30

THE PORTO AZZURRO PRISON was actually an old fortress carved into the cliff face on the island’s eastern shore. The sun was dipping below the horizon when Scamarcio drove up, its eerie glow sculpting the rocks, defining them harsh and cold against the ebbing light of the sea. Seagulls screeched overhead, fighting for scraps in the crevices of the rock-face — their dusty wings pounding the air, their red claws livid against the stone.

Scamarcio pulled the car to a halt, and took a moment to compose himself and steady his climbing pulse. The entrance to the prison was barely visible; it could have passed as a break in the rock if you were far enough away. The walls were sheer and oily black, planed down by centuries of salt spray. There was no escape from here, no boulders to stagger your descent to the water, no path towards the shore: beyond the edge of the fortress lay nothing but the blackness of the sea and whatever treacherous rocks lay beneath. If you were foolish enough to try running past the entranceway, you’d still be left clinging to the cliff face, probably dodging fire, until your getaway craft showed.

Scamarcio felt a jitter in his right leg, and looked down so he could watch it move. But he saw nothing — it seemed still. Slowly, with detachment, he observed both knuckles turn white, and realised that he’d been repeatedly clenching and unclenching his fists, as if this was a tried-and-tested relaxation technique of his. But, as far as he could remember, it was something he had never done before. Like, as far as he could remember, he had never met a child killer before.

And those two words, ‘child killer’, as awful as they were, didn’t adequately describe The Priest. Yes, he was a child killer — Italy’s worst — but it was the manner in which he had sexually assaulted and tortured his 18 victims that had embedded itself forever in the memories of those unfortunate colleagues of Scamarcio’s who had been set the task of capturing him. For the public it was a little easier, because the full nature of his crimes had never made it onto the news: these details would have haunted too many clean minds, would have proved impossible to rub out, unlike an earthquake in Haiti or an oil spill off Mexico. But the gist was bad enough, and when The Priest — Mario Pugno, 45, from Lecce, who, with his Catholic robes and rosary beads, had once fooled so many — was finally brought in, thousands lined the streets of Rome, thousands wept and spat and screamed as his blacked-out penitentiary van passed by, crushing their makeshift wreaths and sending smashed roses and lily stems scattering. Scamarcio had been 25 at the time, and had worries of his own, but even he had been touched by the anger that gripped the nation — the unbridled fury and disgust, the clamour for blood. Even Cosa Nostra, so they said, were revolted by The Priest. Even they had tried to seize him and bring him in as a gesture to the people, a gesture to the police. But even they had failed.

Scamarcio exhaled, reached for the door handle, and stepped out into the fading light. The salt spray hit his skin, pushing up against his nostrils. There was another smell lurking beneath: rotting seaweed or moss, or some kind of dead sea-life.

Waiting at the shore’s edge were the boatmen who ferried visitors back and forth to the entranceway. A couple of them were dragging on cigarettes, chewing the fat. Scamarcio showed them his police badge, and they nodded their recognition of his status. One of them stubbed out his cigarette and gestured to his colleague that he’d take the detective. He pointed to a rickety boat to his left, and Scamarcio climbed in, taking a seat on the damp bench. The boatman said nothing, just took his place at the helm and manoeuvred the craft out into the darkening waters. The cries of the gulls above them — malignant custodians heralding their arrival — grew more intense as they neared the prison. Scamarcio could make out the little harbour in front of the entranceway and wondered how they ferried the food out here, whether a bigger boat came with supplies a few times a week. The boatman drew up alongside the wooden boardwalk and attached the rope before jumping onto the jetty, then once they were steady gave Scamarcio his hand and helped him out. The detective reached into his pocket to pay, but the boatman waved him away: no doubt it was standard policy here, as elsewhere, to stay on the good side of the force.

Scamarcio turned to face the broad, stone steps that led up to the prison gates. His pulse quickened once more, and he had the sense that he was heading towards a dark destiny, towards a new unsettling chapter in his life. The steps were covered with a thick, white coating of gull grime, but the tang of salt mist and damp stone was strangely invigorating. There was a halogen glow emanating from behind the studded wooden gates and he made towards it, wondering what would greet him on the other side. He spoke his name and rank into the intercom, and then a hatch slid open to the right.

The face of a prison officer came up to the window, and the intercom stuttered into life again: ‘ID, please’.

Scamarcio held his card up to the window. The officer compared photo with features, and then scrutinised something below him.

‘One moment, sir.’

After a few seconds, the gate swung open, and Scamarcio stepped into a warm entranceway with large stone slabs underfoot.

‘This way, sir.’

The officer was gesturing to a room on the right behind a wide glass window. Inside, two officers were monitoring CCTV, and a third was writing in a logbook. The officer from the gate approached him.

‘Detective Scamarcio, from the Rome Flying Squad,’ he announced to his colleague.

The man with the logbook didn’t look up. ‘ID, please.’

Scamarcio handed it over once again.

The man studied it in detail, placed it across a scanner, saw it appear on his computer screen, and then typed in a few numbers. He then entered various details into his book and pushed it towards Scamarcio to sign.

‘You’re here to see The Priest, right?’

His colleagues glanced up momentarily from their screens.

‘That’s right.’

‘He’s pretty subdued these days — seems like the fight has finally left him.’

‘The fight?’

‘When we first took him out of isolation, years back, he created bloodshed and mess wherever he went, so we were forced to put him back into the psych ward time and again. But in recent years he’s completely calmed down, like he’s had a personality transplant. Now all he does is read books, press flowers, and talk to the real priests who come visit.’

‘Well, that’s reassuring, I suppose.’

‘Don’t worry, we have your back. Gun, please.’

Scamarcio handed it over, and then the logbook man pressed a button and told someone to come and collect the detective. A few seconds later, a young blond officer walked in.

‘D’Angelo will take you up.’

Scamarcio thanked him and followed the officer out into the hallway and along the long, stone corridor. There were no cells lining this floor — just facilities for the staff, it seemed. At the end of the floor an iron staircase led to the next level, and Scamarcio followed the officer up. They didn’t stop on that floor, but continued to the one above. There, the officer turned to the right down the walkway, and Scamarcio saw a gallery of cells on either side, identified by small portholes in their steel doors. The officer came to a halt outside a cell in the middle of the left-hand row, and gestured to two officers at the opposite end of the walkway to come over.

When they were within earshot, he said: ‘His visitor has arrived — the detective.’

One of the two officers, thickset and bald, extended his hand to Scamarcio.

‘He was asking for you repeatedly, and said it was very important you spoke because he wanted to help you with something. It was me who called the station.’

‘Thanks for that. I appreciate it.’

‘Any idea what he might want?’

‘None, I’m afraid — I’m as confused as you are.’

The officer shook his head and shrugged. ‘Well, let’s see what he’s up to. We’ll be right outside, if you need anything. The door will remain open behind you once you enter.’

Scamarcio nodded. The officer looked through the porthole and then punched a number into the keypad to the right of the door. After a few seconds the door sighed and released, and he stepped into the cell. Scamarcio felt his breathing become shallow, but pushed himself to follow. He couldn’t make out who was inside because the officer’s bulk was obscuring his view.

‘Your visitor is here — the policeman you were asking for.’

‘Thank you.’ The voice was softly spoken, gentle: a priest’s voice in the confessional.

The officer stepped aside and nodded towards Scamarcio before leaving. Scamarcio turned his gaze to the man sitting crumpled on the bed. He was small-boned and fragile. A thin crown of white hair circled his head, and his eyes were dark and unblinking behind bookish spectacles. He looked like an injured owl, and had aged considerably since the photos that had once been splashed across Italy’s front pages.

‘I won’t get up to shake your hand, Detective Scamarcio, because it will cause our friends outside some alarm if I start moving around. But please accept my heartfelt thanks for making this visit. I am very glad you came.’ The Priest gestured to a rickety-looking chair opposite him, and Scamarcio sat down.

‘So what can I help you with?’

‘Actually, it’s more a case of the other way around.’

‘Why do you want to help me?’

‘That’s not important now.’

Scamarcio chose to say nothing, letting him sweat it out.

‘You’re on the island investigating the disappearance of a child, I believe.’

‘Why do you believe that?’

‘Again, that’s not important now. And let’s not play games. As you yourself know, time is of the essence with these things.’

Scamarcio remained silent; just studied the man, then the walls of the tiny cell. Curled and browning A4 sheets of pressed flowers were dotted about — roses, pansies, and daisies mainly. The effect was bizarre and disquieting.

The Priest studied him back. ‘I knew your father once.’

Scamarcio felt something twist inside him. He said nothing for a few moments, and then: ‘I find that hard to believe.’

The Priest waved a hand away. ‘Again, that’s not for now.’ He looked to the tiny window to his right at the top of the cell wall where a gull was pecking against the glass. With a sudden ferocity, he cried: ‘These critters never leave me alone — all hours of the day they come.’ The voice was no longer gentle; it belonged to a different person altogether. Scamarcio looked over his shoulder through the doorway and saw the reassuring forms of the officers waiting outside.

‘OK, if time is of the essence, as you say, how can you help me?’

The Priest returned his gaze to the detective. His look cut through him, unblinking.

‘It’s all quite simple,’ said The Priest. ‘You need to talk to the Roma. They have the answers to this one.’

‘Why the Roma?’

‘It’s not important?’

‘How did you come to know they’re involved?’

He waved a hand away. ‘Again, not important.’

‘What led you to believe that we’re investigating the disappearance of a child?’

The Priest just shrugged.

‘Why do you think I even need your help?’

The old man pulled himself up straighter. ‘Because you know nothing, it’s a complex case, and these island police are imbeciles. You need all the help you can get.’

Scamarcio fell silent a moment. ‘So where do the Roma fit into this?’

‘I’ve already told you that I’m not going into that now. Why should I do your job for you? Just come back and see me when you’ve made some progress.’

‘But …’

The ferocity returned. ‘No, that’s it. You’d better hurry — the clock is ticking.’