2

It saddened him that it had come to this. It was not how he liked to run things. He looked down to the gardens and saw the smashed blossom like blood, cast around in the new eddies of the fountain. He had sensed that these would be cleansing rains, but now he knew that they were just the opposite: With them they would bring a tide of filth, all the sewage of the city pushing up to drown them all.

Trastevere was quiet for a Friday night. The weather must have been keeping people away. He saw a man pushing a trolley full of empty bottles up ahead, the clink of glass echoing down the street as the bottles rattled across the paving stones. A group of young people were huddled in a doorway, a raincoat stretched out above their heads, waiting for the deluge to subside. A girl was struggling to light up under the coat, and Scamarcio decided to trouble her for a cigarette — not because he particularly felt like a smoke, but mainly because she had an interesting face.

He stood with them for a few minutes, trading small talk about the rain, and then he raised his jacket collar against the elements and continued his journey towards Via Cosimato. This was a part of town he liked: cobbled alleyways finishing at nothing; darkened windows with tiny diamond panes pushing out through webs of ivy; wooden shutters barred above mysterious workshops. It was the sense of the medieval that he enjoyed — the chance to escape from that other century outside.

There was a single officer on the doorway of Number 20, just as Garramone had told him there would be. It was still quiet for now, because no one realised the connection. As far as the police were concerned, Arthur was just another rentboy who had met an untimely end.

Scamarcio murmured a greeting to the officer, who turned to push open a huge oak door. He stood back to let him through. ‘Upstairs, first on your right.’

Scamarcio thanked him and climbed the stairs. There were patches of damp on the walls where the paint was peeling. The place needed work. They’d have to sort it all out anyway after the murder — if they wanted to entice new tenants, that is.

A light was coming from the entrance to the flat. As he drew closer, he saw that the door was ajar. It had been kicked in, leaving small craters in the wood to the right and tiny shards of paint across the carpet. He eased through the gap, and the first thing he saw was Filippi, on his hands and knees, his gloved hands searching for something on the floor. Scamarcio hadn’t seen him for a while, but wasn’t altogether surprised to see him here; Trastevere was his beat, after all. Scamarcio surveyed the flat, or what was left of it. Nearly every painting had been smashed and knocked off-balance, photos had been ripped from their frames, and rugs cut to shreds. A plush-looking sofa bore a thick gash through its middle, which had caused foam to spill out in all directions. Oily black paint had been strewn everywhere — on the floors, across the ceiling, coating walls and partitions. He guessed he was standing in the living room, but the general chaos left some room for doubt.

Filippi grimaced as he tried to straighten from his crawling position. A slight man, no more than five foot seven, whose suits always hung badly, he was in his mid-forties, with thinning blond hair and quiet blue eyes. Scamarcio remembered that he was originally from the north, transferred down from Brescia. He held out a hand to help him up and Filippi accepted it, although irritated by the gesture. Once on his feet, he stretched slowly, hands behind his hips. ‘I don’t suppose you have this problem.’

Scamarcio was a good ten years younger, and known for keeping in good shape. He didn’t push it to extremes, though; he didn’t want that freakish look.

‘What are you doing here? Last time I looked, this was my neck of the woods.’ Filippi had to raise his head when he spoke, because of the height difference. Scamarcio could tell that this also troubled him.

‘Just taking a look — wondered if it might tie into something else I’ve got going on.’

‘What’s that, then?’

Scamarcio smiled and said nothing.

Filippi shook his head, bored, as though he’d seen it all. ‘You’re welcome to it. I’ve had more than my fair share of road-kill this week.’ He brushed some dirt from the knees of his trousers and gestured through what remained of the living room to a doorway at the back. ‘He’s still in the bedroom, and it’s not a pretty sight. Forensics are on their way, so don’t touch anything. I’m going round the corner for a bite — back in five.’

As Scamarcio approached the doorway, the air seemed to thicken. He stopped where the door should have been and looked through, heeding Filippi’s warning, not wanting to contaminate the scene. On what remained of the bed he could just about make out a human form. There were two legs, two arms, and a head, but that was as far as it went. The corpse was so deeply bloodied that it was practically a hunk of meat — it was impossible to see whether it was male or female.

The smell was overwhelming. Scamarcio pulled a paper tissue from his pocket and spread it over his mouth. He’d seen shootings, beatings, and knife fights, but never a stabbing like this. He was about to go and find Filippi, share the experience, and laugh it off, when he became aware of a dim light coming from somewhere deep in the room — an alien glow that didn’t quite belong. He stepped forward, careful not to cross the threshold. To the left was a bunch of shattered fragments of something wooden — maybe a chest of drawers — and then to its right, in the middle of what remained of a tall cabinet, was a small shelf with a mirror, its glass strangely white in all the blackness. A high-end camera lay open in front of it, its lens and body smashed, but the green light still pulsing.