by Unknown
Ivetta and Donatello could see where the conversation was leading. ‘So, we hit the Cicerone boys first,’ said Ivetta. ‘We hurt them bad, and then we kill Don Fredo.’
Valsi waved a headmasterly finger at them. ‘Too fast. You’re going too quickly. We wipe out the Cicerone leadership. Then, we pause a little. We let the Finelli diehards see our strength. If we are vicious enough, then the ambitious ones among them will weed out the weak.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Donatello. ‘The young bucks will kill the old guard for us.’
Valsi winked at him. ‘Now you’re learning. What we need, though, is a plan to hit at the heart of the Cicerone. It may be bloody. How many men, good men, can you put on the streets?’
‘If the price is right?’ Ivetta held his hands open.
‘Of course.’
‘However many we need. One, two dozen – maybe more.’
‘Wait,’ said Valsi, a thin smile bisecting his handsome face. ‘I have an idea that may require fewer men. In fact, only one man and one very beautiful woman.’ He turned to the club monitors. ‘One with the face of a sainted angel.’
63
Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna
By nightfall, Jack, Sylvia and Pietro were consumed with the werewolf hunger that hits most murder squads at the end of a high-adrenaline shift. The antidote was a case of cold beer along with several boxes of locally made pizzas.
Sylvia shook a warm strand of dangling mozzarella from her fingers. ‘We’ve let old man Castellani go home. He’s no value to us here and he was worrying himself sick about his campsite business.’
‘And worrying about his grandsons?’ asked Jack.
‘Especially Franco,’ said Pietro, his mouth full. ‘He didn’t say much about Paolo, except that he’s a good boy and we should treat him properly.’
‘Then Franco’s not a good boy? Is that his implication?’ Jack took a wedge of garlic bread.
‘Franco’s probably a murdering little bastard,’ added Pietro. ‘But all his grandfather will say is that life has been unkind to him and we shouldn’t misjudge him.’
‘An understatement.’ The garlic bread made Jack’s stomach growl. ‘Life has been wickedly cruel to young Franco. Has he got any form?’
Sylvia nodded and hurriedly tried to finish chewing. ‘Violence. A suspended sentence about five years ago for a very bad beating he gave someone stupid enough to make fun of him.’
‘How bad?’
‘Put the guy in hospital.’
Jack wiped his fingers and sipped a beer. ‘Nothing connected to arson, or involving fire?’
‘Not that we can find. We’re rerunning our checks and seeing if there are any psych reports as well.’
‘And Paolo – anything on him?’
‘Nothing.’ Sylvia thought for a minute. ‘I’m just trying to remember what Paolo said. He told us Franco wasn’t there when he went to sleep, then when he woke he was crashed out in bed. There’s heroin and a spike on the floor. The old man sees it, goes pazzo and then slaps him about.’
Jack sealed his fate with another garlic-loaded slice. ‘You mean Paolo has no alibi, and we’re ignoring his potential role in all this because the forensics are pointing the big finger at Franco?’
‘Just a thought.’
‘And a good one.’
Jack put the bread back. ‘Franco and Paolo, I was just wondering how they compared to Bianchi and Buono.’
Pietro was lost. ‘Scusi?’
‘Ken Bianchi and Angelo Buono. They were both cousins, grew up together, hung out together, played games of rape and murder together.’
Sylvia took the bread Jack had put back. ‘The Hillside Strangler case?’
‘The same. California, late seventies. Ten-plus victims. Cops had it down as the work of one guy. The press dubbed the perp the Hillside Strangler. Anyway, turned out the killings were done by two cousins.’
‘They even sound Italian,’ noted Pietro.
‘Half of America does,’ joked Jack. ‘And probably the good half.’
Sylvia took one final bite and dropped the bread. She scrunched her napkin into a ball and dumped it on the paper plate. ‘My eyes are bigger than my belly. You think maybe Paolo and Franco might be the same? Like Bianchi and Buono? Maybe Paolo’s as guilty as hell but is now trying to shift all the blame on to his cousin?’
‘That’s possible,’ said Jack. ‘These cousins are – what? Twenty-four, twenty-five?’
Pietro searched his memory. ‘Both twenty-four. Franco is twenty-five in a couple of months.’
Jack took another slug of cold beer. ‘Agewise they’re on the edge of the profile that I’m thinking of. If these missing women are all connected, they stretch back eight years or so, which puts these cousins around sixteen. It’s kind of tender for this sort of sadism, but not unheard of.’
Sylvia was following his drift. ‘I get what you mean. The sexual component in this case puts the offenders north of the puberty line. But what about the element of control used? Surely the offender, even back in the days of his first clumsy kills, must be much older than sixteen?’
‘Agreed,’ said Jack, ‘but two offenders working together can distort things. They cover for each other, make fewer mistakes. A combination of two young offenders can give the impression of one more mature single perpetrator.’
Glumness hung in the air as they all pictured the possibility of the two cousins working in concert, picking off the women together, maybe one providing a distraction, the other delivering a disabling blow from behind. ‘To be truthful,’ said Jack, ‘I think we’re at that stage where we can’t rule anything out. It’s worth keeping in mind, though, that Bianchi and Buono were not a one-off. The eighties threw up Dave Gore and Fred Waterfield. When the curtain came down they pinned six rape murders on Gore and two on Waterfield. Though some old-timers say they might have killed as many as fifty. And, in fact, the first real recorded case of serial murder was the Harpe case.’
Sylvia uncapped another bottle of Peroni. ‘Harpe? We didn’t do that at the academy. How long we going back?’
Jack played with his beer. ‘Way, way back, to the eighteenth century – late 1700s, I think. Micajah and Wiley Harpe were wild kids, rode with outlaws and renegade Indians. Murdered some men and boys, but it’s thought they killed about forty women between them. Maybe more. They kidnapped, raped and murdered their way across frontierland. Used to ride into farms, rustle livestock, rape the women and then burn down the buildings and leave them to die inside. The crimes bound them together.’
‘Burned them to death?’ asked Pietro.
‘So the reports say. Fire has been an age-old method of covering tracks. And sociopaths who kill for fun and profit are not a modern-day phenomenon.’
Sylvia looked down at the notes she’d made on the back of the pizza box. She scrunched up the waste and binned it. ‘Time to go, I think. Let’s get some sleep. Pietro, I have a job for you. Early doors, crack of dawn. And tomorrow I’ll have another session with Franco’s cousin and see if he really is hiding anything.’
64
Campeggio Castellani, Pompeii
Pietro Raimondi was cursing both Jack and Sylvia as he prised himself away from the warmth of his naked fiancée and rolled out of bed. Sylvia’s last instruction of the night was for him to pay an early morning visit to old man Castellani.
The recent spate of long days and long nights meant he was spending too little time with his fiancée Eliana, and he didn’t like it. It was straining their relationship. Pietro didn’t mind working for a living, but he wasn’t one of those cops who made the mistake of living solely for his work. Far from it. He lived for Eliana – for money to spend on them both – for the chance to have a better home than their one-bed studio in a flea-pit tenement building. He lived for better than this. He mulled everything over as he drove out to the Castellani place.
Mussolini, the Castellani’s mongrel dog, ran at his old Lancia, barking at its tyres as
he pulled to a stop. He decided to wait a beat until it backed off.
A caravan door clunked open. Castellani creaked down the short metal stairs and recognized him. He tied the dog up and walked back inside. Left the door open for Pietro to follow. The younger man climbed the steps and was still shutting it when Antonio asked, ‘When are you letting my Paolo come home?’
‘Buon giorno! Just as soon as he helps us find Franco.’
The old man headed to the kitchen sink. ‘You want caffè?’
‘Sì. Please.’
The van was roasting hot and stank of stale sweat. It must have been years since it’d been cleaned. If, indeed, it ever had been.
The two men sat either side of a cheap, narrow table that flapped down off the wall.
It almost broke as Pietro leaned his big heavy arms on it. ‘Antonio, you are too old and, I suspect, too wise to play games with us.’ There was a glint of menace in the lieutenant’s dark-brown eyes. ‘We have found three people murdered on your land. One of your grandsons is in custody and the other is on the run. You’ve had time to reflect since yesterday. Now I need answers from you. I need to be able to clear up these crimes.’ Pietro flipped open a pocket-sized spiral pad and tapped a pen on the blank page.
Antonio rubbed his bald brown head. Dry skin fell like snow in the grey air of the caravan. ‘I don’t know where Franco is. If I did, I’d tell you. He is ill and I want him to be safe – even if that means he has to be safe with you.’
‘Does Paolo know where he is? Did they hang out anywhere special together?’
‘He could do. Though they never went anywhere special. They have no money. Times are tough. Maybe you noticed?’
‘I noticed. I grew up around here. As you see, I’m no Roman millionaire.’
The old man shuffled back to the kitchen area. Poured the coffee that had been brewing.
Pietro came straight to the point. ‘Are they capable of murder? Could your boys do that?’
He studied the old man for his reaction.
Antonio looked away. He’d been floored by so many big moments in his time. So many body blows, kidney punches, surprise knockdowns. Anything was possible. But surely not this? ‘Not Paolo. He’s gentle. I’ve never seen him hurt anyone.’
‘But Franco?’
‘Franco has a temper. He hates how he is. You can understand that, can’t you?’
Pietro nodded. ‘The way he is would give me a temper too. But could he kill?’
Antonio remembered his missing gun and shells. ‘He could kill. You know he has my gun. He fires it in the pit. I don’t know if he hits anything – he says he aims at rats – but he fires it. And he has this temper. But I don’t think so. No, I don’t think so.’
Pietro’s eyes gave away his thoughts – parents never considered their kids to be capable of murder.
Antonio held the officer’s gaze. ‘Please go gentle on him. Do whatever you can to bring him in safely.’
The police cell was cold and Paolo Falconi hadn’t been given the second blanket he’d asked for. He was tired and his body ached as they marched him to the interview room. They showed no interest in his complaints about last night or his requests for something to eat or drink.
Sylvia Tomms, however, was well rested and raring to go. She got the formalities out of the way as they settled themselves at a small table. Once more Paolo said he didn’t want a lawyer. Insisted he had nothing to hide. She opened a case file and slid over pictures of the dead bodies of Rosa Novello, Filippo Valdrano and the still unidentified female corpse found in the Castellani pit.
‘I hope these people came to you in your dreams last night, Paolo.’
You could hear a pin drop in the interview room as her words sank in.
‘Did they? Can you live with their deaths? With what was done to them?’
The pictures turned his stomach. Now he was glad they hadn’t given him breakfast.
‘Nothing to say, Paolo?’
‘Nothing new. I told you everything yesterday. How’s my nonno? Can I see him? He’s really old and –’
‘We let your grandfather go home. He’s fine.’
Paolo looked relieved.
Sylvia touched Rosa’s picture. ‘This girl can’t go home, though. She used to be pretty – not now. Look at her.’
He glanced at the picture, took in the missing part of the girl’s skull. Her milky eyes. His face showed both shock and sympathy. Right from the start Sylvia had been having trouble seeing him as a killer, but the conversation last night with Jack had raised doubts in her mind. ‘Do you like girls, Paolo, or are boys your thing?’
He frowned at her. ‘You think I’m finocchio.’
‘So, you have a girlfriend?’
He didn’t answer.
‘I said, do you have a girlfriend?’
‘I heard what you said. No, I don’t – but that doesn’t make me anything. I just don’t have a girl.’
Sylvia pushed all three photographs nearer to him. ‘I’m not bothered if you’re straight, or if you’re gay. I’m bothered whether you – and your runaway cousin – had a motive to kill any of these people.’
He glared at her.
‘Well? Did you?’
‘You’re crazy. You’re all fucking crazy. I told that lieutenant yesterday everything I knew.’
‘What about the panties, Paolo? The yellow panties?’
‘I told him about them too.’
‘You told him nothing. Just that sometimes you’d seen Franco with women’s underwear.’
Paolo scowled at her. ‘That’s it. That’s all I know. I told that big guy.’
Sylvia stood up and sighed. ‘Va bene. You want to be stupid. Fine. We’ve got other leads to chase up. I have a job to do, and I have to do it before anyone else gets hurt. You think I give a damn whether you rot in here for another month?’
They stared at each other.
Paolo scratched the back of his head.
Sylvia gave him a make-your-mind-up look.
He let out a sigh and looked down at the floor. ‘Franco sometimes stole underwear and stuff from the campers’ vans.’
‘Go on.’ She stayed standing.
‘He’d see a young girl walking around and he’d talk about wanting to fuck her. But he knew that was never going to happen.’
‘Because of the way he looks?’
‘What do you think?’
Sylvia sat back down. ‘So, he would steal their things – the girls’ things – then what?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
Paolo looked embarrassed. ‘He did things in the dark, or in the bathroom with them – on his own.’
‘So how did you know he had them?’
‘Sometimes he’d show me. He’d point out a girl, then show me her panties. It was like he was somehow connected to her. I told him it was sick.’
‘And what did he say to that?’
‘Told me to fuck off. He used to keep their stuff in the van – our van. He’d hold them, sort of cuddle them and sleep with them. But after I told him it was sick he stopped doing it, or he kept them somewhere else.’
‘Like the pit.’
‘Guess so.’
Sylvia picked up Rosa’s picture and held the dead girl’s face in front of his. ‘So you’re telling me that he stole this girl’s underwear from her on the very night that she got murdered? Hell of a coincidence, isn’t it?’
Paolo shrugged. ‘Coincidences happen.’
‘Did he ever approach the girls – do anything to them?’
‘You’re joking. He was too chicken-shit scared to approach them. He’d shout things if I was with him, but he was frightened to death of women. He wanted one – wanted one really bad – but he was terrified of being alone with them. Scared of them saying anything about how he looked.’
‘Did that happen?’
‘Sometimes. A while ago – before he looked anything near as bad as he does now – he tried to hit on
some girls, but they were horrible to him.’
‘Like how?’
‘They’d put their fingers in their throats to show he made them feel like throwing up.’
Sylvia felt a pang of sympathy for Franco. But at the same time she knew that such humiliation could easily engender thoughts of murder. The interview lasted another hour. By the end she was as sure as she could be that he’d been telling her the truth. ‘Do you know where he is, Paolo? He’s not well, and we have to find him. We have to help him and we have to make sure he hasn’t got anything to do with these deaths.’
Paolo didn’t hesitate. ‘He didn’t. I know Franco better than anyone and I know he didn’t kill anybody.’
‘You might be right. But we have to talk to him ourselves. You know we have to do that. Where could he be, Paolo?’
There was a long silence, then he shifted awkwardly on the hard interview chair. ‘I don’t know. I’d tell you if I did, but I really don’t know.’
Paolo shut his eyes and covered his face with his hands. He wanted to go home. Wanted to check his grandfather was okay. Wanted this nightmare to end. But more than anything, he wanted to clear his mind of the images of where Franco might be and what he might do with his grandfather’s Glock.
65
Grand Hotel Parker’s, Napoli
A few too many beers and far too little sleep conspired to give Jack an early morning headache. He’d been hoping for a gentle start to the day. A little low-volume news on the TV, then a longer than normal soak under a hot shower. But after being awake for less than ten minutes he was already compelled to run yesterday’s events through his head. What was still bugging him was the link between the killings at the pit and the murder of Francesca Di Lauro. He was still far from certain any of them were the work of the runaway Franco Castellani.
Jack used the bathroom, then padded over to the desk in the corner of his room and emptied out his thoughts. In that blurry moment when the killer at the pit had been disturbed, he’d shown that instinctively his weapon of choice was not fire, but a firearm. Fire was his fantasy, his pleasure, his turn-on. But when it came to split-second survival, then it was a gun that he turned to.