by Unknown
Gina looked sad. ‘I’ve tried. He hasn’t. He doesn’t want to come near me. Says I’m fat and I disgust him.’
‘Fuck him! Figlio di puttana!’
Gina smiled at her friend’s support. She was embarrassed, but it was good to get it off her chest, have someone to talk to about it. ‘I don’t know what to do. I’m not a weak woman. At least, I certainly don’t think I am –’
‘Of course you’re not, don’t be stupid.’ Tatiana thought for a second. ‘Has he got someone else?’
Gina shot her a knowing look.
‘Okay. They always have someone else. But someone special, someone you think he favours?’
‘There were – in the past – many specials.’
‘Did you confront him about them?’
‘Sure. Every time I found out.’
Her friend didn’t ask how many times that was. ‘And what did he say?’
Gina looked at her nails. Looked anywhere but in her friend’s eyes. ‘I went to see the women first. Paid them off.’
‘What?’
‘Sì. I am that stupid and that desperate. I paid the women to leave Napoli.’ There were tears in the corners of her eyes. ‘But at least the money came from our joint account and so at least my bastard husband paid as well.’
They both laughed.
‘And now? Do you think he has someone now – so soon after being released?’
‘I don’t know.’ She played with her cigarette and then shook her head, ‘No. No, I don’t think so.’
‘Check his phone. Text messages sent as well as those received. They always forget to delete the ones they send.’
Gina smiled. Men were certainly stupid.
‘Do you still love him?’
‘What a question!’ It settled on her mind like oil on water. As she thought about it, she glanced again at Enzo. He’d completed his task and had now confiscated one of Umberto’s astronauts. ‘He’s the father of my child, the man I married. That’s everything, isn’t it?’
Tatiana shook her head. ‘“Per amore, hai mai fatto niente solo per amore?” You know this song?’
‘Andrea Bocelli. “For love, have you done anything only for love? Have you defied the wind and cried out, divided the heart itself, paid and bet again, behind this obsession that remains only mine? ” Yes, I know it. It is very beautiful. Beautiful and sad.’
Beautiful and sad – words that Tatiana thought also summed up her friend. ‘But do you still love him like that? Do you love him so much you will do anything and everything, lose it all and then try again, knowing you could lose, lose and lose again?’
Gina looked up from the cigarette she was nervously flicking in an ashtray. ‘I do still love him. But I wish I didn’t. Does that make sense?’
Tatiana reached out a hand. ‘Gina, you can’t go on like this. You must protect yourself. If you want to avoid years of madness and tears, you only have two possible choices.’
Gina’s eyes begged Tatiana for answers.
‘Leave him. Take Enzo and leave him.’
‘Not an option,’ she sighed deeply. ‘You know our way. You know my father. Marriage is for life; families are sacred.’
‘Your father doesn’t want to see you unhappy.’
‘He doesn’t want to see me divorced either. You know how things are.’
‘Then you must choose the second option.’
Gina tapped her cigarette, the filter red from her lipstick. ‘Which is?’
Her friend raised an eyebrow. ‘Find yourself a lover.’
A cry from the corner of the room turned both of their heads. The boys were fighting.
‘Hey, hey! Stop it!’ Gina got up and went over to separate them.
Blood poured from Umberto’s nose. He was crying. Tatiana pulled him close to her, wiping blood, tears and snot from his face.
‘Say sorry, Enzo,’ insisted Gina. The six-year-old pulled his shoulder free of his mother’s hand. Then he smiled and spat in his playmate’s face.
Like father, like son? Is the die already cast? Gina asked herself. Was her beautiful boy already destined to grow up to be as cruel as his father?
24
Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna
The winter light faded early and temperatures plunged way below zero. Heating pipes in the carabinieri barracks coughed and banged into life like the lungs of a geriatric smoker. Sylvia, Jack and Massimo continued their case conference over the best pizza Jack had ever tasted.
‘A lady in Cisterna makes it for us,’ explained Sylvia. ‘If she could only take the calories out then I would eat this five times a day.’
‘It is good – really good,’ enthused Jack. ‘But tell me a little more about Francesca.’
Sylvia raised her eyes. ‘You’ve seen the photographs, I’m told in real life she was even prettier. A quiet girl. Lived alone in a rented apartment. Had a degree in art but that only got her a job as a hairdresser. The salon had shut down just before she disappeared. Neighbours thought she’d moved elsewhere to find work. No trace of a boyfriend. At least, not in the block. She comes from a good, respectable family, nothing untoward there.’
‘Not like her namesake?’ asked Massimo.
Sylvia smiled at the suggestion. ‘Not at all. Her parents are about as law-abiding as you can get.’ She turned to Jack. ‘Di Lauro is an infamous name in Naples.’
‘Let me guess. Camorra, the dreaded System?’
‘You got it. Paolo Di Lauro bossed the Secondigliano sector throughout the nineties. He was a real wise wise guy. He established strong trading links with gangs and businesses in China, helped exponentially extend the System’s power base. He ducked out before the end of the last century but the Di Lauro dynasty lives on. Some years ago they were involved in an incredibly bloody battle with other clans. They won because they’re the bloodiest. They beat a sixty-year-old Camorrista to death with baseball bats, shot a woman Capo in the face in public.’
‘A woman Capo?’ queried Jack.
‘Certainly,’ said Sylvia. ‘Women have been getting top jobs in the System long before they got even lowly ones in the carabinieri.’
Massimo raised an eyebrow. ‘Like the Black Widow.’
‘He means Anna Mazza,’ explained Sylvia. ‘She bossed the Moccia clan for at least two decades.’
It was an eye-opener for Jack. The Camorra regularly made the headlines in newspapers around the world, but he hadn’t realized the full length and breadth of its activities. ‘To be clear, though, our girl, Francesca, she has no Camorra links at all?’
‘None whatsoever,’ said Sylvia. ‘It’s just pure coincidence that she shares the same surname. It’s also the name of a famous Italian fashion designer and a well-known photojournalist.’
Jack moved on. ‘And how have her parents taken the latest news?’
‘I’ve seen them recently. They’re devastated. They’d feared something bad but had always hoped the phone would ring and she’d breeze back into their lives. Her father’s a sales manager for some computer company. He and his wife split up some time before Francesca vanished.’
‘No record. No hint of abuse, or anything?’
She shook her head. ‘Not a thing. He’s a decent man. I’m sure of it.’
Massimo opened a second box of pizza and ripped off a small slice. ‘You said Creed knew Francesca personally. Did he give you details about their relationship?’
Jack shook his head. ‘No. It was right at the end of our meeting. To be honest, I was keen to get away from him and was losing interest until he mentioned that he knew her. I thought about that overnight and then when I returned to his hotel he’d already gone.’
Sylvia jumped in. ‘I don’t see them as a couple. She was gorgeous – truly beautiful. Creed, on the other hand – he looks like a sewer rat.’
‘Beautiful women have been dating ugly men since the dawn of time,’ said Massimo.
‘Thankfully,’ added Jack.
Both men laughed.
‘Sure, but the ugly men usually have more charm or cash than Creed,’ added Sylvia. ‘I could more easily imagine him stalking Francesca than dating her.’
‘My thoughts entirely,’ said Jack, ‘and that’s what worried me. If Newark hadn’t got a snowplough down their runway so quickly I might have had another meeting with him and been able to shed some serious light on this.’
Massimo’s willpower snapped. He went back for a bigger slice of the pizza. ‘This is my last piece; no one let me take any more.’
‘Me too,’ said Jack, ‘I’m stuffed. When I think of Creed I think of him as being inadequate. He seeks power and control and he has traits that indicate an inferiority complex…’
Massimo nodded as he chewed. ‘But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s an offender. If it did, then we’d be carrying out surveillance on at least half the male population.’
Sylvia poured Coke. ‘You say inadequacy. That worries me. Inadequacy is the kind of thing that can drive scrawny men like Creed to rape and murder.’
‘I’m not saying Creed is killer material,’ stressed Jack. ‘Inadequacy and inferiority are more stalker’s traits.’
‘But sometimes stalkers become killers,’ countered Sylvia.
‘Sometimes, but it’s rare,’ conceded Jack. ‘There’s something about him. Something about this case that just kicks my gut, and I’m old enough to know that I shouldn’t ignore being kicked in the gut.’
Sylvia glanced down at the thick pad of notes she’d taken during their hours together. ‘You said in your statement to one of my officers that you thought Creed might be a competent psychological profiler.’
‘The stuff he showed me was smart. He knew all about Criminal Geographic Targeting techniques, jeopardy areas, overlapping distance-decay functions. He’d certainly done some studying.’
‘So we can’t rule out that he’s just genuinely interested in solving these cases?’
‘No, we can’t. At this stage, I don’t think it wise to rule anything out – or rule anything in, for that matter.’
‘Which makes him one of two things –’ said Massimo.
Jack finished the sentence for him. ‘I was thinking the same. Misunderstood or murderous.’
All three reached for more pizza. They needed the comfort food.
25
Centro città, Napoli
The black Mercedes S280 slid silently through the streets. Its heavily glazed windows stifled the snarls of city traffic.
Bruno Valsi rode in the back, Sal the Snake beside him, Tonino Farina up front and Dino Pennestri behind the wheel. Farina and Pennestri were both made men in their late twenties. Trusted members of the Finelli Family who’d been delighted to become the first members of Valsi’s own crew. In the mind of the new Capo Zona there was nothing that Farina couldn’t extort with his brutal fists, and no wheelman that Pennestri couldn’t better.
But Valsi’s mind wasn’t on them. As they drove to his first business meeting of the new week, he was preoccupied with the growing tension between himself and the Don. Having Sal the Snake as a shadow was bad enough, but being denied the right to recruit Alberto Donatello and Romano Ivetta was much worse. It was disrespectful. And then there was the old man’s less than coded warning about making sure his fat daughter wore a permanent smile on her face. Prison had taught Valsi to be patient, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he could bite his tongue and swallow his pride.
‘This is it, boss,’ said Pennestri, pulling up outside one of Italy’s biggest call girl agencies. The driver stayed put as Farina peeled out of the passenger door. He opened a rear door, his eyes scanning the street before Valsi eased himself out and put on his black suit jacket.
The building in front of them was made of crumbling unpainted stone. It was five storeys high, each storey boasting a row of windows that opened inwards behind rusty iron shutters.
The stairs stank of dog piss. The lighting was so dim they couldn’t see their feet. The Finelli Family owned the entire block, spending little on appearances while maximizing the money they milked from sex lines and escort bookings.
Valsi had stayed up all night, studying the operation’s payment books. The manager, Celia Brabantia, was on the take. The accounts showed an unusually steady flow of income. There were no ups and downs. No surges during times when the hotels were filled with conventions, exhibitions and tourists. No falls during the bleak winter months. Valsi figured that Celia passed on what she thought was a reasonable whack and then had the nerve to keep the rest for herself. Mussa! Now he’d teach her a lesson. One she’d never forget. The thought pleased him. Excited him. Violence was his drug. It didn’t matter whether it was a man or woman who was suffering, just providing he got his fix.
Farina didn’t so much open the office door on the top floor as bang it off its hinges. Half a dozen bored and bedraggled women slumped over silent phones jumped in their seats.
‘Where’s your boss?’ hissed Sal.
The girls looked terrified. They all guessed who their visitors were and understood this wasn’t a social call.
A Czech woman with short blonde hair and a long nose that spoiled an otherwise pretty face slid out of her seat. ‘I’m Kristen. Celia’s in the office at the back. Shall I get her for you?’
‘We’ll get her ourselves.’ Sal pushed past her. Farina followed.
Valsi smiled. Sal had no style. No flair. ‘You have to excuse him – Mondays are not his good days,’ he said as he drew level with her. ‘In fact, he doesn’t have any good days.’
Kristen smiled back. He had a nice mouth. Good body too. ‘Shall I get you some drinks?’
Valsi shook his head. ‘Not now. But I’ll get you one, when I’m done here.’
Kristen tried not to look too interested. ‘I’m working late, and I’m not sure my boss will give me time off.’
Valsi laughed. ‘By the time I’ve finished with your so-called boss, believe me, you’ll be able to take the whole damned week off.’ He turned away, cracked his knuckles and headed to the office.
26
Laboratorio di Scienze Sorrentino, Napoli
Forensic anthropologist Bernardo Sorrentino put his freshly manicured hands around the back of his head and shook out his long, black curly hair. The shoulder-length mane was his trademark. That and the black Gucci sunglasses he always wore whenever there was a photographer or TV camera around. The forty-two-year-old double divorcee had recently had one ear pierced, and wore a small thousand-euro diamond in it. Much to his disappointment this hadn’t attracted a single column inch of comment.
The man the media called Il Grande Leone stared down at the monstrous mosaic of blackened bones laid out before him. On one brightly lit, large white marble table, lay the partially articulated skeleton of the woman who had been identified as Francesca Di Lauro. On an adjacent worktop were more of her blackened and splintered bones, some as small and fragile as pieces of eggshell. Given that the police had an ID there was now no point in piecing them together, but Sorrentino would do it anyway. To him it was like not completing a five-thousand-piece jigsaw, you didn’t give up just because you could see what the picture was halfway through. His personal assistant, Ruben Agut, was already exhausted but was also committed to finishing the job. Sorrentino had picked the twenty-four-year-old straight from university. He was gay and Spanish and the anthropologist considered him to be yet another exotic accessory that would draw attention to himself. ‘I’m going to get a lab coat,’ he told him. ‘Then we’ll take those photographs and shoot more video.’
Ruben let out a deep and telling sigh. He was bored rigid with being the Great Lion’s not-so-great gofer and was planning to quit and return to his native Barcelona. He and Sorrentino had had sex once. ‘Purely an experiment in bisexuality,’ his boss had called it. It had left Ruben feeling cheap and worthless. Before getting the camera he opened the recently arrived lab reports. He and Sorrentino had managed to unearth not only bone, but also dried organs and semi-
fried muscle. These had been testable, they’d both been certain of that. It was a common mistake to presume that fire was the best means of destroying a body – far from it. The flames never destroyed everything of evidential value. Nothing did.
Ruben flipped open the paperwork. The results lifted his mood. He’d correctly identified pieces of liver, kidney and lower intestine.
But what he saw next almost brought him to his knees.
The young assistant slumped over the documentation and double-checked the summary. His stomach turned. At times like this, he was sure he should be doing something else.
Ruben was still catching his breath when his boss returned. Sorrentino was buttoning up his newly starched and pressed lab coat, watching his own reflection in the window as he walked past. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ he asked, almost sensitively.
Ruben moved back from the worktop and pointed towards his discovery. ‘You were right. The material you picked out was from a uterus. The extra DNA profiling confirms that Francesca Di Lauro was pregnant.’
27
Campeggio Castellani, Pompeii
The black waterproof anorak and trousers that Franco Castellani wore for garbage collection helped him disappear into the rainy darkness of the night. He slid from shadow to shadow around the campsite, checking on the safety of the guests. Or, at least, that’s what he told his grandfather he did. For years he’d been prowling. Feeding on any flash of naked female flesh that he could find. Summer was best. Many young couples came to the site to be alone and he’d often see them lost in their lovemaking. He longed for the same. Ached for the sensation of sex. The mysterious closeness he’d witnessed.
In the past, Paolo had brought him hookers. The first had been his age, maybe even younger. She’d fled as soon as she’d got a good look at him. The second had been in her forties. As old and cold as his runaway mother. She was drunk and ridiculed him. Laughed at his withered face, his buck teeth and birdlike body. Asked if Bird Boy had got a worm for a cock? He’d have killed her if Paolo hadn’t stopped him. At times like that – times like now – he felt more dead than alive.