The Few (25 page)

Genovesi had mustered officers from the other two small stations on the island, and they had organised a search of their towns, bars, and internet cafés. Scamarcio reckoned it was unlikely they would find Dacian on one of the tourist beaches. They had also put out alerts at Elba's two ports to make sure the boy couldn't leave the island undetected.

Scamarcio was at his desk, waiting for news and waiting for Stacey Baker's dental records to come in. If those bite marks belonged to her, he wasn't sure what he would tell the parents. Could he get away with not telling them? If they brought Dacian in tonight and put him under duress, maybe they could get to her in time. But who knew what had happened to her since she'd been taken? Even if she was alive, they might still be too late. He felt a pang of anxiety twist in his gut, and the last words of The Priest came back up to his mind like a haunting. He deserved to rot, the crazy freak. Scamarcio found himself hoping he'd be in Longone a good while yet, and that death wouldn't offer an easy way out anytime soon. Instinctively, though, he knew that Pugno's time was near. The red circles under the eyes and the sweating brow had attested to a serious illness of some kind. Scamarcio felt sure it was that which had prompted the midnight confession.

The fax bleeped three times, signalling the imminent arrival of a message. He went to the coffee machine and pulled an espresso, and then another. The bin was full to overflowing with the tiny plastic cups. Did no one ever clean this place?

Scamarcio added his two to the toppling pile and went over to the fax. The second page was indeed Stacey Baker's dental records from the States — the dentist had been efficient. Scamarcio would take them over to Barrabino himself.

The light had almost completely disappeared from the sky now; only a few fragile traces of red clung tentatively to the horizon. The air was still heavy with the heat of the day, and the breeze carried the warm scent of honeysuckle, mellowed by the sun. As he strolled past the little park, he noticed the pink-and-white proteas nodding gently, responding to the soft currents moving up from the sea down the road.

He realised that he had left his car keys in the office and turned around, heading back in to get them. As he did so, he noticed a small, elderly man hovering nervously by reception. The desk officer was nowhere in sight.

‘Can I help you?' he asked the man.

‘Thank you. I am looking for a Detective Scamarcio, from Rome.'

‘I'm Detective Scamarcio.'

The old man seemed greatly relieved: ‘Oh, good. Do you have five minutes, Detective?'

Scamarcio looked down at the dental records in his hand and knew he really didn't, but something about the old chap made him curious.

‘I'm a bit pressed right now, but I can probably manage five minutes, yes. Do you want to come up to the office?'

The stranger nodded, and Scamarcio led the way. When the man was seated in Zanini's chair, Scamarcio offered him a coffee, but he waved a hand, dismissing the idea by saying: ‘You're very kind, but no.'

Now they were under the halogen lights, Scamarcio noticed that the fellow had piercing blue eyes. They were the kind of eyes that had seen a lot and would not be lied to — the eyes of a real priest. And, in fact, when the man took off his shawl, Scamarcio immediately saw the dog collar and wondered what this was all about.

As if reading his thoughts, the stranger said: ‘I will get straight to the point, Detective, because I can see you are a very busy man. I know that a little girl went missing from Elba a few days ago, and I can't begin to think of the hell her parents must be going through, so it's important you get back to that as soon as possible.'

Scamarcio was about to respond, but the old man pressed on. ‘I am the priest at the prison of Longone. Last night I saw Mario Pugno in his cell, as I am wont to do several times a month. I'm not sure whether anyone has informed you, but Mr Pugno has cancer and may not survive the week. He has been asking to see you one final time — he says it's very important, and can help with the disappearance of this child.'

Scamarcio sighed and pushed back his chair. ‘Has anyone told you about how much of my time he's wasted already? I've been there twice now, and he hasn't told me anything useful. The last time he seemed to think I was you, he was asking me to forgive him for his crimes.'

The blue eyes fixed on him, unblinking. The voice was soft and measured. ‘No, he was under no illusions, Mr Scamarcio. It was you he wanted forgiveness from. I am sorry if you feel he has wasted your time, but I do sense that he has something for you which could prove important. Maybe it's just that until now he has found it difficult to release the information; maybe he needed your forgiveness before he felt able to do so.'

‘But why? What have I got to do with him and his crimes?'

‘Only Mr Pugno can answer that.'

Scamarcio sighed again. Was this going to happen on a daily basis now? Was he going to be forever summoned to the prison at Longone to bear witness to the madness of this man?

‘Why do you bother with him? As an emissary of God, how can you spend time with a creature so deeply evil?'

The blue eyes were unwavering: it still seemed as if he hadn't blinked. ‘Evil is not an absolute, Detective. It is always tempered by some kind of goodness from within, some kind of light. It's the light that we work with, try to make stronger.'

Scamarcio shook his head. ‘And you're honestly telling me that you believe there is some kind of light in him?'

‘Oh, I am sure of it, Detective. Quite sure.'

40

SCAMARCIO TOLD THE PRIEST
that he would think about Pugno's request to see him one last time. Now, driving to Barrabino's, the same thoughts kept circling: just why did The Priest keep coming back to him? What was it he believed he had on him? Why the acquaintance with his father? The whole affair made him increasingly uneasy, and he felt the need to speak to someone familiar back in Rome. Why hadn't Garramone replied to his messages? What scheme did he have in play? Had something happened to him? His silence just fed Scamarcio's disquiet. And there was something else, too: the need for a friendly face, an easy chat. He thought about calling Aurelia, considered the implications, and then pushed the idea to the back of his mind. He surveyed the darkening sky as it sped past, and felt a new isolation from the world, stuck out here on this rocky outcrop, working alone, his presence known to just a few. Yet again, his instincts told him that it would not end well.

He had been told that Barrabino's house could not be missed. Apparently, it was the sprawling pastel-pink villa on the edge of town where the eastern-coast road began. And indeed he spotted it straight away: tall, iron gates offering a glimpse of a Mediterranean garden beyond, two lines of palms leading to an entranceway shrouded in wisteria, purple against pink creating an impressive effect. There was a hint of blue through the trees, and he guessed that there had to be a swimming pool off to the right somewhere. There was no way that a doctor's salary could have bought all this. Maybe the wife had money? Maybe Barrabino was dirty? Perhaps both.

He pressed the buzzer, and it crackled into life. ‘Scamarcio here.' Then, as an afterthought, he said: ‘For Dr Barrabino.'

There was no reply for a few moments, and then a woman's voice with a strange accent came on. ‘Of course, please drive up to the main entrance.'

He couldn't quite place it — maybe Dutch or Swedish.

The gates rolled open slowly and he got back behind the wheel. The red in the sky was now pink, and what little light remained pooled dimly through the palms marking his approach to the villa. He pulled onto a gravel turning circle and realised that the house was even more extensive than he had first thought. He counted at least 12 vast windows on the upper floor: there were six huge bedrooms, from the looks of it.

As he stepped out of the car, the front door opened and a tall blonde stood there, smiling at him. She had the typical Scandinavian look: long, iron-straight hair, endless legs, exquisite blue eyes, and a strong mouth. He found himself hating Barrabino anew.

‘He's in his studio,' she said, shaking his hand. ‘I'll show you the way.'

He wondered at this. Barrabino wasn't an architect or an artist, so ‘studio' seemed like an odd choice of word for a doctor and pathologist. But maybe it had just got lost in translation.

He followed her across a spacious lobby into a long living room with three immense floor-to-ceiling windows that displayed a spectacular view of the gardens. They passed though a dining room, where he noticed several impressive pieces of art, and into a conservatory that looked out onto the swimming pool. The woman he presumed was Mrs Barrabino unlocked a door into the gardens, and they took a small flight of steps that led to a path around the house to the back. There was a smaller bungalow off to the right in the same style as the main house.

‘He's in there,' she said. ‘Forgive me if I don't come any further, but there are certain aspects of my husband's work which I would really prefer to avoid.' She gave an ironic smile.

‘I completely understand,' said Scamarcio, smiling back.

Their eyes locked for a moment before she headed back to the house.

He took the path to the bungalow and knocked on the door. There was no reply, but then he heard the sound of tapping against glass, and turned to see Barrabino's face at a window to the right. He was holding up gloved hands and signalling for him to let himself in.

Scamarcio pushed the door and entered a dark hallway. Off to the right, a door was open onto a large tiled area. Strip lighting ran along the length of the ceiling, and at the end of the room Scamarcio saw Barrabino stooped over a body, presumably that of Fabio Ella. He was finishing sewing shut an incision in the chest as Scamarcio approached. Another man in a suit was standing off to the right, observing the work with a mixture of horror and fascination.

‘Good evening, Detective', said Barrabino, without looking up. ‘Excuse me if I don't shake your hand. May I introduce my colleague, Dr Verdone? He is Porto Azzurro's best dentist, and I thought his expertise might prove helpful to us with regards to the bite marks.'

Scamarcio walked around the bottom of the table to shake Verdone's hand. He was a tall, thin man, his studious eyes magnified by thick glasses. Scamarcio took a position next to him as Barrabino continued his show. With a flourish, he finished the stitching in the chest, expertly doubling back on himself and extracting the needle in a single swift, fluid motion. Scamarcio had to admit to himself that he was impressed. For someone who did not get much practice, Barrabino seemed adept.

The doctor tossed his bloody gloves into a plastic bin behind him and put on a new pair from a box by the table. Then he reached for a large magnifying light overhead, positioning it over the left forearm of the corpse. ‘Both of you come and look at this for a second.'

They shuffled over to the slab, like med-school students at a dissection. Verdone was the first to take a look through the lens. ‘That's a very definite impression,' he said. ‘Looks to me as if one of the upper-left teeth is missing — maybe number 3 or 4. If that matches the records, that gives us a pretty clear ID.' He turned to look at Scamarcio. ‘Did you bring them?'

Scamarcio waved the envelope in his right hand. Verdone stepped away from the lens a moment and gestured for him to take a look. The impression from the bite shone purplish under the light, the teeth marks neat and tiny — clearly those of a child.

‘Can you tell anything about the age from this?' he asked the dentist.

‘I would say six, maybe seven — very young. But the records will tell us what we need to know.'

To the right of the table, Scamarcio saw a long desk running along the wall. ‘May I?' he asked Barrabino.

‘Be my guest.'

He carefully lifted the documents from the envelope, taking care to keep the photographs straight. Verdone had come up behind him and now stood at his shoulder. He scanned the photostats quickly, and then turned to the American dentist's written notes. After 30 seconds or so, he pointed to a paragraph of text: ‘See this passage here?'

Scamarcio read it: ‘Upper left 3 knocked out by a tennis ball at nursery. That must have been quite some hit.'

‘Milk teeth are more fragile,' said Verdone.

Scamarcio sighed. ‘So it's her, then?'

Verdone tut-tutted quietly to himself. ‘I'm afraid it looks that way, Detective.'

‘You are a glutton for punishment,' said the guard Erranti as they shook hands at the end of The Priest's corridor at Longone.

‘I guess so.' It was cold in the prison tonight, and Scamarcio wished he had brought a warmer jacket along.

‘He hasn't been himself since you were last here — much quieter than usual, and has barely touched his food.'

‘I heard that he was ill.'

‘Yes, cancer. Sorry if we didn't tell you before, but we weren't sure it was relevant — didn't feel like he needed any sympathy, if you know what I mean.'

‘He wouldn't have got it from me.'