The Few (7 page)

The guy on the desk gestured to the autopsy room behind him. ‘Back there.'

When he walked in, Aurelia was dragging a body out of a tub, leaking blood and water everywhere, splattering the walls and flooding the floor.

She hadn't seen him enter, and he watched as she manoeuvred the corpse onto the examining table, sliding it into place and spreading out its arms and legs. Luckily for her, the man was small and painfully frail — he probably weighed no more than fifty kilos.

She stopped for a moment and turned, sensing his presence.

‘Ah, Scamarcio, you always catch me at my best.'

He retreated towards the door, anxious about the reception she was going to give him. ‘Shall I come back later?'

She pushed her goggles up onto her head and used the wrist of her gloved hand to scratch below an eye. She looked tired, and seemed older than the last time he'd seen her — her skin was paler and less taut, and her eyes were lacking their usual shine.

‘No. It won't be any different then — probably worse. What's happening in this city? The last few weeks have been crazy.'

‘It's the change of season; it has a strange effect on strange minds. Who've you got there?'

‘Not sure yet, but it seems like a reprisal.'

‘In the bathtub?'

She touched the head, and inclined it towards him. ‘There's a tiny entry wound to the right — it must have been done from very close. And, as we all know, the closer you get, the more professional you are.'

‘The bathtub's a bit way out there, isn't it? What happened to the trusty drive-by?'

She yawned and almost covered her mouth with a bloody glove, then thought better of it. ‘God knows, it's changing all the time. When they lock up the old guys, and the young ones take over, you start to see all sorts of weird shit. Anyway, that's not why you're here, is it? I didn't think this was one of yours.'

He felt relieved. Whatever she thought of him, she wasn't going to hold it against him now. He stepped nearer, but not too close. The smell from the bath guy was overpowering.

‘No, I'm here for something else, but it's not mine either.'

She raised a quizzical eyebrow.

‘Long story. Wouldn't want to bore you.'

‘Don't insult me. Whose case?'

‘Filippi's. Filippi's rentboy.'

She laughed, and almost broke into a cough. ‘I like that: “Filippi's rentboy.” Poor Filippi would never have a rentboy — he's far too henpecked.'

She turned towards the freezer cabinets behind her, searched for the correct door, turned a key, and pulled out the drawer. There was the usual luggage tag on the end of a blackened foot protruding from beneath a sheet.

She threw off the cover, challenging him to take a look. The body was worse now: He could see traces of tissue, and a gelatinous eye among the blood. It was more real this time — more human.

He tried not to seem affected. ‘Find anything of note?'

‘It was the obvious that killed him — no surprises there. But there was something, yes.'

He could tell that she was amused by him; that she understood he was struggling with the wrecked body right there between them.

‘Tell me,' he said. He needed a glass of water, but didn't like to ask.

‘He'd been injected with something before he died — morphine, to be precise.'

‘Morphine?'

‘Not enough to kill him, but enough to knock him out, to stop him from feeling pain.'

‘What? That doesn't make any sense.'

She shrugged. ‘I can only tell you what I found.'

He thought for a moment and tried to take it in.

‘You mean like a mercy killing — like the killer didn't want him to suffer?'

‘It would seem that way, yes.'

He breathed slowly. To his right, he saw the bathtub man's rubbery arm now hanging from the exam table, the threadbare thatch of pubic hair, and the emaciated thighs, saw the watery blood slowly dripping onto the tiles below. It wasn't adding up.

‘If someone had been injected with this dose of morphine and had been stabbed this many times, would they be capable for a moment of standing up, and retrieving a camera from the floor and placing it on a shelf?' He realised how stupid this sounded as soon as it had left his lips.

Aurelia D'Amato shook her head and threw him a concerned look. ‘I suppose it's possible — stabbing victims are capable of energetic actions before they collapse, and his brainstem was untouched. But it seems unlikely. I imagine that he'd have been out cold pretty quickly — although, like I say, the dose wasn't enough to kill him.' She tugged a stray strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Is that what happened? You found a camera?'

‘Yes — all smashed in. But we've drawn a blank; it hasn't given us anything.'

She frowned. ‘Strange. Why not just take it away?'

‘I'm asking myself the same thing.' He paused, and locked eyes with her. ‘Is Filippi pursuing this one?'

‘He's got his hands full like the rest of us, and when was the last time any of you had time for a dead hooker?'

‘OK — just wondered.'

She pushed the drawer back into the cabinet. ‘The strange case of Filippi's rentboy,' she said, almost as a parting eulogy to see it on its way.

‘Filippi's what?'

They both swung round. Filippi was in the doorway, and he didn't look happy.

‘First, he's not my rentboy; second, what the fuck are you doing, Scamarcio? Why are you following me around like a fucking shadow?'

Scamarcio raised both palms in a placatory gesture, and took a step towards him. ‘Sorry, Oscar, sorry. Fact of the matter is that I wanted to do one last check before finishing this favour for a friend. I didn't want to bother you, as I know you're up to your eyes right now. I was down here on another case, and just thought I'd ask Aurelia about this one while I was in.'

‘And what was this last thing you were checking up on?' Filippi sounded sceptical now, like he wasn't going to be a pushover this time.

‘Like I say, the vic was a friend of a friend. I can't go into details. He was worried about him for a while — worried he'd got into drugs, and worse. He asked me to find out if there was anything in his system. Aurelia has just confirmed to me that there was, so now I have to break it to him that his worst fears were true. It probably would have been better if he hadn't known, but there you are.'

Filippi blew the air out through his cheeks, like a baby in a pram, Scamarcio thought. ‘OK, I get it. But can you leave this alone now? Nothing personal, but I don't like you treading on my toes. We're all watching our backs these days — cuts are in the offing.'

Scamarcio smiled. ‘Understood. I'll get out of your hair.'

Filippi waved a hand away. ‘Listen, this is not a huge case, and you've always seemed like a decent guy. I just don't need any extra hassle, that's all. Need to keep things sweet.'

Scamarcio took his hand, held it up, and grasped it in the Roman way. ‘Got you. You won't see me again, I promise.'

He turned and threw a parting salute to Aurelia, who was now casting him a sideways look. ‘I'll call you about the other thing.'

‘Make sure you do,' she said.

‘By the way', said Filippi. ‘You speak to that creature upstairs? Did she give you anything?'

‘No. She didn't know of any enemies, didn't know why anyone would want to kill him.'

‘I see.' Once again, Filippi seemed unconvinced.

Scamarcio had settled into a café on Piazza d'Aracoeli, in need of some time out after the head-to-head at the morgue. He called Garramone.

‘I've got a problem with Filippi.'

‘Which is?'

‘I was with the ME this morning, talking about Arthur, and he walked in and started throwing a fit about me cramping his style, taking his case.'

‘Why does he care? It can't be a major deal, this one.'

‘God knows, but he's antsy. Maybe he thinks someone's checking up on him — doesn't trust him to do his job.'

The chief fell silent for a moment. ‘Let me think about it, while you stay away from him and follow up the other stuff — the other guy in the photo.'

‘And I want to talk to our blackmailing colleagues. Can you get me their details?'

‘Yeah, sure. I hope they give you more than they did me.'

‘Perhaps they're covering for someone. Maybe they'll say more if it's just me, informal setting and all?'

The chief fell silent again. Scamarcio heard a pen tapping against a desk, a drawer being opened, the gentle beat of the clock on the office wall. He pictured the certificates beneath it, straightened out, all back to normal.

‘Now I think of it, I'm not sure it's a good idea you leaving Rome.'

‘You just said I needed to get out from under Filippi's feet?'

Garramone sighed, sounding like he was sinking beneath the weight of it all. ‘One of the officers is up north now, in Milan; I think the other has gone home to Naples, but I'll check. I'll call you later with the info.'

He hung up, and Scamarcio observed the passers-by making their way across the piazza. This was the diplomatic district: an army truck stood idle at the corner, chugging exhaust fumes onto the pavement, while two soldiers in fatigues chatted inside. Opposite was the Syrian embassy — another one of Pino's friends. He tipped back his espresso, felt the anxiety build, figured the coffee wasn't helping. His mobile buzzed almost in step with his addled brain: it was an unknown number this time.

‘Scamarcio.'

‘It's Maria, from the other night.' It was a strange voice, affectedly feminine, but too low. ‘From McDonalds in Testaccio. You asked me about Max.'

Scamarcio sat up straighter. ‘Ah, of course. Sorry, I was somewhere else for a moment.'

‘Figured me for an old girlfriend?'

He laughed. ‘You know how it is.'

‘Sure do.' It was sad the way she said it, as though she didn't.

‘I'm glad you called. You remember anything?'

‘Maybe. But I'd like to talk to you in person. You know the Riviera café in Trastevere — Via delle Luce? Could you meet me there in an hour?'

Via delle Luce was quiet. She'd chosen a place away from the lunchtime throng. It was shirtsleeves weather, and Scamarcio caught an early promise of summer in the warm currents on the breeze. In a month, the heat would be uncomfortable; in two, the city would no longer be habitable, and they'd all be counting the days until they could flee for the coast or their second homes in Umbria. But that wouldn't be his choice — he preferred to take his leave when no one else was around, when the angry shouts and self-pitying tears of stressed parents and spoiled children had finally left the beaches.

He tracked her approach: well-cut jeans, a diaphanous blouse, designer sunglasses. A young man stopped to look, and others in the café followed suit.

She tried a smile, displaying perfect teeth and a perfect jaw-line — maybe a too-perfect jaw-line?

‘Detective.' They kissed on both cheeks in the formal manner, and she threw her bag onto the nearest chair.

He pulled out a seat for her, opposite. She sat carefully, fished out a packet of Camels and a lighter from the bag, lit up, and blew the smoke to her left, careful to avoid the table. He watched her for a while, trying to work something out; he wasn't quite sure what. Maybe how it all hung together, why it all worked — aesthetically, that is.

‘So, how's your investigation going? Getting anywhere?'

He ignored the question. ‘You want a coffee, something to eat?'

She waved a hand. ‘No, I'm fine.' Then, ‘Maybe just a mineral water: still.'

‘Why did you want to see me?'

‘Tell me what all this is about first.' He sensed an uncompromising glare behind the glasses.

‘Can't do that.'

‘This meeting seems a bit one-sided then.'

‘We're worried about Max — that's all.'

She laughed. ‘Yeah, right. You guys are always worrying about people like us.'

The sore point again. ‘He's dead.'

‘What?'

‘He was murdered on Friday — stabbed to death in his flat in Trastevere.'

She stared into space for a long time, saying nothing. Then she took a long drag on the cigarette and didn't worry so much about the smoke this time. ‘You're saying that someone cut him up.' She paused, letting it all sink in. ‘In his place.'

‘Looks that way.'

She placed one hand over the other, apparently studying a fingernail.

He willed her to remove the glasses. ‘So what did you want to tell me?'