The Devil Page 2

  ‘And you, Mr Borghese?’

  ‘I’m in marketing.’

  Scamarcio glanced around the large living room and took in the expensive furnishings and the Bang & Olufsen sound system. Marketing must pay well.

  ‘Did Andrea attend school?’

  ‘His education has been sporadic. He was highly intelligent, particularly gifted in maths, but he was disruptive, so he was forced to change schools several times. Then, as he got older, bullying became a problem.’ Mrs Borghese’s voice was starting to tremble again. ‘He was at school again recently, but it wasn’t going too well. I suspect they wanted him out.’

  ‘Why was he bullied?’

  ‘Because he was different, of course; because he didn’t play the game and always said what he thought. Andrea was incapable of artifice. And then, of course, they liked to get a rise out of him — see a reaction. They’d bait him and try to see how angry they could make him.’ She paused and sniffed. ‘When he hit puberty, the other kids started calling him the devil.’

  Scamarcio swallowed. His heart already felt heavy for this boy. What a tortured life it must have been.

  ‘I assure you, I will do everything in my power to find your son’s killer,’ he said in a rush, trying to disguise the unexpected emotion that had crept into his voice.

  He turned to the husband. ‘You were telling me, sir, about what you saw when you came home.’

  Borghese sighed. ‘Nothing useful. I walked into the living room,’ he motioned to the doorway behind him, and then to his left, ‘and found Andrea on the carpet, there — exactly as he was when you arrived an hour ago. That was it.’ He paused. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever scrub my brain of that image.’

  Borghese looked to the spot where his son had lain. There was no blood, no sign of the tragedy that had taken place. Mr Borghese might not have been able to scrub away the memory, but the scene itself looked suspiciously clean to Scamarcio. And sinister. Somehow, the total absence of anything, any sign of struggle, made it worse.

  ‘So, you didn’t see anyone leaving the building — nothing out of the ordinary?’

  ‘No. No one coming in or out, no one in the elevator on my way up.’ Mr Borghese blinked. Scamarcio caught the blink, but didn’t know what to make of it.

  ‘And you returned home earlier than normal? I imagine 4.00 pm isn’t the usual time you leave work.’

  ‘My wife called explaining that she had been delayed on her return journey and asking if I could hurry back.’

  Scamarcio nodded and made a note. ‘And, Mrs Borghese, you came home when?’

  ‘As soon as my husband rang and told me the terrible …’ She started sobbing and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Judging from her preppy clothes and carefully layered, hennaed hair, Scamarcio imagined that this wasn’t something she’d normally do.

  ‘And Cardinal Amato — do you trust him?’

  Both Borgheses looked up, startled. Mrs Borghese’s thin lips formed a small ‘o’. ‘You’re not suggesting …?’

  ‘It’s early days. I have to consider all angles.’

  Mrs Borghese shook her head, her voice dropping to a reverent hush. ‘No, Detective. There’s no way the cardinal could be involved … in … in this.’

  ‘He was the last person to see your son alive. He left an hour before Andrea was found.’

  They’d been given that information by Mrs Borghese — he’d need to check it with the cardinal himself, of course, and on the CCTV if there was any.

  Mrs Borghese bit down on her thumbnail. Scamarcio watched the red varnish splinter. ‘Well, that’s crazy. He’s a man of the cloth, a good man.’ She looked away from his gaze, and, for a moment, Scamarcio thought he read flight in her eyes — she wanted to escape. The look had lasted less than a second, but it was enough to convince him that there was something else here, something that needed to be brought into the light.

  ‘I’ve seen good men do terrible things,’ he offered after a few moments.

  Both Borgheses just continued to stare at him as if he were a fool.

  Scamarcio scratched his forehead. ‘So, do you have any thoughts on who else might be behind this?’

  The couple shook their heads, almost in sync. Mr Borghese frowned, the lines on his forehead multiplying until they were almost a web. ‘I have no idea. At first, I suspected a break in …’ his eyes swept the room, ‘but then I realised that nothing had been taken.’

  ‘Did your son have any enemies?’

  Mr Borghese exhaled softly. The room fell silent, save for the distant hum of a refrigerator. ‘Andrea didn’t have any friends, Detective,’ he said eventually. ‘He had no life. How could someone without a life have enemies?’

  3

  SCAMARCIO SURVEYED DAVIDE CAFARO, the inspector general of the Vatican’s Gendarmerie Corps, and decided that the guy was an arsehole. Cafaro might be able to play the king in his little fiefdom of 130 young, impressionable police officers, but Scamarcio wasn’t going to allow him to give the Flying Squad the run-around.

  ‘Inspector, you must understand that Cardinal Amato was the last person to see the victim alive. It is crucial to my investigation that I be allowed to interview him, as well as the priests that assisted him during the exorcism.’

  Cafaro pushed his thin glasses higher up his long nose. ‘I’m not saying you can’t interview him, I’m just saying that I need to be there.’

  ‘No — that can’t happen. That goes against protocol.’

  Cafaro pushed his chair away from his desk and rose quickly. ‘Then we’re done. You’ve had a wasted journey, and I’m heading home for my dinner.’

  Scamarcio threw open his palms. His anger was rising, fizzing and broiling to the surface, and he didn’t feel like making an effort to contain it. ‘That’s obstruction. I must be allowed to investigate.’

  Cafaro just shrugged. ‘Like I say, nobody’s stopping you.’

  What a prize cunt. Scamarcio bit his lip — he wanted to smash Cafaro’s condescending smile to pulp. But he also wanted to solve this case. That sense of connection to the victim, so crucial to his work, had formed much faster than usual, and he already felt invested.

  Reluctantly, he pulled out his mobile and dialled Garramone, Cafaro eyeing him with cold contempt all the while. Scamarcio knew he should probably step outside, but, again, he didn’t feel like making the effort.

  ‘I’ve got a situation with the inspector general of the gendarmerie at the Vatican,’ he said, trying to sound calm.

  Garramone laughed, and, in his mind’s eye, Scamarcio watched his own anger smoulder into a fiery mass of lava. They could all go to hell. Why was Garramone so bloody cheerful of late? It was as if his happiness was inversely proportionate to Scamarcio’s own personal misery.

  ‘Of course you do,’ said Garramone. ‘What did you expect? That they’d just let you waltz in there and do your job?’

  ‘It wasn’t such a big deal on the American case.’

  ‘You were looking at a victim not a suspect back then, remember?’

  ‘I was looking at both, actually.’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Garramone, bored already. ‘What does Cafaro want?’

  ‘To be in on all the interviews.’

  Scamarcio heard him exhale slowly as if he was doing yoga. ‘How predictable. OK, you have my permission to go ahead and jerk the little prick off.’

  ‘Shit. Why?’

  ‘Because, otherwise, it’s going to be a long tedious pissing match, and I have neither the time nor the money.’

  ‘With respect, sir, that’s fucking depressing.’

  ‘Welcome to my world,’ said Garramone cheerily.

  Cafaro knocked three times on the old oak door, and, after a few moments, it swung open, creaking on its hinges like something out of a B movie horror.

  Cardinal Amato was s
lightly smaller and slimmer than Scamarcio had imagined from the TV. He’d read that he was nearing his seventy-fifth birthday, but, in the face, he seemed at least fifteen years younger. There were only a few wrinkles around his bright green eyes, and he sported a full head of thick grey hair. His neck was dense, almost muscular, and, beneath his robes, his shoulders seemed wide and strong.

  ‘Come in. I’ve been expecting you.’ Despite the cardinal’s appearance, his voice was light and fragile, as if it barely existed — as if it might be a figment of Scamarcio’s imagination. He wondered how such a delicate voice could take on the devil.

  ‘Please have a seat.’ The cardinal motioned to a couple of leather armchairs positioned in front of a wide mahogany desk, scattered with papers, photos, and prayer books. Amidst the chaos, Scamarcio spotted a small gold cross, glinting in the light of an overhead lamp. He wondered if this was the cross — the one Amato used to expel the devil.

  Inspector Cafaro sat down first and opened his hands towards the cardinal in a gesture of apology. Scamarcio wanted to punch him just for that.

  ‘It’s OK, Inspector,’ said the cardinal. ‘The detective is just doing his job.’

  Scamarcio didn’t appreciate being referred to in the third person and resolved to forgo any pleasantries. ‘You were the last person to see Andrea Borghese alive,’ he said as he took a seat. ‘Is it correct you left the apartment at 1520 this afternoon?’

  The cardinal looked momentarily taken aback and scratched below his large nose. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s devastating. He was such a lovely young man with so much to live for.’

  There was a sadness in his eyes that seemed genuine, and Scamarcio’s irritation thawed ever so slightly. ‘I’d formed more the impression that Andrea had a difficult life and that his parents had been struggling to make things better for him.’

  A mobile trilled from somewhere beneath the pile of papers, and the cardinal looked down and started rooting around in the chaos. He eventually located the phone inside a purple file.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes … Yes … I’m so sorry, but I can’t. I have an emergency. My assistant will ring you to arrange another time.’

  He cut the call and shrugged as if to say, What can I do? Then he leaned back in his leather armchair and folded his arms across his chest. To Scamarcio, the gesture seemed defensive.

  ‘Your initial impression is accurate, Detective, but I had thought that we were making progress with Andrea — that his life was going to get better.’ Amato rubbed tiredly at the edge of a watery eye. ‘I’d actually go so far as to say that my colleagues and I believed he’d turned a corner.’

  Scamarcio wondered how that worked — in terms of the mechanics of the exorcism — but decided to save that question for later. ‘Could you explain how Andrea came to you? What made you think that you needed to treat him?’

  Amato’s mobile rang again, and Scamarcio struggled to stifle a sigh.

  ‘Can I ring you back?’ said the cardinal, his voice barely a whisper now. ‘I’m a bit busy.’ There was a pause. ‘Sure, I’ll call in half an hour.’

  He laid the phone on top of the papers, then just stared at it. After a while, he said, ‘When I first met Andrea — about a year ago, now — it was very clear that he was suffering from demonic possession, rather than mental illness.’

  The cardinal’s tone was calm and measured, but Scamarcio couldn’t stop himself from frowning at the madness of the statement. Amato seemed to clock his scepticism and just shook his head.

  ‘How can you draw a distinction?’ Scamarcio asked.

  ‘It’s simple,’ said the cardinal softly. ‘Andrea saw countless medical professionals over the years, but they were unable to help. These doctors might be able to mend brains and fix hearts, but they’re not equipped to fight the devil.’

  Scamarcio thought it an interesting turn of phrase. What equipment was required? But instead he said, ‘Maybe they just didn’t have a category for what they were dealing with?’

  The cardinal shook his head again, and Cafaro coughed to remind Scamarcio of his presence.

  ‘Before conducting exorcisms, I urge people to see a psychologist or psychiatrist, and I ask them to bring me their prognosis. I’m actually in touch with many psychologists who send their patients here. In Andrea’s case, his parents had spent years under the care of the medical profession. It seemed reasonable that the church would be their next step.’

  Scamarcio looked to his right and noticed a glass cabinet full of small statues of angels blinking eerily in the dim light from Amato’s desk lamp. They seemed almost animate; their tiny faces sly and all-knowing. On the wall above them was an official document declaring the cardinal’s qualification as devil ridder in chief. Scamarcio figured that descending into a heated philosophical debate about the pros and cons of exorcism was not going to help him find Andrea’s killer. ‘Can you tell me what happened today? How was the session?’

  Amato ran a palm across his forehead. ‘It was draining and exhausting, as always. We followed the normal structure, as dictated by the Catholic church’s exorcism rites.’ He motioned to a tattered leather-bound book on his desk. ‘By the end, Andrea did seem to have calmed. I’d say he was more settled than normal, actually.’

  ‘How long do your sessions take?’

  ‘An hour, give or take.’

  ‘And you had colleagues helping you?’

  ‘I normally have three young priests with me, but this time I took a fourth, as Andrea’s mother had been called away.’

  ‘Excuse my ignorance, but these other priests — why do you bring them?’

  Amato seemed surprised, while Cafaro just looked amused. If he saw that sarcastic smile again, Scamarcio would be liberating the inspector of his teeth.

  ‘You’ve never witnessed an exorcism, Detective?’ asked the cardinal, his tone still reasonable.

  ‘No. I will be watching one, as part of my research, but I haven’t yet had time. This case has only just been handed to me.’

  The cardinal nodded and fixed Scamarcio with a long stare. It felt as if Amato was studying him properly for the first time — as if he’d only just caught his attention.

  ‘The brutal way of putting it, Detective, is that these priests are my muscle. The devil is violent. He has the strength of an army. I’m seventy-five years old with a hip replacement, so I’m no match for that. Maybe I can take him on mentally, but for the physical side of things, I need help.’

  ‘So, the assistants are there to restrain your — erm — your patients? If they become too aggressive?’

  ‘Exactly. If I’m honest, my abiding hope is that one of my young helpers will take over from me one day. The world has never been so awful — these violent acts by people like ISIS are not human. But, so far, I haven’t found anyone who is willing to pick up the mantle. Many are just too afraid. Even priests can be scared. It’s difficult.’

  Scamarcio felt a sudden breeze against his skin. He looked around for a window, but realised there weren’t any. Then, all at once, he felt hot and stifled and wanted to leave.

  ‘And you saw nothing untoward when you left Andrea this afternoon, nobody coming in or out of the building?’

  The cardinal just shook his head.

  ‘Do you have any ideas about who might have done this?’

  Amato raised an eyebrow. ‘Certainly.’

  He fell silent for a moment and stared at Scamarcio, a cold curiosity behind his gaze. ‘It was the devil, of course.’

  4

  CAFARO HAD ARRANGED FOR the cardinal’s young assistants to meet with Scamarcio in an office near Amato’s rooms. Scamarcio had made it clear he wanted to interview the priests individually, and when he arrived on the landing, they were sitting waiting in a row outside the door. He tried a smile as he passed, but their expressions remained grave, their eyes hollow. It was late,
nearing eleven, now, and Scamarcio hoped that their tiredness might work in his favour.

  Cafaro sat down in a chair to the side of the room. Scamarcio took a seat behind an ancient desk and drew out his notebook. ‘Come,’ he shouted, realising that he was desperate for a cigarette, but that it would be at least an hour until he’d be able to smoke one.

  The first to enter was a tall blond boy called Fabio Lania, who Scamarcio soon discovered was from the Veneto.

  Once the introductions were out of the way, Scamarcio asked, ‘Do you normally accompany Cardinal Amato on his visits?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been with him for about a year now.’

  ‘How many exorcisms do you attend with the cardinal?’

  ‘About four a week.’

  Scamarcio was shocked at the level of demand, but was careful not to show it.

  ‘What do you think of the work?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Are you comfortable with it?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘It must be pretty unsettling at times.’

  ‘The more you do it, the more you get used to it. It’s God’s work, that’s all that matters.’

  Scamarcio turned a sigh into a small yawn behind his hand. ‘How did Andrea Borghese seem when you last saw him? The cardinal told me he believed you were making progress.’

  Lania nodded quickly. ‘When we first started, it was always difficult to get Andrea to calm; it took a very long time for him to settle. But lately, he’s been winding down sooner and he’s been in a good place each time we left.’

  ‘And you really believe he was possessed by the devil?’

  The young man shrugged. ‘Of course — if you believe in God, you must also believe in the devil.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Scamarcio noticed Cafaro shaking his head at his question, as if he were an imbecile. He tried to ignore it.

  ‘When you left him earlier today, how did Andrea seem?’

  The priest ran a hand through his long fringe. ‘Good. Really good, actually. Probably the best we’ve seen him. That’s what’s so strange.’ He scratched the back of his neck. Scamarcio knew the gesture might mean he was hiding something; it might also mean nothing.