40

SCAMARCIO TOLD THE PRIEST that he would think about Pugno’s request to see him one last time. Now, driving to Barrabino’s, the same thoughts kept circling: just why did The Priest keep coming back to him? What was it he believed he had on him? Why the acquaintance with his father? The whole affair made him increasingly uneasy, and he felt the need to speak to someone familiar back in Rome. Why hadn’t Garramone replied to his messages? What scheme did he have in play? Had something happened to him? His silence just fed Scamarcio’s disquiet. And there was something else, too: the need for a friendly face, an easy chat. He thought about calling Aurelia, considered the implications, and then pushed the idea to the back of his mind. He surveyed the darkening sky as it sped past, and felt a new isolation from the world, stuck out here on this rocky outcrop, working alone, his presence known to just a few. Yet again, his instincts told him that it would not end well.

He had been told that Barrabino’s house could not be missed. Apparently, it was the sprawling pastel-pink villa on the edge of town where the eastern-coast road began. And indeed he spotted it straight away: tall, iron gates offering a glimpse of a Mediterranean garden beyond, two lines of palms leading to an entranceway shrouded in wisteria, purple against pink creating an impressive effect. There was a hint of blue through the trees, and he guessed that there had to be a swimming pool off to the right somewhere. There was no way that a doctor’s salary could have bought all this. Maybe the wife had money? Maybe Barrabino was dirty? Perhaps both.

He pressed the buzzer, and it crackled into life. ‘Scamarcio here.’ Then, as an afterthought, he said: ‘For Dr Barrabino.’

There was no reply for a few moments, and then a woman’s voice with a strange accent came on. ‘Of course, please drive up to the main entrance.’

He couldn’t quite place it — maybe Dutch or Swedish.

The gates rolled open slowly and he got back behind the wheel. The red in the sky was now pink, and what little light remained pooled dimly through the palms marking his approach to the villa. He pulled onto a gravel turning circle and realised that the house was even more extensive than he had first thought. He counted at least 12 vast windows on the upper floor: there were six huge bedrooms, from the looks of it.

As he stepped out of the car, the front door opened and a tall blonde stood there, smiling at him. She had the typical Scandinavian look: long, iron-straight hair, endless legs, exquisite blue eyes, and a strong mouth. He found himself hating Barrabino anew.

‘He’s in his studio,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘I’ll show you the way.’

He wondered at this. Barrabino wasn’t an architect or an artist, so ‘studio’ seemed like an odd choice of word for a doctor and pathologist. But maybe it had just got lost in translation.

He followed her across a spacious lobby into a long living room with three immense floor-to-ceiling windows that displayed a spectacular view of the gardens. They passed though a dining room, where he noticed several impressive pieces of art, and into a conservatory that looked out onto the swimming pool. The woman he presumed was Mrs Barrabino unlocked a door into the gardens, and they took a small flight of steps that led to a path around the house to the back. There was a smaller bungalow off to the right in the same style as the main house.

‘He’s in there,’ she said. ‘Forgive me if I don’t come any further, but there are certain aspects of my husband’s work which I would really prefer to avoid.’ She gave an ironic smile.

‘I completely understand,’ said Scamarcio, smiling back.

Their eyes locked for a moment before she headed back to the house.

He took the path to the bungalow and knocked on the door. There was no reply, but then he heard the sound of tapping against glass, and turned to see Barrabino’s face at a window to the right. He was holding up gloved hands and signalling for him to let himself in.

Scamarcio pushed the door and entered a dark hallway. Off to the right, a door was open onto a large tiled area. Strip lighting ran along the length of the ceiling, and at the end of the room Scamarcio saw Barrabino stooped over a body, presumably that of Fabio Ella. He was finishing sewing shut an incision in the chest as Scamarcio approached. Another man in a suit was standing off to the right, observing the work with a mixture of horror and fascination.

‘Good evening, Detective’, said Barrabino, without looking up. ‘Excuse me if I don’t shake your hand. May I introduce my colleague, Dr Verdone? He is Porto Azzurro’s best dentist, and I thought his expertise might prove helpful to us with regards to the bite marks.’

Scamarcio walked around the bottom of the table to shake Verdone’s hand. He was a tall, thin man, his studious eyes magnified by thick glasses. Scamarcio took a position next to him as Barrabino continued his show. With a flourish, he finished the stitching in the chest, expertly doubling back on himself and extracting the needle in a single swift, fluid motion. Scamarcio had to admit to himself that he was impressed. For someone who did not get much practice, Barrabino seemed adept.

The doctor tossed his bloody gloves into a plastic bin behind him and put on a new pair from a box by the table. Then he reached for a large magnifying light overhead, positioning it over the left forearm of the corpse. ‘Both of you come and look at this for a second.’

They shuffled over to the slab, like med-school students at a dissection. Verdone was the first to take a look through the lens. ‘That’s a very definite impression,’ he said. ‘Looks to me as if one of the upper-left teeth is missing — maybe number 3 or 4. If that matches the records, that gives us a pretty clear ID.’ He turned to look at Scamarcio. ‘Did you bring them?’

Scamarcio waved the envelope in his right hand. Verdone stepped away from the lens a moment and gestured for him to take a look. The impression from the bite shone purplish under the light, the teeth marks neat and tiny — clearly those of a child.

‘Can you tell anything about the age from this?’ he asked the dentist.

‘I would say six, maybe seven — very young. But the records will tell us what we need to know.’

To the right of the table, Scamarcio saw a long desk running along the wall. ‘May I?’ he asked Barrabino.

‘Be my guest.’

He carefully lifted the documents from the envelope, taking care to keep the photographs straight. Verdone had come up behind him and now stood at his shoulder. He scanned the photostats quickly, and then turned to the American dentist’s written notes. After 30 seconds or so, he pointed to a paragraph of text: ‘See this passage here?’

Scamarcio read it: ‘Upper left 3 knocked out by a tennis ball at nursery. That must have been quite some hit.’

‘Milk teeth are more fragile,’ said Verdone.

Scamarcio sighed. ‘So it’s her, then?’

Verdone tut-tutted quietly to himself. ‘I’m afraid it looks that way, Detective.’

‘You are a glutton for punishment,’ said the guard Erranti as they shook hands at the end of The Priest’s corridor at Longone.

‘I guess so.’ It was cold in the prison tonight, and Scamarcio wished he had brought a warmer jacket along.

‘He hasn’t been himself since you were last here — much quieter than usual, and has barely touched his food.’

‘I heard that he was ill.’

‘Yes, cancer. Sorry if we didn’t tell you before, but we weren’t sure it was relevant — didn’t feel like he needed any sympathy, if you know what I mean.’

‘He wouldn’t have got it from me.’

As soon as the words had left his lips, Scamarcio found himself wondering at that. After everything, Pugno was still a human being, so didn’t he deserve some compassion? Scamarcio wasn’t sure. He felt conflicted between his immediate impulse, which would have been to throw him to the lions of the prison, to show him no mercy, and something new, something less absolute. He wondered if this was his mother’s character fighting his father’s in him.

‘He will probably be moved to the infirmary tomorrow,’ said Erranti as they made their way to the cell. ‘But for now, the same procedure as before.’

When the door was opened, he saw that Pugno was in bed this time, under the covers. He seemed surprised to see him.

He coughed as he tried to sit up straighter in the bed. Eventually, when he had got his breath back, he said: ‘I didn’t think you would come, Detective, not after last time.’

Scamarcio shrugged and pulled out the chair he had used before. ‘You have a good priest.’

Pugno nodded sombrely. ‘I am fortunate in that.’

Silence descended between them, and for a moment Scamarcio was unsure what to say. He ran a hand through his hair and leaned back in the chair.

‘So your priest tells me you are still wanting my forgiveness?’

Pugno nodded.

‘OK.’

‘What?’ the old man whispered.

‘I said OK. You have it. You have my forgiveness.’ Scamarcio tried to make it sound as sincere as possible, but was struggling to flesh out the words, to make them real.

Pugno nodded again, but would not meet his eye. Scamarcio noticed that his hands were trembling, and in that moment he couldn’t stop himself from feeling a fleeting sympathy for the man. The silence returned, and Scamarcio wondered if that was it, whether his visit had been in vain.

But after many seconds had passed, and just as he was thinking about leaving, Pugno finally found his voice. It was weaker and raspier than last time, and Scamarcio had to lean forward to make out the words.

‘I appreciate your decency in coming here,’ whispered the old man, his words interrupted by another coughing attack. ‘It took guts and great understanding, after everything that has happened to you.’

After everything that has happened to me? ‘What are you talking about? Nothing has happened to me.’

The Priest sighed, a deep sadness contorting his features. ‘Let’s not dig up old pains; there is no point.’

Scamarcio tried to speak, but the old man held up a palm. ‘In return for your kindness, I would like to give you some help. I just want you to know that instead of looking at who has been leaving the island, you should be watching who has been coming onto Elba in the last twenty-four hours.’

Again he tried to speak, but again The Priest barred him with his hand. ‘There is no point asking me my sources. I will never reveal them.’ The coughs came again in rapid fire, and it sounded now as if he was coughing up his soul itself. ‘There’s no point putting the pressure on — we both know I no longer have anything left to lose.’

With that, The Priest suddenly reached below his covers, and Scamarcio caught the glint of something metallic. Instinct told him it was a gun, and in the very next moment he felt a burning heat course through him. He sprang up from his chair, but it was too late. Pugno had placed the barrel against his own forehead, and before Scamarcio could get any words out he had fired.