by Unknown
‘And if he’s not? What if he’s just a weirdo, like you said?’
‘Then there’s no harm done, and I’ll be back before the weekend.’
Nancy pulled herself from under his arm and headed for the bathroom. Sometimes her husband drove her crazy. Why didn’t he just come straight out and say he wanted to be involved, admit that he ached to be out there in the thick of the action, racking his brains and testing himself? ‘You’d better come home soon, even if he turns out to be Charlie Manson’s murderous twin brother.’
Jack swung out of bed, smiled and told his first lie of the day. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back on time, I promise.’
19
Campeggio Castellani, Pompeii
Antonio Castellani’s eighty-three-year-old face looked like it had been shaped out of saddle-leather. Skin sagged around a once broken and now entirely toothless jaw and fell in wrinkly folds down his scrawny neck.
Alone since his wife had died a decade ago, he spent most of his time in the old, rusting caravan that was both home and office. From here he ran the family holiday camp business and from the leaky window that let in the winter wind he watched what remained of his family go about their chores.
Outside, hauling garbage, were his grandsons Franco Castellani and Paolo Falconi. Both twenty-four, they’d been best friends since they crawled on a rug together. That was back in the days before Franco’s father went to prison and his mother ran away to Milan with Paolo’s father. Paolo’s mother had looked after Franco for two years before she’d then upped and left as well.
Antonio gazed sadly at his grandsons heaving sacks out of an old van, straining to earn extra money by burning trash that gathered on the streets. Was that what his life had amounted to? Garbage. Was this the best he could provide for his family? It certainly hadn’t been what he’d planned half a century ago as he’d fought his way out of the slums and worked two jobs a day so he could start his own business. And years ago – more than fifty to be precise – well, he’d even hit the big time, for a while. He used the cash he’d saved to buy land and move in a fleet of shiny, new caravans. Then, by targeting those not rich enough to stay in hotels, he’d made money, good money, from tourists bound for Pompeii and Herculaneum.
It had all gone well.
Until he’d met Luigi Finelli.
Antonio had been full of bravado, ambition and cash. He’d cut quite a dash in the city’s most popular ballrooms, bars and clubs. But such success didn’t just catch the eyes of the ladies. It also turned the heads of the city’s predators.
Camorra kingpin Luigi Finelli had been born with an instinct to spot easy prey. One long spring night, when Antonio fell into a game of high-stakes poker with fickle friends and ruthlessly rich strangers, Luigi scented blood. With a wave of his hand the strangers gave up their places to his Camorra soldiers. A day later, Antonio left at dawn, a broken man. All of his savings and a third of his business had been surrendered to settle his debt.
If you looked closely into Antonio’s face, you could still see the lines of shock that had been seared into his skin half a century ago when the game ended and reality sank in. Past, present and future – all had been lost on the turn of a card. But this momentous event was not what was troubling him as he stared out of the caravan window this dour December day. It was something more personal. More painful.
Young Franco Castellani looked towards the caravan, caught his grandfather’s gaze, smiled and waved. Antonio returned the gesture along with a gaptoothed smile. It had been years since Antonio had cried, but when he looked at Franco he couldn’t help swallowing hard and blinking. It wasn’t just that he had his grandmother’s eyes, and Antonio remembered her every time he saw him. It was that the child had been cursed with something worse than death. A disease that was cruelly robbing him of the life he should have.
Car tyres crunching dusty gravel made the old man jump like a lizard in the sun. He hoped the arrivals were tourists, plenty of them, packed with cash.
But they weren’t.
The black Mercedes S280 was undoubtedly a Camorra car. The Finelli Family normally sent their weekly collectors in more modest vehicles, but sometimes one of their distinctive Mercs rolled up. An under-boss usually slouched in the back while he despatched some young leech to come and bleed Antonio of his hard-earned money.
‘Buon giorno,’ shouted a man that most of Antonio’s generation recognized as Sal the Snake. The Camorrista stood and waited for someone to appear from around the other side of the car.
‘Buon giorno,’ replied Antonio, respectfully dipping his head.
The muscled form of Tonino Farina slid out from the passenger seat and opened the back door for his boss.
‘This is Signor Valsi,’ said Sal, moving towards Antonio. ‘He’d like to come inside and talk to you.’
The old man slicked back his hair and tried to fuss himself smart. ‘Of course. Please, come in. This is an honour. A great honour.’
Valsi nodded, buttoned up his black suit jacket and climbed two metal steps into the van. He looked around contemptuously. The air stank of male sweat and cigarettes. It reminded him of his first day in prison.
‘Sit down, please,’ said Antonio. He hurriedly moved newspapers and a plate glazed with stale pasta sauce. Farina checked out the rest of the van. He opened the toilet door and almost gagged.
‘I’ll stand,’ said Valsi. ‘This won’t take long.’
Antonio felt his chest tighten. He wiped his hands on his crumpled old trousers and hoped the Camorristi couldn’t sense his fear.
‘My father-in-law tells me that you pay us a third of all your earnings and, with only one or two unfortunate lapses, you have always met your debts promptly.’
‘Yes, sir. That is the case. I do my best, even when times are difficult.’ Antonio hated calling this young weasel ‘sir’. There had been a day when he could have bought and sold scum like him.
‘How old are you?’
Antonio smiled. ‘I am eighty-three, almost eighty-four.’
‘Then you do not have long left,’ said Valsi coldly. ‘Do you have any illnesses, anything wrong with you?’
‘A little angina.’ He patted his thumping heart.
‘Then maybe you have two to five years,’ said Valsi. ‘What will happen to this place when you die?’
‘I will leave it to my grandsons. They will run the business. It will be their livelihood.’
Valsi smirked. ‘Oh, no. No, I really don’t think so.’ He placed his hands either side of the window and looked into the camp yard. ‘I am going to buy the land off you, and you can have some money for the last of your years. I will be generous, so there will be some cash to pass to your grandsons.’ He turned to face him. ‘Signor Giacomo here will come back with a lawyer and you will sign all the legal papers transferring ownership to me. We will build on here. Perhaps housing. Perhaps a restaurant and apartments. You will be compensated and move out. Do you understand?’
Antonio wanted to say no. With all his broken heart and all his broken spirit, he burned with the urge to say no.
One last stand.
‘Signor Valsi, this is all I have left. My wife died many years ago and my business has been difficult to run. But I have done so, because it is part of my family and I want to pass it on to the next generation. It is not worth much, but still it is an inheritance. And, in leaving an inheritance, we old people find some respect and dignity. Please don’t take that away from me.’
Valsi’s eyes lit up. The old man’s fear excited him. ‘Signor Castellani, you speak of your own family and your own respect, but in doing so, you show only disrespect to me and my Family. I am not interested in how you, or your grandsons, feel. I am a businessman, and this is purely a business matter. I will pay you fifty thousand euros. It is enough to rent an apartment – no doubt until your death – and even put some food in your mouth. In return, you will sign over all the land to me. You can take anything you want from here, I demand only the e
arth. Building starts in six months’ time.’ Before Antonio could react, the caravan door opened.
Franco Castellani blundered in, his voice full of youthful excitement. ‘Grandfather, I’ve finished the garbage and toilets. What do you want me –’ He stopped when he saw the three sharp-suited men in front of him.
Farina grabbed Franco by the chest and pinned him to the wall of the van.
‘Please, don’t hurt him!’ pleaded Antonio. ‘He didn’t know you were here, he didn’t mean anything –’
‘Fuck! What is this shit?’ Valsi grabbed at Franco’s chin. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you? You’ve got the face of a fucking hundred-year-old.’
Antonio pushed himself between his grandson and Valsi. ‘He’s ill. He has Werner Syndrome. It makes him look old. It’s not his fault. Please, don’t hurt him.’
‘Enough!’ said Valsi. He let go of Franco and brushed his hands together, as though wiping filth from them. ‘This shit better not be catching.’
‘It’s not!’ Franco stared straight into the man’s eyes.
Valsi sized him up. ‘Fucking weirdo.’ He turned back to the grandfather. ‘Be ready to sign the documents my men bring you.’ He pushed Franco to one side. ‘Stay out of the fucking daylight, Freak Boy; it’s not Halloween for another year.’
Valsi and his laughing henchmen left. The door swung loose and banged in the wind.
Antonio ignored it and wrapped his arms around his grandson. ‘Ignore them, Franco. I love you and God loves you. Everything will be all right.’
Franco fought back his rage and nodded as his grandfather held him.
‘It will be all right, I promise,’ repeated Antonio. But they both knew that it wouldn’t be.
Everything was going to be far from all right.
20
JFK Airport, New York City
The United flight rose in slow motion above the insipid winter whites of snowbound New York, then disappeared into the dark December night.
Ten hours later, Jack King dejectedly peered through the window at rain-sodden clouds barrelling across the Bay of Naples. Dozens of container ships swayed slowly in a sludge of polluted foam beneath him. On the dockside, metal cranes bent their iron beaks and pecked poisonous cargoes of illegal drugs, counterfeit goods and smuggled immigrants. This was one of the world’s busiest ports, a crossroads of global criminality.
Thunder boomed as the plane touched down at Capodichino. Rain beat like ball bearings on the metal roof of the 737. They surfed to an air bridge on a wave of runway water.
Naples is Italy’s third largest city, the birthplace of pizza and home to more than a million people. On passing Customs, Jack thought each and every one of them had turned up at the airport for what must be National Talk as Loud and as Fast as You Can Day. He caught a cab and watched the city unfold before him. His mind soaked up the surroundings that may have shaped the psyche of a serial killer.
The journey was long and depressing. A few fields of denuded cherry trees and ranks of industrial greenhouses reminded him of Naples’ agricultural heritage. The rest looked like urban wasteland. Traffic was as bad as, if not worse than, New York, and there was a palpable anger and aggression in the way people drove. Driving was combat. Parking was territorial. Pedestrians were prey.
Management at The Grand Hotel Parker’s told him with pride that they’d upgraded him to a luxury room with a sea view. The description was only partly right. The view across the bay was indeed stunning, but the room fell short of luxury. Modest and clean were the kindest descriptions he could come up with. Like the city, the hotel lived on past glories.
He unpacked, hung his shirts over a hot bath to let the creases fall out and was fighting off the first wave of jet lag when Massimo Albonetti rang and said he was in reception.
Even in the most fashionable crowd, his old friend always stood out. Today he wore a bespoke mid-length black calfskin leather jacket, evocative of Marlon Brando’s motorcycle days. He matched it with understated charcoal-grey trousers of wool and silk, a cashmere jumper and a grey cotton T-shirt.
‘I curse Naples. Driving in this city is now completely impossible! How are you, my friend?’ Massimo extended both arms and Jack surrendered to the inevitable cheek-kissing. If the truth be known, it still made him feel awkward.
‘I’m fine. Red-eyed, but good. You got time to grab a bite?’
‘Hey, I’m Italian; I always have time to eat. In here, or we go out?’
They settled on a table upstairs, at the hotel’s famous George’s restaurant. Jack’s body clock was already out of kilter. Jet lag reduced the distinctions of breakfast, lunch and dinner into a simple desire to eat. They drank fresh orange and espressos while they perused the menu. Massimo put his glass aside and from the look on his face Jack knew something was troubling him.
‘What’s on your mind?’
‘It’s your friend Luciano Creed and his missing women.’ Massimo Albonetti interlocked his fingers and cracked his knuckles. ‘I received a phone call on the way over to you. It was from Sylvia Tomms, a carabinieri Capitano here in Naples.’
‘And?’
‘She’s been working a case out near Pompeii, not that far from where a couple of Creed’s women lived. Some human remains were found in a stretch of woods, way off the tourist road that leads up to the top of Vesuvius.’
‘The volcano?’
‘Yes, the volcano,’ Massimo smiled. ‘It is the only Vesuvius we have.’
Jack raised an eyebrow to acknowledge the levity. Humour always surfaced when cops got down to the blackest aspects of a case. ‘Were they bagged? In a sack, a case, or anything that might give forensics?’
‘You think Italian killers are more stupid than American ones?’
‘I live in hope.’
‘Sadly not. No container. They were just dumped in the soil. Not much chance of trace evidence from the killer, though the labs are sifting through samples. Let me get to the main point, though. Tomms has had a local anthropologist and his team piece together the bones recovered from the site. These people are good. They’re used to digging up corpses that are centuries old, so they put this skeleton together very quickly –’
‘And?’
The last of the levity left Massimo’s eyes, ‘And, it’s a woman, one of the ones you mentioned.’
Jack took a slow breath. ‘Which?’
‘Francesca Di Lauro.’ The lines on Massimo’s forehead rippled again. ‘Her jawbone had been smashed in more than a dozen different places but they pieced much of it together again. One of Sylvia Tomms’ team managed to get some X-ray transparencies from her last dental check-up. The fit is identical.’
‘You got a time on when she was buried?’
‘Not yet. But we’re talking years, not months.’
Jack voiced what was in both of their heads. ‘So Creed was right about her being missing and being murdered. And if he’s right about her, then he may well be right about the other missing women as well.’
‘Why was he right, though?’
‘Because he killed her?’
Massimo fell deep in thought. ‘I don’t know, Jack. The only thing that I’m certain of is that we’re going to have to reopen all those damn cases. And believe me, that’s going to cause a hell of a lot of work and generate huge political opposition. We’re not going to win any friends with this one!’
21
Centro di Visitatore, Pompeii
Franco Castellani and his cousin Paolo Falconi slipped past the glass-screened kiosk without paying. Within seconds they’d vanished in the labyrinthine ruins of Pompeii.
They were serial non-payers and knew the place like the back of their hands. Pompeii was their playground. First stop, as usual, Forum Olitorio. Through iron bars, Franco stared into the old granary, studying every inch of the plaster casts of victims engulfed in the torrent of lava that erupted from Vesuvius back in 79@C.
When the site had been excavated in the 1800s, imprints of the dead had
been found in the hardened lava. By pouring plaster into cavities left in the bed of ashes by the gradual decomposition of a corpse, it had been possible to recreate a near perfect replica of the victim’s form.
The figure that always fascinated Franco was that of a young man, sitting with his knees tucked up and his hands on his chin, his moment of thought preserved forever by the awful lava flow that had consumed him.
Franco stared intently at Ash Boy, as he called him. He had the frame of a youth, but the plaster and the pose suggested someone older. Someone old before his time.
Dead before his time.
The observation resonated with Franco. The disease that had engulfed his own body – slower but just as deadly as the lava – had already stolen his youth. It had cruelly taken the years in which he should have been most attractive to women, the years in which he should find his soulmate.
Inevitably it would kill him. Just like Ash Boy. He would be dead before his time.
Franco walked with his hood up. Dark sunglasses not only hid his face from prejudiced eyes, they also made him feel safer and calmer. His doctor had recommended them. Partly as a cosmetic aid. But also to help rein in his explosive temper. He’d once almost beaten to death a teenager who’d made the mistake of taunting him. It had resulted in a suspended prison sentence for Franco and a long stay in intensive care for the mocking youth.
Five feral dogs followed them as they stopped at the junction of Via del Tempio d’Iside and Via del Teatri. The cousins sat on the cobbles that had once been stepping stones over Pompeii’s open sewers. They drank water and ate the cheese, ham and bread they’d brought with them.
‘Get lost, go away!’ Franco kicked out at the dogs as they hassled for scraps.
‘Hey, they’re okay, let them be.’ Paolo tore off some of his bread and threw it to the pack.