicked the central locking: Meathead could stay where he was for now.

Scamarcio patted the Beretta in its holster inside his jacket and walked up to the house. The Labradors ran up to him, barking, but he ignored them and made straight for the door, pressing the buzzer.

Almost immediately, he heard footsteps inside and several latches being pulled. The door opened slowly, and he saw a young man standing there, probably no more than 23 years old.

‘Gianfilippo Rossi?'

‘Who wants to know?'