Viper

by Unknown

  Young. Dead.

  The words touched him. Mirrored his own fate. Cut down in his prime. One moment happy and free – oblivious to the savageries of the world – then killed by a bullet from out of the blue. He felt a rage building. A terrible rage against the unfairness of life. The unfairness of everything. Franco fell to his knees.

  Knife gripped tight, he plunged it. Not once, or twice, but dozens of times into the body of the fawn. Only when he was exhausted did he stop.

  Only when he was really sure that the rage was spent, did he finish.

  Then he collapsed. Wrapped his arm round the dead, mutilated animal and cried.

  Wept like he hadn’t wept since he was a child.

  48

  Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna

  Sylvia Tomms took a deep breath as the press conference started. Her hands shook a little as she stared into a white wall of light blazing out from above the TV cameras. But she made sure none of her nervousness showed. She was in a stylishly cut black business suit with a long-collared white silk shirt. She knew she looked smart, authoritative and fully in control. She also knew that her performance was vitally important not only for her, but also for the case and for Francesca and her brave and dignified parents. She’d give them all her best.

  Photographers shouldered each other for space. Radio journalists held microphones high above their heads, like unlit Olympic torches.

  Sylvia, along with Francesca’s parents, sat behind a table covered with a white cloth, on a raised rough wooden stage in what was normally the carabinieri’s gymnasium. Feedback made everyone jump as a sound engineer adjusted the levels to amplify Sylvia’s opening words. ‘Buona sera. I am Capitano Sylvia Tomms, the officer in charge of the Francesca Di Lauro inquiry.’ Sylvia cleared her throat. ‘I am joined by Francesca’s parents, Genarro and Bernadetta, who have a very personal statement that they would like to read to you. Before they do that, for those of you who are new to the case, there is a written handout being circulated. It gives details of how, where and when Francesca’s remains were discovered in the National Park of Mount Vesuvius.’

  Sylvia paused while an assistant from the Press Office handed out single sheets of white paper. Photographers seized on the spare seconds and launched another volley of camera flashes.

  ‘As some of you have reported, one of our forensic experts, Professore Bernardo Sorrentino, has discovered that Francesca may well have been pregnant at the time she was murdered. I say may well because we still have to complete matching DNA tests as a formality.’

  Jack watched the conference live on Mediaset from a small TV in the corner of the carabinieri canteen. He thought Sylvia was handling herself well. She looked cool, calm and highly professional. But he was worried about Francesca’s parents; they weren’t media savvy. It was clearly a stressful and emotional ordeal for them.

  Genarro Di Lauro stared into the alien lights and bug-eyes of the TV cameras. A pre-written statement shook noisily in his hands. ‘My daughter was a very special woman. She was everything to us – everything.’ The words stuck in his throat and his grief welled up so quickly that it took several seconds before he could continue. ‘Francesca was a beautiful young woman, full of dreams and laughter. She brought us – and everyone who met her – great joy. She was kind and generous and…’ His mind wandered. A flashback of her as a baby – soft arms around his neck, angel face pressed against his cheek. He wiped tears from the corner of his left eye. ‘My daughter had the most amazing laugh. It was the laugh of someone who loved life and who filled it with love, the kind of life that would warm you all the way through to your heart. I – I want to…’

  He was lost now. Eyes flooded. Memories welled up, so large and vivid that he thought he would suffocate. Birthdays, Christmases, holidays, Sunday mornings, bathtimes, bedtimes, story times – all the sweetness flooded in but burned like acid. He couldn’t hold back the pain any more. He covered his face with his hands and sobbed. ‘Mi dispiace. I’m sorry – very sorry.’

  Public grief is a rare, exotic animal and the big-game hunters of the national press took every shot they could. The high-tech cameras clicked like machine guns, another trophy head for tomorrow’s papers.

  Bernadetta put her arm protectively around her ex-husband. Her voice sounded only a sentence away from breaking. ‘Our daughter is dead. Our baby is dead.’

  The camera flashguns intensified. Lenses zoomed and refocused, elbows jostled for space and angle.

  ‘The police think that somewhere, someone might know something that could help them catch her killer. Please – please – if you are that someone, come forward. Help us.’

  Bernadetta was done. She buried her face in Genarro’s shoulder and sobbed.

  Sylvia spoke to someone behind her and a police-woman gently ushered them both offstage.

  The journalists almost created a stampede to get their final shots and Sylvia had to virtually shout into the microphone to restore order.

  ‘Bernadetta and Genarro thank you all for your support and help. The printed handouts we gave you have a telephone number for the Murder Incident Room that anyone can ring if they have information. Calls to that number can be anonymous if people wish. Now, are there any further questions?’

  A man’s hand went up. A TV reporter, late twenties, well groomed, still hoping one day to get his shot at studio anchor. ‘Will there be an opportunity to do one-on-one interviews with Francesca’s parents?’

  ‘No,’ snapped Sylvia, more curtly than she’d intended. ‘You saw how painful tonight was for them. Please give them some privacy. No personal interviews. We won’t take kindly to anyone who hassles them for interviews. Next question.’

  A woman reporter waved her hand and caught Sylvia’s eye. ‘Can you tell us how Francesca died?’

  ‘Not at the moment. We have detailed forensic reports that we are following up. Right now it would be inappropriate to comment further.’

  A middle-aged man waved a notebook. ‘Francesca was pregnant when she died – do you know who the father was?’

  Sylvia raised the palm of her hand. ‘I can’t comment on that at the moment.’ She was keen to change the subject and saw someone waving at the back, a face she half recognized. ‘Yes, at the back. Your question, please.’

  ‘Capitano Tomms, would you say that this killing is connected to the disappearances of Luisa Banotti, Patricia Calvi, Donna Rizzi and Gloria Pirandello – all local women who have gone missing over the last five to eight years?’

  The names stopped Sylvia in her tracks.

  Inside the carabinieri canteen Jack stood up and immediately left the TV set he’d been watching.

  All eyes flitted backwards and forwards between the reporter and the silent carabinieri Capitano. Sylvia’s mind was running at frantic speed. How had someone made the connection between Francesca and the other missing women? Was there a leak in her inquiry team?

  The well-informed journalist pressed for an answer. ‘Capitano, do you deny that all these women are missing and may, like Francesca, have been murdered?’

  Sylvia knew she couldn’t stall any further. ‘I’m sorry. I’m hesitating on my answer because I don’t want anyone here to lose focus of the facts – we’re hunting for the killer of Francesca Di Lauro, a young woman, a young mother-to-be, murdered in the prime of her life. I don’t want to speculate on other random cases, I don’t want distractions, I want to concentrate on this one woman’s death. I and Francesca’s parents need your help. Please remember the faces of Genarro and Bernadetta – let’s make sure we catch this man and ensure no other parents suffer like they have. Thank you, everyone. This press conference is over.’ As she stepped from the stage she finally nailed the identity of the journalist. She motioned frantically towards Pietro Raimondi. Half the press were suddenly in her way. Squashing towards the exits to file their stories.

  Sylvia finally reached Pietro on the other side of some security doors. Before she could say anything, Jack arr
ived. He was breathless but took the words right out of her mouth.

  ‘That was Creed. The man who just asked those questions wasn’t a journalist. It’s Luciano Creed.’

  49

  Via Caprese Michelangelo, centro città, Napoli

  At dusk, high-powered halogen security lights fizzled into life, illuminating the six-storey salmon-coloured building that housed the penthouse of Camorra consigliere Ricardo Mazerelli.

  The forty-eight-year-old’s home off Corso Vittorio Emanuele was located behind tall black railings in a private park, plush with palm trees and pristine lawns. Three armed security guards – Finelli men – patrolled the grounds 24/7.

  In keeping with the trend for glass conservatories built over sky-high terraces, Mazerelli’s was probably the biggest and longest in the city. Inside, a fountain-fed pond of ghost koi carp was the central feature of a Japanese garden specifically designed for peace and tranquillity. The privileged few who had stood inside, and gawped at the incongruity of the place, could also tell you that the windows were not only bullet-proof, they were strong enough to withstand a mortar attack.

  Don Fredo Finelli sat in a wicker chair, a glass of chilled Prosecco on a small stone table at his side. He loosened his tie. He and his consigliere were alone after a routine business meeting in the financial district. Mazerelli looked tense and the Don wanted to know why. ‘So, Ricardo, spill your troubles. Tell me what is on your mind.’

  The family lawyer leaned forward, elbows on knees, a businesslike look on his face. ‘May I speak openly; without fear of causing offence?’

  ‘You know that is your privilege,’ said Don Fredo, ‘but please don’t use it as a licence for disrespect.’

  ‘It is your son-in-law.’

  The Don’s eyebrows arched. He couldn’t help but tense in his seat.

  ‘How do I know this is not going to be good news?’

  ‘I’m afraid you are right.’ Mazerelli slid open the top of another stone table and dialled the combination of the safe hidden inside. He pulled out a large Manila envelope and passed it to his employer. ‘You need to see these.’

  For a moment Don Fredo considered not opening the packet. He was going to deal with Valsi when he was ready. When the time was right. He feared that whatever the photographs showed might enrage him so much it would cloud his judgement.

  The consigliere stood behind the Don and explained the stack of prints. ‘They are all pictures of child drug dealers, fornitori run by Bruno or, at least, by his associates. The youth you’re looking at is the spacciatore, the pusher; he is dealing wraps of cocaine and heroin.’

  ‘How old is he?’ Don Fredo’s voice was low and sombre.

  ‘This one is about fourteen. I’m told younger boys and girls are involved. Maybe as young as nine or ten.’

  ‘Porca Madonna! This is not what we do.’ Don Fredo threw down the photographs.

  ‘In some ways it is clever,’ continued Mazerelli. ‘Juveniles are not punished as severely by the polizia or the courts. They are often given second chances rather than detention.’

  Finelli banged his fist on the arm of the chair. ‘Children are not pawns, Ricardo! We offer them jobs when they are old enough to choose, not when they are too young to say no.’

  The consigliere paused and let his boss’s passion fade before passing over a new print. ‘Now we go up the chain, this is the main dealer –’

  ‘You are sure of that?’

  ‘Yes. There are several shots of him. Look at the blow-up and you will see.’

  Finelli took another print and screwed up his face. The shot was taken from a high angle, maybe from an apartment building, or a factory rooftop. It very clearly showed bags of cocaine in the trunk of the dealer’s Alfa. Digital scales, wire ties, silver foil and latex gloves were visible near a wheel and a jack.

  The Don put two prints to one side and tapped one with his right hand. ‘Who are these men? Please tell me they are not who I think they are.’

  ‘I am afraid they are. Alberto Donatello and Romano Ivetta.’

  The Don shook his head, reached for the glass of Prosecco and drained it.

  ‘They’re clearly the gang masters. They organize the children every day. Supply them with the packages and take the cash from them.’

  ‘Scum!’ Valsi had defied him and it made his blood boil.

  Heavy moments passed as Don Fredo examined the other photographs. A long-lens surveillance shot showed Valsi shoulder to shoulder with the other men. All three were laughing. The background confirmed they had been taken on the same day and in the same place where the kids had been dealing. ‘Where did you get these from? Did you spy on my son-in-law, without asking me for permission – without my authority?’

  ‘Don Fredo, no!’ Mazerelli steepled his hands together, praying for a pause in the rising outburst. ‘I did not take these photographs, nor did I commission them.’

  Finelli felt apprehension corkscrew down his spine. ‘So, where were they taken?’ He feared the worst. ‘Tell me it was in the east quarter. Or, at least, in one of our territories.’

  Ricardo Mazerelli glanced at the carp swimming through his roof-garden pool. The water needed changing. He’d do it later. The calm and peace that he savoured were about to be ruined. His eyes returned to his boss. ‘They were given to me by the consigliere of the Cicerone Family. They were taken on his Family’s ground.’

  The old man rubbed his face.

  He wasn’t prepared for this. Not at all.

  His thoughts and planning had been on keeping peace within his own Family. The one thing he hadn’t contemplated was a turf war. But it was going to happen.

  There was going to be a blood feud.

  50

  Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna

  Luciano Creed had vanished.

  Pietro barked into a walkie-talkie and marshalled police cars from the back of the barracks. With luck Creed wouldn’t have got far.

  ‘He’ll take the autostrada,’ Pietro motioned to Jack. ‘There’s a junction only a few kilometres from here, we must go now.’

  Jack followed the tall lieutenant to an old Lancia parked across the road. The profiler’s mind was more troubled about why Creed had turned up than whether they had a chance of catching him.

  ‘Motherfucking bastard!’ Raimondi swore softly as he sped away from the barracks with a squeal of car tyres.

  Jack had guessed that the press conference would provoke a reaction. Maybe a letter from the killer. Maybe a tip-off from someone who’d been touched by Francesca’s parents and thought they knew the killer. But he hadn’t bargained on this.

  The old car lurched round bends and accelerated down the autostrada slip road. Pietro opened it up and the exhaust rattled.

  ‘There! There!’ shouted Jack as they drew level with a Land Rover Freelander.

  Passing sodium lights played on and off the wind-shields as the two cars drove in parallel at approaching 140kph.

  Luciano Creed looked across and spotted Jack King peering back at him. He didn’t seem frightened. He smiled a jagged yellow-toothed smile, lifted his right hand off the wheel and used his thumb and small finger to illustrate a phone.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ asked Pietro, wondering whether the old Lancia was strong enough to force the Freelander to stop, or whether it would just get chewed up under the 4x4’s big wheels.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Jack. ‘He’s making fun of us, I think.’

  Suddenly the Freelander veered sharp right. It crossed on to the hard shoulder and careered down the banking.

  ‘Fuck!’ shouted Pietro. ‘What happened? Has he crashed?’

  Jack craned his neck and squinted out of the rear window while the Lancia squealed to a stop. ‘I can’t see anything.’ His eyes scanned the darkness for any sign of flames or lights.

  Nothing.

  ‘Christ, where’s he gone?’ Pietro hit reverse and backed up. ‘There was no turn-off there. You can’t get off the autostrada
for another five kilometres.’

  Creed was nowhere to be seen.

  They’d been within touching distance of him. Close enough for Jack to have almost pulled open the car door and slapped cuffs on him. Then the weird little punk had just disappeared.

  They looped on and off the autostrada. Blue police lights criss-crossed bridges and slip roads above and below them as they searched high and low. Intense radio chatter filled the airwaves, but no one had news of Creed’s whereabouts. After forty-five minutes Jack and Pietro headed back to the barracks.

  Sylvia was in her office. A face like thunder. ‘Well?’

  Pietro threw his hands wide. ‘Andato.’ Gone.

  Sylvia slapped her desk. ‘He made us look like fools. Like stupid, damn idiots. I wish now we’d never held that press conference.’

  ‘Hindsight is a wonderful thing,’ said Jack, checking his cellphone, more out of the need for a distraction than any sense of urgency.

  ‘Affanculo! ’ swore Pietro. ‘Now the motherfucker is gone and we’ll never hear from him again.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on that.’ Jack looked down at the phone in his hand. ‘Remember that gesture he made as we passed him? Well, it seems the manipulative little creep was planning to contact us again.’ He spun the phone round so they could see the display. ‘I’ve just got a text message from Creed.’

  Pietro and Sylvia squinted at it.

  I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE THINKING BUT I DIDN’T DO IT. I’M INNOCENT. CREED.

  ‘So, if he’s innocent, why all this?’ said Sylvia. ‘What’s all this about?’

  Pietro shrugged sympathetically. ‘He is messing with us again. He is lying now and was lying right from the start when he met Jack and said he was still working for us and the university.’

  ‘And he lied about being involved with Francesca?’ added Sylvia.