The Few (18 page)

‘He's not taking my calls. I can't reach him.'

‘Jesus.'

‘This Elba thing — maybe it's some wild goose chase. Maybe someone sent you up there to get you out of the way, to stop us from going to Florence.'

‘That thought just crossed my mind.'

‘And?'

‘I'm not convinced. I want to run with this a while. Give me a few more days.'

Garramone sighed. ‘What can I do anyway? The Florence police will investigate now. It's out of our hands.'

There was a gap in the conversation, but Scamarcio didn't try to fill it. His mind was too busy processing all the possibilities.

‘Anyway, stay in touch. Let me know if anything turns up.'

Garramone sounded like a man who had just been handed a huge problem but denied the means to solve it. Scamarcio sensed anew that they were both on a one-way track to trouble. He took a seat on a dilapidated bench and closed his eyes for a moment. Just why had Garramone decided to sabotage his prospects like this? He had always felt that there was a reluctant empathy there, a quiet understanding. Now he wasn't so sure. He checked himself. Garramone probably had no idea where it would all end when he agreed to this ‘favour for a friend'. They had both been duped. But somehow, now Scamarcio was inside this thing, whatever it was, he felt a growing need to get to the nub of it, to root out its rotten core.

He got up from the bench, his limbs heavy. He decided to head to the hotel where the English couple was staying, but when he got there he was informed that they'd left early that morning for a cruise around the islands. Had no one told them to stay put? He left his card at the desk for them so they might call him on their return. The Scandinavian family, it transpired, were at the end of their holiday and had flown home to Stockholm the evening before. The fact that neither Genovesi, nor his men, seemed to have been aware of their impending departure was yet another source of frustration for Scamarcio.

There was nothing for it but to head to the police station. Genovesi would no doubt find some broom cupboard for him to work out of. The headquarters of the Elba squad were next to the town hall, opposite the park in Portoferraio. It was an unprepossessing building made of cinderblock, with three floors of plain windows. Like so much recent Italian architecture, no attempt had been made to blend in with the older buildings circling the park; like so many Italian towns, the result was a faded hodgepodge of elaborate facades and soulless concrete.

He flashed his badge at the desk sergeant, who nodded and gestured to his right. ‘In there,' he said.

Scamarcio was relieved to see no sign of Genovesi — only Zanini, hunched in a corner, thumbing through the telephone directory. The phone rang and he reached for it, spotting Scamarcio as he did so. He nodded a greeting.

It was a brief, one-sided phone conversation. Zanini just said ‘yes' several times and scribbled in a notepad before replacing the receiver. Scamarcio drew up a chair opposite his desk.

‘How's it going?'

‘OK. I spoke to Claudio, the owner of, well … Da Claudio, and he tells me those locals the Bakers mentioned were from the estate agents down the road, just out for a working lunch. They come twice a week, apparently.'

‘We should have a word with them.'

‘I'm on it. I've arranged to go round there in an hour or so.'

‘Good.'

He glanced at his notepad, and flicked through a few pages. ‘As for the other places the family visited, I've contacted a few: they tell me that they don't remember anything unusual. They'd had a mixture of tourists and locals in, mainly families and couples. They don't remember seeing any strange loners, or anyone like that.' He looked up quickly. ‘Not that that means anything, of course — we know that these kidnappings are often carried out by couples.'

‘Quite.'

‘One problem I've got is that the Bakers are really sketchy about their dates. They're having trouble remembering which days they went where. It makes it hard to pin things down.'

‘That's often the way when you're on holiday — one day blends into the next. I guess it's worse when you're out of it on prescription drugs.' Scamarcio glanced around the office. It was small and, apart from a narrow window facing the square, there was only one other window at the back, which looked straight onto a concrete wall. It was not exactly an inspiring working environment. ‘Where's Genovesi?'

‘They went to Lacona. A German woman rang in, saying she'd seen a blonde girl who fits Stacey's description being dragged from a supermarket by a “foreign-looking” man.'

‘ “Foreign-looking”?'

‘She thought he was maybe from the East. Albania or Romania — one of those countries.'

‘When was this?'

‘She called it in half an hour ago, and they headed straight out.'

Scamarcio raised his eyebrows and frowned. They both knew this could mean everything or nothing. Zanini gave him a strange look, and then got up from his desk and headed towards the hallway. He poked his head into the corridor for a moment, glanced left and right, and then closed the door and returned to his seat.

‘What you were saying earlier about securing the scene …'

‘What about it?'

‘Well, it wasn't secured. Not until several hours after they reported her gone. The world and his wife trampled around there until Genovesi finally gave the word.'

Scamarcio shook his head and gritted his teeth. He wasn't even surprised. Why was it always the same story? Why could no one on this godforsaken peninsula ever do things right?

‘OK,' he said. ‘Thanks for the steer.'

Zanini looked down, flicking through the notepad again. ‘You didn't hear it from me.'

The phone trilled, puncturing the awkward silence. Zanini picked up, said nothing for several moments, and just rolled his eyes. Then: ‘We're not talking to the press. No. No comment. You'd need to ask Chief Genovesi — he's the one running this inquiry, but he's out and, like I say, we're not talking to the press.' The caller was evidently refusing to take no for an answer, so after a while Zanini sighed and put the phone down.

‘It's started,' said Scamarcio.

‘It was only a matter of time.'

‘They're quick, though. I'll give them that.'

‘Yeah, and it wasn't even the local guy — that was Rai Tuscany.'

‘You men will need to set something up now. I take it you don't have a regular press guy down here?'

‘No call for it.'

‘If you like, I can try and get somebody sent up from Rome.'

‘Sounds good, but obviously you'd have to clear it with Genovesi.'

The phone rang again, and they exchanged glances as Zanini picked up. It would probably go on like this all afternoon now. Scamarcio felt for the young officer. But instead of anger, Zanini was registering surprise at whatever the caller was telling him. After a moment, he said: ‘Well, actually, he's right here, sitting opposite me. Would you like to speak to him?' He waited an instant, and then handed the phone across. Scamarcio mouthed ‘Genovesi?', but Zanini shook his head.

He picked up. ‘Scamarcio — can I help you?'

It was a man's voice, slow and deliberate. ‘Detective Scamarcio, I'm glad to have found you. I work as a guard at Longone Prison here on the island. I have an inmate who is demanding to speak with you. He claims that he can help you with an inquiry.'

Scamarcio felt an iciness somewhere in his chest. ‘What inquiry?'

‘He didn't say, just that it was the inquiry you're working on right now — the inquiry here on Elba. I'm sorry to bother you with this. I was going to leave it, but then we wondered whether he might actually have something for you, and whether it would be best to call, after all.'

‘Thank you. You did the right thing. Who is your inmate?'

The guard fell silent a moment, and then uttered two words that made Scamarcio's blood run cold: ‘The Priest.'

30

THE PORTO AZZURRO PRISON
was actually an old fortress carved into the cliff face on the island's eastern shore. The sun was dipping below the horizon when Scamarcio drove up, its eerie glow sculpting the rocks, defining them harsh and cold against the ebbing light of the sea. Seagulls screeched overhead, fighting for scraps in the crevices of the rock-face — their dusty wings pounding the air, their red claws livid against the stone.

Scamarcio pulled the car to a halt, and took a moment to compose himself and steady his climbing pulse. The entrance to the prison was barely visible; it could have passed as a break in the rock if you were far enough away. The walls were sheer and oily black, planed down by centuries of salt spray. There was no escape from here, no boulders to stagger your descent to the water, no path towards the shore: beyond the edge of the fortress lay nothing but the blackness of the sea and whatever treacherous rocks lay beneath. If you were foolish enough to try running past the entranceway, you'd still be left clinging to the cliff face, probably dodging fire, until your getaway craft showed.

Scamarcio felt a jitter in his right leg, and looked down so he could watch it move. But he saw nothing — it seemed still. Slowly, with detachment, he observed both knuckles turn white, and realised that he'd been repeatedly clenching and unclenching his fists, as if this was a tried-and-tested relaxation technique of his. But, as far as he could remember, it was something he had never done before. Like, as far as he could remember, he had never met a child killer before.

And those two words, ‘child killer', as awful as they were, didn't adequately describe The Priest. Yes, he was a child killer — Italy's worst — but it was the manner in which he had sexually assaulted and tortured his 18 victims that had embedded itself forever in the memories of those unfortunate colleagues of Scamarcio's who had been set the task of capturing him. For the public it was a little easier, because the full nature of his crimes had never made it onto the news: these details would have haunted too many clean minds, would have proved impossible to rub out, unlike an earthquake in Haiti or an oil spill off Mexico. But the gist was bad enough, and when The Priest — Mario Pugno, 45, from Lecce, who, with his Catholic robes and rosary beads, had once fooled so many — was finally brought in, thousands lined the streets of Rome, thousands wept and spat and screamed as his blacked-out penitentiary van passed by, crushing their makeshift wreaths and sending smashed roses and lily stems scattering. Scamarcio had been 25 at the time, and had worries of his own, but even he had been touched by the anger that gripped the nation — the unbridled fury and disgust, the clamour for blood. Even Cosa Nostra, so they said, were revolted by The Priest. Even they had tried to seize him and bring him in as a gesture to the people, a gesture to the police. But even they had failed.

Scamarcio exhaled, reached for the door handle, and stepped out into the fading light. The salt spray hit his skin, pushing up against his nostrils. There was another smell lurking beneath: rotting seaweed or moss, or some kind of dead sea-life.

Waiting at the shore's edge were the boatmen who ferried visitors back and forth to the entranceway. A couple of them were dragging on cigarettes, chewing the fat. Scamarcio showed them his police badge, and they nodded their recognition of his status. One of them stubbed out his cigarette and gestured to his colleague that he'd take the detective. He pointed to a rickety boat to his left, and Scamarcio climbed in, taking a seat on the damp bench. The boatman said nothing, just took his place at the helm and manoeuvred the craft out into the darkening waters. The cries of the gulls above them — malignant custodians heralding their arrival — grew more intense as they neared the prison. Scamarcio could make out the little harbour in front of the entranceway and wondered how they ferried the food out here, whether a bigger boat came with supplies a few times a week. The boatman drew up alongside the wooden boardwalk and attached the rope before jumping onto the jetty, then once they were steady gave Scamarcio his hand and helped him out. The detective reached into his pocket to pay, but the boatman waved him away: no doubt it was standard policy here, as elsewhere, to stay on the good side of the force.

Scamarcio turned to face the broad, stone steps that led up to the prison gates. His pulse quickened once more, and he had the sense that he was heading towards a dark destiny, towards a new unsettling chapter in his life. The steps were covered with a thick, white coating of gull grime, but the tang of salt mist and damp stone was strangely invigorating. There was a halogen glow emanating from behind the studded wooden gates and he made towards it, wondering what would greet him on the other side. He spoke his name and rank into the intercom, and then a hatch slid open to the right.

The face of a prison officer came up to the window, and the intercom stuttered into life again: ‘ID, please'.

Scamarcio held his card up to the window. The officer compared photo with features, and then scrutinised something below him.

‘One moment, sir.'

After a few seconds, the gate swung open, and Scamarcio stepped into a warm entranceway with large stone slabs underfoot.