by Unknown
Like a clock face.
Of course. It all seemed so obvious now.
So simple.
Jack hurried back and interrupted Sylvia and Sorrentino. ‘I think our killer’s been burying the bodies in a circle. Look back at the poles on the graves of what you’ve called Victims One, Two and Three. You can see the start of an arc, like the circumference of a clock.’
Soft rain fell as their gaze moved over the site. The curve soon became apparent. Sylvia was the first to grasp the full significance. ‘If you’re right – if he has buried them following the numbers on a clock face – then it would be logical that his first victim was buried as due north as he could guess at.’
Jack looked again at the steel poles jutting out of the ground. ‘Which is nowhere near where you found Francesca, the area you’ve marked as Victim One.’
‘That fits with our science,’ added Sorrentino. ‘Timewise she looks like at least the third victim in the sequence that we’ve already identified. If we discover more bodies – earlier victims – then chronologically she moves further down.’
Jack nodded. He could already tell that Francesca’s burial site wasn’t due north, nor was Victim Three.
Sylvia screwed up her face. Paced restlessly between the poles. ‘If we’re to hit on any other graves we have to get the curve right, follow exactly the same arc that our killer had in his mind when he returned to the scene and buried each victim. Bernardo, what about a radar sweep?’
The Great Lion flicked a paw dismissively through the air. ‘I hate radar. With electronics you find only what you think you are looking for. As a consequence you miss so much more. Let’s think of it as a last resort.’
Sylvia let it slide. Sorrentino was in charge of the excavation and his record spoke for itself. ‘Let me get this right,’ she said. ‘Victims Two and Three are found to the left of Victim One, and they were both buried earlier. So if we keep going west, then we should keep finding earlier victims until we hit north?’
‘That’s if my theory is right,’ said Jack. ‘And it presumes that he buried his first victim as due north as he could guess at.’
Sorrentino nodded. ‘Due north representing twelve o’clock?’
‘Exactly.’
They looked across the land. There was a lot of west to go. Lots of room for more bodies.
‘We need a compass.’ Sylvia looked to Sorrentino. He huffed and strode away from them. Walked the planks between the victims. ‘I admire precision, but sometimes you should also go with instinct.’ He moved almost two metres north-west of the third victim, lifted a spade and sliced it into the muddy ground. ‘We’ve already photographed the hell out of this site, so we should get on with it and see if your theory holds up.’
Jack and Sylvia watched as Sorrentino worked away.
She produced a small, telescopic umbrella from her coat and held it over them as the anthropologist slowly toiled in the freshly falling rain. ‘I forgot to ask, any news from your friend Howie? He come up with anything on Creed?’
‘A little,’ said Jack. ‘I left a message on Pietro’s phone. Howie showed Creed’s mug around some diners and bars. Seems he kept pretty much to himself, but it appears he may have visited a street girl.’
‘Any ID on her?’
‘Afraid not. It also seems he was logged on to our Virtual Academy. He named someone in the carabinieri for accreditation.’
Sylvia frowned. She knew enough about the VA to understand it had restricted access. ‘You know the name of who vouched for him?’
‘Nope, but it was probably faked.’
‘The more things develop, the less I like Creed.’ Sylvia fought more hair from her face and vowed to get it cut. ‘Still not sure he stands up as a serious suspect for serial murder, though.’
‘You’re right to feel that way. But I think Creed is partly a monster of your own making.’
‘How do you mean?’ She sounded surprised.
‘Given all the details on these missing girls, and what we’ve recently discovered, then maybe someone should get a roasting for ignoring Creed’s earlier claims that the cases warranted looking at.’
‘I’ve asked about that. It’s not quite the way Creed told you. Seems he did inform several people about the links, but he refused to share all his data unless he was given a full-time job. He was holding info back in order to serve his own ends.’
‘That would figure.’
Despite Sorrentino’s remark about enough photographs and records having been done, Sylvia still called a crime-scene snapper to take more shots. He arrived wet and cold. She directed him to the new dig. Kristoff Sibilski, a soil analysis expert from the carabinieri’s science labs, and Luella Grazzioli, Sorrentino’s new Number Two, had rolled up and were now at work as well. Their expert fingers dug in the wet mud and grit. They pulled out stones, filled buckets, sifted soil through metal meshes and removed twigs and glass. Finally, they tagged and bagged samples that meant nothing to either Jack or Sylvia but seemed attractive to Sorrentino. ‘Trowel!’ he shouted to Luella, akin to the way a surgeon calls for a scalpel.
She slapped it into the palm of Sorrentino’s rubber-gloved hand and within seconds he was back on his knees, operating at close quarters, making incisive cuts at precision speed.
Jack watched the rain pour over his long, matted black hair and found himself admiring the man’s passion and skill.
Without speaking, Sorrentino delicately lifted something from the earth. He rose slowly to his feet, one hand cupped beneath the trowel, and turned to face them.
Everyone stared at what he held.
‘Bone,’ he said decisively. ‘Human bone.’
In a patch two metres west of the last grave, in a near perfect arc, they’d found Victim Number Four.
69
Parco Nazionale del Vesuvio
A fourth victim.
Was it a setback or a breakthrough? Sylvia rang her superiors from the site and they were in no doubt – it was una catastrofe, un disastro, una tragedia – and they told her so in ways that made it seem as though it was her fault. News about a serial killer was not good for tourism. Not good for the city’s image. And certainly not good for votes. Sorrentino, meanwhile – well, he was as happy as a pig in shit. He could barely wait to get back to his laboratory and get the newly discovered bones under his microscope.
Sylvia made several calls as she drove away from Vesuvius. She spoke to Pietro, who said he’d drawn a blank with old man Castellani and was going home early because he thought he had the start of flu. Then she spoke to another of her lieutenants who’d re-interviewed Paolo Falconi and had also come up with nothing new. How she needed a break! She ordered Paolo’s release and asked for surveillance to be put on him, in case he contacted Franco.
Jack had gone back to the hotel to change his soaked clothes. She’d promised to ring him after her trip to the labs to see how the forensic evidence was progressing.
The carabinieri’s Raggruppamento Investigazioni Scientifiche was housed in a building that Sylvia thought belonged more in Rome than in Naples. The grand five-storey terraced building was salmon pink with dark-green shutters. Potted rose trees stood sentry either side of a lavish slab of marble doorstep.
On the third floor she pushed open the doors to the lab of Marianna Della Fratte and found her old friend, white-coated and hunched over a stack of paperwork. Marianna was thirty-five, single and had the smart and easy sense of humour that made Sylvia wish they both had enough free time to become even closer than they were.
‘Can you search your stack and see if you’ve got a one-pager that solves my case so I can go on a long, long holiday?’
Marianna took off her stylish black square-framed reading glasses and smiled. ‘Ciao, Sylvia. I would if I could. But I’m pretty sure if that was possible, I’d have sent it already. How are you?’
‘Sto bene. I’d be better if I could have two weeks on a beach – with George Clooney to bring me drinks, rub on some lotion and b
e my sex slave.’
‘Clooney’s booked. Brad Pitt and Matt Damon might still be free. You want me to ring for you?’ She picked up a phone and waited for the command.
‘Nah, it’s George or nothing.’
‘Then I’ll order caffè instead. Why don’t you take a seat?’ Marianna dialled for a lab secretary to bring some. ‘I do have some tests back for you. No holiday with a hunk but we got DNA from the Jane Doe burned and shot in the pit. Mother of Christ, what kind of monster are you hunting this time?’
Sylvia shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Whatever happened to the days when we thought weird and kinky just meant a strangling with a fishnet stocking?’
‘Long gone. The profile has just been sent over to your team. It was quite good, so I’m sure you’ll get an ID from it.’
‘Anything on the car and other bodies?’
‘Rosa Novello and Filippo Valdrano?’
‘The very same.’
Marianna shuffled files and found the notes. ‘We’ve discovered a lot of loose hair and trace samples inside the car and we’re eliminating the two victims and members of the family. His mother and father used the car as well, so it’s quite a compromised site. We’ve singled out some very distinct samples – arm hair, we believe. It was found on a rubber door buffer. It looks like it may have been scraped off by someone leaning to get into the back of the car.’
Sylvia’s hopes rose. ‘It’s not Filippo’s?’
Marianna smiled. ‘Definitely not. And before you ask, no, we haven’t yet had time to compare it with the other DNA samples you had brought in.’
Sylvia had ordered all Franco Castellani’s belongings to be confiscated and sent for testing. ‘When will you be able to tell me if there are matches?’
‘Forty-eight hours – earlier, if I can.’
Sylvia rested her head on one hand and tried to rub the tiredness from her eyes. She always seemed to be waiting for things to happen, things she couldn’t speed up, couldn’t control.
‘Sorry, Syl. That really is as fast as we can get them to you.’
‘Sure. I know. Thanks.’ She hauled herself out of her chair, mainly because she feared that if she stayed there much longer she’d simply fall asleep.
‘I’m going to skip the caffè and hit the sack. Hope you don’t mind?’
‘Of course not. But before you go, I want to mention something else to you.’
‘Go ahead.’
Marianna searched a scaffold of desk trays. Some papers were in folders, some were in plastic covers, others were marked with yellow Post-it notes and covered in black pen scribblings. ‘A carabinieri desk sergeant in Scampia had a human tongue thrown at him by a young child.’
‘Yuuck! Che scivo! ’ Sylvia screwed up her face. ‘They ran out of stones and bottles in Scampia?’
‘This gets worse. We’ve just completed tests for the division. The tongue was cut from the body of a woman called Alberta Tortoricci – that name mean anything to you?’
‘Rings a bell, but I’m not sure why.’
‘Tortoricci was the prime witness in a Camorra prosecution. She testified against a mobster called Bruno Valsi, the son-in-law of –’
‘Fredo Finelli. I remember it all now. Valsi is just out of Poggioreale. I saw pictures of his release in the papers. Handsome bastard.’
‘Brutally handsome, with emphasis on the brutal. Tortoricci testified against him five years ago. A couple of days after his release she disappeared from protective custody.’
Sylvia raised her eyes in irony. ‘A pure coincidence, of course?’
‘Of course. As was the fact that she turned up dead in the grounds of an old factory complex with her tongue cut out.’
‘Typical Camorra revenge attack.’
‘Then, someone burned her body. Crisped her up like the last of the chicken on a barbecue grill.’
Sylvia scratched at her hair. ‘I didn’t read anything on the internal bulletins, or in the news. Did the Anti-Camorra Unit go dark on this?’
‘Very dark. Since the last attacks on their staff, the unit is keeping everything close to its chest. I had to ask Lorenzo Pisano if I could share this with you.’
Sylvia let out a sigh. ‘I’ve put two calls in to his office recently, just to fix up a meeting and see if we had any common ground.’
‘You know Pisano, his feet never touch. Anyway, they’ve got Valsi in the frame for the Tortoricci hit. Though I hear no one will go within a kilometre of him until they’ve got a warehouse full of evidence and three armed units to back them up.’
‘Seems the right tactics.’
‘Her body’s at the morgue if you want to go and see. Seems she was stripped and doused in paraffin and then set alight.’
Sylvia raised an eyebrow.
‘Before you ask, the answer’s no – I don’t yet know whether the paraffin matches the stuff recovered from the Castellani site.’
Sylvia crossed her fingers and held them up for her friend to see.
‘Anyway, when they were done they rolled her in an old carpet and dumped her among rubble on an old industrial site.’
‘You got the name of the ME?’
‘I certainly have. Dimitri Faggiani. You know Dimitri?’
‘Nope. I’ve heard of him, but we’ve never met.’
‘Well, for once you got lucky. He’s upstairs now, on the fifth floor. There’s a case meeting – not Tortoricci – some child who died of neglect. If you’re quick, you might just catch him.’
Sylvia was quick.
Dimitri Faggiani was just coming out of the men’s room when she caught him.
‘Buona sera. Capitano Sylvia Tomms.’ She stuck out her hand.
The ME hesitated to shake it. ‘No towels. I’m afraid my hands are still wet.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She laughed and let her arm drop. He was thin and studious with dark brows and a bush of black curly hair that looked as if he visited a topiarist rather than a hairdresser. ‘I’ve just been with Marianna Della Fratte, she told me you examined the body of Alberta Tortoricci. Is that right?’
He looked puzzled. ‘Do you work for Lorenzo Pisano?’
‘No, no, I don’t. But…’
‘Then I’m afraid without his permission, I can’t discuss this file with you.’
‘I understand. I’ve called Lorenzo several times. You know how busy he is.’
The ME smiled. ‘No permission, no information. Sorry.’ He wiped his still damp hands on his black trousers.
‘I’m working the murders at Pompeii – the Francesca Di Lauro case.’
Faggiani knew of it. ‘My sympathies, I think you too are very busy.’
Sylvia gave him a shy look, a crafted flash of vulnerability, calculated to elicit male help. ‘I am. And I really need your help. Marianna told me that Alberta Tortoricci was badly burned. As you may know, Francesca’s corpse was also burned. We have another woman’s body in a rubbish pit and, again, she was burned.’
His dark brows furrowed. ‘I’m sorry; this is not a good time. I need to get back to my meeting.’
‘Professore, I’m pushed for time as well – I’m trying to catch a serial killer.’ She paused to let her point sink in. ‘Please, just tell me one thing. Alberta – was she burned ante- or post-mortem.’
Faggiani cracked. ‘Post. This woman had been tortured – crudely electrocuted – and then she was set on fire.’
‘Not tortured by being set on fire?’
The ME’s face gave away the fact that he’d said enough. Said more than he’d intended. ‘No. The body was definitely burned post-mortem.’ He held up the palms of his hands. ‘Now that’s it.’
‘Grazie. You’ve helped a lot. I’ll talk to Lorenzo and maybe come back to you – if you don’t mind?’
‘Not at all. Arrivederci.’ He opened a door just a few strides away and was gone.
Sylvia stood and let the information sink in. Was the Tortoricci case really connected to hers, or not? Was she grasping at
straws? Post-mortem burning was very different to ante-mortem burning. And if the cases were connected, then what about the electrocution? Was that simply another sadistic pastime in this particular serial killer’s repertoire of murder? Then there was another thing. Maybe significant. Maybe not. There was a clear gap of at least five years between the recent murders and the dates the other women went missing. Could it really be only a coincidence that Bruno Valsi had been locked away for exactly that same half-decade?
70
Grand Hotel Parker’s, Napoli
The downpour at the burial site had caught Jack without a coat. Back at the hotel he showered, changed and sent his soaked clothes to the laundry. His trousers were so drenched they looked like they’d been made out of crêpe paper. Sylvia had called and said she was heading off to the morgue and would see him in the morning, so he settled on the bed and tried to unwind a notch or two.
This case now had the makings of a long one and he couldn’t afford to get trapped in it. That meant getting out sooner rather than later – and sooner seemed round about now. The few days he’d promised Nancy it would take had already gone. Christmas was looming. His thoughts turned to his son – still at that incredible age when he believed a fat man in a red suit could land a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer on the roof of a house and then slip down a chimney so narrow you couldn’t post a supermodel down it. How beautiful!
Grilled salmon or meatballs and spaghetti? Jack was torn. He’d just about eaten his way through everything room service could offer. He was leaning towards the meatballs when his cellphone rang. He hoped it was Nancy.
‘Pronto,’ said Jack, rolling his ‘r’ in his best possible accent, then waiting as usual for his wife to laugh at him.
‘Mr King, I’m in reception. Perhaps we could meet downstairs and talk?’
Jack’s spine tingled.
Luciano Creed.
Downstairs?