44

SCAMARCIO SAT IN THE uncomfortable armchair at the bottom of Fiammetta’s bed, cradling his daughter and drifting in and out of sleep. In his waking moments, he realised that he had never felt so content. It was as if this tiny soul had filled the void, cancelling out all the years of sorrow and loss. Her smell, the touch of her, the softness of her hair was a balm, a tonic that flooded him with joy: for the first time since he could remember, he felt complete.

He looked at Fiammetta, asleep in the bed, and vowed to be the best partner and father he possibly could be. Never again would he make a mistake like the one he’d made with Aurelia; never again would he doubt the immense fortune that had been bestowed upon him.

As if in answer to his thoughts, Fiammetta opened her eyes and looked at him.

‘How are you feeling, Leo?’

‘That’s the question I should be asking you.’

‘I’m OK.’ She gazed at her baby, asleep in his arms. ‘Well, more than OK.’

Scamarcio rose awkwardly from the chair, trying to balance the baby without dropping her, and walked over to the bed. He placed their daughter on the blanket and took Fiammetta’s face in his hands. ‘I love you both so much. You’re the best things that have ever happened to me.’

He saw her eyes fill with tears, but she said nothing and just squeezed his hand. Eventually she whispered, ‘I love you, too, Leo. More than you will ever know.’ Her eyes were closing again.

‘Why didn’t you call the ambulance sooner?’

‘I wasn’t sure I was in labour. I thought it might just have been an upset stomach again — there have been so many false alarms. There was this strange guy following me — I tried to tell you. I wanted to shake him off and head home so I could lie down, but as soon as I reached the apartment, I realised the baby was on its way. I was about to call the ambulance when the doorbell rang.’ She sighed, fighting off exhaustion. ‘I went to answer it, hoping it was you and you’d forgotten your keys, but when I opened it, there was nobody there. It was then that it suddenly became too much, and I couldn’t even get back to the phone. I collapsed on the floor right where I was — it was awful.’ She closed her eyes.

‘I’m so sorry.’

She said nothing.

‘You should rest.’

She nodded and laid her head back on the pillow. He picked up his daughter and returned to the chair. He was exhausted, physically and mentally. He felt as if he’d looked into the abyss, but had been pulled back right at the last moment, and now euphoria and anxiety battled it out for supremacy. As he shut his eyes, his mobile rang, and he reached for it reluctantly. The intrusion felt obscene.

‘Congratulations, Scamarcio. I’m made up for you,’ said Garramone sounding like he really meant it. ‘Now you can get on and enjoy the life you deserve. My wife has bought you something from the two of us. But don’t blame me if you don’t like it — you know how her taste can sometimes be weird.’

Scamarcio smiled, remembering how Garramone’s wife had once turned up at a squad summer party in pink wedge shoes, the soles of which glowed in the dark. It had been particularly striking because the rest of her outfit had been perfectly normal.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘I can’t wait to see a photo. Will you send me one?’

‘Of course.’

‘How’s she doing? Everything hunky-dory?’

‘Seems so, yes. We’re very lucky.’

‘Kids are such a blessing, Scamarcio. They’re your treasures, and nothing will ever change that.’ Scamarcio had never heard Garramone speak so sentimentally and felt newly disorientated. He heard the boss stop to take a breath. After a few seconds, he said, ‘Look, I don’t like bothering you with work, but we need to wind things up, and I need to know whether to ask someone else to bring the ship to shore.’

Through his haze of happiness, Scamarcio’s mind flashed on Lovoti, and he heard himself say, ‘No, don’t do that.’

The baby shuffled and sniffled in his arms, startled by the change in volume.

‘You want to come in?’ Garramone sounded surprised.

‘I want to see it to the end.’ Scamarcio thought of Greco. ‘For a whole load of reasons.’

Garramone exhaled. ‘OK, but I think you should put Fiammetta and the baby first — just until things settle.’

‘I will put them first. I’ll just drop in for a few hours, then I’ll be back at the hospital.’

‘Right you are, then.’

Scamarcio thought he heard a smile in Garramone’s voice.

As Scamarcio made his way to the squad room, he pondered whether a father would really have it in him to kill his own son, illegitimate or otherwise. To Scamarcio, it seemed so abominable as to be incomprehensible, but he knew he couldn’t allow his current emotions to cloud his intellect. The question was, could the cardinal have commissioned a crime of that magnitude? Scamarcio wondered why the lab was taking so long to provide the DNA comparison between the two bodies. He’d chased Manetti several times in the last few hours, but he’d claimed there’d been some kind of bureaucratic hold-up with the processing: budgetary issues and reassessed priorities, it seemed. Scamarcio’s jaw clenched at the thought of it. They were in the middle of a major inquiry that had massive global attention, and they were still forced to deal with this shit.

The bottom line was that he couldn’t rule out the possibility, as disgusting as it was, that Cardinal Amato had Andrea killed in order to take his secret to the grave. Just because they’d threatened Gennaro with punishment, it didn’t necessarily follow that Zenox had murdered the boy. And there was something else playing at the corners of Scamarcio’s mind about the cardinal: why the hell had he seemed so scared about Scamarcio going after the men he’d hired? Why was that more frightening than the prospect of prison?

Scamarcio took the stairs to the squad room, exhaustion a lead weight in his chest. How was he going to find out who Amato had used? That calibre of inside knowledge could only be found in a minefield ringed by high voltage fences. He couldn’t consult his old sources now that Piocosta was gone. And had the old man still been around, Scamarcio had a feeling even he wouldn’t have been able to produce a name.

He pushed the swing doors to the squad room. He knew from bitter past experience that the Cappadona sometimes took out Vatican rubbish. What were the chances they were involved in this? Their horrific reputation might explain the cardinal’s considerable fear. That said, they were hardly alone in their talent for instilling terror in their ‘clients’.

Scamarcio was on his way to his desk when a disturbing volley of claps swept through the room. It was probably the most genuine round of applause he had witnessed in the bearpit, and he was alarmed to feel a small lump forming in his throat. He tried to suppress it and offered a weary salute as he drew out his chair, willing them all to get back to work.

‘Congratulations, Scamarcio,’ said Sartori, slapping him on the back. ‘We’re chuffed to bits for you. There’s been a whip-round — I’ll bring the present over later. How are they both doing?’

‘Well. Really well.’

‘Great.’ Sartori slapped him again. ‘I’m kind of shocked to see you here, but, then again, I’m not.’

Scamarcio smiled. ‘I just wanted to tie things up — you know.’

‘Sure.’

Scamarcio folded his arms across his chest. ‘Any news?’

‘Negruzzo got nothing from the laptop, but there were a few things on the USBs — looks like a kind of ledger of monies paid to our dirty head honcho at the pharmaceutical service. There are drug names in brackets by some entries, but not all. Generally, there’s not as much evidence as we might have hoped for, but Garramone doesn’t really care, given Borghese’s testimony.’

‘Right.’

‘The cardinal’s said nothing more since he arrived. He may be waiting for you.’

‘OK.’ Scamarcio paused. ‘Listen, I’m still waiting on the DNA comp — we need to see if we can pin Amato or whoever he hired to both these murders.’

‘I’ve heard nothing from Manetti.’

‘What the fuck is going on down there? Are they all dead or something?’

‘Want me to shake his tree?’

Scamarcio thought about the ‘welcome to fatherhood’ conversation he’d now have to have with the chief CSI if he talked to him himself. ‘Yes, do that. It’s way too late in the game to be waiting on this kind of info. Obviously we’re looking for any kind of match: it doesn’t have to be Amato, it just has to be someone.’

‘Got you.’

Scamarcio decided to wait before speaking to Cardinal Amato. If there was any new evidence to be had, he wanted to enter the interview room armed.

Probably bowing to pressure from a now irate Garramone, Manetti finally produced the goods two hours later.

‘Congratulations, man, I hear you’ve pulled a blinder,’ said the chief CSI as soon as Scamarcio picked up. ‘It’s such lovely news.’

‘… Is that it?’ Scamarcio asked warily.

‘What do you mean?’ Manetti sounded offended.

‘I was expecting some wisecrack about Fiammetta’s fidelity or my nappy changing skills.’

‘God, Scamarcio, there’s a time and a place.’

Scamarcio reminded himself that Manetti was actually known for showing real emotion at times.

Manetti paused. ‘I have a gift for you — well, two actually. One for the baby and one for you.’

‘Oh, thanks, Manetti — I’m touched, really.’

‘Good,’ said the chief CSI briskly, as if he, too, was now uncomfortable and wanted to return to their default setting. ‘You want your present now?’

‘You downstairs or something?’

‘It’s a gift I can deliver by phone.’

Scamarcio finally cottoned on. ‘Ah — hit me with it.’

‘I got your match.’

Scamarcio wanted to shout ‘About fucking time’, but instead he said calmly, ‘You never disappoint.’

‘I do what I can,’ said the chief CSI, all faux modesty. ‘I had to really sing for my supper on this one, cos the lab guys were breaking my balls — if anyone says the words backlog or budget again today, I swear I will poison them and make it look like suicide. Anyway, I got fuck all off the body — the priest’s. The match came from a hair on the shower curtain in his hotel bathroom and a hair on Andrea Borghese’s trousers. No stone left unturned — praise be to my team. Make sure you pass that up to the old bastard, won’t you? He just roasted me for ten minutes when it wasn’t even my fault.’

‘Sure,’ said Scamarcio.

Manetti was talking so fast that Scamarcio wondered for a moment if he was on something. Then he wondered if he was simply putting on a show to distract from his responsibility for the delay. He should have put a bomb under the staff at the lab; he certainly had the power, and Scamarcio wondered what had held him back. Office politics, probably. In Scamarcio’s experience, that particular fungus lay at the root of every inefficiency, crap decision, and festering grudge in the squad.

‘Any takers in the system?’ Scamarcio asked, knowing this was probably expecting too much.

‘One, and you’re going to love it.’

‘Fuck, Manetti, I hope you’re not shitting me.’

‘Would I?’

‘Yes.’

Scamarcio heard the chief CSI rattle some pens in a pot — he seemed to be aiming for the drum-roll effect.

‘Vincenzo Candiolo.’

‘Should that mean something to me?’

‘Well, it didn’t to me until the database told me he was Gianfranco Becchi’s boy.’

Scamarcio frowned. ‘You’ve lost me, Manetti …’

‘According to the latest intelligence, Becchi took over from Papa Cappadona’s replacement after all that fuss last year you were caught up in. So, I mean, if you were looking for a Cappadona link, you’ve got one loud and clear, bells and whistles.’

Scamarcio felt an icy stab of paranoia. ‘Did Sartori tell you I was looking at them for this?’ He didn’t think he’d even mentioned it to Sartori.

‘No, Sartori didn’t say anything along those lines. I just meant …’

Scamarcio came to his senses. ‘Oh, don’t sweat it. You’re right, I was wondering about them, given their past work, so all this is topnotch. Invaluable, in fact.’

‘So,’ said Manetti. ‘Who were they working for? Don’t tell me the cardinal?’

‘I think so.’

‘Fuck a duck.’

Scamarcio sighed. ‘It’s a riot, this one. I don’t think even the papers could have made it up.’

‘Is it me or is murder getting stranger?’

Scamarcio tore the plastic off a fresh pack of Marlboros he’d bought outside the hospital. He took out a cigarette and admired the way the rest in the pack were perfectly aligned, just waiting to be lit. But he wouldn’t smoke around his daughter. He could never do that. ‘It’s Satan’s work,’ he said, patting his pocket for his lighter.

‘You buy into all that?’

‘Maybe just a little. Cardinal Amato was fighting the devil,’ Scamarcio paused to take a long toke, ‘… but in the end, after more than forty years, he lost.’

Scamarcio thought of Greco’s advice, and his heart turned cold. ‘What that means for the rest of us, God only knows.’