by Unknown
‘There is no harm in me looking.’ Creed grinned a yellow smile. ‘And no shame in it. We all think about fucking; it is our basic instinct to find a mate and breed. I don’t believe it is healthy to deny it.’
Jack sipped at his San Pellegrino. ‘You sound like a caveman. I think most of us have become a little more advanced than that.’
‘As you said in your speech, Mr King, our fantasies and feelings are hidden like icebergs. But you and me, well, we’re profilers, aren’t we? We know what hidden thoughts men have. We divide the world into women worth fucking, and women who we’d rather die than fuck.’
Jack was uncomfortable, but stayed polite. ‘I think we’re about done here. Can I keep these documents you copied for me?’
Creed leaned over the table. ‘I want you to come to Naples with me. I just need two days of your time to show you things.’
‘Can’t be done, sorry.’
‘Five women, Mr King: Luisa Banotti, Patricia Calvi, Donna Rizzi, Gloria Pirandello and Francesca Di Lauro. The last of these, Francesca, I knew her personally.’
Jack stood up from the table and picked up the papers. The emphasis on personally explained a lot. He could well imagine why anyone who was the object of Creed’s attention might want to vanish from his life and never be traced. ‘I’ll ask one of my friends in the national profiling unit in Rome to look into your findings. If you’re right, then they’ll help and I’ll give my opinions. If you’re wrong, then thankfully, you and I will never speak or meet again. Now I’m going. Enjoy the rest of your stay in New York.’
9
Hotel Le Sirenuse, Positano
Salvatore Giacomo, aka Sal the Snake, and his boss, Fredo ‘The Don’ Finelli sat by the restaurant window, talking in hushed voices while looking out over the bay of Positano. Bruno Valsi weighed them up as he walked their way.
The old man, dapper in blue Prada pinstripes, raised his hand and summoned a waitress as Valsi sat down. ‘I don’t have long. I must attend meetings in the city, so let’s discuss only what matters.’
‘As you wish, Don Fredo.’ The newly appointed Capo Zona respectfully nodded.
‘Operations in our eastern sector will now be run by you. These are mainly the entertainment and the garbage collection and disposal businesses. Sal will take you through the books and show you the revenue splits that will come directly to me and what may be kept by yourself and your crew, when you have picked them.’
Valsi let the offer sink in. Garbage collection and disposal in Naples had long been Camorra controlled and it was profitable. The economics were simple. The more toxic, the more deadly, the more profitable. But even the bottom-end business of just clearing factory and business trash was also booming. Right now, garbage was piled two metres high on many street corners as the clans in the System battled with councils for control of contracts and areas. ‘I know this business is profitable. Good money, no doubt, and I will take care of it. But please tell me of the entertainment interests that we have. I need some glamour as well as sacks of garbage.’
Finelli smiled. ‘There are five nightclubs and six restaurants. Pepe’s accounts will be sent over to you. There are also several escort businesses, including two new online agencies. Our porn output is small, but we have both film pirating and magazine production.’
‘Glamour aplenty.’
‘Indeed. There are also some run-down businesses that need attention, particularly camping and holiday-villa sites. They are spread between Naples and Herculaneum, and Herculaneum and Pompeii.’
‘My favourite place as a child,’ said Valsi. ‘I know so much about Pompeii that I could get a job there as a tour guide.’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ the Don smiled. ‘It’s a good time for you to take over these businesses. Pepe Capucci was going soft. We need to squeeze the margins, generate some more cash. If Pepe hadn’t given himself a heart attack I’m sure, in the end, he would have given me one.’ The old man put his hand on Valsi’s arm. ‘But squeeze gently. Do it with charm, Bruno. Our Family are not known as bullies. We provide jobs and incomes in many parts of our district. I want to keep respect and goodwill.’
‘I understand,’ said Valsi.
Don Fredo dipped into his jacket and produced a small, slim brown envelope. ‘There is something in there to get you on your feet again.’
Valsi looked surprised. ‘You were very generous when I was in prison. I know Gina is your daughter as well as my wife, but we were more than well provided for.’
‘Bruno, please don’t insult me by questioning my gift.’
Valsi took the hint. He used a table knife to slit the envelope.
‘You will find something more than money in there,’ added the old man.
Valsi pulled out four undated cheques totalling €200,000. He quickly did some calculations. On top of the monthly wages of €5,000 that he’d received while in jail, he’d now pocketed a total of half a million for his five years inside.
Loyalty money. Money to buy you. To curb your ambition. ‘You are most kind,’ he said, nodding politely as he folded away the cheques.
‘You missed something.’ Don Fredo spoke over the cup as he sipped his espresso. ‘I think you will find another enclosure in there.’
Valsi tipped the envelope and shook it. A slip of paper fluttered on to the table. On it was a name that was painfully familiar to him. And an address that he’d been long searching for.
Finelli dabbed his lips with a white linen napkin. ‘It can be done quickly. Salvatore has the men ready and waiting for you. I’m sure you’ll feel much better when it’s over.’
10
I Quartieri Spagnoli, Napoli
One-week-old Alicia Madonna Galotti screamed at the top of her tiny lungs as new aunt, Alberta, took her from her mother and gently rocked her.
The 38-year-old shushed her sister’s baby, then raised the tiny head in the palm of her left hand and lovingly kissed it. Babies smelled so good. Well, at least they did when they’d just been washed and powdered. The child’s skin was wonderfully wrinkled. As soft and warm as velvet. She had pale hazelnut eyes, the colour of the teddy bear that Alberta Tortoricci had brought her, along with three irresistible dresses and a gel teething ring. Alberta stroked a fuzz of jet-black hair that would one day cascade through the hands of besotted boys who would pledge their lives to her. Or, at least, that’s what Alberta hoped as she sat in her sister’s lounge. During the five years she’d been in the witness protection programme, set up for her since Bruno Valsi’s conviction, she’d only visited once. Such isolation made her feel like she’d been punished for her bravery. Alberta had been a junior partner in one of the city’s oldest accounting and auditing firms. She’d made the near fatal mistake of turning to the police when her bosses had refused to explain, or let her correct, a series of worrying entries in the books of several Finelli businesses. Her diligence had put her at risk and, on one occasion, brought her face-to-face with Valsi. Playing with a cut-throat razor in his hand, he’d told her that there was no point her having a good head for figures if he had to hack it off and feed it to a pen of pigs.
‘I think Mamma should have you back, my darling.’ Alberta surrendered the still crying child to Pia.
‘She’ll get used to you,’ replied her younger sister, glancing at her watch and then immediately putting the child to her left breast.
Alberta flinched as she watched the greedy baby latch itself into position. ‘Doesn’t that hurt?’
‘A little. Sometimes she gets too eager and chews with her gums.’
‘Oh, my God! It’s too painful to even think about.’ Alberta rubbed her own breast as though she could physically feel the pain. ‘I think I’ll go for a cigarette.’
Pia thought of saying something but checked herself. She’d only managed to kick the habit after she’d found out she was pregnant, so she knew she didn’t really have the right to preach. She smiled dotingly at her baby as her sister grabbed her coat and hea
ded outside.
The street was short and filled with cheap apartments that wouldn’t argue at being called slums. The Spanish Quarter had beautiful historic homes but they were not in the area where Pia lived. The engine of an unmarked police Fiat idled not far from the front door, two cops in the front, as always, drinking coffee, eating junk and chain-smoking. For once they were early. It made a change. She lit up and smiled at them; the driver raised a hand in acknowledgement, blue-grey smoke clouding his face.
Alicia Madonna was beautiful. If Alberta had a child, she wanted it to be exactly like her niece. Though, given the state of her life, she knew there was little chance of her meeting someone and settling down.
The driver’s door of the Fiat opened and a detective waved her over. Dangling from his right hand was a police radio, pulled tight on a coil of black curly wire attached to the dashboard. Alberta saw a dozen cops a week, and they all had that same edgy, scruffy look to them. She’d liked the one who had driven her over from Assisi, where she’d been relocated after the Valsi trial. His name was Dario and he’d been as big as a house and smelled of pine and fruit. This new one looked similar but had an even nicer smile and wore old-fashioned Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses. It made him look like a tall Tom Cruise from his Top Gun days.
‘Buon giorno, mi chiamo Satriano, Detective Paolo Satriano. My Capitano needs to talk to you.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘We have a little problem with your transport.’
‘What do I do?’ asked Alberta, staring at the police radio he put in her hand.
‘You press here. Keep it pressed while you talk.’ He created a burst of static as he showed her how to click a button on the side. ‘Please sit in the vehicle, so you can hear through the speaker.’
Alberta slid into the driver’s seat, noticing the cop’s eyes roam over her legs as she adjusted her skirt and squeezed in.
He smiled politely and closed the door. Not as handsome as the last cop she’d seen, but that smile already had her hooked.
‘Pronto? ’ she said, holding down the button in the way he’d shown her.
It didn’t work.
The radio was a fake.
So too was the policeman.
The driver leaned against the car door and drew on his cigarette. His big frame blocked any view from outside. In the same movement, a hand snaked from the rear seat and clamped across Alberta’s mouth. Simultaneously, the other man in the passenger seat slid out a gun, clicked off the safety and pushed it into her stomach.
11
Greenwich Village, New York City
‘No more Dr Seuss, not tonight,’ insisted Nancy King, doing her best to look serious as Zack begged for another bedtime story.
She kissed him on the tip of his nose, then swung her legs off his bed in the spare room at his grandparents’ home.
‘Sleep well, baby, and I’ll read you some more tomorrow.’
‘Night, Mommy! I love you.’
‘Love you too, honey.’ Nancy blew a kiss from her hand as she reached the doorway but didn’t turn out the light. Zack would no longer sleep in the dark. Not since his nightmares about Daddy’s work and the Black River Killer.
Downstairs, her father Harry sliced a slab of beef while her mom added roast potatoes and vegetables to willow-patterned plates that Nancy had been eating off since she was Zack’s age.
‘You have any mustard?’ Jack was rummaging among the dishes, glasses and bottles that filled their old mahogany dining table.
‘French and English. Behind the gravy,’ said his mother-in-law.
Nancy joined them. ‘That little guy doesn’t look too sleepy. We might have a visit in a few minutes.’
As they finally tucked into the food, Nancy and her folks spoon-fed nostalgia to each other and Jack’s thoughts slipped to Luciano Creed.
Was Creed a bungling amateur profiler who’d wrongly mistaken runaway women for murder victims? Was he the jilted lover – or, more probably, the unwanted admirer – of Francesca Di Lauro – and was he obsessed with finding her? Or was he something even worse – was he right? Were there a number of unsolved disappearances that the police in Naples for some reason – scarce resources, lack of interest – hadn’t properly investigated?
‘Could you pass me the wine, honey?’ Nancy pointed to a bottle of Brunello that had come from a vineyard less than ten kilometres from their home in Tuscany.
A further thought distracted Jack. He remembered working a case in Queens – a hospital porter had called in at a precinct house with a tip-off on where to find a murdered youth. Said he’d overheard two out-of-state youths talking about a murder while they ate in a burger bar. Cops had followed up and dug a thirty-year-old black man from beneath steel in an old warehouse. Eventually, the white porter turned out to be the killer. And the dead guy hadn’t been his first black victim. He’d contacted the cops with the bogus story of the youths because he’d killed three times before and ‘wasn’t getting the recognition he’d deserved ’. The world was full of weirdoes, and those who killed for fame sometimes went as far as injecting themselves into the heart of the inquiry.
Nancy tried again. This time waggling a wine glass in her fingers. ‘Could you please pass me the wine, honey?’
‘What? Yeah, sure.’ Jack grabbed the bottle and poured its rich red liquid into the sparkling glass. ‘Sorry.’
His wife smiled, but he was already far away again. Tomorrow morning he’d go and see Creed. There were questions he just couldn’t leave unanswered.
12
Napoli del nord
Scampia’s hollow-eyed skyscrapers cast slim shadows over the old Fiat gliding through town. Alberta Tortoricci took in the grim vista as she headed into her darkest nightmare. By the time the real cops had arrived to escort her back to her home in Assisi the fake ones had pulled into the grounds of one of the area’s many disused factories. The huge building was derelict and bare of branded signage. Buckled and broken chain-link fencing ran all around it. Dogs sniffed garbage and lifted their heads as they passed.
Alberta’s hands had been tied and her mouth gagged. But they’d made no attempt to blindfold her. There was no need. She wasn’t going to live to identify them.
They dragged her down the side of the old factory. Her feet slipped on sodden cardboard boxes that had rotted in the rain. A metal door jerked back in rusted spasms and they pushed Alberta into the cold, damp twilight of the factory. Grey light drizzled through dozens of small windows high off the ground. Across in the corner of the room, in soft silhouette, she saw a man sitting on a slatted fold-up chair.
‘Buon giorno, Alberta,’ said a voice that leached the blood from her heart.
She recognized it as Bruno Valsi’s.
‘Please, sit down. I’ve been waiting. Waiting five years for you.’
Valsi stood up and stepped away as his men forced Alberta down on to the chair. Unseen fingers refastened her hands around the back of it and then bound her feet to its front legs.
‘I’m sorry to be so impolite, but you’ve got to be tied. Otherwise, the sheer amount of pain that I’m going to inflict upon you will throw you to the ground.’ Valsi snapped his fingers, summoning one of the two henchmen who’d brought her.
Alberta never saw the hammer in his hand.
Without any backswing he crashed its flat metal head into her gums and teeth.
The shock was instant. A dull crack. An explosion of pain in her skull.
Pieces of broken teeth jammed at the back of her mouth. She had to swallow jagged bone in order to breathe. Other teeth were hideously bent back at their roots. Blood and saliva drooled down her chest.
‘Cantante! ’ spat Valsi. His eyes were on fire.
Alberta knew what was going to happen next. The police had warned her about it. She’d seen it in her nightmares. The hand of the henchman reappeared. His fingers fumbled in her mouth. And then, she felt the acidic tang of metal on her tongue. Pliers. She could see the end of them as he squeezed tight and pulled the tongue t
hrough her smashed teeth. Punishment for the cantanti, those who sang to the authorities, was always the same. They had their tongues cut out. Then, almost as absolution for the sin of speaking to the police, the sign of the cross was razored across their lips.
The pain was unbearable. Her vision fogged as a switchblade clicked open and the henchman sawed off as much of the pink muscle as he could.
‘Vaffanculo! ’ he swore as Alberta’s blood spurted on to him. He slashed a crucifix across her skin, backed away and deposited the severed tongue in a handkerchief held for him in the leather-gloved palm of Bruno Valsi. Blood dripped and balled up on the dusty factory floor.
Valsi studied his new pink present, then folded the white cotton gently around it. ‘Va bene,’ he said unemotionally. ‘Sal, bring me her present.’
The grey man at his side smiled and disappeared into the shadows.
‘You like jewellery, don’t you, Alberta?’ Valsi grinned as he circled her bloodied face. ‘Of course you do. All girls like jewellery. Well, you’ll die for this piece – literally – it was designed just for you.’
Alberta Tortoricci couldn’t see what they were doing. The room was too dark and her eyes were blinded by tears and pain.
‘It’s a special designer necklace.’ Valsi hovered over her.
She was more frightened now than she’d ever been in her life. But she was determined not to show it. Alberta shut her eyes and tried to distract herself from what was happening. She conjured up images of her first day at school.
Blue dress, white top, hair in pigtails, new brown shoes.
‘It’s a necklace; our Frankenstein necklace.’ He looped a thick steel collar around her neck. Wire flexes trailed from both sides.
Her first kiss – Roberto Bassetti, thirteen years old – his mouth tasted of liquorice.
‘This jewellery is unique, Alberta, rather like the testimony you gave in court, you being the only witness against me.’