5

The dog was completely still now. Marco Moltisanti sat on some rocks, drawing patterns in the sand with the bloodied stick. His little brother was some way away, skimming stones across the water. He could still hear its whimpers, its howls; he could still feel the full force of Marco’s punch when he’d tried to stop him. It was the end of September. There was a slight chill in the breeze, a hardness to the sand, a silence in the birds that spelled the close of summer. He knew that this day marked the end of something: something that had been inside him but had left; something that was never coming back.

Scamarcio slept fitfully that night, his dreams troubled by strange creatures: half-man, half-woman, faces distorted to a bloody mess, eyes missing. He had called off his date for Saturday evening. He figured that breaking it up early to go and visit some transgender hookers was probably worse than cancelling. He’d need to make it right, though. He needed a second life to distract him — needed it like air.

He opened the blinds and got back into bed. He observed the milky sunlight soak its way through the brickwork of the building opposite, and watched a couple of pigeons stand in companionable silence on the ledge above, surveying the ant-like activity of human life below. He longed for a joint. If there was still a point in going over to the bookshelf, extracting the tin, flipping the lid, and lighting up, he’d now be enjoying the calm sweep over him: the sweetness, the rest, the emptiness of the moment. But the cupboard was bare: there was nothing in the house — his attempt at some kind of self-preservation. He sank back into the pillows, studying the ceiling and its intricate rings of damp. He wasn’t sure how long he could maintain this particular battle of the will — it was tougher than he had anticipated.

He went into the kitchen and made a coffee, and then lifted the newspaper from under the door. La Repubblica had a small piece on Ganza on page five. They said he had gone to a secret location for a period of rest and reflection following the recent death of his beloved mother, Alessandra. It was expected that he would return to parliament soon. Not bad being a politician, he thought — not only were they the highest-paid MPs in Europe, but they could just take time off whenever they wanted. He wondered how many workers at Fiat could take a proper break following the death of a relative.

He sat at the kitchen table and sipped the coffee. How long would the PM be able to keep this out of the papers? Was he really that powerful? He found it hard to believe that every editor in the land had been persuaded not to run with this story. He was no journalist, but to him it seemed that a married father of three found with young rentboys was a pretty good tale as it was, and the fact that he just happened to be foreign secretary gave it a nice spin, particularly in the current political climate. Surely la Repubblica would have given their back teeth to sock it to the PM and the cabinet? Nothing made sense any more.

His mobile rang and he gave a start, his coffee spilling across the table and soaking the edges of the newspaper. He had a feeling it might be Aurelia complaining about having been stood up the night before, but wasn’t sure that was her style. He also didn’t know whether he wanted to talk to her or not. He hadn’t quite worked out how he felt about her — whether he wanted this one to go the distance, or just stumble on for another few dates.

The bass on the other end of the line told him it wasn’t her.

‘Scamarcio, Filippi. Got something for you.’

‘You working Sundays now?’

‘Shitty new rota — two weekends a month. I get Monday and Tuesday off, but that’s a fat lot of good when the kids are at school. I never see them.’

‘Sorry.’

‘I’m angling for a transfer. The wife’s breaking my balls.’

Scamarcio heard the scratching of a pen. Filippi took a slurp of something: it came out too loud down the line.

‘What you got for me?’

‘Yeah, your boytoy …’ There was a question, a hint of curiosity, in his tone. Scamarcio smelt danger.

‘Seems like your lad was mugged a week before he died — had his rucksack stolen, and with it his mobile phone and house keys.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘Wish I were, Scamarcio. Wish I were.’

Scamarcio thought about the memory card. Had it been in the bag? Had it been another reason for the theft? Instead he said, ‘How did you hear about it?’

‘He visited the precinct. I found out when I put his name into the system, looking for ‘Previous’. He’d come in to report the theft. The desk sergeant remembers him. Well, you would, wouldn’t you — all that mincing. Says he was very upset; lots of tears.’

‘Did he give a description of the mugger?’

‘Didn’t give us much — it was late at night, near his place. Two of them, apparently, well built, both in balaclavas. Roman accents.’

‘Any chance I could have a look at the report?’

‘No problem. I’ll put it up on the network.’

Scamarcio felt his nerves triggered, like someone had broken the electric current surrounding his defences. ‘Can you email it? I’m out the office for the next few days.’

‘No worries.’ Filippi paused for a beat. ‘What’s all this about? It seems odd to me you’re interested in a dead renter on my patch. Even odder that he’s a dead renter who just happens to have been mugged.’

Scamarcio laughed gently. ‘Oh, it’s nothing. Just something I said I’d follow up for a friend. He knew the vic, and wanted to know what happened to him.’

‘Strange friends you have.’

There was a shout — an indication of sudden movement — from somewhere in the background of Filippi’s office. It sounded like something was going down in Sunday-morning Trastevere.

‘Scamarcio, I’ve got to go. One other thing: check out the neighbours, if you want. There’s another one of them in the flat above. Came down to find me last time I was there, crying and wailing, but I didn’t have the time, so I just put her on the backburner. If you want to talk to her, you’d be doing me a favour getting her off my back. Name was Sanchez, or something like that.’

What did he mean by ‘another one of them’? But Filippi had already hung up.