39

AFTER WHAT HE HAD witnessed in the café that morning, Scamarcio had calculated that it was best to let the boy Dacian return to the camp in the course of the day, rather than use precious resources tracking him down. But now that they were nearing the evening and there was still no sign of him, Scamarcio realised they would have to mobilise all the forces on the island to find him. It was possible he could lead them to the missing girl. Had it been Dacian who had stabbed Fabio Ella? Had they both been involved in the abduction of the American girl? Ella could no longer provide the answers, but Dacian could. Or was looking for the boy a complete wild-goose chase that had nothing to do with either of the cases that Scamarcio was investigating? For now, he resolved to keep his doubts to himself.

Genovesi had mustered officers from the other two small stations on the island, and they had organised a search of their towns, bars, and internet cafés. Scamarcio reckoned it was unlikely they would find Dacian on one of the tourist beaches. They had also put out alerts at Elba’s two ports to make sure the boy couldn’t leave the island undetected.

Scamarcio was at his desk, waiting for news and waiting for Stacey Baker’s dental records to come in. If those bite marks belonged to her, he wasn’t sure what he would tell the parents. Could he get away with not telling them? If they brought Dacian in tonight and put him under duress, maybe they could get to her in time. But who knew what had happened to her since she’d been taken? Even if she was alive, they might still be too late. He felt a pang of anxiety twist in his gut, and the last words of The Priest came back up to his mind like a haunting. He deserved to rot, the crazy freak. Scamarcio found himself hoping he’d be in Longone a good while yet, and that death wouldn’t offer an easy way out anytime soon. Instinctively, though, he knew that Pugno’s time was near. The red circles under the eyes and the sweating brow had attested to a serious illness of some kind. Scamarcio felt sure it was that which had prompted the midnight confession.

The fax bleeped three times, signalling the imminent arrival of a message. He went to the coffee machine and pulled an espresso, and then another. The bin was full to overflowing with the tiny plastic cups. Did no one ever clean this place?

Scamarcio added his two to the toppling pile and went over to the fax. The second page was indeed Stacey Baker’s dental records from the States — the dentist had been efficient. Scamarcio would take them over to Barrabino himself.

The light had almost completely disappeared from the sky now; only a few fragile traces of red clung tentatively to the horizon. The air was still heavy with the heat of the day, and the breeze carried the warm scent of honeysuckle, mellowed by the sun. As he strolled past the little park, he noticed the pink-and-white proteas nodding gently, responding to the soft currents moving up from the sea down the road.

He realised that he had left his car keys in the office and turned around, heading back in to get them. As he did so, he noticed a small, elderly man hovering nervously by reception. The desk officer was nowhere in sight.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked the man.

‘Thank you. I am looking for a Detective Scamarcio, from Rome.’

‘I’m Detective Scamarcio.’

The old man seemed greatly relieved: ‘Oh, good. Do you have five minutes, Detective?’

Scamarcio looked down at the dental records in his hand and knew he really didn’t, but something about the old chap made him curious.

‘I’m a bit pressed right now, but I can probably manage five minutes, yes. Do you want to come up to the office?’

The stranger nodded, and Scamarcio led the way. When the man was seated in Zanini’s chair, Scamarcio offered him a coffee, but he waved a hand, dismissing the idea by saying: ‘You’re very kind, but no.’

Now they were under the halogen lights, Scamarcio noticed that the fellow had piercing blue eyes. They were the kind of eyes that had seen a lot and would not be lied to — the eyes of a real priest. And, in fact, when the man took off his shawl, Scamarcio immediately saw the dog collar and wondered what this was all about.

As if reading his thoughts, the stranger said: ‘I will get straight to the point, Detective, because I can see you are a very busy man. I know that a little girl went missing from Elba a few days ago, and I can’t begin to think of the hell her parents must be going through, so it’s important you get back to that as soon as possible.’

Scamarcio was about to respond, but the old man pressed on. ‘I am the priest at the prison of Longone. Last night I saw Mario Pugno in his cell, as I am wont to do several times a month. I’m not sure whether anyone has informed you, but Mr Pugno has cancer and may not survive the week. He has been asking to see you one final time — he says it’s very important, and can help with the disappearance of this child.’

Scamarcio sighed and pushed back his chair. ‘Has anyone told you about how much of my time he’s wasted already? I’ve been there twice now, and he hasn’t told me anything useful. The last time he seemed to think I was you, he was asking me to forgive him for his crimes.’

The blue eyes fixed on him, unblinking. The voice was soft and measured. ‘No, he was under no illusions, Mr Scamarcio. It was you he wanted forgiveness from. I am sorry if you feel he has wasted your time, but I do sense that he has something for you which could prove important. Maybe it’s just that until now he has found it difficult to release the information; maybe he needed your forgiveness before he felt able to do so.’

‘But why? What have I got to do with him and his crimes?’

‘Only Mr Pugno can answer that.’

Scamarcio sighed again. Was this going to happen on a daily basis now? Was he going to be forever summoned to the prison at Longone to bear witness to the madness of this man?

‘Why do you bother with him? As an emissary of God, how can you spend time with a creature so deeply evil?’

The blue eyes were unwavering: it still seemed as if he hadn’t blinked. ‘Evil is not an absolute, Detective. It is always tempered by some kind of goodness from within, some kind of light. It’s the light that we work with, try to make stronger.’

Scamarcio shook his head. ‘And you’re honestly telling me that you believe there is some kind of light in him?’

‘Oh, I am sure of it, Detective. Quite sure.’