The Few (37 page)

‘You stayed in La Quiaca?'

‘I was different from José. For me, the simple life was OK. It was enough.'

Scamarcio surveyed the old man standing next to them. His eyes were red-rimmed with tears, and he was clasping and unclasping his hands. On closer inspection, Scamarcio saw that it wasn't a handkerchief he was clutching, but a note of some kind.

‘You sure your father doesn't want to sit down somewhere? It would be easier for him.'

The son shook his head again. ‘No, really, it's OK. He's a strong man. He wants to be here now.'

‘What's that he's holding there?' asked Scamarcio.

‘It's the last letter José wrote us. When we got it, we were so worried that we spent our savings to come here to Italy.'

‘Nobody told you about his death?'

‘It's not their fault. They didn't know how to contact us. The kind neighbour, the one here just now, she said José never told her where we were — she didn't know how to tell us.'

Something was troubling Scamarcio. ‘What was it about the letter that worried you so much?'

The man reached over and took the note gently from his father. Scamarcio saw the old man's hands tremble as he gave it up.

‘You speak Spanish?'

‘I'm afraid not.'

The man opened out the paper. Scamarcio saw several lines of neat handwriting in fountain pen.

‘I try to translate it for you.'

‘OK.'

‘I should explain you something first. José had written before — a few weeks before. He had asked to come back to La Quiaca to live at home with my mother and father. It was a big surprise. But my father had never forgiven José for what he had become. You know what he had become?'

‘I know he was homosexual. I know the work he did.'

The brother gave a sharp nod of confirmation, keen to press on. ‘For my dad, all that was a big shock. He found it disgusting. It was a big embarrassment for the family. La Quiaca is a traditional town, you know?'

Scamarcio nodded.

‘So when José wrote to us after all those years, my dad said,
No, don't come back. You have brought too much shame on this family. We don't want you here.
'

‘Did you agree?'

The man sighed. ‘I'm not sure. You know he was still my brother. It's not easy to explain.'

‘I understand,' said Scamarcio. ‘So, this letter here?'

‘After my father said no to José, he wrote to us again — this letter.' He waved it in the air.

‘What did José say in the letter this time?'

‘I translate it now.' The man scanned the lines for a few seconds and then raised his head, looking into the middle distance. The sunlight caught his profile, and Scamarcio saw that he was good looking, his even features reminding him of the photos of Arthur he'd seen.

The man returned his attention to the note in front of him and started to read. ‘This world, this earth, it is full of, um …
mal
. Um, how do you say?'

‘
Mal — male
in Italian. In English, evil?'

‘Yes,
male
: evil. José always like the drama.' He coughed softly and read on: ‘I have no more choices now. The only good thing left for me to do, the only useful thing, is to leave this life, so I say goodbye and God bless to you.' He folded the note in two again and passed it back to his father, who took it absently. ‘We tried to contact José, but we couldn't reach him on the number he'd given. That's why we got the plane. We thought he was going to kill himself. We worried that we would be too late, and we were.'

55

SCAMARCIO FELT DISORIENTATED
. He stepped out into the harsh sunlight of Arthur's street, narrowly avoiding a group of American tourists and their guide. His throat was dry, and there was a burning behind his eyes and a humming in his ears. He felt the most tired he had done in days, and the thought that everything about this case now had to be turned on its head almost pressed him to the ground. It was too exhausting to process.

The fact remained that Arthur had been knifed repeatedly. He couldn't have done that to himself, could he? And why choose frenzied stabbing as a mode of suicide? It was one of the worst ways to go — there were easier, far less painful options. He thought of Buddhist monks and their acts of self-immolation as a form of political protest. Was Arthur protesting something? Was his death meant as a statement? And what about the morphine in his system? Had he really administered himself a painkiller before stabbing himself to death?

He took the blue line in the vague direction of Salaria, and then walked the rest of the way. The guy on reception looked more rested than the last time he'd seen him.

‘Things calmed down, then?'

‘There's been a slight lull, but we don't want to talk about it in case it tempts fate. We can't have another two weeks like the last — it'll kill us. ‘Scuse the pun.'

‘How's Aurelia?'

‘Just about getting through the backlog now. Down the hall, if you want her.'

Scamarcio nodded. Along with his growing anxiety, he felt a small flutter of excitement at the thought of seeing her again. But he tried to tamp it down for now, push it away.

When he came in, she was stacking files on a desk. He noticed a sheaf of paperwork in a neat pile ready to be sent off to various parties.

‘How's it going?'

She spun around and seemed a bit flustered to see him there, pushing some stray hair back into a clip, and pulling some more behind her ears. She looked younger than last time — her skin was smoother and had more colour. ‘Ah, can't complain. Nobody's decided to shoot, strangle, or drown anyone for twenty-four hours now.'

‘Glad to hear it.'

‘Filippi's on the mend.'

‘So I hear. Great news.'

She threw him a quizzical look, and then walked around the desk and took up her usual seat. She gestured him to the chair opposite. ‘Is this business or pleasure?'

‘It's always a pleasure, Aurelia.' He hadn't meant it to sound so lame.

She rolled her eyes, and a slightly awkward silence followed. Scamarcio wanted to cut it off, so leaned forward across the desk. ‘Listen, remember that dead rentboy, badly cut up?'

‘Yeah, just about,' she sighed.

‘Could it have been a suicide?'

Aurelia rested her elbows on the arms of her chair, cupping her chin with her hands in thought. ‘A suicide? Well, that would be way out there; it would demonstrate a serious degree of self-loathing. I'd need to check the wounds again, measure the reach, and the entry and exit angles. Come to think of it, I don't remember there having been much of a struggle. And if memory serves, it was a short, thin blade — they require less pressure. So in theory, yeah, it's possible. But it's a very unusual way to go. I've never seen a suicide with knifework like that; usually they opt for a simple cut, just one wound. Or most of the time far-less awful ways, like an overdose or drowning. Besides, with repeated stabbings, at a certain point your strength would leave you. That many punctures takes a lot of effort.'

‘And the morphine?'

‘Hmm, the morphine … I guess he could have dosed up and then set upon himself with the knife. But he'd have to move quickly, because that quantity would have knocked him out fast. If he really wanted to make sure he wasn't coming back, he'd have had to work very efficiently.'

‘He couldn't have started the stabbing and then taken the morphine?'

‘But why endure all that pain? Besides, that's riskier, because he could have passed out before he had a chance to finish with the knife. That would have been the scarier of the two options for him. I'd put my money on the first one.'

Scamarcio nodded, thinking about the camera. He felt sure it had been thrown on the floor and smashed in the general trashing, so exactly when had Arthur put it back on the shelf? Before he took the drugs, and before he picked up the knife? But did it really matter? The more important question was why it was positioned like that. Maybe if the camera had been left on the floor, it would have been interpreted the wrong way. Yeah, that was it, he decided — the interpretation. It
had
been a kind of protest. Arthur had wanted someone in the police to notice those photos, and the best way to get them noticed was to stage a dramatic death. As his brother said, José was dramatic. And there was something else he'd said. What was it now? He spun back through the conversation in his head. Yes, that was it, those last words of the letter. He'd said that the only
good
thing, the only
useful
thing he could do, was to take his own life. In Arthur's mind, this was a good act, a useful act, an act that would bring attention to these crimes against children. Scamarcio believed he had a grasp on it now. It finally made sense to him.

Aurelia was eyeing him strangely. ‘You all right, Scamarcio?'

He looked up, remembering where he was. ‘Yeah, sorry.'

‘Thought I'd lost you there for a moment.'

He got up. ‘Actually, I need to go. Sorry.'

She frowned at him. ‘Stop saying sorry. You're always saying sorry.'

56

He picks up the telephone, his hand shaking slightly. How long would it be before they tipped them off? How much time did he have to collect his family and bring them in? Madalena, his youngest, answers after a few rings. She is laughing at someone's joke, telling them to shush.

‘What is it, pappy?' She sounds happy with life, unburdened by worries. He wonders if he was ever like that. He thinks not.

‘I need you home now. I've sent a car for you. He'll be there within the hour …'

‘But pappy …'

‘But nothing. There is no argument. I need you home.' He replaces the receiver, and dials again.

‘Dad, can I call you back? I'm right in the middle of something.'

‘No. I've sent a car. You and my grandson must return to Rome immediately — there's to be no discussion.'

‘But …'

‘Just do as I say. I'll explain later.'

He hangs up and rests his head against the leather back of the chair. There are dark motes floating in front of his eyes, but he doesn't think they're dust particles. The sun is bright outside, the leaves in the courtyard aflame, moving slowly, so slowly, in the breeze. He calls Stefano, the head minder, into his study.

‘Sir?'

‘I want to take a stroll around Villa Borghese.'

He watches Stefano as he tries to conceal his surprise and alarm, tries to remain polite. ‘Now?'

‘Yes, right now.'

Stefano looks at the door that leads to the corridor and his colleagues outside, silently entreating their help. ‘But, Sir, the area hasn't been cleared — it's exposed. We need notice to prepare.'

He holds up a palm to stop him. ‘Forget all that. I don't care. I have to go now. I will hear no arguments.'

Stefano shuffles, transferring his weight from one foot to the other. ‘Sir, I can't allow it.'

‘You can and you will. Get your coat — we're going.'

They turn into Viale Pietro Canonica. He loves the shade of this park, the dappled light pooling around the trunks, the scents of fresh grass cuttings and honeysuckle. He sees two lovers locked in an embrace beneath an ancient pine; a young mother in jogging gear running as she pushes a baby buggy; two old men feeding the birds, one drinking from a flask. How good it feels to be outside in the fresh air, away from the stench of power.

They pull up outside the entrance to the villa. Stefano steps out of the front passenger seat, scans the area, consults with his colleagues, and then finally opens the door.

‘I need to be alone for several minutes. Just wait for me here.'

‘But Sir …'

Again he raises a hand to silence him, and then turns and heads towards the back of the villa.

The gravel path is longer than he had expected, but then he sees him, waiting on the bench as they'd arranged. He is unrecognisable in his beret and dark shades. Wordlessly, he takes a seat beside him. There is no embrace, no kiss, no handshake even. A note is passed between them — two ghosts from a different world, a different time.

‘Be there at 6.00am,' says the man, and then he gets up from the bench and silently walks away. There is no look back, no wave. He is a dead man returning to his grave.

57

SCAMARCIO SAT UP
in bed. He'd only meant to take a catnap, but beyond the window the sky had bled purple. The metallic haze over the rooftops had finally melted away, leaving washing lines and roof gardens burned gold.

The mobile that Garramone had given him trilled beside him, but somehow he knew it wasn't the chief this time.

The caller didn't bother to introduce himself. The accent was thick, Calabrian, as Scamarcio would have expected: ‘There's a nature reserve above Gela, slightly to the right: the Niscemi Reserve. On the southern edge is an abandoned gamekeeper's hut. Until 6.00am tomorrow you'll find them, but after that they'll move on.' The caller hung up, and the phone clicked.