The Few (19 page)

‘This way, sir.'

The officer was gesturing to a room on the right behind a wide glass window. Inside, two officers were monitoring CCTV, and a third was writing in a logbook. The officer from the gate approached him.

‘Detective Scamarcio, from the Rome Flying Squad,' he announced to his colleague.

The man with the logbook didn't look up. ‘ID, please.'

Scamarcio handed it over once again.

The man studied it in detail, placed it across a scanner, saw it appear on his computer screen, and then typed in a few numbers. He then entered various details into his book and pushed it towards Scamarcio to sign.

‘You're here to see The Priest, right?'

His colleagues glanced up momentarily from their screens.

‘That's right.'

‘He's pretty subdued these days — seems like the fight has finally left him.'

‘The fight?'

‘When we first took him out of isolation, years back, he created bloodshed and mess wherever he went, so we were forced to put him back into the psych ward time and again. But in recent years he's completely calmed down, like he's had a personality transplant. Now all he does is read books, press flowers, and talk to the real priests who come visit.'

‘Well, that's reassuring, I suppose.'

‘Don't worry, we have your back. Gun, please.'

Scamarcio handed it over, and then the logbook man pressed a button and told someone to come and collect the detective. A few seconds later, a young blond officer walked in.

‘D'Angelo will take you up.'

Scamarcio thanked him and followed the officer out into the hallway and along the long, stone corridor. There were no cells lining this floor — just facilities for the staff, it seemed. At the end of the floor an iron staircase led to the next level, and Scamarcio followed the officer up. They didn't stop on that floor, but continued to the one above. There, the officer turned to the right down the walkway, and Scamarcio saw a gallery of cells on either side, identified by small portholes in their steel doors. The officer came to a halt outside a cell in the middle of the left-hand row, and gestured to two officers at the opposite end of the walkway to come over.

When they were within earshot, he said: ‘His visitor has arrived — the detective.'

One of the two officers, thickset and bald, extended his hand to Scamarcio.

‘He was asking for you repeatedly, and said it was very important you spoke because he wanted to help you with something. It was me who called the station.'

‘Thanks for that. I appreciate it.'

‘Any idea what he might want?'

‘None, I'm afraid — I'm as confused as you are.'

The officer shook his head and shrugged. ‘Well, let's see what he's up to. We'll be right outside, if you need anything. The door will remain open behind you once you enter.'

Scamarcio nodded. The officer looked through the porthole and then punched a number into the keypad to the right of the door. After a few seconds the door sighed and released, and he stepped into the cell. Scamarcio felt his breathing become shallow, but pushed himself to follow. He couldn't make out who was inside because the officer's bulk was obscuring his view.

‘Your visitor is here — the policeman you were asking for.'

‘Thank you.' The voice was softly spoken, gentle: a priest's voice in the confessional.

The officer stepped aside and nodded towards Scamarcio before leaving. Scamarcio turned his gaze to the man sitting crumpled on the bed. He was small-boned and fragile. A thin crown of white hair circled his head, and his eyes were dark and unblinking behind bookish spectacles. He looked like an injured owl, and had aged considerably since the photos that had once been splashed across Italy's front pages.

‘I won't get up to shake your hand, Detective Scamarcio, because it will cause our friends outside some alarm if I start moving around. But please accept my heartfelt thanks for making this visit. I am very glad you came.' The Priest gestured to a rickety-looking chair opposite him, and Scamarcio sat down.

‘So what can I help you with?'

‘Actually, it's more a case of the other way around.'

‘Why do you want to help me?'

‘That's not important now.'

Scamarcio chose to say nothing, letting him sweat it out.

‘You're on the island investigating the disappearance of a child, I believe.'

‘Why do you believe that?'

‘Again, that's not important now. And let's not play games. As you yourself know, time is of the essence with these things.'

Scamarcio remained silent; just studied the man, then the walls of the tiny cell. Curled and browning A4 sheets of pressed flowers were dotted about — roses, pansies, and daisies mainly. The effect was bizarre and disquieting.

The Priest studied him back. ‘I knew your father once.'

Scamarcio felt something twist inside him. He said nothing for a few moments, and then: ‘I find that hard to believe.'

The Priest waved a hand away. ‘Again, that's not for now.' He looked to the tiny window to his right at the top of the cell wall where a gull was pecking against the glass. With a sudden ferocity, he cried: ‘These critters never leave me alone — all hours of the day they come.' The voice was no longer gentle; it belonged to a different person altogether. Scamarcio looked over his shoulder through the doorway and saw the reassuring forms of the officers waiting outside.

‘OK, if time is of the essence, as you say, how can you help me?'

The Priest returned his gaze to the detective. His look cut through him, unblinking.

‘It's all quite simple,' said The Priest. ‘You need to talk to the Roma. They have the answers to this one.'

‘Why the Roma?'

‘It's not important?'

‘How did you come to know they're involved?'

He waved a hand away. ‘Again, not important.'

‘What led you to believe that we're investigating the disappearance of a child?'

The Priest just shrugged.

‘Why do you think I even need your help?'

The old man pulled himself up straighter. ‘Because you know nothing, it's a complex case, and these island police are imbeciles. You need all the help you can get.'

Scamarcio fell silent a moment. ‘So where do the Roma fit into this?'

‘I've already told you that I'm not going into that now. Why should I do your job for you? Just come back and see me when you've made some progress.'

‘But …'

The ferocity returned. ‘No, that's it. You'd better hurry — the clock is ticking.'

31

SCAMARCIO GOT INTO
his car, his hand unsteady with the keys. The sun was now a dark orb hanging low over the sea, and within minutes the light would be gone. He pushed the car into gear and headed out along the coast road to Portoferraio, his thoughts quick and muddled. He'd tried to press The Priest further, but had got nothing. Why was he trying to help him? From what Scamarcio understood, he'd never bothered to offer the police any assistance in his own investigation, and to date had yet to confess to his crimes. And how did he know that Scamarcio was even on the island? How had he learned about the disappearance of Stacey Baker? More troubling still, what did he mean about knowing his father — what common ground would have brought those two together? What did a link to The Priest say about his dad? What final disappointment was coming, what further testament to evil? He wondered briefly whether to contact the old men to ask them, and the thought wouldn't quite go away. And with the Roma, wasn't The Priest just tapping into the latest wave of xenophobia? Recently, the papers had been full of the story of the brutal rape and murder of the wife of a naval captain outside a station in Rome's southern suburbs. The culprit had been found to be an unemployed Roma gypsy living rough in a sprawling camp of shacks nearby. The discovery had prompted countless TV debates, not to mention a string of bloody reprisals in various parts of the country. Might it be nothing more than this? Somehow, though, Scamarcio doubted it was so simple; The Priest probably wasn't one to bob on the tide of mass sentiment.

When he returned to the station, it was dark. The place was still empty, except for Zanini, still typing away.

‘That supermarket lead came to nothing,' he said. ‘Just a kid misbehaving with its parents.'

Scamarcio had forgotten all about the Lacona lead. He sat down at the desk opposite and studied the young officer for a moment. ‘Genovesi is still out,' added Zanini. ‘How did it go up there?'

Scamarcio put his feet up on the desk and pulled out a cigarette from the pack he had bought in Termini station. He lit up and inhaled, letting the relief flood his veins and soothe his tired synapses. Then he exhaled slowly, counting the seconds. ‘He told me to talk to the gypsies — they have the answers we need, apparently.'

‘The answers to the girl's disappearance?'

‘Yes.'

‘But how did he even know about it in the first place?'

‘No idea. Maybe he heard the guards talking; maybe they'd got word.'

‘I doubt it,' said Zanini, shaking his head. ‘The gypsies — I wouldn't have thought to look there.'

‘Where?'

‘There's a small settlement on the island in the hills to the east, but they've never given us any trouble. They keep themselves to themselves.'

‘Can you show me on the map?'

‘Are you thinking of heading up there?'

‘No time like the present.'

There were some impressive villas tucked into the cliffs that lined the way to the camp, their gate lamps blinking in the darkness, hinting at generous driveways and dense, tropical gardens beyond. These must be the holiday homes of rich Milanese and Florentines, plush and sprawling, but only used a few months a year. It was crazy, he reflected, the number of houses that stood empty in Italy most of the time.

The engine of the little Fiat was breathless and rasping as it made its way up the hill, the wheels churning on the stones beneath. As they rounded the bend, Scamarcio could make out the lights of various shacks and caravans in a field to the right. The camp was surrounded by wooden fencing, with a gate in the middle. Zanini had told him that the farmer who owned the land lived in a stone house further up the hill and sometimes employed the Roma as fruit pickers. Scamarcio drew the car to a halt opposite the settlement, and stepped out into the darkness. He activated the central locking, taking no chances. As he approached the gate, low voices and the occasional flurry of laughter floated up towards him on the breeze.

Once through the gate, to his right he could make out the forms of several old wooden caravans that looked as if they had been off the road for a long time. They were decorated with flowers, bells, and other designs, but in many places the paint was cracking and the wood had rotted. He headed towards the first cluster of lights he could see. As he walked around the edge of the last caravan in the line, he saw a camp fire with several people standing around it, and behind them two women chopping something on boards. As he approached, a hush descended over the little group, and as he drew closer he felt many eyes upon him — not just those of the few people at the fire. He pulled his ID from his chest pocket, showing it to the men in front of him.

‘Detective Scamarcio, Rome Flying Squad. Can I speak with you a moment?'

The men exchanged glances. By now, the two women had left their chopping boards and had come up alongside them, wiping their hands on aprons around their waists. One of the men, the taller of the two, stepped forward a little. ‘What's the matter? We have permission from Signor Zilli to be here. It is all agreed.' The accent was thick, but the Italian wasn't bad.

‘Don't worry, I know that. I was hoping you could help me with an inquiry — that's all.'

The group exchanged glances again.

‘What inquiry?' said the man.

‘A little girl has gone missing from the beach in Fetovaia.'

The women bunched their arms across their chests, and shook their heads.

‘And, of course, you think it must be the gypsies! Fetovaia is miles away,' said the man, who seemed to be the leader of the group. ‘Why are we always the first to get the blame?'

Scamarcio held up his palms to pacify them. ‘There's no question of blame being apportioned right now. We're just asking everyone on the island, no matter who they are, whether they've seen or heard anything. We need to be thorough; we can't leave anyone off our list. I'm sure you can understand that, especially where a missing child is concerned.'

The group fell silent, and then started speaking softly in a language that Scamarcio couldn't understand. More people had come up to find out what was going on, and the disparate voices were growing louder now. Eventually, the leader said: ‘We are sorry about the child, but we can't help you — nobody has seen or heard anything.'