14

He opens the envelope. It is the last of today’s pile. Early-morning sunlight spills onto the table, catching the cup of roses and the edges of an apple. He sees a still life.

He pulls out a photograph and turns it over. He feels the brioche he has just eaten force its way from his stomach and push back up along his throat.

It’s a photo of a naked woman from a hard-core porn magazine, but they’ve done something with a computer — put the face of his teenage daughter above the neck.

‘What is it, Pino? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ says his wife.

He rises from his seat, almost kicking the chair away. ‘It’s nothing, sweetheart: just problems at work.’ He kisses her and heads outside, where he knows his car and driver are waiting.

TERMINI WAS A SEETHING mass of people, stale and sweating in the early-summer heat. As Scamarcio picked his way through the crowd, soft currents of cigarette smoke stirred his deprived senses back to life. He spied a tobacconist at the end of the platform, and took it as some kind of portent — a sign that it was meant to be. He could try to give up the weed, deny himself an escape, but surely he could permit himself the pleasure of an uncomplicated smoke? He lined up his change, anticipating the buzz of the nicotine kick, and cast his eye over the towering pile of newspapers. Then he stopped, just stood there, frozen in time. Everything around him ground to a halt, and he felt the world cease to breathe.

The front page of Il Giornale showed a picture of Ganza with his wife and kids. The headline read:

FOREIGN SECRETARY IN RENTBOY SEX SHOCK

Graphic photos showing Foreign Secretary and father of three Giorgio Ganza in a drink and drug-fuelled orgy with two male prostitutes have come to light.

The photos, many of which are too shocking to print, show Ganza in various stages of undress as he frolics with the two prostitutes in a Tuscan villa. Ganza, who has always played up his family-man credentials for political gain, fled Rome several days ago. It is understood that he is hiding out at a secret retreat, near Florence. His wife and children have also left the capital and were unavailable for comment.

Scamarcio flipped through the paper, and found the least shocking of the photos on pages two, three, and four. He saw Arthur’s young face in two of them, and scanned the article looking for any mention of his name and the killing at his apartment. There was none. How long, though, before they made that connection — before Filippi made the connection, and all hell broke loose? Filippi did not yet know what Arthur looked like, and the corpse was too damaged. But the desk sergeant would remember, and would waste no time in telling him. No doubt, a call would soon follow, asking Scamarcio to pay another visit to the precinct. If not Filippi, then Maria and the girls at Testaccio would hear soon enough, and would put two and two together. His mobile buzzed. It was starting already: all hell breaking loose around him.

It was Garramone. ‘Seen the papers?’

‘I’m looking at Il Giornale now. How did that happen?’

‘The editors changed their minds — decided it was too good to sit on. Who can blame them?’

‘But there’s nothing about Arthur.’

‘Not yet, but I’m not sure for how much longer.’

‘What does your friend say?’

‘He’s furious. Says it’s a breach of trust, that there’ll be hell to pay.’

‘What are we to do?’

‘He thinks we should cool it for a while — keep our heads down while the storm blows over. Then see where it leaves us.’

‘And you? What do you think?’

‘It all depends on Filippi: if he makes the link to Arthur, the game is up. Then there are those hookers you spoke to down in Testaccio. Not to mention the friend upstairs in Trastevere — she’s bound to speak to Filippi.’

‘It’s getting to be a long list.’

‘Maybe you should pay the friend a visit, and cut her off before she can get to him.’

‘Yeah, and what do I do about the desk sergeant at Trastevere? How do I persuade him to keep his mouth shut?’ This thing was running away from them now; any possible control slipping through their fingers.

‘Forget about the desk sergeant. Think about the friend.’

‘That won’t work. If Filippi decides to dig some more, which he will, he’ll be back. And if I’ve been hanging around the friend, it won’t look right.’

Garramone fell quiet. ‘Our priority is to find the other guy in the photo. If someone is taking out these people for Ganza, he could be next.’

‘But wouldn’t that be a dangerous strategy, now that the story is out?’

‘Whatever. We need to establish his identity.’

‘And Ganza hasn’t given your friend the prime minister anything?’

‘For God’s sake, Scamarcio, don’t speak so loosely.’

They both fell silent a moment before the chief eventually said, ‘Nothing. Ganza says he doesn’t remember the guy. He says that photo was taken the first time they’d met, and he never saw him again.’

‘None of the hookers down in Testaccio knew him either.’

‘There must be others you could ask.’

‘That means going back to Vice. I don’t think that’s wise — not with this all over the papers.’

He heard a radio in the background of wherever Garramone was calling from. An old song by Mina was playing. The chief exhaled like a man who knows his time is up. ‘What happened up north? The boy give you anything?’

‘He thinks Rossi might have known the man who handed them the photos — that they might have been in it together. But when I went down to Naples, his family had done a runner — at four in the morning, according to one of the neighbours. He has them for Camorra, by the way.’

‘That right?’ He could hear the chief sinking back in his chair. Scamarcio imagined him gazing into the middle distance, no longer sure where to take this thing. Eventually, Garramone said, ‘See what you can get on the second guy in the picture. Then I think you need to leave town for a bit while we calm things down. I’ll find you another case — move you off somewhere while it blows over.’ He paused. ‘If it blows over.’