The Devil Page 3

  ‘And when you left Andrea, he was alone?

  ‘Yes. We talked about it, actually, because it’s something we wouldn’t normally do. But Mrs Borghese had been called away, and, given Andrea’s progress, the cardinal decided it would be all right on this one occasion. He did call Andrea’s mother when we were leaving, though, to let her know.’

  ‘And that was at 1520?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Scamarcio made a note. ‘Did she say she’d come straight back?’

  ‘I believe so, yes.’

  Why wasn’t mother there when father got home? Scamarcio wrote. He scored a dense box around it along with the word Traffic??

  ‘And how would you describe the cardinal’s relationship with Andrea? How did Andrea respond to him?’

  The young priest crossed his long legs and scratched the back of his neck again. Twice within a minute? Scamarcio’s instincts took note.

  ‘Well, you know it’s not an easy relationship. There’s a lot of animosity on the part of the person who is possessed. But, of course, the hatred and the violence aren’t coming from them; it’s the devil talking,’ said the young priest quietly.

  Scamarcio closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. This was, without doubt, the strangest case he had ever been handed, and that was saying something.

  ‘So, Andrea didn’t really welcome the cardinal’s visits?’

  ‘With respect, Detective, I don’t think you’re quite grasping it. When we would arrive, Andrea wasn’t Andrea, if you know what I mean. But by the time we had finished the session, it was a different story. Andrea, when he’d calmed, was a very sweet person, and he was gracious with all of us.’

  How could Andrea have switched between these two personas so quickly? Scamarcio wondered. Was it for real or was it an act? Scamarcio’s rational mind was growing skittish at the implausibility of it all.

  ‘These sessions, were they always at the same time?’

  ‘We always visited on a Wednesday afternoon — the times would differ.’

  Scamarcio let his biro drop. It hit the mahogany desk, and then rolled off onto the parquet floor with a clatter.

  ‘Sorry, but how does that work? Does the devil just appear on Wednesdays? Does he keep to a schedule?’

  The priest looked taken aback.

  ‘I don’t think much of your interview technique,’ said Cafaro drily.

  ‘I didn’t ask for your opinion.’

  ‘Andrea had outbursts every day,’ said the boy slowly, as if he was trying to explain it to a child. ‘But we couldn’t go there daily — the cardinal is far too busy. You have no idea to what extent the devil stalks this city. Andrea’s mother had decided that Wednesdays would work best, but sometimes she’d phone to say he was becoming agitated and ask if we could come sooner. Or other days, we’d arrive later, depending on the cardinal’s diary or how Andrea seemed.’

  Scamarcio took a long breath. ‘And you always went to the apartment in Parioli? Andrea never came here?’

  ‘At the beginning he and his mother would come to the cardinal’s office, but then the cardinal decided it would be better for Andrea if we held the sessions in an environment that was more familiar to him.’

  Scamarcio made another note. ‘So, nothing in Andrea’s demeanour seemed different today?’

  ‘No. Only that he seemed to respond better than usual, like I said.’

  ‘And on your way out, did you see anyone coming in? Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?’

  ‘There were some workmen digging up the road.’

  ‘Were they standing around or actually working?’

  ‘They were using drills and a digger — it was making quite a racket.’

  Scamarcio dismissed it. ‘So, nothing else?’

  The young priest shook his head. ‘Nothing that I can think of.’

  Scamarcio brought a tired fist to his chin. ‘OK, thank you for your time.’

  He made a note of the priest’s details and how best he could be reached, and then called in the next man.

  After just a few minutes, it became clear that this priest’s account would match that of the boy from the Veneto. It was the same with the next, the youngest of the three at just twenty-four. He explained that he’d only joined the group that day to provide extra muscle in the absence of Andrea’s mother.

  When it came to the fourth priest, he, too, delivered a similar account. But it wasn’t so much what he was saying as the manner in which he said it that made Scamarcio wonder.

  The priest was tall and good looking, with wavy brown hair, dark eyes, and strong cheekbones. He said his name was Meinero. The way he was sitting was the first thing that struck Scamarcio. The young priest was perched on the edge of the high-backed chair as if he was about to be electrocuted. He struggled to maintain eye contact and blinked repeatedly. When Scamarcio asked him about the cardinal’s relationship with Andrea, he felt sure he actually observed the priest twitch. ‘It was difficult, obviously — because Andrea was always very aggressive when we arrived.’

  It was as if they’d all been given a script to memorise.

  When Scamarcio had wound up the interview and the priest was heading for the door, Scamarcio decided to give it one final shot. ‘One second, please,’ he shouted.

  The young man turned, and Scamarcio immediately clocked the look of unchecked panic as it spread across his features. It was enough to convince him that there was something here he needed to pursue. But now was not the time, with Cafaro watching — he’d have to make a second approach.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Scamarcio said flatly. ‘You’re free to go.’

  5

  FIAMMETTA WAS FAST ASLEEP when he entered the bedroom. He was relieved, because he didn’t feel like talking; he was tired and strung out. But as he climbed into bed, she opened her eyes.

  ‘Where have you been so late?’

  ‘Garramone gave me an inquiry.’

  ‘You could have told me. I’d done dinner.’

  ‘Sorry, it was manic.’

  ‘What’s he doing handing you a case at this late stage?’

  ‘He thinks it’s complicated and that the press will be all over it. For some reason, that means I’m the only man for the job.’

  She propped herself up on an elbow. ‘What happened?’ Her face was flushed by sleep, and the colour of her cheeks set off the steel blue of her eyes. Scamarcio still couldn’t believe his luck sometimes. He kissed her forehead. ‘Can I tell you tomorrow, when the dust has settled?’

  ‘You think I’m going to blab to my TV friends?’

  ‘I thought you didn’t see them anymore.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘I’m not worried about that. I just want to get all my ducks in a row. It almost feels like I could jinx it just by talking about it.’

  Fiammetta smiled. ‘I get that.’

  And there it was, the simplicity from which this relationship seemed to derive its strength. Scamarcio hoped they would be able to preserve it when the baby arrived.

  ‘How’s my little lad doing?’

  Fiammetta rolled her eyes. ‘Leo, I worry you’re going to be disappointed …’

  He laughed. ‘No chance.’

  ‘He or she is quiet today. Maybe they’re tired, just like their mum.’ She yawned. ‘I’m sorry, but can we talk in the morning?’

  ‘No worries,’ he whispered, kissing her on the lips and turning off the light.

  As he lay there in the dark, the anxiety returned. His mind churned on demons and devils and sinister-looking angels, who smiled as if they knew a terrible secret. The gold cross on the cardinal’s desk kept breaking through it all, glinting, solid, incorruptible, while all around, shadows danced and writhed and slipped away. Scamarcio felt a tightness in his chest and wanted to switch the light on. But he res
isted, until, finally, he drifted into a troubled sleep.

  The rain was still beating down the next morning when he arrived at the morgue. He was light-headed with tiredness, and his limbs felt disconnected from his mind. Fiammetta had been tossing and turning all night, and he hadn’t once been able to sink into a deep, restorative sleep. When he’d complained, she’d just remarked that he’d better get used to it.

  Scamarcio nodded at the bald guy at reception and headed straight for the coffee machine. As he was extracting the tiny plastic cup, he felt a hard grip on his shoulder.

  ‘God, you look like shit. Has the baby arrived and no one’s told me?’

  Scamarcio looked up into the bronzed face of the chief CSI, Manetti. They’d missed each other at the crime scene.

  ‘That’s quite a tan, Manetti. Do you use a lotion? I thought that was just for girls.’

  ‘Thailand,’ said Manetti smugly. ‘Four-star hotel, all included — 1200 euros for me and the wife. We had a brilliant time.’

  Scamarcio felt a twinge of jealousy. He and Fiammetta hadn’t been away for ages — they’d been too worried about the baby putting in an early appearance. ‘Glad to hear it,’ he said, downing the espresso. ‘You here for my exorcee?’

  ‘Is that even a word?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘I decided to kill two corpses with one stone. I need to talk to Giangrande, so, as I missed you yesterday, I thought we could catch up.’

  ‘Why did you have to rush off? I had a shitload of questions, and no one was there to help.’

  Manetti opened his arms. ‘We caught another homicide just twenty minutes after. It doesn’t happen often, but it’s a clusterfuck when it does.’

  ‘It will start happening more and more. Less resources, spiralling crime — go figure.’

  Manetti rolled his eyes. ‘You’re a little ray of sunshine this morning.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Dr Giangrande, as he leaned his head round the doorway to the suite, ‘can we get started? I’m on a tight schedule.’

  ‘Who isn’t?’ muttered Manetti.

  Scamarcio tossed his cup in the trash, and they followed the chief pathologist inside.

  ‘Listen,’ said Giangrande, as he swept a thick lock of greying hair away from his wide forehead. ‘I’ve already done the autopsy. I needed to get ahead, and I didn’t think you’d be that bothered if I just gave you the broad brushstrokes.’

  ‘No worries,’ said Scamarcio. ‘I’m feeling crap enough as it is.’

  ‘In my opinion, you drink way too much coffee, Scamarcio. It must be playing havoc with your stomach acid.’ Giangrande lowered his head to scan the numbers on the outside of the refrigerated storage unit.

  ‘He’s about to drink a hell of a lot more,’ said Manetti.

  ‘When’s the baby due?’ asked Giangrande as he consulted a creased piece of paper.

  ‘Any day now.’

  ‘And you’re working a case?’

  ‘It’s better than staying home and twiddling my thumbs.’

  Giangrande looked up. ‘Nervous?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ Scamarcio realised that the doctor was now eyeing him closely.

  ‘Because I remember that, when I was about to have my first, I couldn’t sleep for weeks. I worried about everything — would she be healthy, would I be a good father, would my wife change, would she still have time for me, etc., etc. …’ Giangrande sighed. ‘Then, as your kids grow up, the old worries are replaced by new ones. Each phase is a whole new set of problems that you need to adapt to.’

  ‘Thanks for that.’

  Giangrande waved the discussion away and placed his hand on the door to one of the units. ‘This one has all the makings of a media fuck-fest.’ He pulled out the drawer, but didn’t remove the sheet that covered the body.

  Scamarcio felt a needle of fear prick his gut. ‘What have you found that will make it any worse? We’ve got the Vatican’s chief exorcist at the scene, a dead boy — an extremely good-looking dead boy — and the son of a mafioso heading up the inquiry; there’s meat enough for the vultures without a side dish.’ Then a second thought struck him. ‘I haven’t seen the papers — they’re not running it already, are they?’

  ‘It wasn’t in La Repubblica or Corriere,’ said Manetti. ‘I reckon you’ve got another twenty-four hours to play with — if you’re lucky.’

  ‘Then I’ll be lucky,’ said Scamarcio, as he watched Giangrande pull back the sheet.

  Andrea Borghese’s brown hair had fanned out to frame his handsome face. His chiselled features reminded Scamarcio of the bust of a Roman emperor. Scamarcio’s eyes tracked down to the neck, and he immediately noticed the purple necklace of bruising.

  ‘As you can see, there’re ecchymoses. There’s been haemorrhaging in the strap muscles and under the skin. I found abrasions from the movement of the ligature, as well as a few fingernail marks, where I believe the victim tried to remove the rope,’ said Giangrande.

  ‘Rope?’ echoed Scamarcio.

  The doctor nodded. ‘He was strangled from behind, taken by surprise. There aren’t too many fingernail marks, so there probably wasn’t time for much of a struggle. From the marks on the victim’s neck, I’d say the murderer used a slipknot. The marks tell me this was a quick and efficient strangulation.’ He paused. ‘And there’s something else. As a rule, in strangling, the killer uses far more force than is necessary, which often results in injuries to the deeper structures. But I’ve not seen that here. It’s as if the murderer knew exactly the right amount of pressure to apply.’

  Scamarcio turned to Manetti. ‘Doesn’t all that suggest a certain level of expertise?’

  ‘Probably,’ hedged the chief CSI.

  ‘Professionally trained?’ wondered Scamarcio out loud.

  ‘Could be, but I’ve nothing else to suggest that,’ said Giangrande.

  ‘Time of death?’

  ‘Around 4.30 pm yesterday. He’d died very shortly before he was found — but you knew that already.’

  Scamarcio turned to Manetti once more. ‘Any trace yet?’

  ‘Nada. Just the mum and dad and the priests. It’s early days, but it’s starting to look as if the killer cleaned up after himself.’

  Scamarcio’s mind flashed on the spotless flat. Then he thought back to his meeting with Cardinal Amato. ‘The cardinal believes it’s the devil’s work.’

  ‘What? Not literally, surely?’ asked Manetti, his tanned face screwing tight into a frown. Scamarcio was reminded of a walnut.

  ‘Yes.’

  The chief CSI narrowed his eyes. ‘What a headfuck. How do you like the cardinal for this?’

  Scamarcio sniffed. ‘Not a lot, unfortunately.’

  ‘Why unfortunately?’ asked Giangrande.

  ‘Because I don’t have anyone else — no one seen coming in or out, no motive, no friends, no enemies,’ he paused. ‘No sodding DNA.’ He suddenly wondered about friends. He couldn’t just take the parents’ word for it. Perhaps Andrea did have a social life that they’d been unaware of. So much of life was lived out online now.

  ‘Oh, it’s only Day Two,’ said Manetti breezily. ‘You know how these things can shape up.’

  ‘Well, I hope they shape up quick ’cos I need this done and dusted before my life’s no longer my own.’

  ‘Christ, Scamarcio, you make it sound like a prison sentence. There are some great things about being a parent.’

  ‘Manetti, you’ve always complained about your kids.’

  ‘Yes, but the good far outweighs the bad.’

  Scamarcio rubbed a tired palm across his stubble. ‘Any chance some trace of our suspect will still come to light?’

  ‘I’ve got a couple of results due in later, carpet fibres and a discarded tissue, but I wouldn’t get your knickers in a twist. I’ve been around long enough to k
now when a scene’s been scrubbed.’

  Scamarcio raised an eyebrow. ‘That thorough?’

  ‘If I were you, I’d keep my eye on the professional angle.’

  Scamarcio nodded towards Giangrande. ‘OK, I think we’ve seen enough.’

  Giangrande reached for the sheet, but before he pulled it up, he stopped. ‘There’s a couple of other things. I found some bruising to the back of the head, recently inflicted, as if he’d fallen and knocked his head against something. I also found signs of malformation in the bowel, areas where it looked like it had been subject to intense inflammation over the years. It might have been a problem from early on in life. I don’t know whether that information is of any use to you. If it is, I could ask a gastroenterologist to take a closer look.’

  Scamarcio pondered it. He never liked to rule anything out in the early stages of an investigation, but budget was a big issue these days. ‘What will it cost?’

  ‘Nothing. I was going to ask a consultant friend of mine to pop by after work and do it as a favour.’

  ‘That would be great, Giangrande.’ Obviously, the doctor was still trying to rack up points in the hope that Scamarcio would never speak of a past indiscretion which, if it ever came to light, would kill Giangrande’s career in an instant.

  ‘I’ll let you know what my friend says. It might be worth asking the parents if he had stomach problems.’

  ‘What was his last meal?’ asked Scamarcio, not really knowing why he was interested.

  ‘Looks like a Mars bar — I couldn’t find any lunch. Breakfast was a bowl of cocoa pops.’

  Scamarcio wondered why the boy hadn’t had lunch. Hadn’t his mother been home? Maybe she’d fixed it for him, but he’d declined.

  Dr Giangrande started replacing the sheet, but a glint caught Scamarcio’s eye, and he pushed out a hand to stop him. ‘What’s that on his finger?’

  A simple gold band on Borghese’s right index finger was blinking under the halogen lights.

  ‘Sorry, but I couldn’t get it off — it seems stuck. And then I forgot about it.’