Read The Few for Free Online Page B

Australia; she says the kids would have better prospects.’
    â€˜She could be right.’
    â€˜I know but, hell, it’s a big step. Got a 90-year-old mother living alone in Ostia — you know how it is.’
    They both said nothing for a moment, pondering the options.
    â€˜So I guess you’re calling about Filippi’s dead hooker?’ said Manetti, breaking the reverie.
    â€˜Just wondered if you’d found anything.’
    â€˜Only what you’d expect. The place was obviously trashed to shit, but the perps didn’t leave much behind — very careful job, despite the chaos. We got a few fibres, but we’re not pinning much hope on them. There are pints of blood in the mattress — but just his, unfortunately. My guess is that he bled out fast. They meant business.’
    â€˜Who is the ME?’
    â€˜Aurelia D’Amato.’
    â€˜Ah, Aurelia.’
    Aurelia was young, good looking, and a rising star. Scamarcio had wondered in the past whether she had a soft spot for him, but had dismissed it as improbable — although recent events had made him think again. Were he to justify his last-minute cancellation of their date, she might be persuaded to turn a blind eye if he were to root around in Filippi’s case.
    â€˜Yeah, “Ah Aurelia” indeed — that woman gets better looking every time I see her, but I guess you’re not allowed to say that kind of thing nowadays. It was more fun in the old days, but you wouldn’t remember them.’
    â€˜Any news about the camera?’
    â€˜No card, as we suspected, but there’s a drive. I spoke to Gunbach in IT yesterday. He explained all the technical stuff, but left me none the wiser. I reckon you need to speak to him direct.’
    â€˜He in?’
    â€˜No, but I’ve got a mobile. Hang on.’
    Gunbach in IT had a thick Neapolitan accent. Scamarcio wondered when his relatives had arrived from Germany. Maybe it didn’t go that far back — perhaps the father was German and had married an Italian. He wanted to ask, but it didn’t feel appropriate.
    Gunbach didn’t seem at all bothered to be disturbed on a Sunday. Scamarcio had the sense that he was at a loose end, that maybe he was a geek loner and had no one to hang out with. What was it with these IT guys and personal relationships — was it some kind of autism thing? It was one of those clichés that seemed to come good every time.
    â€˜We took out the internal drive, and tried to run it to see if there was any data left to find.’
    â€˜And?’
    â€˜And we’ve just got a few fragments. Hardly anything — JPEG fragments.’
    â€˜Photos?’
    â€˜Yes, photos.’ There was something strange about the way he said it.
    â€˜Can I take a look?’
    â€˜Well, like I say, they’re just fragments.’ Gunbach paused and then coughed, seeming almost embarrassed. He was an odd guy, Scamarcio decided. Maybe it was the blend of Italian and German. Those were two cultures that shouldn’t mix.
    â€˜And …’
    â€˜Well, to me, detective, it looks bad. But I think you need to judge for yourself.’

8
    GUNBACH HAD NOT needed much persuading to open up his lab for the afternoon. He had seemed almost glad of the distraction, if not somewhat uncomfortable about the photos and whatever it was they revealed. Scamarcio was fighting a growing sense of apprehension; he had a feeling that he wasn’t going to like what he saw, that it would have adverse implications for a whole lot of things.
    Gunbach was fiddling with the mouse, opening files and doing something to the images that Scamarcio couldn’t understand. The technician was an unusual-looking guy, in his late twenties, pale, with red hair. There was nothing Italian about him — nothing that would ever lead you to guess he was from the south.
    â€˜Just trying to make them clearer,’ he explained. ‘I think