by Unknown
‘In your investigations, please pay particular attention to these three things. Thought, Feeling and Action. Right now, right at this moment, you’re all doing the same thing. You have a uniformed, shared Action. You’re all just sitting and watching. That’s your visible ten per cent. Your action is very much in full public view. But Thought and Feeling are complex masses that make up your private ninety per cent, and that’s what we can’t see; that’s what you’re keeping hidden. A few of you may still be feeling shocked or sickened by some of the murder-scene slides we looked at earlier. Some of you may have been bored or fascinated by them. Whatever your emotions, you’ve all kept those feelings hidden. Similarly, as I come to a close, I know you are almost all thinking different things. I hope many of you are thinking that your time at this conference has been worthwhile. I’m sure some of you are worrying about how you’re going to get home through the snow tonight, and I’m confident that there’ll be several of you who are hoping that your own dark secrets of infidelity, sexual deviation or petty theft from work will never be discovered. Well, don’t bank on it, they might well be.’
Embarrassed laughter rippled through the audience. Jack let the tide settle, then finished his speech. ‘Remember, everyone’s an iceberg, and only ten per cent of each of us is on show. You can’t spot a killer berg without looking beneath the surface. Search for that hidden ninety per cent. Find it and destroy it, before it destroys us. Thank you for your time. I wish you all a safe journey home and a peaceful and merry Christmas.’
Applause rang out. Jack mouthed several ‘thank yous’ left and right of stage. As he clapped back and started to head for the exit, his eyes caught again on the thin, pale-faced man staring up at him from the front row. The man with the blank, unblinking gaze. The only person in the auditorium not clapping.
3
Centro città, Napoli
The black snake of Mercedes slithered north through the rubbish-strewn side streets of Naples.
Bruno Valsi swivelled in the backseat and glanced through the rear windshield. ‘We’re not heading home?’ He tried not to sound suspicious.
Don Fredo, sitting alongside him, smiled reassuringly and lit a Cuban cigar. ‘It is your first day of freedom and we are going to honour you. I know you are anxious to be alone with your wife and son, but my daughter and grandchild will have to wait a while longer.’
Valsi relaxed a little, though the incident made him realize his vulnerability. He was unarmed and at anyone’s mercy. Five years in jail had left his street instincts rusty. He made a mental note to sharpen up.
‘Don Fredo, it is not necessary to honour me. To have served you as I did was honour enough.’
The sixty-four-year-old Camorra Capofamiglia raised the palm of his right hand, signifying that protest was futile. ‘Bruno, you gave up many years of your life to protect me. You broke the case that the police were assembling. All their allegations of false accounting, tax evasion and corruption have been withdrawn. All of them. You made a personal sacrifice for the Family, and tonight it is time for the Family to show their gratitude.’
Valsi bowed his head in respect. ‘I am moved by your generosity. I only did what any of your soldiers would have done.’ His heart thumped double quick time, a physical reminder that this was a moment he had long pondered over during the endless dark nights in his cell. Would Don Fredo welcome him back as a hero? Or have him killed because he might emerge as a threat?
The Don lowered the side window and exhaled a long breath of hot cigar smoke into the chilly air. ‘Do you know Positano?’
Valsi shrugged. ‘Not well. All my life has been spent in Naples.’
‘Then you should. It is very beautiful. Very romantic. You must take my daughter there. Legend has it that the journeying Ulysses was drawn to Positano by the sound of irresistible sirens.’
Valsi smiled. ‘The only sirens I’ve ever heard were from the polizia.’
Don Fredo ignored him. ‘There is a hotel near Positano that is special to me. It is where my wedding reception was held, many, many years ago.’ He paused and made the sign of the cross in memory of his wife Loretta who’d passed eight years back. ‘Tonight it will hold another reception. In fact, it will hold two. If I recall correctly, you were taken from us the night before your son’s first birthday.’
‘That’s correct.’
The Don nodded. ‘Quite. So, tonight, we will start with Enzo’s birthday party. One big one to make up for all the ones you missed. I have jugglers, clowns, acrobats; everything needed to light up his life.’
‘I’m sure he will love them. That is very kind, very generous of you.’
Don Fredo took another pull on the Havana and looked at his son-in-law through the smoke. ‘And then, when Enzo has been put to bed by Gina, we will be joined by members of our other Family and we will have your reception, a very special “welcome home” party.’
‘Thank you, Don Fredo.’ Valsi sounded distant as he contemplated for a moment what life would be like again with his wife. He’d forbidden Gina to visit him in prison and knew things were going to be horribly strained as they started over.
The Don had smoked only a fraction of the cigar but he was already finished with it. As a teenager, he’d struggled to break into the tobacco-smuggling racket rooted in the port of Naples. Fifty years later he had the lion’s share and could afford to be wasteful. He pushed the Havana through the gap, glided the window shut and turned to Valsi. ‘Now, there is something else, Bruno. Something a little more serious that I have to discuss with you.’
Valsi felt a shiver slide down his spine.
4
Carnegie Hall, New York City
Jack escaped a pack of flesh-pressing professionals who swamped the stage following his speech. He headed out of the auditorium and searched for a washroom.
A hand touched his shoulder. ‘Can I please speak with you a minute, Mr King?’ The request came from the thin, pale-faced man that Jack had spotted on the front row. Standing, the guy was barely five-five. Jack guessed he was in his late twenties, though the dark shadow of his beard made him look older. His frame was almost skeletal. Eyes black and empty. Teeth so poor you could tell straight away that he wasn’t American. And there was something else; a bitter-sweet stink of salty body sweat that made Jack wince. ‘Sure. Will it take long? Only, I need to find the men’s room.’
The man looked over his shoulder. ‘It’s around here.’ The accent was now recognizably Italian. ‘Come, I’ll show you.’ He headed off so quickly that Jack had little option but to follow.
‘Thanks,’ said the profiler, as his escort held the door and then followed him in. Jack used the urinal, all the time conscious of the strange Italian standing by the washbasins, watching and waiting for him.
Think I’ve hooked myself some serious creep, he thought as he washed, then dried his hands beneath a blower.
‘You want to talk here? ’Cause I thought maybe outside would be better?’ Jack motioned outside, his patience already wearing thin.
The Italian got the message. He opened the wash-room door and found a space in the crowded lobby. ‘I am Luciano Creed.’ He extended his hand.
Jack shook it. It was limp and sweaty. ‘Pleased to meet you, Luciano. Now, how can I help?’ He fought an impolite urge to wipe his hand on his trousers.
‘I work in Naples. I’m a psychology graduate…’
A female theatre worker in tight red jeans walked by. ‘I am being, how you say…’ he stammered, ‘on attachment to the police there.’ He was so distracted by the woman that he dried up completely. His head even swivelled as she walked past.
‘How can I help?’ repeated Jack, irritation now obvious in his voice.
Creed gathered his thoughts. He unzipped an unfashionable blue checked cardigan and pulled out a polythene document case that had been tucked partly down his pants and pressed close to his chest. ‘I came all the way to New York to hear your lecture and to show you these.’
J
ack grimaced. Work was supposed to end today. One speech and then a chill-out Christmas at Nancy’s mom and dad’s. That’s what he’d promised her.
‘I’m sorry, buddy, you’re probably about to show the wrong thing to the wrong guy at the wrong time.’
Creed ignored him. ‘Five women, all reported as missing. I think there’s more to it than that, more than just missing.’ He unzipped the case and produced a map of the Bay of Naples. ‘I’ve mapped seventy different aspects of behaviour in the five cases, used Multidimensional Scalogram Analysis to combine variables and connections in the incidents. I’m sure they are connected.’
Jack was well versed in geographical profiling. He’d studied what the Brits and the Germans had been doing with Dragnet and he’d been particularly impressed by the Canadians and their Criminal Geographic Targeting programmes.
‘Look at these papers and tell me what you think.’ Creed held them out. Jack tried not to look. Finally, he took them and glanced down at the map.
Red dots marked Casavatore, Santa Lucia, Barra, Soccavo and Ponticelli. At first glance there was no obvious connection. Then, like old-fashioned photographic paper developing in a darkroom tray, Jack saw the links. None of the women’s homes were very close together; they probably didn’t know each other. The marked sites were spread across the outskirts of Naples, and all were served by fast motorway routes spreading north, south, east and west. Their killer – if indeed there was one – most likely met them in Naples itself, offered them lifts home. Maybe he picked them up at nightclubs, perhaps he was a cab driver, or even knew them personally and they felt comfortable enough to travel willingly with him. The A56 beltway bisected the map. He guessed that at night you could travel fast down there and likewise along the A1 and A3 that ran off it. Jack looked up at Creed. ‘In non-scientific, non-sociolinguistic language, just tell me straight, why do you think these women aren’t just walk-aways?’
Creed stepped forward and talked excitedly. His voice, basted in garlic, was hushed and confidential. ‘Five women, all within a twenty-kilometre radius of each other; none prostitutes, all respectable; none showing any previous signs that they wanted to leave the neighbourhood.’ He paused and saw the interest register in Jack’s eyes. He took a slip of paper with their names written on it and pressed it into the profiler’s hand. ‘Mr King, none of these women, not a single one of them, took any clothing or personal possessions with them when they disappeared.’
Jack’s face showed surprise. He didn’t want to get sucked in, but he couldn’t help seeing red flags. He looked down at the slip of paper and the list of five names. ‘What do the cops in Naples say? If your case is that convincing, then I guess they’re all over it?’
‘Mr King, every day there are so many murders in Naples that there is no time to look for those who are merely missing.’
Jack made one last effort to block him off. He glanced pointedly at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to go. The weather’s really bad and I’ve gotta make a family dinner.’
Creed snatched the mapped papers and returned them to the plastic wallet. His face was red with anger. ‘I have come all the way to New York to ask for your help.’ He nodded in the direction of Jack’s hand and the list of names. ‘Those women are dead. I know they are dead. And if you turn your back on me now, then more will die and both you and I will feel like we have blood on our hands. Of that I promise you.’
5
Hotel Le Sirenuse, Positano
Ten thousand euros’ worth of fireworks exploded across the Bay of Naples. Italy’s hottest boy band sang their own special version of ‘Happy Birthday’. Under patio heaters beside a shimmering pool, crowds laughed and cheered as streamers and balloons filled the night sky. But none of this made six-year-old Enzo Valsi crack a smile. Most kids would have thought they were in heaven, but the only moment light came to the youngster’s eyes was when a waiter slipped while carrying a tray of white wine. The birthday boy’s life, young and tender as it still was, had already been corrupted and bled of its innocence. He lived in a world where the bogeymen were real. So real that it was inevitable that one day they’d turn up, spilling out of cars with smiles on their faces and machine pistols in their hands.
Another volley of fireworks exploded in the pitch-black sky, illuminating the jumble of multicoloured houses that climbed up the hillside of Positano. The boy band signed napkins and made eyes at waitresses. Across the pool, Bruno Valsi ruffled his son’s hair and kissed him goodnight. His wife Gina, the boy’s nanny and an armed bodyguard the size of a garage took him away. His father didn’t even look back as he joined the other men filtering into the brightly lit hotel.
The private dining room of the eighteenth-century palazzo had been electronically swept and declared clean of any listening devices. Armed Camorristi stood at every doorway. More sat in cars on the driveway and approach roads, pistols and sandwiches on their laps.
Inside the elegant dining room, gang boss Fredo Finelli chimed a spoon against a crystal champagne glass. The table had been laid for fourteen people, the most trusted and highly rewarded of the Finelli Family. To Don Fredo’s right sat Salvatore ‘The Snake’ Giacomo, a strongly built, grey-faced man in his late forties. A man who for more than two decades had been Fredo’s Luogotenente, his fixer and personal bodyguard. No one was quite sure whether his nickname had come from his association with the clan and its distinctive viper tattoo, or because he once chose to slowly and sadistically strangle a victim using a length of metal chain. On Fredo’s other flank was his consigliere, his business and legal adviser, Ricardo Mazerelli. The forty-eight-year-old lawyer had been a senior official in the city’s mayoral office until he’d lost his job during a rare but successful police clampdown on local authority corruption.
‘Gentlemen, please fill your glasses,’ commanded Fredo, ‘for tonight there is much toasting and much celebrating to be done.’
Bruno Valsi sat at the opposite end of the table. He studied the faces of his fellow Camorristi, wondering how they felt about his return.
‘The first of my toasts,’ continued Fredo, ‘is to loyalty. My father once told me that friendship is like silver but loyalty is like gold, and the years have proved him right. Gentlemen, your loyalty to our Family and ours to each other is golden; please raise your glasses in honour of our collective loyalty. Salute!’
Across the white linen tabletop Valsi joined in the responding chorus and noticed Ricardo Mazerelli’s piercing blue eyes looking him over, assessing him for future reference. They both nodded amiably at each other, but neither broke their gaze until Don Fredo spoke again.
‘Five years ago, my son-in-law Bruno showed the depth of his loyalty. He made a personal sacrifice to protect me and to protect this Family. That sacrifice cost him half a decade of his life. Today, he is returned to us and tonight we recognize that sacrifice and we reward it. Bruno, please come here.’ The old man extended his hands. Valsi rose from his seat and walked towards the top of the table. Clapping broke out and became hard and tribal, the crowd timing their slaps to match Valsi’s steps, then accelerating the rhythm into a crescendo as he and Finelli warmly embraced each other.
Finelli patted down the applause. ‘In recognition of his loyalty to all of us, I am pleased to announce that Bruno Valsi is now elevated to the rank of Capo Zona.’
Again the applause rang out, harder and warmer. But Valsi could see coldness in the eyes of a few of the older soldiers. Being made Capo Zona meant you had a specific geographic region to exploit. You could raise money for the Family and take a healthy share for yourself. It also meant being given the chance to assemble your own crew, a sort of family within the Family, and this was what worried the older Camorristi.
Don Fredo was also watching. His expert eyes examined the other Capi: Angelico d’Arezzo, Giotto Fiorentino and Ambrogio Rotoletti. They were impassive. Their hearts and minds still needed winning. They were older, much older than Valsi, but they would give him a chance, albeit a small one.
Finelli broke from his assessment and addressed them all: ‘Bruno Valsi will take over the Family’s eastern sector, the one richest in what we call our entertainment business. These are the responsibilities that were carried out by Pepe Capucci, before his heart attack last month. Bruno has been given the right to assemble his own crew and he has told me he will announce who they are within the next few days. So, my Uomini d’Onore, my dear gentlemen of honour, please raise your glasses and toast the successful future of my son-in-law, Bruno Valsi, this Family’s youngest ever Capo Zona.’
Chairs slid back, the men rose and held their glasses high. ‘Salute, Bruno!’
Don Fredo embraced Valsi again and then clapped him as the toast finished. As the smiling Capo returned to his seat, Don Fredo added one final footnote to his speech, something he hadn’t previously discussed with Valsi in the drive from Poggioreale jail. ‘Bruno, I have another gift for you; something to help you with your new business interests.’
Valsi’s smile slid away. In his line of business there was no such thing as a pleasant surprise.
Don Fredo extended his right arm and put his hand on the shoulder of Sal the Snake. ‘Salvatore, my personal friend and loyal Luogotenente, has generously volunteered to join you in your new business team. He will help you establish yourself. I know his special experience and skills will ensure everything goes according to both our plans.’
6
Carnegie Hall, New York City
Luciano Creed was still smiling when he slipped into the Starbucks next door to Carnegie Hall. Jack King had grudgingly relented and agreed to see him again. One more meeting – tomorrow, for one hour max – then they’d be done. Well, Creed was certain Jack wouldn’t be done so quickly. The Italian took a double espresso and sat in the window to drink it. He enjoyed staring out of the big glass pane, watching people flood by.