40

CAFARO LIVED IN A modest apartment on Via Tizzani in Monteverde. Scamarcio realised that he had been expecting something grander. When he entered the hallway, he noticed a load of mobility equipment: crutches, wheelchair, plastic ramps, piled along one wall. He guessed it was for the son.

‘Excuse the mess,’ said Cafaro, waving a tumbler at him. ‘I’m enjoying a Scotch. Will you have one?’

Scamarcio smiled, surprised at the courtesy. ‘Thanks, Cafaro. Don’t mind if I do.’

Cafaro entered the small living room and motioned Scamarcio to a battered sofa. As he sat down, he saw that the wooden coffee table was flecked with paint, crayon, and bits of plasticine.

‘So, what’s happened?’ said Cafaro as he passed him the drink. ‘You have that predatory look a cop gets when he’s about to nail it.’

Scamarcio took a swig of the Scotch. It was good.

‘I dunno, I still feel like I’m left with a few grey areas. That’s why I’m here — I can’t move on until I shed these last doubts.’

Cafaro studied him over his tumbler. ‘Why do I sense it’s all about to come back to bite me?’

Scamarcio sank deeper into the sofa and realised that the springs had gone. A throw came away, revealing a threadbare cushion beneath. He suddenly had the feeling that most of Cafaro’s salary went on caring for his son.

‘Has the cardinal ever been in any trouble in the past?’ Scamarcio asked, wishing that Cafaro had put some ice in the glass. ‘You ever had to clean up after him?’

Cafaro rubbed the crown of his head and fell silent. Eventually he said, ‘I thought we went through this the other day.’

‘We skirted around the edges.’

After a few moments Cafaro said, ‘It’s a problematic question for me, Scamarcio. You understand my difficulty?’

Scamarcio felt like singing ‘Hallelujah!’

‘I do, Cafaro, but I also know that, despite our different positions, you are a decent man who appreciates the seriousness of this inquiry and the importance that we exercise the law to the best of our abilities.’

At the words exercise the law, Cafaro cocked his head to one side. ‘You threatening me?’ Then he muttered, ‘Again.’

Scamarcio scowled. ‘I wouldn’t do that, Cafaro. Especially in your own home after you’ve just poured me an excellent glass of Scotch.’

Cafaro narrowed his eyes.

Scamarcio looked away for a moment. ‘Just tell me if there’s any smoke — anything I need to know. Like you say, I’m nearly there. I just need to make this last push.’

Cafaro studied him for a few seconds, then slowly set down the glass and rose from his chair. Scamarcio thought he was about to show him the door, but instead he headed for a wide desk to the right of where they’d been sitting and pulled out a drawer. Cafaro placed a small leather book on the desk and leaned over to flick through a few pages. When he’d found what he’d been looking for, he reached for a yellow block note and scribbled something down with a felt-tip pen. He tore off a sheet, then walked back to the sofa and sat down.

Cafaro picked up his glass and took a large mouthful, as if the act of writing had caused considerable stress.

‘Many years ago, when I was still relatively junior, Amato came to my boss Battaglia’s office. I think Amato wanted me to leave, but Battaglia insisted I stay. He then got called away, and I was left to deal with whatever problem the cardinal was bringing us.’

‘What was the problem?’

‘I’m not going to tell you.’

Scamarcio opened his palms in exasperation.

‘But it might interest you to know, Detective, that Cardinal Amato thought I was dirty. After he’d unburdened himself of his problem, he said that if I dared tell anyone about our conversation, he’d make it known that I was involved in the Cherubini disappearance.’

Scamarcio felt the air leave his lungs. ‘He said that?’

‘Before you get too excited, I wasn’t involved. I knew nothing about it. But now, all these years later, I suspect that the rumours about my boss Battaglia may have been true. I think that, because I was Battaglia’s protégé, Amato kind of lumped the two of us together and presumed I must have had an interest.’

‘Did you ever tell anyone that you suspected Battaglia?’

‘I haven’t, as yet. I saw Cherubini’s brother on TV again the other day, and it did make me think. I may take my suspicions to someone soon. Before I die, at least.’

‘Are they just suspicions?’

‘There are a few elements that are a little bit more concrete, so to speak.’

‘Wow,’ Scamarcio murmured quietly as he swilled his Scotch and watched the amber splash against the sides of the tumbler.

‘Amato brought his problems to Battaglia, and Battaglia helped him sort them. There was a mutual understanding. A pact.’

‘But you’re not going to tell me what these problems were …’

‘No.’ He rose tiredly and handed Scamarcio the scrap of paper. ‘But this man will. Don’t go tonight — he’s old and ill. Head over in the morning.’ He’d seemed about to say more, when a woman in a blue nightie appeared in the doorway. She gave a start when she noticed Scamarcio.

‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, the detective just needed to talk to me about something,’ said Cafaro.

The unusual tenderness in his voice threw Scamarcio slightly.

‘It’s OK, I’m leaving,’ Scamarcio said, quickly getting to his feet. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you so late.’ He folded the piece of paper, placing it in his pocket.

‘Tread carefully, Scamarcio,’ said Cafaro as he escorted him out. ‘Amato might seem old and frail, but there’s a well-oiled machine behind him — and it can be brutally efficient.’