2

SEVERAL HOURS LATER, SCAMARCIO set the photograph of Andrea Borghese back down on the coffee table. The boy had the same startling eyes as his mother: a deep amber-brown, framed by soulful dark brows. He could have been a model or an actor. The word ‘promise’ floated into Scamarcio’s thoughts. A young man with promise.

‘I know you wouldn’t think it to look at that picture — he seems so normal, so at ease there,’ said the victim’s mother, Katia Borghese, slowly picking up the photo and using a manicured nail to gently trace the outline of her son’s face, ‘but the truth is that Andrea’s life has been a living hell. I’ve lost count of the number of “experts” we’ve seen.’ She put a heavy emphasis on the word, signalling her disdain. ‘Psychologists, psychiatrists, neurologists — you name it, we’ve tried it. Eventually, none of us could take the disappointment anym—’ Her voice broke, then shattered. She let out a shuddering sob, then dropped the photo and hid her face behind her hands. Scamarcio returned the photo to the small pile between them, carefully holding it by the edges. He looked up and studied Andrea’s father, Gennaro, sitting apart from his wife on the couch. He was staring into the middle distance, face pale and drawn.

‘So, that’s why you resorted to the Vatican?’ Scamarcio asked softly, after Mrs Borghese had stopped crying.

She nodded and wiped the tears away with a ragged tissue that needed replacing. Scamarcio turned to look at her husband again and noticed that his shoulders seemed to have hunched and tightened at the mention of the church. Scamarcio cleared his throat, careful to cover his mouth with a fist. This was Parioli, and he was in polite company.

‘Mr Borghese, can you talk me through Andrea’s symptoms? I’ve been given some basic information, but I’d like to hear the details from you.’ He pulled out his notebook and patted his jacket pocket for a pen.

The father sniffed and leaned forward in his chair, laying his palms nervously on his smart trousers. Scamarcio took in his reddened eyes and the taut, salty skin beneath. Borghese had already cried many tears for his son.

‘Andrea suffered from mood swings, paranoia, tics, seizures, and delusions,’ he began stiltingly. ‘For the past couple of years, he’s been experiencing hallucinations that convinced him he was destined to transform into a monster.’ He looked away. Scamarcio watched his eyes film with fresh tears. ‘On a certain level, that was true. He could become very aggressive: he would swear, throw things, break things, try to create as much damage as possible.’ He paused. ‘He’d sometimes take that aggression out on us — he’d punch and slap us both, gave me a black eye once.’ Scamarcio watched a tear slide slowly down his cheek.

‘When was this — that he became violent?’

‘During the hallucinations,’ said the mother slowly, as if she was trying to wade through something dense and impenetrable. ‘Usually only then. Most of the time he was calm and kind … often thoughtful.’ Another low sob escaped her, and she covered her thin mouth with a hand.

‘I’m so very sorry,’ Scamarcio repeated, feeling, as he always did, that the language was lame and inadequate. ‘Can I get you anything? A glass of water perhaps?’

Mrs Borghese threw him a withering look — he was an unwelcome intrusion into her grief. ‘A glass of water isn’t going to bring back my son.’ She rose foggily from the sofa and left the room.

‘She’s not doing well,’ mumbled Mr Borghese.

‘Of course,’ said Scamarcio, surprised that Borghese felt the need to apologise for her. ‘Who would be?’

He considered Andrea’s father, sitting there, an entirely broken man in a crumpled designer suit. He must have rushed back from work. He had a worn look about him — furrowed skin, thinning grey hair. Years of stress and struggle were etched across his face. Scamarcio’s gaze moved to the man’s right hand; his fingers were tapping out some kind of repetitive rhythm against the chair, growing faster and faster, more and more urgent. It reminded Scamarcio of certain kinds of coping techniques he’d heard therapists gave their patients. It made Borghese look unhinged.

God, thought Scamarcio, a disquieting realisation dawning. This is the lottery of parenthood. You have no way of knowing your child will be OK. You just have to take the hand fate deals you. He felt a snake of anxiety slither through him. He swallowed and was about to ask if he could smoke, then got a grip on himself.

‘Mr Borghese, would you talk me through the routine — how these sessions with the cardinal played out? Was your wife always present?’

Borghese ceased his tapping and nodded. ‘Normally, yes. But this afternoon she had to rush away as her father had fallen ill. Cardinal Amato usually brought three other priests with him to help. I imagine it was the same set-up today.’

‘And who was it who found your son’s body?’

‘Me …’ Mr Borghese looked into his lap. ‘I found him.’ His face crumpled.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Scamarcio whispered, feeling useless again.

‘Where is he?’ asked Mr Borghese, suddenly looking up as if the thought had just hit him.

‘Who?’

‘My boy. Where have they taken him?’

‘Oh, didn’t they explain? They’ll have taken the body to the police morgue.’ Scamarcio glanced away from Borghese’s stricken face. ‘The pathologist will conduct an autopsy there,’ he added quietly.

Borghese nodded slowly, and peered into his lap once more.

Scamarcio coughed. ‘So, when you returned home, sir — could you describe what you saw?’

At that moment, Mrs Borghese walked back in and returned to her place on the sofa opposite, a strangely defiant look in her eyes.

‘For years they told us it was epilepsy,’ she said, slightly louder than was necessary.

Scamarcio gently laid down his notebook. ‘The experts?’

‘The experts.’ She made two quotation marks with her fingers. ‘But their problem was that an epilepsy diagnosis didn’t explain certain elements of Andrea’s condition.’

‘Such as?’

‘Before his seizures, Andrea would become paranoid. He was convinced hidden enemies were all around. And then his voice would change, sometimes several times, as if he was taking on different personalities,’ she said, more quietly now.

Scamarcio felt his eyebrows rise and tried to return his expression to neutral. ‘That must have been difficult to witness.’

Mrs Borghese shook her head at the memory. ‘It was unsettling. One minute he’d be loud and booming, forceful, then he’d suddenly become soft and shy like a little boy, then, seconds later, he’d be all wheedling and sly, like some middle-aged salesman. On and on it went, as if he was inhabited by all these different people.’

Scamarcio glanced at her husband.

‘I’m not making it up,’ snapped Mrs Borghese.

‘I didn’t think you were.’

‘Then why are you looking at my husband?’

Mr Borghese sniffed. ‘It’s true. It was very disturbing to watch — it gave me goose bumps.’

‘Could he have been putting on an act, doing it for attention?’

‘No, Detective,’ said Mrs Borghese, even angrier now. ‘He didn’t welcome these changes; he hated it. He would have done anything to avoid it. It would happen against his will and would leave him totally drained afterwards.’

Scamarcio felt disorientated. He reopened the notebook, and jotted down the list of symptoms. ‘Mrs Borghese, do you work?’

‘I used to be an English teacher, but I had to abandon that to look after Andrea when he was still quite young.’ There was a jarring bitterness to the words.

‘And you, Mr Borghese?’

‘I’m in marketing.’

Scamarcio glanced around the large living room and took in the expensive furnishings and the Bang & Olufsen sound system. Marketing must pay well.

‘Did Andrea attend school?’

‘His education has been sporadic. He was highly intelligent, particularly gifted in maths, but he was disruptive, so he was forced to change schools several times. Then, as he got older, bullying became a problem.’ Mrs Borghese’s voice was starting to tremble again. ‘He was at school again recently, but it wasn’t going too well. I suspect they wanted him out.’

‘Why was he bullied?’

‘Because he was different, of course; because he didn’t play the game and always said what he thought. Andrea was incapable of artifice. And then, of course, they liked to get a rise out of him — see a reaction. They’d bait him and try to see how angry they could make him.’ She paused and sniffed. ‘When he hit puberty, the other kids started calling him the devil.’

Scamarcio swallowed. His heart already felt heavy for this boy. What a tortured life it must have been.

‘I assure you, I will do everything in my power to find your son’s killer,’ he said in a rush, trying to disguise the unexpected emotion that had crept into his voice.

He turned to the husband. ‘You were telling me, sir, about what you saw when you came home.’

Borghese sighed. ‘Nothing useful. I walked into the living room,’ he motioned to the doorway behind him, and then to his left, ‘and found Andrea on the carpet, there — exactly as he was when you arrived an hour ago. That was it.’ He paused. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever scrub my brain of that image.’

Borghese looked to the spot where his son had lain. There was no blood, no sign of the tragedy that had taken place. Mr Borghese might not have been able to scrub away the memory, but the scene itself looked suspiciously clean to Scamarcio. And sinister. Somehow, the total absence of anything, any sign of struggle, made it worse.

‘So, you didn’t see anyone leaving the building — nothing out of the ordinary?’

‘No. No one coming in or out, no one in the elevator on my way up.’ Mr Borghese blinked. Scamarcio caught the blink, but didn’t know what to make of it.

‘And you returned home earlier than normal? I imagine 4.00 pm isn’t the usual time you leave work.’

‘My wife called explaining that she had been delayed on her return journey and asking if I could hurry back.’

Scamarcio nodded and made a note. ‘And, Mrs Borghese, you came home when?’

‘As soon as my husband rang and told me the terrible …’ She started sobbing and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Judging from her preppy clothes and carefully layered, hennaed hair, Scamarcio imagined that this wasn’t something she’d normally do.

‘And Cardinal Amato — do you trust him?’

Both Borgheses looked up, startled. Mrs Borghese’s thin lips formed a small ‘o’. ‘You’re not suggesting …?’

‘It’s early days. I have to consider all angles.’

Mrs Borghese shook her head, her voice dropping to a reverent hush. ‘No, Detective. There’s no way the cardinal could be involved … in … in this.’

‘He was the last person to see your son alive. He left an hour before Andrea was found.’

They’d been given that information by Mrs Borghese — he’d need to check it with the cardinal himself, of course, and on the CCTV if there was any.

Mrs Borghese bit down on her thumbnail. Scamarcio watched the red varnish splinter. ‘Well, that’s crazy. He’s a man of the cloth, a good man.’ She looked away from his gaze, and, for a moment, Scamarcio thought he read flight in her eyes — she wanted to escape. The look had lasted less than a second, but it was enough to convince him that there was something else here, something that needed to be brought into the light.

‘I’ve seen good men do terrible things,’ he offered after a few moments.

Both Borgheses just continued to stare at him as if he were a fool.

Scamarcio scratched his forehead. ‘So, do you have any thoughts on who else might be behind this?’

The couple shook their heads, almost in sync. Mr Borghese frowned, the lines on his forehead multiplying until they were almost a web. ‘I have no idea. At first, I suspected a break in …’ his eyes swept the room, ‘but then I realised that nothing had been taken.’

‘Did your son have any enemies?’

Mr Borghese exhaled softly. The room fell silent, save for the distant hum of a refrigerator. ‘Andrea didn’t have any friends, Detective,’ he said eventually. ‘He had no life. How could someone without a life have enemies?’