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  He wasn’t sure how long they’d been standing there before the sudden shriek of sirens made them all look up. The ambulance had been much faster than he’d expected. It came to a screeching halt on the gravel in front of them, and then the paramedics were out of the vehicle and surrounding Antonio in seconds. They laid him on a stretcher and checked his arms and legs; then they were bending over him, shining a small light in his eyes. When they were satisfied, they moved on to Maia, who was shaking her head, insisting she was fine. Now they were helping the driver to his knees. Micky briefed them on what had happened, as clearly as he could manage. He still didn’t really understand it.

  ‘Does your son have any allergies?’ one of the paramedics was asking.

  ‘Not to any medicines, just to dog and cat hair,’ said Maia.

  They started loading Antonio into the ambulance, Maia right behind them. For the first time, Micky noticed that she had a smear of blood across her forehead. Was it hers or Antonio’s?

  A paramedic was trying to check Micky’s pupils now, but he just batted the torch away.

  ‘I’ll go to the hospital,’ Maia was saying. ‘What do you want to do? Will the police be coming?’

  ‘I just called them — they’re on their way,’ said the helpful stranger.

  The second paramedic was helping the driver into the ambulance.

  ‘Does he have to go?’ Micky asked.

  ‘There are signs of concussion. He needs to see a doctor,’ the man replied calmly.

  ‘You stay with the car then, Micky. You’ll need to tell them what happened,’ said Maia, her voice cracking.

  ‘What hospital are you taking them to?’ Micky asked the paramedic, who now had his hand on the back door, ready to close it.

  ‘Policlinico Gemelli.’

  Micky grabbed his wife’s hand and kissed it before the doors slammed shut.

  ‘The Policlinico is a good hospital. They’ll see them right,’ said the stranger as the ambulance disappeared from view, its siren dying away slowly to nothing.

  2

  THE SQUADROOM WAS EMPTY, Via San Vitale was empty — it was if some apocalyptic virus had claimed the planet, and Scamarcio had been the last to find out. How would he feel if he were the only man left on earth? Not much different from how he felt now, really. He sank back in his chair and took a sip of the insipid coffee. Maybe he should donate a machine to the office: one of those high-end ones that did everything? But that would just be drawing attention to himself — some smartarse would raise questions about how he had financed it.

  He scratched his head and surveyed the street once more. Not even the stray from recent months was around. Had someone taken pity on him and given him a home, or had he been knocked down by a car? Scamarcio felt the need to know. That decrepit mongrel had been the focus of his attention for the past weeks.

  He returned his gaze to the pile of paperwork on his desk, wishing it was an illusion, that he could just snap his fingers and make it disappear. But then he looked up again, sensing that someone was watching: Garramone was standing in his office doorway, one hand on the filthy squadroom wall. He was motioning him in with the other, his expression solemn.

  Scamarcio got up slowly and made a final effort with the dire coffee before tossing it into the trash. He was late in filing a case report. Was that the reason for the boss’s frown?

  As he stepped into his office, he was reminded that Garramone had just had it redecorated — he had seen them removing the gear the other night. The place was now a calming oatmeal colour, and the battered chairs had been replaced with expensive brown-leather ones. Who had footed the bill? Scamarcio wondered. Everywhere else, the budget cuts were still biting.

  Garramone sat down and yawned, running his plump fingers across his eyebrows. He looked beaten.

  ‘You OK?’ asked Scamarcio.

  ‘My wife’s made me give up caffeine.’

  ‘I couldn’t function.’

  ‘I’m not.’ The boss yawned again and then sat up straighter in his smart new chair. ‘Anyway, I didn’t call you in here to talk about me. I wanted to know how you were doing?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I see you’re off your game.’

  ‘Off my game?’

  ‘Are you just going to repeat everything I say?’

  Scamarcio looked down at the floor, trying to invent an appropriate response.

  ‘So?’

  Was he off his game? The answer was that he really didn’t know: some days he thought he was making progress, keeping it all together, but then there were others when the huge dark clouds returned, and the weight of them pressed him into his mattress and pinned him there. On workdays he’d eventually fight back and struggle his way to the surface, find the space to breathe again, but on weekends he could languish for hours until day drifted into the pale sodium of night, and a cavernous grey emptiness echoed out along his street. He couldn’t actually remember the last time he had socialised. His ex-girlfriend Aurelia had left for Munich four months ago after a brutal assault, and since then his life had simply ground to a halt. He had no desire to trade small talk, drink overpriced wine, join the absurd dance that was human existence. He worked, he ate, he slept; he washed — occasionally.

  And then there was the Piocosta problem: with every call telling Scamarcio that Aurelia was safe, the old man’s python chokehold tightened.

  Scamarcio realised that he still hadn’t supplied Garramone with an answer. ‘OK, Sir. I think I’m doing OK.’

  Garramone screwed up his eyes so that they almost disappeared into the folds of his wrinkles. ‘I know I’m your boss, but I also want you to see me as a friend. I’ve been through tough times; I know what it’s like.’

  The comment wrong-footed Scamarcio; he wished they could delete it and return to the default setting. He didn’t want to know about Garramone’s hard times; he didn’t want to talk about his.

  Scamarcio’s mind was still a blank, so he just nodded and smiled — probably the most meagre of smiles. When Garramone continued to stare at him, he scratched at the back of his neck and silently willed him to move on.

  The boss sighed and then glanced down at a scrawled scrap of paper on his desk. ‘We’ve just received a very strange call. I think this might be right up your street.’

  Scamarcio felt the faintest bristle of something that might have been excitement. He wanted a challenge; he had been soft-pedalling lately. Perhaps that had been part of the problem.

  Garramone tapped the piece of paper. ‘So this guy says he’s been involved in an RTA on the E45. Some idiot takes the corner at high speed on the wrong side of the road and ploughs straight into him, ripping out the entire left side of the guy’s Mercedes. If it hadn’t been for the quick thinking of his chauffeur, they’d all be dead.’

  Scamarcio wanted to ask why the flying squad should be concerning itself with an RTA, but figured that he should allow Garramone a little longer to explain himself.

  ‘A helpful stranger who happens to be passing calls an ambulance. The guy had his wife and son in the car, and it looks like the little boy has broken his arm.’

  Scamarcio still didn’t understand why they were discussing this.

  ‘The wife and son are loaded into the ambulance, along with the driver, while the husband waits for the police to arrive. The paramedics tell him they’re taking his family to the Policlinico.’

  ‘Good hospital,’ said Scamarcio, baffled.

  ‘That doesn’t mean much to our guy right now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Cos they never arrived.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When our guy shows up at the hospital, there’s no trace of them. The hospital tells him they’ve never been alerted to expect them.’

  Scamarcio leant forward in his chair. Garramone had his interest now.

  ‘O
ur guy then does a trawl of the other major hospitals — there’s no sign of them there either. Right now he’s trying the smaller ones, but it’s starting to smell like a kidnap job.’

  ‘Anyone been on to the traffic police who attended? The ambulance service?’

  Garramone scratched his forehead with his thumb. ‘I’ve only just put the phone down to our guy.’

  ‘You took the call yourself?’

  ‘They passed it up from downstairs — he’s a VIP.’

  ‘Politician?’ Scamarcio asked quickly. He prayed to any god who was listening that he wasn’t about to be handed a political case. He had done his time with them.

  ‘No. He’s head of drama at Channel One — counts lots of celebs and politicos among his friends, though.’

  ‘Enemies?’

  ‘A few, no doubt. He’s a high flier, recently tipped for promotion. Name’s Micky Proietti.’

  Scamarcio eased back in his chair. ‘So we need to establish if it is a kidnapping? When did the accident happen?’

  ‘Three hours ago. The window is still open. Like you say, I’d start by contacting emergency services, get the data on the call the stranger made requesting the ambulance.’

  ‘If he called them.’

  Garramone frowned. ‘You think he could have been in on it?’

  ‘Sure. He conveniently appears and offers to make the call …’

  ‘Hmmm. Our guy wants to keep trawling the smaller hospitals, but instinct tells me he’s wasting his time. I’m sending a couple of uniforms down to help him while you make a start on the phones.’

  Scamarcio nodded.

  Garramone yawned once more. ‘Tread carefully. Our guy’s connected. We don’t want any more trouble for the department.’

  These days, it felt like everyone was ‘connected’. To get outside of all that, what would Scamarcio need to do? Move to Mars?

  3

  ‘I’M LOOKING BACK THROUGH THE LOG NOW — there’s no record.’

  ‘Go back an hour,’ said Scamarcio.

  ‘I’ve already checked back to midday,’ said the woman at ambulance dispatch.

  ‘Sonofabitch,’ said Scamarcio.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Nothing. So as far as you guys are concerned, that call was never made?’

  ‘No, there’s no record. Every call has a record. They must have just pretended to phone us.’

  ‘But an ambulance arrived.’

  ‘Did you see the ambulance?’

  ‘No. But I have a witness who did.’

  ‘Get him to give you a description,’ said the woman. ‘When ambulances go out of service they are sold off to collectors, charities, prop houses …’

  ‘Do you have any data on where each one ends up?’

  ‘I don’t, but there may be someone here who does or who can point you in the right direction. If you give me your details, I’ll pass it on.’

  Scamarcio reeled off his number and thanked her for her time.

  His next call was to the traffic police who patrolled the E45. It took him a few minutes to locate the officers who’d attended. The guy who eventually came on the line had a thick Sicilian accent. ‘Yeah, that car had been bashed up pretty bad. It was a miracle nobody died. Thanks to God, the little boy had been on the side that escaped the impact.’

  ‘Did it look like an accident to you?’

  ‘Way the guy tells it, the other car was heading straight for them; the driver definitely meant to take them out. He just kept on going afterwards, and nobody managed to get a look at his plates. Our guy did not provide a useful description, unfortunately.’

  ‘How did Mr Proietti seem to you?’

  ‘Like a coke head.’

  Scamarcio took a few moments to absorb this. ‘You think his account’s reliable?’

  ‘They were targeted, all right; it wasn’t a case of paranoia or careless driving. If the rogue driver had taken the bend on the wrong side at speed and then meant to correct, things would have looked different. Luckily for us, there was oil on the road, which allowed us to see that he accelerated after the bend — he left tyre residue where he sped up. Besides, if it had all been a mistake, he’d have stopped. You’d definitely stop after a collision like that.’

  Scamarcio filled him in on what had happened, or rather hadn’t happened afterwards.

  ‘Jesus,’ whistled the officer. He shouted to someone in the background. ‘Hey, Santoro — that RTA out on the E45 was a kidnap job. Took them all away in a fake ambulance — got the flying squad on the line.’

  Scamarcio heard the guy’s partner whistle softly. When the officer came back on, Scamarcio said: ‘We’re not sure it was a kidnapping yet.’

  ‘What else would it be?’

  ‘Did you see the ambulance?’

  ‘No, it had gone before we arrived.’

  ‘What about the stranger who called you?’

  ‘He’d gone, too. That was a pity, because we needed his statement — can’t prosecute without that. He left his details, though, so we could contact him.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘I can’t seem to get through on the mobile number he left.’

  What a surprise, thought Scamarcio. ‘Do you have a record of the number he first called you from?’

  ‘Ah. Good idea. I hadn’t tried that yet.’

  ‘Can you try it now while I’m on the line?’

  The officer sounded surprised for a moment, then said: ‘Well, sure, if that’s what you want. Hang on.’

  After a few seconds he was back. ‘That number’s not responding either — it’s different from the one he left us, though.’

  ‘Did the cokehead say why the stranger had done a runner?’

  ‘Work emergency, apparently.’

  Scamarcio could tell that this call wasn’t going to get him any further. It was time to pay Micky Proietti a visit. He thanked the officer, and asked him to get in touch if he managed to track down the stranger. But even as he spoke the words, Scamarcio knew they would come to nothing.

  4

  MICKY PROIETTI WAS HUNCHED UP against the battered wall of the A and E department at the Tiburtina hospital when Scamarcio walked in. Two young officers were eyeing him with a mixture of confusion, exasperation, and just the smallest remnant of sympathy. Clearly, Proietti had not been making the best impression. From a quick glance, Scamarcio decided that he would be arrogant, bossy, impatient, and cold. But he reminded himself that the man had just had his wife and son spirited away from him in plain daylight. That could not be easy to process.

  He held out a hand. ‘Leone Scamarcio, Flying Squad.’

  Proietti accepted the gesture limply, as if he couldn’t really be bothered. ‘You took your time.’

  ‘I was following up other leads.’

  ‘On this case?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Have you got anywhere?’

  Scamarcio scanned the waiting room. There was a Middle Eastern-looking family — mum and dad and two small kids seated up the hall to their right. An elderly man was sitting alone at the bottom of the corridor on the left. He was shaking.

  ‘The ambulance that came to collect your wife and son was a fake. The ambulance service never received the call.’

  Proietti shifted on the bench, and then leant forward and hung his head in his hands. He looked like someone trying to recover from a hangover. ‘But that makes no sense. I was there when the guy rang them,’ he said to the ground.

  ‘I think he was a fake, too.’

  ‘What?’ He was looking up at him now, waking up finally.

  ‘There’s no record of that call. Either he pretended to call them, or he just rang some other number.’

  Proietti was shaking his head, refusing to accept it. ‘But that can’t be. He phoned the traffi
c cops, and they arrived.’

  ‘Sure. But the number he called from is no longer in use. I’m sure if they try to visit him at the address he provided, they won’t find him there either.’

  Proietti was still shaking his head. ‘He said he had to rush off — work emergency, or something. I believed him.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Jesus, I’ve been a fool.’

  Scamarcio sensed that Proietti wasn’t one usually prone to self-criticism.

  ‘How were you to know?’

  Proietti looked down, and as he did so his expression told Scamarcio that he believed he should have known. Scamarcio found that interesting.

  Proietti had said he’d prefer to talk at his place rather than at the station. He was worried that a call might come in on the landline and that he would miss it. Scamarcio told him that they were already monitoring the line in case of this eventuality, but he assented to the request. He wanted to get a feel for this man and his family.

  Proietti lived in a splendid art deco block on one of Parioli’s most attractive streets. Scamarcio reckoned the apartment was near on 200 metres square. It opened onto a huge living room with massive white-leather sofas and sumptuous cream rugs strewn across gleaming parquet. Modernist mirrors lined the walls, making the space feel even larger. Arranged on oak tables and cabinets were small clusters of framed family photos interspersed with trophies of various shapes and sizes. There were several gold and silver figurines of movie reels and cameras on tripods, and when Scamarcio bent down to examine one he saw it was from the Television Society of Italy. He studied the small bronze photo frame next to the trophy. Proietti was laughing into the camera, a beautiful blonde woman beside him, a cute little boy in his lap. The three of them looked like celebrities from a magazine spread.

  Scamarcio held up the photo. ‘Your wife and son?’