14

FRUSTRATINGLY, AFTER HIS INTERVIEWS with the priests, Scamarcio was informed that Cardinal Amato was away on a two-day retreat in Umbria and could not be disturbed. If he’d had any proper hold on his prime suspect, Amato would not have been allowed to leave town. Scamarcio felt like calling Garramone to complain, then figured it would get him nowhere and he had better things to do with his limited time. He was heading over to Andrea’s third Facebook friend Tommaso Pombeni’s house in Parioli for an evening visit, when his mobile rang. ‘Scamarcio,’ he grunted, not recognising the number.

‘Detective Scamarcio, I’ve just picked up your messages. I’m sorry, I’ve been abroad on holiday and had my mobile switched off.’ It was a woman’s voice, but Scamarcio had no idea who she was.

‘Who’s speaking, please?’

‘Oh, sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Anita, Alberto Meinero’s sister.’

Fuck, she was way too cheerful.

‘Has anyone called you from the Vatican, Anita?’ Scamarcio asked quietly.

‘No, er … has something happened? … To Alberto?’

Scamarcio turned into a side street to escape the noise from the traffic.

‘Anita, I’m sorry, but I have some very bad news.’

There was a sharp intake of breath. Then a long exhale. ‘Oh God, what is it? You’re scaring me …’ She laughed nervously.

‘Alberto was found dead this morning. We believe he was murdered.’

The crying started as a loud shuddering, before it turned into something soft, wet, and broken. Scamarcio closed his eyes. He hated it. It never ever got any easier.

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘But, why…why? My parents … oh my God, how will I tell them? They’re very old … they won’t be able to take it. It will destroy them.’

‘Do you have someone you can call? Are you alone in the house?’

‘My husband’s at work,’ she stuttered.

‘Is there a neighbour who could come over until he gets back?’

‘Yes, yes, I … but … who would do this? To Alberto?’

‘That is what I’m investigating, Anita. I’d like to come and talk to you as soon as possible. Would that be OK?’

Her crying grew loud again, and she was struggling to speak.

‘Yes … I’ll need to go to my parents … I’ll need to …’ Her voice faded, lost in tears.

‘I’ll look at the trains and call you straight back. I’m so very sorry, Anita.’

He cut the call and stamped out the spent fag he’d been smoking. God, what a mess. The correct procedure would have been to phone the local police and ask them to inform her, but there’d been too much going on. He’d have to make it right now, though. She couldn’t be left alone with that news. He dialled Sartori.

‘I’ll put a call in, get them to send a car,’ he said between loud slurps of something. Scamarcio guessed it was his usual king-size Coke. Sartori might have the makings of a good detective, but there was a risk his body would give in before he got there.

‘I’m glad you called, Scamarcio, because I did a bit of asking around. Well, to be precise, I showed your dead priest’s picture to a few contacts, and somebody recognised him.’

‘Who recognised him?’

‘One of my friends at the Turkish baths on Viale Angelico. Your guy had been in a few times. That may or may not be significant, but, as my friend says, “Anyone coming here knows the kind of clientele they’ll meet.” So, your priest might have been visiting the baths with a purpose, if you get my drift.’

‘I get it, I get it,’ muttered Scamarcio, wishing he didn’t. He needed to head north to Meinero’s sister first thing tomorrow.

‘If you had a brother, would you tell him everything?’ he asked Fiammetta while they were slumped on the sofa watching an irritating documentary about a serial killer. Scamarcio gladly would have chosen anything else, even Wheel of Fortune or that bland show on La7 with Lilli Gruber (the least curious journalist he had ever known), but Fiammetta was engrossed and refused to switch over.

‘Depends on the relationship, I guess. A sister, maybe. But brother and sister is slightly different.’

‘Hmm, I know,’ said Scamarcio, already worrying that Anita Meinero might not have the answers he needed.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, nothing really.’

‘Is it to do with your case?’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t want to tell me the details?’

‘No, not really.’ He squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back.

‘It’s not easy having a cop for a partner,’ she said cheerily.

‘You don’t seem too cut up.’

‘You know me, I take things in my stride. And I knew what to expect.’ She fell quiet so she could listen to the breathless narrator. When he’d finished delivering what Scamarcio thought was a particularly crass line of commentary, she said, ‘I guess we should count ourselves lucky that you’re not investigating a serial killer like this bastard. Jesus, that would really screw you up.’

Scamarcio gazed out the window to the night sky beyond. He felt an unfamiliar anxiety move through him, like a beast that had long lain dormant, but was now finally beginning to stir.