37

HE MADE A QUICK scan of the three narrow intersecting streets in the village to check that the boy wasn’t hanging around, and then got back into the car, handing another tip to the angry-looking guy on the forecourt. Before starting the engine he typed a message to Garramone from his BlackBerry, asking him to find a translator for the email he had sent him from the boy. He also asked him to get a techie to see whether they could access emails received and sent in the last few months that now appeared to have been deleted from the boy’s account. He gave him the boy’s email address.

He turned the key in the ignition and backed out of the petrol station onto the main road, the two coffees giving him a much-needed energy hit that he hoped would last him a few hours yet. There was no sign of the boy on the drive going up, which worried him. Could he be that fast a walker? Maybe someone had given him a lift.

He arrived back at the camp, noticing the silence this time. As he walked in through the gate, he saw that the fire was still going but that the people around it had gone. He approached the nearest caravan and knocked on the flimsy door. A young woman with an old face came out. She was scrawny, her skin paper-thin and lined, but her eyes still pretty. Her brown hair hung lank and greasy, with faded orange highlights at the tips. He held up his card again.

She shook her head at him, stepped out of the caravan, and shouted something, again in a language he didn’t understand. Quickly, a few more doors opened, and some of the men from the other day stepped out — including the spokesman, shirtless this time. He was wiping his hands down on his trousers, and didn’t look pleased to see Scamarcio.

‘Back again so soon? What is it now?’ he said, striding towards him.

‘You have a teenage boy here — I need to talk to him.’

‘Why?’

‘As part of the investigation, of course.’

‘But our children haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘I’m sure they haven’t, but I just need a quick word.’

The man paused a moment, seeming to weigh it up. Then he said: ‘We have several boys here. Which do you mean?’

‘If you bring them out, I’ll tell you.’

The man shouted something, and another man turned back the way he had come.

While he was gone, Scamarcio and the spokesman just stared at one another uncompromisingly, neither willing to give any ground by being the first to look away.

After what seemed like a long time, the man was back, two reluctant teenage boys in tow. But neither of them was the boy he had seen in the café.

The leader placed a hand on the back of each and nudged them forward.

‘No,’ said Scamarcio. ‘The boy I want has diamond studs in his ears, wide jeans, and bright-yellow trainers.’

‘Dacian.’

Scamarcio feigned ignorance.

The spokesman turned to the small huddle that had formed around him. They were speaking their language again, but Scamarcio thought he could make out the word ‘Dacian’ several times. One man who was shorter than all the rest kept shrugging, and eventually held open his arms in defeat.

‘His father doesn’t know where he is — he says he hasn’t seen him since the morning.’

‘Can he take me to their trailer?’

The leader said something to the man, and he shrugged again before turning and heading back to the line of caravans. The leader nodded to Scamarcio, and they followed. After a while he said: ‘My name is Pety.’

‘Where did you learn your Italian?’ asked Scamarcio.

‘Night school — it was provided by the government for free when I was living in Milan.’

Milan, reflected Scamarcio. Another connection to that place. ‘How long were you up there?’

‘Just a year, when I first arrived in Italy. But I didn’t like it; I couldn’t wait to leave.’

Scamarcio could picture the scene. He had seen the camps lining the way in to the city towards Cadorna Station — a grim, filthy shambles of shacks against a backdrop of concrete decay and graffiti.

‘Things better here?’

‘No comparison.’

The other man had stopped beside a wooden caravan that seemed more dilapidated than the rest. Outside were a pile of dirty cooking utensils, rusty pots and pans, and a camping stove. Some partially cleaned plates were stacked in a rubber bowl; next to them were several empty liquor bottles. The man was shrugging his shoulders once again. Scamarcio noted that he had a drinker’s nose.

‘Can I have a look inside?’ he asked.

Pety mumbled a few words to the man, and he pushed open the door, standing back to let Scamarcio go ahead. The caravan was more spacious than he had imagined from the outside. The room was divided by a curtain into two sleeping areas, with two single mattresses on the floor. Tacked to the wall above the mattress to the right were some ragged magazine photos of a good-looking woman whom Scamarcio didn’t recognise. The air was musty and damp, and he thought he could smell some kind of fungus.

‘Just the two of you live here?’

‘Him and his son,’ explained Pety.

‘What happened to the mother?’

‘She ran off with another man last year. The boy didn’t take it too well.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He’s been drinking a bit too much. But that will pass. We all go through these phases as teenagers. I’m sure you did the same at some point?’

His eyes settled on Scamarcio, uncompromising again. There was something about the quiet dignity of this man that he liked.

‘Oh, worse,’ he said. ‘Any chance the boy could be hiding out here in the camp?’

‘I doubt it. As you can see, it’s a small site. But take a look if you want.’

They headed back out of the caravan into the warmth, the promise of a stifling midday heat already heavy on the breeze.

‘Has he done this before? Gone off like this?’

Pety smiled. ‘He’s a teenager, so of course he does his own thing sometimes, but we’re sure he will be back sooner or later.’

They strode along a row of caravans, and Scamarcio stopped to take a peek inside and underneath them all, sometimes picking up on the same fungus smell again. They headed back towards the fire, and he checked the caravans around there as well. Finally, they strolled around the fence area, and he searched the bushes where he himself had hidden out earlier.

‘Do you have a mobile?’ asked Scamarcio.

‘Yes, but I’m down on credit.’

Scamarcio pulled a 20-euro note from his pocket and handed it over. ‘Can you let me know when Dacian gets back? It’s important.’

Pety pocketed the money in an almost invisible gesture. ‘So what do you think Dacian has done?’

‘I don’t know. I just want to talk to him, that’s all. It’s probably nothing.’

They headed back towards the gate, a group of men following a few paces behind them now. For the first time, Scamarcio felt slightly menaced by their presence.

‘For nothing, you’re putting in a lot of effort,’ said Pety, turning back towards the men and leaving him alone at the gate.