43

BORGHESE SEEMED TO BE dozing in and out of sleep when Scamarcio walked into the interview room.

‘Wake up,’ he barked.

Gennaro Borghese jolted upright and knocked his spine against the chair. He rubbed his lower back and blinked. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Why were there no documents relating to your son’s life in your desk? No school reports, no medical notes, no childhood drawings?’

‘What?’ Borghese blinked again.

‘There’s no trace of Andrea in your study — it’s like he doesn’t exist.’

‘What … I don’t …’

‘Get it together. I’m waiting.’

‘Katia holds all his stuff. She keeps all his files in the living-room sideboard.’

‘There wasn’t even a photo of him on your desk. I find that odd.’

Borghese frowned. ‘Why would there be, if he’s always home with me? I keep a picture of him in my office at work, though — when I’m away from him.’ He stopped and hung his head. ‘Why am I talking in the present tense?’ He paused. ‘Where are you going with these questions?’

Scamarcio scraped a chair across the floor and sat down. ‘You knew. You found out — I don’t know when, but you did, and it felt like the ultimate betrayal. You were going to punish Katia in the worst way you could. Your whole life had been turned upside down, your entire existence wrecked, for a boy who wasn’t even …’

Borghese sprung to his feet and stabbed a finger at Scamarcio. ‘Now you listen here. Things with Andrea were tough, sure. We were under intense pressure, often exhausted, and often desperate, but I loved him like nobody else. It’s not right to say my life was wrecked. We had so many good times — walks, games, conversations — moments I will cherish for as long as I live.’ His eyes were filming with tears. ‘Why are you trying to trash my memories of my boy?’ He stared at Scamarcio, uncomprehending. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Are you some kind of monster?’

‘It was you. And you disabled the fingerprint ID on his phone in case it incriminated you!’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Borghese was screaming the words. The tears were rolling down his pale cheeks and dropping from his chin. He seemed dumbfounded and disorientated.

Scamarcio breathed out slowly and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he said, ‘I’m sorry.’

He wouldn’t be the one to tell him. He couldn’t. He’d leave that to Katia.

Borghese slumped back down in his chair, exhausted. His eyes were red, his hair greasy and moist from sweat. ‘What do you mean, “I found out”? What did I find out? I don’t understand.’

Scamarcio rose slowly. ‘I’m going to ask your wife to come in. There’s something she needs to tell you.’

He was about to leave, but then he turned slowly. ‘If it’s any consolation, for both of you, maybe you should focus on the fact that Andrea found love before his life ended. He was happy. That’s a good thought to hold on to, I think.’

Amato had been taking an afternoon nap when Scamarcio and five uniformed officers knocked on his door. It had taken quite some time to rouse him and cajole him into opening up.

‘Cardinal Amato, you are under arrest for the murder of Father Alberto Meinero.’ Scamarcio read him his rights. Amato struggled to tighten the string on his pyjama bottoms while repositioning his wide glasses. When he’d finally managed it, he ran a shaky hand through his hair.

‘I didn’t do it,’ he croaked, his voice still hoarse.

‘You may not have done, but I believe you may have paid someone to commit the murder for you.’

The cardinal said nothing.

‘Andrea Borghese revealed the truth about you being his father to his boyfriend, Meinero. Meinero confronted you with the information, at which point you knew he had to be silenced. Whether or not you had your own son killed, is a separate question.’

‘How could I kill my own boy?’ Amato suddenly dropped shakily to his knees, as if in prayer. There was a plaintive, pleading quality to the question, which made Scamarcio wonder whether the cardinal was interrogating himself rather than the policeman standing before him.

‘I will track down the men you paid to do this. I’m well aware of the Vatican’s history of collusion with elements of organised crime. I know what I’m looking for.’

‘Please, don’t.’ It was almost a wail now.

‘Cardinal, it’s my job.’

‘I’m begging you. I made a mistake, that’s all.’

‘A mistake that cost a young man his life.’

‘Please, just leave it — don’t look for those men.’

Scamarcio stiffened. ‘Why? What difference would it make to you now?’

‘Because they’ll murder me. You know they will.’

Scamarcio felt his skin grow cold with disgust.

As he was heading for the exit to the gardens, he heard someone roar his name from a few metres behind. He turned. Cafaro was striding towards him, flanked by three officers of the gendarmerie corps, their polished gold buttons glinting under the ceiling lights.

‘What the hell is going on?’

‘I’ve just arrested the cardinal for the murder of Alberto Meinero. He’s in a cop car outside if you want a quick word before we take him to Via Vitale.’

‘Couldn’t you at least have given me a heads-up — especially after our chat last night?’

‘Time was of the essence — you weren’t around.’

‘I was only at lunch, for God’s sake. Someone could have fetched me.’

‘It looks like they did.’

‘Christ, Scamarcio, you’re a bonehead.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘Cardinal Amato has a lawyer. He’ll need to call him.’

‘Why don’t you do that for him — get things moving. Got to dash, Cafaro. Thanks for the Scotch, by the way. I enjoyed our talk.’

Scamarcio threw him a wave as he hurried down the stairs. He jogged towards the squad cars and was just about to take his seat, when he paused to check his mobile and saw twenty missed calls and voice messages from Fiammetta all left in the past hour. His heart lurched. He’d switched the phone to silent when he was heading out to deal with Amato, but now cursed himself for that short-sighted decision. Had Fiammetta gone into labour and not been able to reach him? She usually never left more than one message. His blood throbbed as he spun through the missed calls history. At the top of the list was one from an unknown number, who had also left a message. Was that the hospital? Had the baby already arrived?? He dialled his voice message service. It seemed to take an age to play. His mouth turned dry as he listened to the first few words:

‘I’m just watching your girlfriend come home from her shopping. Some women grow drawn and ugly during pregnancy, others blossom. We can safely say Fiammetta falls into the latter category.’ Greco sighed. ‘I really wish I didn’t have to do this, Scamarcio. You should have listened.’

There was a wistful sadness in the way Greco said the words that turned Scamarcio’s stomach liquid.

‘Don’t you touch her,’ he heard himself shout, even though Greco wasn’t there to hear it.

The others in the squad car, including the cardinal, dishevelled and cuffed between two uniforms, all turned to stare. Scamarcio felt sick. Greco had been following her — to their home. Fiammetta had tried to reach Scamarcio over and over, but as usual he hadn’t been there for her. He was never there for her.

Rage at Greco and terror at what he might do overwhelmed him. He had to get to Fiammetta. ‘Take Amato to the station,’ he shouted to no one in particular. He sprinted to the second Panther parked next to them. ‘Get me to Via Boncompagni ASAP — it’s an emergency. I’ll direct you from there.’

The driver looked startled as Scamarcio scrambled into the passenger seat, but he fired up the ignition immediately and exited the bay with rapid precision. They sped out of the Vatican entrance and tore down Viale Vaticano. The traffic was building, and Scamarcio leaned over to activate the blue light.

‘Base, calling base. This is Detective Scamarcio. Get two units to Via Puglie.’ His voice was shaky; he was struggling to get the words out.

‘What gives, Scamarcio?’ asked the operator calmly.

‘I’ve just had a direct threat to the lives of my girlfriend and unborn child, related to the exorcist inquiry. The guy was watching her at our home. You need to get there, fast.’

‘Copy that. Locating units,’ replied the operator, still calm.

Scamarcio heard the crackle of back-and-forth as the operator mustered the patrol cars nearest to Scamarcio’s apartment. After a few seconds, the controller said, ‘Two units dispatched; closest is three minutes away. I need your floor and flat number.’

Scamarcio reeled off the details, his voice shaky.

‘Entry buzzer or open doorway downstairs?’

Scamarcio’s mind went blank, he couldn’t remember whether it was the weekend or a weekday when the concierge would be in. ‘Fuck, what day is it?’

‘It’s Wednesday, Scamarcio.’

‘What time is it?’

He felt himself falling apart, his mind was shutting down, growing dark.

‘It’s 2.00 pm.’

‘The concierge may still be at lunch.’

‘No worries. They’ll get someone to let them in. Try to stay calm, Scamarcio. We have this.’

But he couldn’t stay calm. He felt as if he was about to be punished — punished for all his doubts, for his appalling act of betrayal, for his self-indulgent reluctance and hesitation. He should have been grateful for everything he had, instead of dissecting it piece by piece and analysing it all to death.

They arrived on Via Boncompagni, which of course had to be unusually busy for the time of day. He wanted to run over the lost tourists dawdling in the middle of the road. ‘Keep going, keep going, swing a left now.’ The police driver screeched to a halt outside Scamarcio’s flat, and he saw that one of the patrol cars had already arrived — a driver was behind the wheel, but the passenger door was flung open, and there was no one on the steps. The officer must have managed to get inside already. The front door was ajar, pinned back by a standard-issue weight the police often used. Scamarcio rushed to the elevator, but realised it was occupied, so took the stairs, three at a time, up to the fourth floor. Immediately, he saw that the door to his flat was open. His blood was drumming in his ears and he could barely make out the words of the officer inside on his walkie-talkie.

‘I need an ambulance to Via Puglie, as soon as possible. Flat four, fourth floor.’

Scamarcio wanted to keel over and vomit, but he pushed himself forward, his legs weak. He thought he could hear screaming. As he neared the door, he closed his eyes; he’d had a first glimpse of the scene inside, and it was too much, his heart couldn’t cope. The image had lasted less than a fraction of a second, but it now burned on his retina like acid. Fiammetta was on the floor — there was blood — everywhere.

‘Oh shit,’ he heard the young officer shout into his walkie-talkie. ‘I don’t think there’s time.’

Scamarcio felt the walls around him fall away. He was in a cave, a tunnel — he was spinning, hurtling through space, water was running. There was a whistling in his ears, a cold wind against his face.

Then he heard a cry — a powerful, raw primordial cry — the cry of a human as it tested its lungs for the first time.

Scamarcio opened his eyes. The frightened young officer was pushing a bloody bundle towards him, imploring Scamarcio to do something, take control.

‘Congratulations, Detective, it’s a girl.’