25

FIAMMETTA WAS LYING ON the sofa, her eyes closed, when Scamarcio walked in. Her long blonde hair had spilled across her cheek, and she was breathing in and out slowly, drawing long controlled breaths. Scamarcio’s stomach flipped.

‘Has it started?’

‘It may have.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I’m not sure.’

‘How can you not be sure?’

‘It hasn’t been going on for long enough for me to know, but they feel like labour pains.’

‘What should we do?’

‘I don’t think it’s time to go to hospital. Let’s just see how it pans out.’

Scamarcio hovered by her side. He didn’t know whether to sit or stand. He had never been a big fan of waiting to see how things panned out. ‘But it might all kick off — and we’re not prepared.’

‘It doesn’t just kick off with first babies. It’s a long process. If you’d come to the classes, you’d know that.’

Scamarcio let it ride. Those classes were more than he could have managed: work always got in the way.

‘Don’t bother to blame it on work,’ said Fiammetta, breathing more quickly now, her eyes still closed.

‘Can I get you anything? A drink?’

‘No.’

‘Something to eat?’

‘I’m not sure that would be a good idea.’

‘Shit,’ said Scamarcio running a hand through his hair and starting to pace.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I just feel a bit useless. Do you want me to hold your hand?’

‘No, not right now.’

He scratched his forehead. ‘I think I might try to get some work done, then — get it out of the way while I still can.’

‘OK.’

‘You want me to stay in the flat or is it OK if I go out?’

She opened her eyes. ‘Leo, I think it might be best if you stay.’

‘Right. I’ll just be in the kitchen making calls, then. Let me know if you need anything.’

She nodded and closed her eyes again.

He padded into the kitchen and took a bottle of Nero D’Avola from the rack. He tore off the foil, but was having trouble getting the screw into the cork: he couldn’t make it grip. Then, when he’d finally pushed it deep enough, he couldn’t pull the cork up. He swore softly and started again, trying to get his hands to stop shaking. When the cork was finally clear, he poured himself a large glass and sat at the kitchen table, which, as if for the first time, he noticed was greasy and pocked with stains of different colours.

He took a long drink. The lights of a thousand apartment blocks blinked back at him in the darkness, a thousand little lives in the eternal city, a thousand souls who had never asked to be born, but who were trying to make the best of it. Would his child be happy? Would it be grateful for the life it had been given? Scamarcio felt as if he was setting sail across an unknown sea without a compass; he didn’t know if he could bring them all safely to the other side.

He picked up his mobile and dialled Sartori. He wanted to ask if the bank had finally given him access to the Borgheses’ accounts. But the question was also an excuse. Sartori knew the ropes; he had four kids. It might be comforting to talk to someone who had been through this.

‘Scamarcio,’ Sartori was gruffer than normal, as if he wasn’t too happy to have been disturbed. ‘I’m still at the bloody bank. We’re going through it all now.’

‘Anything?’

Sartori exhaled, and it made a loud rattle down the line. ‘It’s looking pretty normal so far — for both husband and wife. Gennaro has around 30k in his account, and she has fifteen. The mistress is with another bank, Intesa, and she’s sitting on around 70K — seems legit.’

‘And none of them have other accounts?’

‘Not with this bank, but I’m running a trawl on the others.’

‘And the money in and out of Mr Borghese’s is regular?’

‘Yep, just his salary payments from Arrow, around the same time every month.’

‘And the wife doesn’t have anything coming in?’

‘Nope, nada. The mistress does freelance work — translation. You see a thousand arriving every month or so.’

‘She seems to have a good lifestyle. And 70K is a healthy little nest egg.’

‘Inherited money — dad was rich. She put most of it in that property apparently.’

‘You didn’t spot any sign of shares, trading, anything like that?’

‘Negative.’

‘Maybe I’m barking up the wrong tree.’

‘No, let’s stay with it, Scamarcio. The Borgheses’ apartment must be worth going on two million. It doesn’t add up.’

‘Thanks, Sartori. I’m glad you see it that way, too.’

Sartori fell silent for a moment. ‘Everything OK? You don’t sound like your usual self.’

‘Oh.’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Fiammetta’s in labour.’

‘What?!’ It was almost a shriek. ‘And you’re calling me?’

‘I didn’t know what else to do.’

‘You should be with her, making sure she’s OK, for fuck’s sake.’

‘But these first babies take a long time; it’ll be hours until anything happens.’

‘Not necessarily. First babies can take you by surprise, believe me.’

‘Oh.’

‘Scamarcio, don’t take this wrong, but you need to forget about work tonight. Your family needs you. I’ll hold the fort and let you know if anything breaks.’

‘Right, then.’

‘Keep it together, mate. It’ll be OK.’

Scamarcio hoped he was right.

By 2.00 am, Fiammetta had decided that it probably wasn’t contractions she was experiencing. By 4.00 am, she was quite certain it was indigestion. By 6.00 am, Scamarcio gave up on sleep and stood under the shower like a corpse trying to rise from the dead.

He was at his desk by 7.30, a fact not unnoticed by Garramone, who said he’d come in early for a meeting with the chief of police.

‘To what do I owe this honour, Scamarcio?’

‘Insomnia.’

‘Try a glass of red before bed.’

‘I tried several.’

‘They do this magnesium stuff — mag-something — I found it helpful.’

Scamarcio nodded listlessly.

‘You look like shit.’

‘Fiammetta thought she was having contractions, then it turned out she wasn’t.’

‘God.’

‘I just want it to come now. I can’t take any more false alarms.’

‘I bet.’ Garramone tried to make himself comfortable on the corner of Scamarcio’s desk, but looked awkward. ‘Other news?’

Scamarcio filled him in on the bank accounts.

‘And you’re looking into other banks?’

‘Sartori is on it.’

‘Good.’ Garramone paused. ‘Trust your instincts, Scamarcio. They’re sound — usually.’

With that, he rose with difficulty from his perched position and headed for his office.

‘What if I’ve got two murderers?’

Garramone stopped and turned. ‘What?’

‘I’ve come across some intelligence that the politician’s son, Castelnuovo, may have been involved in Andrea Borghese’s death. But there is no link between Castelnuovo and Meinero — well, no link I’m yet aware of. It’s possible I’m looking at two crimes.’

‘But you can’t think they’re unrelated?’

‘They might be.’

‘No, Scamarcio. That’s impossible — they have to be connected. They occurred just twenty-four hours apart.’

‘That might not mean anything.’

Garramone scratched beneath a baggy eye. ‘But Meinero was at the exorcism. And he had concerns about Andrea and the cardinal. You sure you’re right about Castelnuovo?’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Then work it hard, and then ditch it as soon as you can. There’s no time left for you to take another false path.’

What did he mean ‘another false path’? Scamarcio’s jaw clenched. He’d been running this right.

As Garramone shuffled off, Scamarcio’s desk phone trilled. He prayed that it wasn’t another contraction — for real, this time. He realised that, for all his talk of being sick of false alarms, he still wasn’t ready, and could do with a few more days to get his head together.

‘Scamarcio.’ It was an effort just uttering his own name.

‘Detective.’ It was a man’s voice, middle-aged, educated, smoothed out by privilege.

‘Who’s calling?’

‘That’s of no importance. I just wanted to tell you to look at Zenox Pharmaceuticals.’

‘What?’

‘Maryland, USA.’

There was a click on the line, and Scamarcio realised that the guy had already hung up. He quickly punched the button for the switchboard. ‘That call you just put through to me, can you trace it?’

‘One second.’

Scamarcio waited. The one second was starting to feel like one hour.

Eventually the controller came back on. ‘Dead end.’

‘No.’ He’d almost shouted it.

‘Untraceable. Probably a burner. Was it a nark?’

‘Of sorts.’

‘Sorry, Scamarcio.’

‘Don’t sweat it.’

Scamarcio sank back in his chair. As far as he could remember, the name Zenox had not come up in his previous searches. He googled ‘Zenox Pharmaceuticals, Maryland’. The company’s website was at the top of the results list. Scamarcio checked their Italian site and discovered that they were a medium-to-large-sized US multinational, who had been doing business in Italy for over twenty years. They specialised in drugs for prostate disorders, heart conditions, epilepsy, and cancer. They also made an influenza vaccine.

Scamarcio checked out some of their top brand names in Italy, but could find no smoke around them, no court cases or negative press.

He looked away from the screen and ran his hands across his eyes. Was there a link to Arrow Communications? Did Zenox use their services in Italy? Maybe he’d overlooked the name on his first search.

He repeated his previous steps, but there was indeed no mention of Zenox on the Arrow website.

He called Sartori. ‘Can you get down to Arrow Communications and see if they’ve ever had any dealings with a US company called Zenox Pharmaceuticals?’

‘Why?’

‘I just got an anonymous tip-off.’

‘Hmm.’

‘When you’ve done that, can you see if any of Borghese’s previous employers had any links or dealings with Zenox?’

‘Affirmative. When do you need it by?’

‘Yesterday.’