41

THE COMMOTION AT THE jail had been as bad as he would have expected. There were all the predictable questions from the governor about how the gun had got there, whether Scamarcio had brought it in — How could he have? They had signed him in as usual, and taken his firearm off him as the rules dictated — who said what to whom, who did what to whom, did Scamarcio provoke him? Etc, etc. Then the bureaucratic machine had groaned into action, and because they were in Italy, and worse still not even on the mainland, this was just the start of a process that would be achingly slow and cumbersome, and would require him to sacrifice God knows how much of his time to endless interviews and statements. Barrabino had seemed both surprised to see him again so soon and also rather delighted that the circumstances appeared so troubling. He had managed to throw in a few of his — by now, signature — observations on how death seemed to follow on Scamarcio’s tail, or, better still, how he appeared to invite it in. Scamarcio didn’t know if his patience would hold out long enough to prevent him from punching the man in the face, so he had resolved to separate himself at the first opportunity. He couldn’t have a Category-A prisoner kill himself in front of him only to then end up with a GBH charge against the police pathologist.

It was almost midnight when he made it back to his car. Dense clouds were passing across the moon, and the lamps along the harbour were no longer strong enough to mark a path to the Cinquecento. He used the central locking to locate it, again rueing his decision to go out in such light clothes. He climbed in and coaxed the struggling engine to life, swinging the car into reverse while tuning the radio to one of the island stations. It was the usual dire stuff: what they called 1980’s ‘classics’ — cheap euro trash that had been unremittingly crap the first time around. Scamarcio reached in his top pocket for his smokes, but couldn’t find them. This night couldn’t get any worse.

His mobile buzzed on the seat beside him. ‘Scamarcio,’ panted Genovesi. It sounded like he was in the middle of a long climb. ‘Listen up.’

‘I’m listening’.

‘Your boy Dacian — we’ve found him.’

‘Really, where?’

‘A farmer called it in, up in the hills above Capoliveri.’

‘Called it in?’

‘Yeah, doesn’t look like he’ll be doing much talking.’

Scamarcio’s stomach turned over anew. ‘Dead?’

‘Very, by the looks of it.’

‘I’ll be right there.’

Genovesi rattled off some directions and then hung up.

Genovesi and two unknown officers he presumed were from another station were huddled around the body. It was in a storm drain not far from some picnic tables. As he’d passed, he noticed a man slumped at one of them. He appeared to be in a state of shock. The farmer, he guessed.

The boy’s throat had been cut — a clean red necklace of blood was visible above his T-shirt. It looked to have been a swift and efficient slash, professional. The red was dramatic against the boy’s white skin in the moonlight.

Genovesi gave him a nod. ‘We’re just waiting for Barrabino. Don’t know what’s keeping him.’

Scamarcio decided not to enlighten him. ‘When was he found?’

‘About forty minutes ago. The farmer, Mr Ronco, didn’t have a mobile phone, so had to go home to make the call — that took him about ten minutes. We came after that.’

‘No sign of the murder weapon?’

‘None, but we need to get some more men out for the search.’ Genovesi straightened. ‘Any idea what’s going on here?’

‘The Priest tipped me to the camp on the island. I notice this young guy — he seems worked up about something. I follow him — his emails suggest he’s got in above his head, is asking someone for help, doesn’t know what to do next …’

‘A hunch, then?’

‘Yes, a hunch, but we know where hunches often lead. Besides, now he winds up dead, it’s our second body in as many days, and the last corpse had some dodgy pictures on his computer — all this against the backdrop of a girl gone missing. There has to be something in it.’

Most of this Genovesi already knew. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit up, without offering Scamarcio one.

‘Can I have one?’

Reluctantly, Genovesi reopened the packet and handed him the lighter.

‘Why do you think The Priest wants to help us?’

Scamarcio looked away for a second. ‘I think he was trying to make amends, compensate for his past in whatever small way he could.’

‘But how did he even know about the camp, the case? He seemed to have the low-down on Stacey Baker as soon as it happened.’

‘It’s a small island — people talk.’

Genovesi wasn’t impressed. ‘Elba is not that small, and I run a tight ship. My men know to be discreet.’

Scamarcio shrugged, unable to offer an explanation.

‘I’ve a good mind to go up to Longone myself, get that bastard to explain himself.’ Scamarcio figured that now was probably the right time to fill him in, but thankfully Genovesi’s mobile began to ring.

Over the next few seconds he watched the colour gradually deepen along the man’s neck until it reached his jaw, where he thought he saw a vein begin to twitch. ‘Why am I only learning about this now?’ There was a pause. ‘Why would he have told me?’ Then another: ‘You what? You’re kidding me.’ He slammed the phone shut. His whole face was dangerously red now. He has to get that blood pressure down, thought Scamarcio, or he won’t make his pension.

‘Just what are you playing at, Scamarcio?’

‘Sir?’

‘Don’t play the dumb ass with me. Why didn’t you tell me about Pugno?’

‘I was just getting to that when your phone rang.’

‘Bullshit!’ Genovesi jabbed a finger at him. ‘I’m sick of Rome trampling all over this investigation. This is a Tuscan case on Tuscan soil, so why the hell are you here? I’ve had it up to here with your attitude and your methods, Scamarcio. I’ll be calling your boss tomorrow to get you moved off.’ With that, he hurried off in the direction of the picnic tables, the unknown officers looking on nervously.