The Few (21 page)

Zanini and Borghetti were speaking in whispers when he got back to the desk. It was obvious that they had been trying to follow the conversation inside their boss's office.

Scamarcio ignored them and sat back down, reaching for the phone. He scrolled through the address book on his BlackBerry, looking for Cepparo's details in Milan. It was a contact he'd made at a police conference the year before, which might turn out to be useful now.

He dialled the number, and was about to give up when a breathless voice finally came on the line.

‘Cepparo.' He'd been running in or out of somewhere.

‘Cepparo, it's Leone Scamarcio. We met at that get-together in Naples last year.'

‘Ah, Scamarcio, of course. You drank me under the table.'

Scamarcio smiled. ‘Was it that bad? I don't really remember.'

‘Well, of course you don't. How can I help you?'

‘I'm on a case, and it's got some links to a disappearance on Elba — a guy from Milan called Fabio Ella.'

‘He went missing from the island?'

‘Yeah, a couple of days ago. He's a resident of Milan. I've got his fiscal code and address here. I was wondering whether there was any chance of you looking into him for me — seeing what you can find out?'

‘What are you hoping to discover?'

‘No idea, Cepparo. I just think it might be worth talking to the wife who reported him missing, and also worth searching the apartment if you can get permission without having to go through all the usual crap.'

‘Leave it with me. I'm busy on something right now, but I can give it some time later today.'

‘I owe you one.' Scamarcio read him the relevant details from the sheet before hanging up. The two officers had stopped what they were doing, making no attempt this time to disguise their interest.

‘You really think there could be something in this Ella thing?' asked Zanini.

‘It's worth a try,' said Scamarcio. ‘It's always worth a try.'

He was about to talk them through the plan for the day when his desk phone rang. He didn't think he'd given anyone the number yet.

‘Detective Scamarcio?' the voice was hesitant, male, and somehow familiar.

‘Who's speaking?'

‘It's Officer Erranti from Porto Azzurro prison. We met yesterday. I was the one who first called you about The Priest.'

‘Ah, yes, of course.'

‘The thing is, he wants to see you again.'

‘Again?'

‘He says he has something more for you. I don't know if he was any use to you yesterday, but I thought I should call, and let you know at least.'

Scamarcio felt confused, then irritated. He wasn't a puppet to be summoned at The Priest's beck and call.

‘Thank you, officer. Any idea what he believes he has for me this time?'

‘No, he wouldn't say.'

‘I see.' Scamarcio sank back in the chair, cradling the phone in his chin. He could hear voices in the square down below, children shouting.

‘There's one other thing.' Erranti was hesitant again. ‘He wants you to come at midnight tonight — he says no other time will do. And you must come alone, apparently.'

Scamarcio yawned. He knew when he was being played. A night-time trek to the prison was the last thing he needed, but of course he had to go.

34

THE YOUNG OFFICER
from the day before was waiting for him on the shore with a speedboat when he arrived. The normal boatmen must have gone home for the night.

‘I was told to collect you,' he said. ‘We didn't expect to see you back again so soon.'

‘Neither did I,' said Scamarcio, tucking his coat around him as he took a seat in the boat. He saw that there were plastic-covered cushions this time, providing much more comfort than yesterday's ride.

As they pulled away from shore, the officer said: ‘The Priest has mythical status among the sex offenders, you know — it's sick.'

‘What about the other prisoners?'

‘Oh, we don't mix them, of course. We keep the sex offenders together on the same floor for their own protection.'

‘For their own protection.' Scamarcio considered the words. And what about the protection of the children? If it was up to him, he'd let the natural laws of the criminal jungle take their course, and leave The Priest and his like to the murderers, robbers, and wife beaters. This imperfect justice that was supposedly a marker of our civilised world — how bizarre it seemed to him sometimes.

The stars weren't visible tonight. A bank of cloud had pushed in from the east during the late afternoon, and now he could feel the first sharp spots of rain against his skin.

They travelled on in silence, the only sounds coming from the soft lapping of the waves against the hull or a melancholy gull cry echoing out across the water. Eventually, the officer killed the engine and they drew up alongside the tiny harbour, yellow splinters of light visible in the prison walls above them.

‘We're a skeleton staff at night, but we'll be watching out for you, don't worry,' said the officer as they made their way to the gate. Scamarcio felt his pulse rise again; this time, though, the rush of blood in his ears felt more intense, more difficult to control.

Officer Erranti and another younger man he hadn't seen before were waiting for him outside The Priest's cell when they arrived.

‘Erranti, we meet again,' said Scamarcio, nodding to the unknown officer. ‘Thanks for the speedboat.'

‘Not at all, Detective. We're glad to be of help. I just hope he's not wasting your time.'

A slightly strained silence descended before Erranti said: ‘You ready?'

‘As I'll ever be.' Scamarcio took a deep breath, and then they repeated the day before's procedure, with Erranti going in first.

The Priest was on the bed again, but dressed differently this time in a thick, knitted brown jumper and threadbare pyjama bottoms. He was no longer wearing eyeglasses. It was warm in the cell, so Scamarcio wondered why he needed the jumper.

‘No funny business, Pugno, I'm warning you,' said the officer, pointing a finger before stepping back into the corridor. Scamarcio heard chairs being drawn up outside the door.

The Priest gestured to the rickety chair again, exactly as he had done the day before. For a moment, Scamarcio felt as if he were stuck in some kind of feverish dream or recurring nightmare.

‘Again, Detective, thank you for coming. I realise you are busy.' The Priest sounded tired. Scamarcio saw dark, purplish rings beneath his eyes and a thin sheen of perspiration on his forehead. His hands were shaking slightly, and his knees seemed bony beneath the pyjama bottoms. They sat in silence for several moments, surveying each other; Scamarcio felt uncomfortable, and wanted to look away, but knew he couldn't. Then, in a sudden fluid movement that belied his age, The Priest was off the bed and kneeling at his feet. Scamarcio realised that he must have cried out in shock, because Erranti and the other officer were already running in from outside. ‘Pugno, I told you, no funny business. Get back on the bed.' The little man did not respond; his eyes were shut as he rocked back and forth slowly on his heels, and his palms were drawn together, seemingly poised in prayer.

‘Get back on the bed, I tell you!' But the man just kept rocking himself — forward, back, forward, back. The two officers looked at Scamarcio now, unsure what to do.

Scamarcio realised he'd actually stopped breathing for several seconds. He tried to pull himself together, steady his heart rate, and assess the situation. After a beat, he said: ‘It's OK, I can handle it. I'll call you if there are any problems.'

The officers exchanged glances and seemed unconvinced, but left them to it, returning to their chairs by the door.

The Priest continued to rock back and forth silently. Scamarcio noticed that his hands were coarse and dry — the hands of a labourer.

‘So, tell me what this is all about, Mr Pugno. You don't need to be on the floor to talk to me. Why don't you get back on the bed?' His voice came out shaky, slightly higher than normal.

The Priest started mumbling something to himself, but Scamarcio couldn't make out the words. Was the man having some kind of breakdown? It almost sounded as though he was speaking in tongues. Scamarcio felt a growing well of unease in his stomach. He just wanted to run from the cell, and get away from Longone as fast as the speedboat would take him.

Slowly, The Priest raised his head, and Scamarcio saw that his eyes were red-rimmed. The old man was crying: fat, bulbous tears running down his haggard jowls. Scamarcio was reminded of the one time he had seen his father cry, and of how uncomfortable it had made him feel, how he had just wanted to run away then, too — which, in the end, was what he'd done.

‘I need forgiveness.' The words came out as a sigh, like the last breath of a dying man.

Scamarcio felt his body go rigid. ‘What?'

‘Forgiveness.'

‘Forgiveness for what?'

‘You know what.'

‘I don't.'

‘For the innocents, those innocents.' The words were spoken so softly that Scamarcio could barely make them out. He felt nauseous, and forced himself to swallow down.

‘For the children you killed?'

‘Yes, the children,' whispered The Priest. ‘The lost souls.'

Instinctively, Scamarcio shifted his chair away from the stricken figure on the floor.

‘I can't be the one to give you that.'

‘Yes. You're the only one who can.'

‘What makes you think that? Perhaps you're confused? I'm a policeman, not a priest.' Scamarcio realised that he was speaking very fast now, the words running into each other. The Priest was shaking in front of him, sweating profusely.

‘You're the only one — you know that. The only one.'

‘Why do you say that? It makes no sense.'

‘Don't deny it!' There was no anger in the words; just a tired insistence.

‘No.'

‘Yes!' He was shouting now, trying to get up from the floor.

‘Listen, Pugno, I don't know what you're talking about. I think you're very mistaken about something.'

‘It's you who's mistaken.'

Scamarcio shook his head, and took a breath. ‘I have
work
to do. I will not allow you to waste any more of my time with your stupid games.'

‘Games? You think this is just a game?' He looked up at him, incredulous, pleading.

‘I'm a policeman, not a priest,' Scamarcio repeated, the words barely a whisper now.

The Priest just kept staring up at him, his eyes searching him out, trying to locate something deeper. Scamarcio fought the urge to look away. ‘So just tell me: how else can you help this inquiry? What further information do you have?'

The Priest began shaking his head, frantic, as if he was having a seizure. ‘No, no, no. That's not how it works. That's not how it works!' he hissed. The tiny cell was suddenly rank with sweat — the stench of fear. The Priest was rocking again now, his whole body quivering.

Scamarcio finally looked away. ‘I decide how it works, Pugno. Not you.'

‘You fool!' screeched The Priest. ‘You stupid, deluded fool! You're in denial!' He stabbed a thin, bony finger at him; then, exhausted, his mouth fell open and a dribble of saliva ran to his chin.

Scamarcio could take it no more. He pushed his chair back, scratching hard against the stone, and fled the cell, ignoring the waiting officers outside.

He tried to light a second cigarette, but the wind was high and the air damp, and he needed several attempts. When he'd managed it, he shifted his weight against the wall of the prison and looked up at the moths circling the sodium lights above the gate. They were battering their tiny bodies against the plastic casing, seemingly on some kind of suicide mission.

He could still feel his heart in his chest and taste the bile in his mouth — the first cigarette did not seem to have had any effect. This would be the last he'd see of Longone. He wasn't coming back; wasn't going to waste his time pandering to the delusions of some sick freak.

‘Detective Scamarcio.' The voice startled him. It was Officer Erranti, peering out into the darkness.

‘I just came to check that you're all right.'

Scamarcio took a drag on the fag and then tossed it to the ground, grinding it in firmly with his shoe.

‘Yeah, no worries. He just got to me a bit with the weird mind games in there.'

‘We heard him confess,' said Erranti. ‘After all these years, it's incredible. You must have some kind of power over him, Detective. I know it's none of my business, but I have to ask: why did he say what he did, about you being the only one?'

Scamarcio sighed, and felt the bile rising again. ‘I have absolutely no idea, officer. No idea at all.'