52

SCAMARCIO PULLED his fag packet from his pocket. ‘You mind if I smoke in here?’

‘Actually, I’d prefer it if you went outside. I’m kind of house proud.’

Scamarcio thought that none of this would matter now if Zaccardo was about to be spirited to a new life up north. Or bumped off. But instead he said: ‘Yeah, nice place you’ve got here. I’ll be a couple of minutes.’

Zaccardo showed him to the front door, and he stepped out onto the patio where the two cats were still sunning themselves. His captives remained where he’d left them, except they now seemed to be engaged in an animated conversation which, from where he was standing, sounded more like an argument. Zaccardo squinted into the sunlight behind him. ‘Is that Rossi in the car there? What’s going on?’

Scamarcio waved the question away. ‘Don’t concern yourself with that. We’ve got bigger things to worry about just now.’ He held up the cigarette. ‘I’ll just be two minutes finishing this.’

Zaccardo got the message and stepped back into the house, leaving the door ajar. Scamarcio took a long drag on the fag. He wasn’t entirely surprised by what Zaccardo had told him — disgusted, yes, but not completely surprised. Since the case of the Monster of Florence, still unsolved after more than forty years, the idea that high-ranking figures could be involved in the murders of young couples for sexual gratification had been in the public consciousness. That the great and the good were above the law was not just public perception, but a deeply entrenched reality — corruption slowly crushing the state in its stranglehold, a swelling octopus with its tentacles in every area of public life. A Carabinieri officer from Tuscany had once confided to him that they knew full well who had been behind the sixteen Monster of Florence slayings, but that the perpetrators were high-ranking masons and they’d been advised by their Caribinieri bosses that they were untouchable.

To Scamarcio, this felt like a similar deal; maybe some of the same people were even involved. He had the sense that securing prosecutions was going to be extremely challenging, if not impossible. And would the PM even have the will? Especially if he had once locked horns with the Moltisanti? He stubbed out the cigarette onto the patio, and then, remembering Zaccardo’s sensibilities, picked it up again and popped it into a handkerchief in his pocket — best to keep on the good side of their one useful witness for now.

He stepped back into the cool of the house. Zaccardo was seated on the sofa again.

‘Listen, Zaccardo, there’s something I need to ask you.’

‘Knock yourself out.’ Zaccardo sounded down now, exhausted from it all.

Scamarcio perched on the edge of the armchair, and leaned forward: ‘Did you hear anything about the kidnap of an American girl from Elba — a kidnap on order for these guys who would be delivered to their next party?’

Zaccardo shook his head. ‘No. Are you talking about the little girl who has been all over the news?’

‘Yeah, that girl. So you didn’t hear it mentioned?’

He shook his head again. ‘No, nothing. I’m sorry.’

Scamarcio chose to believe him. ‘Did you ever find out how they got the children?’

He shook his head again. ‘No, nobody spoke to me about that. That was never discussed.’ He paused. ‘But, um, I’m guessing that maybe the Albanian side would have come into play there. They have a history of child-trafficking, don’t they?’

He was right, but it was just supposition and wouldn’t hold up in a court of law. They needed watertight evidence, and for that they’d have to rely on the Ymeri wiretaps.

‘They’ve been involved in that in the past, yes.’ Scamarcio exhaled, scratching the back of his neck. ‘The thing is, it would be really useful if you could go on the record on that side of things, too.’

Zaccardo shrugged. ‘Yeah, I imagine it would be but, as I say, I’m in the dark — maybe more in the dark than you are.’

It seemed to be a question, but Scamarcio chose not to answer it. He thought for a second. ‘You know anyone, any of the staff there, who might be up to speed?’

Zaccardo inclined his head to one side, and then barred his arms across his chest: ‘Come on, I can’t ask them that. That would be suicide — for all of us.’

Scamarcio took his point. He was about to concede it when there was a commotion outside. He heard several pairs of heavy boots pounding up the path, and then knuckles rapping on the door.

Zaccardo looked petrified. ‘What the hell is that?’ Then: ‘You got a gun?’

Scamarcio nodded. Zaccardo ran over to the cupboard by the dining table and knelt to pull out a box from the bottom shelf. He placed it on the table and flipped open the lid. He took what looked like a Beretta 92 from inside and quickly loaded the chamber, his hands shaking. Then he gestured to Scamarcio to follow him to the door. Once Scamarcio was positioned the other side of the doorframe, he nodded at Zaccardo to open up. He did so slowly, and then just shrugged his shoulders and sighed, stowing his weapon away in his pocket. ‘What the fuck are you lot playing at?’

A trio of meatheads bundled into the house. The tallest and fattest of the three said: ‘Rossi called us — said he’d been kidnapped and that you were in danger.’

The little bastard had managed to conceal his mobile on him, realised Scamarcio.

Zaccardo was now covered in perspiration and his hands were shaking, but he just tut-tutted like a bored headmaster, trying to disguise his fear: ‘Oh, for God’s sake, there’s nothing to worry about. I was talking to this man here on business.’ He waved a hand in dismissal. ‘I’ll explain it all later.’

The fat meathead said: ‘Yeah, but Rossi’s handcuffed in the car!’

Zaccardo raised his eyebrows at Scamarcio, who kept his expression neutral, then said: ‘It’s a long story. Everything is under control.’

Scamarcio decided to take the interruption as his cue to leave. He turned to Zaccardo and extended his hand: ‘Many thanks for your help. I’ll be in touch.’ Zaccardo’s palms were wet.

‘Is that it? Can’t you offer me anything now? Just to make sure I’m all right until I see you guys next?’

Scamarcio knew he was talking about a police presence in the house.

‘It seems to me your three friends here are quite capable of looking after you. But I’ll be in touch very soon.’ He gave him a backhanded wave and left the house. The last thing he saw was Zaccardo’s horrified expression. How the little man was going to square all this with his Camorra colleagues, he had no idea.

He’d thrown Rossi and the meathead outside Zaccardo’s, and now the car stank of their sweat. The azure of Amalfi glinted below, and he suddenly wanted a swim and a cold beer. But he knew that was impossible for now, so he dialled Garramone. All he could say when Scamarcio had finished filling him in was, ‘Holy Christ.’

‘You think they’re untouchable?’

‘I don’t know. I need to run it past my friend.’

Scamarcio felt the rage rising up from his lungs, into his chest. It was rising much faster than he could control, and it took him by surprise. ‘Ah, right then, and if he says it’s too uncomfortable, we just drop it, I guess?’

‘Don’t take that tone with me, Scamarcio.’

‘I’m asking you, Garramone. You got me into this: are we going to pursue these men to the end, or are we just going to let it lie like the faithful dogs we are?’

‘Now listen here!’

‘No, you listen to me. I’ve barely slept in the last few days. I’m exhausted, fed up, worried for my future, but most of all I’m sickened by what I’m hearing. I will not let this one go. I will not let it drop, you understand? People are dead. Children are ruined. A little girl’s life is at stake. There’s a limit!’ He slammed down the phone, surprised anew by this fresh outburst of anger.