29

SCAMARCIO KNOCKED BACK HIS second cappuccino of the morning and tried to convince himself that he wasn’t exhausted. How would it feel to wake refreshed, for once, ready to tackle the day, rather than to live permanently with the feeling that you were dragging a huge weight around and constantly counting the hours until you could sleep. He knew the answer to his troubles lay in cutting out caffeine, but the thought terrified him — he didn’t think he’d be able to put one foot in front of the other.

He left the bar and made the short walk down the street to the Italian offices of Zenox Pharmaceuticals. He’d told Sartori to leave this one to him. When Sartori had found no link at the Arrow offices between them and Zenox, Scamarcio had deemed it worth his while to visit unannounced.

The beautiful blonde at reception managed to muster an icy smile when he produced his badge. ‘One moment, please.’

He took a seat on an expensive-looking leather sofa and admired the grey-and-chrome lobby. It created an impression of cool efficiency, rather like the woman behind the desk. After a few minutes, a good-looking guy in his early thirties strode over and extended a hand. ‘Morning, Detective. I’m Giuseppe Conti from public relations.’

Scamarcio rose reluctantly from the sofa. ‘That’s all very nice, but it was the managing director I was wanting.’

Conti nodded as if he’d been expecting this. ‘Sure, but can you fill me in a bit first? Our MD is a busy man, and if I walk in there unprepared, he’ll eat me for breakfast.’

Scamarcio smiled. ‘If you put it like that …’

‘Let’s go to my office. Can I offer you a coffee?’

Scamarcio’s mind yelled, No, but he heard himself say, ‘Thanks, that would be good.’

When he was seated across from Conti, opposite a vast window that offered a spectacular view of Parco di Villa Torlonia, Scamarcio said, ‘I’m investigating the exorcist killing.’

‘The thing that’s been all over the news?’ Conti sat up straighter in his chair, more excited than worried.

‘Yeah, that one.’

The guy seemed to suddenly remember his job. ‘But what’s that got to do with Zenox?’

‘Your company’s name came up in the course of my investigation.’

‘Came up how?’

Scamarcio pinched his nose and pulled his notebook slowly from his pocket. ‘Maybe it’s best if we start at the beginning — take things one step at a time.’

Conti opened his palms, as if to say, Go ahead.

‘The father of the victim, Gennaro Borghese, works in marketing for drug companies — his firm is called Arrow Communications. You heard of them?’

Conti scratched his cheek. ‘Yeah, I know Arrow. We don’t use them, though — we have our own in-house marketing team.’

Scamarcio nodded and made a note. ‘Is the name Gennaro Borghese familiar to you? Has he ever been employed by you?’

Conti shook his head. ‘No. I’ve never heard of him, at least.’

‘Hmm,’ murmured Scamarcio. He tipped back the espresso he’d been given. It was excellent.

‘How long has your MD been in the job?’

‘Twenty years.’

‘Ah, finally my luck is changing.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s the institutional memory I need.’

‘Never heard of him,’ said Ennio Burrone, his ski tan glowing in the morning light from his massive window.

‘You quite sure?’

‘One hundred per cent. I have an excellent memory for names.’

‘Do you have a database of past employees?’

‘Yes, but I’m telling you, he hasn’t worked for us.’ Burrone had the look of a predator — his nose was thin and hawk-like, his eyes glassy and dark, and his brows strong and arched. Scamarcio was glad he didn’t have to do business with him.

‘So why is your company’s name coming up in my investigation?’

‘Coming up how?’

Scamarcio said nothing and studied the to-and-fro of joggers and tourists in the park below: the silent interplay of lives, the absurd dance.

‘I want your payroll data.’

‘What?’ Burrone arched a brow so high it looked like it would meet his hairline.

‘Your payroll data.’

‘But that’s pointless — we’ve already told you we don’t know him.’

‘Yep,’ sighed Scamarcio. ‘But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t check. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, Mr Burrone. We both know that I can be back here with a warrant if I have to.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Burrone ran a deeply tanned hand through his flop of silvery hair and picked up the desk phone. ‘Get me the finance manager,’ he said, the words taut with suppressed anger. Scamarcio couldn’t be sure whether Burrone was riled by having his authority undermined in front of the young Conti or whether there was something more interesting at play.

After a few seconds, Scamarcio heard a low crackle on the other end of the line. ‘Marco, can you prepare our payroll data? There’s a detective from the Flying Squad here who needs to see it.’ A pause. ‘It’s a long story — I’ll escort him down myself.’

For a busy man, as Conti had claimed, Burrone seemed to be giving Scamarcio a lot of his time.

The finance manager was waiting in the doorway to his office when they arrived, his all-female team trying to look busy as Burrone passed. Scamarcio got the feeling they’d been told he was the fuzz. The man introduced himself as Marco Quercini. He was a tall dark-haired guy in his late forties. After he’d shaken Scamarcio’s hand, he gestured to a computer with two large screens. ‘Over there, Detective. It’s all yours.’

Scamarcio walked over to the desk and pulled out his notebook.

‘It’s alphabetical,’ Quercini added helpfully, as if Scamarcio couldn’t work that out for himself. Scamarcio had expected he’d be there for the long haul, checking names that might have a connection to the Borgheses, so he had to look twice when he came across ‘Borghese, Andrea’ after just twenty seconds.

‘Andrea Borghese?’ he turned and looked at both men. Burrone seemed more mystified than worried. His finance manager looked like he was trying to trap a fleeting memory.

‘Let me see,’ he said, stepping behind Scamarcio and peering over his shoulder. ‘That’s a red entry, which means it was stipulated by our head office in the States. One moment — I’ll need to ask one of my people.’ He stepped out of the office, and Scamarcio heard him say, ‘Debora, can you come in here, please?’

A short dark-haired woman with glasses hurried in clutching an A4-jotter and pen. She nodded nervously at Burrone before Quercini motioned her to the computer. ‘Do you know anything about payments to an Andrea Borghese? They seem to have been stipulated by HQ.’

The woman squinted at the screen, and then brought a finger to her mouth. ‘That comes out every month, I think — seven thousand each time. It’s a payment Maryland requested.’

‘Do we know what it’s for?’

‘I’ve never asked, to be honest.’

Scamarcio couldn’t believe it worked like this. ‘How long’s it been going on?’ he asked.

She looked up at the ceiling for a moment. ‘Quite a while. I can check my records for you, but I think it’s been at least eight years or so — the whole time I’ve been working here, anyway.’

Scamarcio leaned in closer to the screen. ‘That number, next to the name — is it his bank account details?’

The woman tapped the screen with a long burgundy nail. ‘Bank account number and IBAN.’

‘But that employee code is wrong,’ said Quercini, leaning over Scamarcio’s other shoulder. ‘It’s only four digits; it should be seven.’

‘It’s always been like that,’ said the woman.

‘Can I have the computer a moment?’

Scamarcio moved out of the way for Quercini. He started pecking and scrolling through various screens. ‘This guy is not an employee. So why is he on our payroll? Why haven’t I noticed him before?’

The woman named Debora just shook her head vacantly. Burrone was starting to look irritated as well as mystified. The three of them were either extremely confused or they were all heading straight for Broadway.

‘Who is this person, anyway?’ asked Burrone. ‘Detective, you mentioned a Gennaro Borghese, not an Andrea.’

Scamarcio thought he picked up a strange undertone in the way Burrone posed the question — it was as if he already knew the answer, but needed Scamarcio to say it.

‘Andrea was the son, the victim. He was strangled,’ he said, suddenly feeling as if he was delivering a line in a play.

A hush swept through the small office, and Scamarcio thought he saw Burrone blink. ‘Impossible,’ he whispered. But his tan lost none of its colour under the halogen lights, and Scamarcio failed to detect any chink in his managerial composure. For someone caught up in the middle of a major murder inquiry, Burrone was displaying remarkable sangfroid. Scamarcio wasn’t sure if it was just art-of-the-deal training — a necessary trait for the job. What he did know, though, was that it bothered him. It had raised a red flag.