The Few (33 page)

Scamarcio flashed him his badge. ‘I'm a colleague of yours from Rome. Your pal Limoni may have told you about me.'

Rossi's reaction was reflex: he swung around and started running through what appeared to be a huge, tiled lobby. Scamarcio ran after him, slamming the front door behind him to stop the dogs from following. The boy was heading for some patio doors that opened onto a back garden with fields beyond. Before he could reach the sliding doors, Scamarcio leapt onto his back, bringing him crashing to the floor. He rolled him over and sat on his chest, pinning his arms behind him against the tiles, palms up. There was no sound of footsteps running to find them, and no shouts, so he presumed the boy was alone in the house.

‘Not so fast, Rossi,' he gasped.

The boy was only about 5ft 8 and thin, so he was no match for Scamarcio's 6 ft 3 bulk. He gave Rossi a hard slap across the side of his face, and then pulled his gun from its holster.

‘How would you feel about having that pretty face of yours cut up a bit?'

There were tears in the boy's brown eyes, and he saw one of them break and roll slowly down his right cheek.

Scamarcio sighed, suddenly tired from the day, tired of the whole thing. ‘Now listen, Rossi, let's just keep this simple. I'm a busy man — places to go, people to mutilate.'

The boy wouldn't meet his eye, and was blinking away the tears.

‘That guy who handed you and Limoni the photos of Foreign Secretary Ganza — did you know him?'

The boy shook his head, so Scamarcio smashed the gun into the side of his face. The boy was shaking now, and blood was mixing with the tears.

Scamarcio kept his tone even. ‘I will ask you again: did you know him?'

The boy nodded feebly, turning his head to the wall so he wouldn't have to look at Scamarcio.

‘
How
did you know him?'

When it came, Rossi's voice was high and shaky. ‘He knew an uncle of mine, my dad's brother.'

‘How did he know him?'

‘Just a business associate, I think.'

‘Name?'

‘My uncle?'

‘No, the man.'

‘Zaccardo — Paolo Zaccardo.'

‘How did he get the photos?'

‘I don't know.'

Scamarcio smashed the left side of his face with the gun, as he had often seen his father do. The boy howled. He was panting now. ‘I promise that's the truth. I don't know how he got them. I was just told that I had to take them from him, that I could make some money from them if I wanted, and that I'd have to share the money with him.'

Scamarcio looked towards the patio doors and then behind him, checking for unannounced visitors. He returned his attention to the boy.

‘Where is he now?'

The boy said nothing, so Scamarcio raised the gun. The boy started shaking again. ‘I'm not sure. But there's a place he might be — Pogerola. It's not far from here — fifteen minutes or so. I can show you how to get there.'

‘Good idea.'

Scamarcio dragged the boy to his feet and then stabbed the gun into his back, pushing him to lead the way. When they reached the car, the boy was wide-eyed at the sight of Meathead, handcuffed to the passenger door. They exchanged furious glances, but neither of them said a word.

Scamarcio pushed the boy into the back of the car behind the driver's seat, and pulled out a spare set of cuffs from the glove pocket. He attached the boy to the door handle and then slammed the door shut, locking him inside.

He hopped in front and started the engine, slamming the car into gear and taking the drive as fast as possible. He didn't want to encounter any relatives back from the shops or a Camorra killing spree.

‘Quite the family outing,' he said as they approached the main road.

Neither of the men responded.

‘Right or left here?'

‘Right,' muttered the boy behind him.

It was past midday, and the air conditioning in his Toyota was not up to the job. He could smell the sweat of the two strangers, and opened his window wide. As the sea came into view, the tourist villages of the Amalfi coast blinked back at them, the small sailboats still bobbing in their harbours, the surf rolling gently towards the hills. The boy was murmuring oaths to himself, entreating all the saints, calling God a pig. Eventually, the meathead shouted at him not to take the Lord's name in vain, and he finally fell silent.

Pogerola was more a hamlet than anything else, a scattering of ten-or-so houses with a tiny chapel at the end of the road. The boy grunted at him to make a right-hand turn, and he pulled up outside a stone cottage set slightly back from the drive, its wooden fence circling a sloping patch of lawn that ran downhill with the gravel lane. The windows were in the old style with yellow wooden shutters, and painted on the stone slabs of the ground floor was a kind of nautical design. There was a large tiled area before the front door, where two black-and-white cats were sunning themselves lazily. The place was well kept: the grass was freshly mown, and two blue pots full of primroses marked the entrance to the house. Scamarcio wondered at the English lawn — getting that to work this far south was quite an achievement.

He turned in his seat to face the boy. ‘Give me your mobile.'

‘I don't have it.'

Scamarcio got out from the driver's seat and unlocked the boy's door. He patted him down, but could find no sign of a phone. ‘Right, stay here while I have a chat with your friend Zaccardo.'

Once again, he felt for his Beretta in its holster and took the path to the house. He was tired, but somehow he liked days like this — it felt like he was cleaning up, tidying away, so they could all move forward. He knocked on the wooden front door, noticing the antique knocker and sliding bolt. A horseshoe hung over the porch above him. Maybe it would turn out to be his lucky day.

He heard footsteps, and the old door creaked open. If this was Zaccardo, he was not what Scamarcio was expecting. He had anticipated Meathead Mark II, not the small wiry man standing before him now. His hair was curly, his face tanned and taut, his narrow eyes a gimlet blue.

‘Yes?' The accent was undiluted Neapolitan.

‘Paolo Zaccardo?'

The man surveyed him for a few moments, as if weighing up their relative physiques and his chances of winning in a fight. Although the man was small, he was well muscled; nevertheless, Scamarcio reckoned he could take him without too much fuss.

‘Who's asking?'

Scamarcio showed him his badge. ‘Detective Leone Scamarcio, Rome Flying Squad.'

Scamarcio saw the cogs whir, and figured the man was assessing anew whether it was worth the effort. In the end, he surprised him completely by opening the door wider and saying: ‘You'd better come in.'

The ceilings in the house were low. Downstairs seemed to be all open plan, exposed stone walls, and terracotta floors, creating a French farmhouse effect. Zaccardo gestured to a leather armchair by the fireplace. ‘Take a seat, Detective. Can I offer you something?'

Scamarcio wondered if he was playing for time, giving whoever was upstairs the chance to arm up and come down. But he couldn't hear anyone else in the house.

‘No, thank you. I'm fine.'

Zaccardo took a seat on the sofa opposite. ‘I think I can guess why you're here.'

‘You can?'

Several seconds of silence followed, in which all Scamarcio could hear was the lazy hum of the cicadas outside.

Eventually, Zaccardo said: ‘Arthur dies, and now, from what I hear, Simon up in Florence. Another acquaintance of mine, Geppo, has also been killed.' He sighed. ‘The fact is, they're all linked to the same thing.'

‘Geppo the bookie, you mean?'

‘You knew him?'

‘I knew of him. But not when he was alive. He was connected to Arthur and the other guy?'

‘In a manner of speaking.'

Scamarcio stopped a moment, deciding it was best to take things one step at a time.

‘I've been told you were the one who handed the photos of Ganza to my two colleagues in Rome?'

Zaccardo sank back into the sofa, crossed his legs, and sighed again. ‘I was just trying to make a bit of extra money.'

‘What was the deal between you and officer Rossi?'

‘He'd share any proceeds with me.'

‘Proceeds from blackmail?'

‘Correct.'

‘Why are you being so open with me?'

Zaccardo got up from the sofa and went to a low shelf cut into the stone to his right. On it stood various bottles of whisky. He selected a Jamesons, and poured himself a generous measure. ‘You sure I can't offer you anything, Detective?'

‘Quite sure.'

Zaccardo sat back down, said nothing, and just sipped tentatively at the whisky. Scamarcio didn't take him for an afternoon drinker. ‘Blackmail comes with a hefty sentence, so I'm wondering why you're willing to own up so readily. I'd expected much more of a fight, to be honest. It's not usually this easy.'

Zaccardo put down his glass. ‘Actually, Detective, I've been thinking about all this for some time now — well, since the deaths started, really. I'd been weighing up whether to approach the police myself, asking them to cut me some sort of deal. Now you're here, you've made up my mind for me. I definitely want a deal.'

‘A deal?'

‘I want to go into witness protection.'

‘You what?'

‘You heard me.'

Neither man said a word for several moments. Somewhere down the corridor, an antique grandfather clock was marking out another fifteen minutes of Scamarcio's life, gone forever.

After a while, Zaccardo said: ‘To put it simply, I'm scared. Too many people I know, too many associates, are losing their lives, and I've got a hunch that I'm going to be next.'

‘Associates to what?'

‘This is where the deal comes in. If I tell you what I know, I want you to guarantee that you'll provide me with protection. The same deal as you make with the penitents. I want a new house, a new identity, a brand-new life — the works. Somewhere up north, preferably.'

Scamarcio took a breath. ‘But those kinds of deals are cut on huge cases — cases where many others are going to be brought into the frame. I don't think this one quite ranks in the same league. It's hardly going to result in a maxi trial.'

Zaccardo shook his head. ‘Then you don't understand this case at all.'

His words silenced Scamarcio, bringing bitterness to his mouth. He thought for several moments and then said: ‘Look, I'd like to hear what you know. Tell me what I need to do right now to speed that along.'

‘Do you or do you not have the authority to cut me a deal?'

Scamarcio sighed. ‘Not without talking to my boss first.'

‘Then call him, and tell him what I've said. Then we can talk. While you make the call, I'll be in the kitchen.'

Zaccardo got up and left him alone in the room.

Scamarcio dialled Garramone and filled him in. When he was done, the chief surprised him by saying: ‘Just give him what he's asking for. We'll sort it all out later.'

‘If he wants a paper contract?'

‘Just sign it.'

As Scamarcio hung up, he saw that Zaccardo was back in the room. He must have been listening to the end of the conversation.

‘Yes, I want it all down on paper.'

‘OK, so draw it up.'

Zaccardo reached for a pad and pen in a cupboard next to the dining-room table, and pulled out a seat to jot down a few lines. When he brought it over, Scamarcio saw that it was crude stuff — just one paragraph, replete with spelling and grammatical errors, asking for protection and a new identity as they'd discussed. It reminded him of the letter sent to Filippi. Scamarcio signed beneath the text, knowing that, if push came to shove, Garramone could invoke a whole set of laws to deem it invalid.

Zaccardo took the paper, folded it, and put it in his shirt pocket. He sat back down on the sofa and crossed his legs again. Scamarcio took out his phone and pressed the recording device. Zaccardo saw him do it and nodded.

‘OK, Detective. Where do you want to start?'

‘So how did you get the photos in the first place?'

‘I took them myself.'

‘Where were they taken?'

‘At a villa, outside Radda in Chianti.'

‘How did you know that Ganza was going to be there?'

‘Due to my work, I knew where a whole lot of important people were going to be on certain dates at certain times, and what they'd be doing when they got there.'

‘Go on.'

Zaccardo looked up to the ceiling for a moment, and his shoulders seemed to sag. Scamarcio thought he read guilt on the man's face. When they finally came, there was a tiredness and resignation in the words: ‘I suppose you could call it a kind of exclusive club, although they did their best not to pin it down, or give it any kind of definition or identity. That would make it real, you see.'