by Unknown
‘Course it is,’ joked Sylvia. ‘All males have impulse control problems.’
‘Pyros are not all male, but this one undoubtedly is. He may even be in the criminal records system for fire-related offences. That’s partly why I asked about Valsi’s record. Our man may also have convictions for violence. He may have been institutionalized at a very early age and he will certainly have relationship problems that stretch way back.’
‘We’ll have the records for you tomorrow,’ said Lorenzo.
Sylvia’s cellphone rang. ‘Pronto. Sì.’
Jack and Lorenzo fell silent as her face betrayed the fact that it wasn’t good news. She flipped the phone shut and looked totally dejected. ‘That was Sorrentino’s Number Two, Luella Grazzioli. They’ve been following your clock-face theory and doing a radar sweep along projected lines before and after the graves we’ve already exhumed. They’ve found more burials.’
‘How many?’ asked Jack.
‘She’s not completely sure. But she’s guessing it could be as many as seven. Seven new bodies. And they’ve still not hit true north.’
78
Parco Nazionale del Vesuvio
News of the fresh body sites spread like a bushfire across the excavation site. Franco Castellani didn’t know it, but this was the reason why he was able to slip, unseen, past the carabinieri and down the steep Vesuvian hillside.
As the rugged parkland gave way to the winding, potholed road that took busloads of tourists to the summit, he jammed the old Glock back into the waistband of his jeans. The retching had stopped but his head was still pounding and he remained desperately thirsty.
On the road below, filled with noise and crowds of people, he felt strangely alien again. Alone in the woods he’d enjoyed not being stared at or whispered about. Now that luxury was gone.
The old horrors were back.
A middle-aged man stepped from a Mercedes and frowned when he saw him; a woman crossing the road turned her head to check what she’d seen; a mother, bending down to fasten her toddler’s coat, shielded the child’s eyes when she spotted him. All standard stuff. All layers of humdrum humiliation that were regularly piled on top of him. But today Franco felt more vulnerable than ever. Today he felt bad enough to shoot them all.
Every fucking one of them.
The Glock could end their prejudice, wipe it all out in just a single, sweet burst of ear-splitting gunfire. His blood fizzed at the thought of it.
Umberto Leopardi kept an old supermercato on a road off the junction with the A3. He also kept bottled water in stacked trays just inside the door. Two litres of Ferrarelle, fresh from the nearby Val D’Assano, vanished before Umberto had even looked up from the counter. Near the front window of neighbouring Buscaglia’s was a rack of stacked snacks. Two fat packs of patatine fritte disappeared with the same deftness as had the water.
Franco took his meagre hoard to one of the places he and Paolo frequented near the visitors’ entrance of Pompeii. The rain started again as he sat behind the street hoardings near the railway line and hurriedly fumbled the bottled water to his mouth. From his shelter he watched families and couples passing on the street. The feelings of loneliness and isolation multiplied inside him – bred like the mutant cells that were silently murdering him.
Exiled.
An outsider. That’s what he was. Sitting with the sodden rubbish behind the hoardings, he’d never felt as low as he did right now. His fumbling, claw-like hand found the Glock.
Soon he would use it.
Soon they would understand the true depths of his pain.
79
Capo di Posillipo, La Baia di Napoli
Armed officers flanked Sylvia, Jack and Lorenzo as they walked towards the tall wooden gates of the Finelli mansion.
‘Cameras just about everywhere.’ Jack’s head swivelled from one to another.
Sylvia pressed a bell and waited. ‘I hope they catch my good side.’ She shot him a flirtatious smile and tucked her hair behind her right ear. Static stung the air – a tinny male voice trickled from the entry phone, asking who they were and what they wanted.
‘I’m Capitano Sylvia Tomms.’ She stood on tiptoes to speak into a small grille. ‘I’m here with my colleague, Lorenzo Pisano, and an American psychological profiler, Jack King. I do not have a search warrant or an arrest warrant. It is a matter of public importance that brings us here and we really would be most grateful for Signor Finelli’s assistance.’
There was another sizzle of static, then the intercom went dead. Several minutes later there was a clunk and the big automatic gates swung slowly open.
Jack caught himself saying, ‘Wow!’
The view was breathtaking.
Manicured lawns and magnificent marble statues gave way to a grand old palazzo complete with castellated frontage, shuttered casement windows and gutter-height Boston ivy.
Lorenzo nodded. ‘Yeah, big wow. Who was the jerk who said crime doesn’t pay?’
Rich, golden light spilled from an open door across the gravelled courtyard. The small, trim form of Fredo Finelli appeared. He was alone and looked relaxed in navy-blue striped suit trousers and an open-necked white shirt.
‘Buona sera,’ said the Don, extending his hand and a smile to all of them. ‘Please come inside, it will be much easier for us to talk.’
Jack scanned the area as they walked. There were no guards to be seen, but they were there. He could feel invisible eyes on his back as he passed into the warmth of the house. Jack was the only one to slip his shoes off at the front step.
‘No, no, there’s no need for that,’ said Finelli, touched by the courtesy.
‘It’s the way my wife trained me,’ joked Jack.
They were shown through to one of the lounges on the side of the house, overlooking a floodlit lake. Servants materialized to take coats and attend to drinks with all the speed and subtlety of a top hotel.
Finelli settled his surprise guests in a plush, wide curve of bespoke light-brown settees covered in a mix of cotton and silk. ‘Lorenzo Pisano, I don’t think I’ve seen you since my son-in-law’s trial?’ He smiled fondly, as if he were talking to an old friend. ‘How are your parents? I understand your father, Benito, spent a little time in hospital with a hip problem?’
If Lorenzo was bothered by the intimate knowledge, he didn’t let it show. ‘They’re perfectly well, thank you. Both my mother and father are very carefully looked after, as I’m sure you know.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ Finelli then turned to Jack and spoke in perfect English. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m being very rude. We will continue in English, so you can follow us. Major Pisano and I were merely exchanging pleasantries.’
‘That’s kind of you.’ Jack didn’t mention that his Italian was good enough to have understood everything being said.
‘So,’ continued Finelli, sitting back in his armchair. ‘How exactly can I help you?’
Sylvia outlined the three murders on the Castellani campsite, stressing the deaths of the two young teenagers and touching lightly on the death of the Jane Doe, who’d been found burned to death in the rubbish pit.
‘My dear God, how perfectly terrible. What is the world coming to?’ Finelli made a passable attempt at sincerity. ‘And please, do forgive me – I just realized that I recognize your face. Aren’t you also heading the inquiry into the murder of that young woman – what was her name?’
‘Francesca Di Lauro.’
‘That’s right. I saw the press conference.’ He let out a playful chuckle. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh. I was just remembering that journalist who threw you with a question about all those other missing women. Seemed a difficult moment for you. Are those cases all connected, as he said?’
Sylvia felt her temper rising, but she kept it in check, even managed an unconcerned smile for the old goat. ‘We have to keep an open mind. And, as I’m sure you appreciate, a press conference isn’t the best place to divulge our private thinking.’
Finell
i nodded. ‘Quite so.’ There was a noise outside. ‘Wait a moment, please.’ He rose and left the room. Through the crack of the door Jack recognized the face of Finelli’s daughter. Gina looked fatter than in Pisano’s picture of her. His eyes dipped. She was holding the hand of a young child, probably her son. The boy lifted his face and opened his arms for Grandpa to kiss him. A touching moment and one that reminded Jack of how deceptive crime dynasties can be when you see them masked in middle-class normality.
A minute later, Finelli returned with a pad and a black Montblanc fountain pen. ‘The young lovers, what were their names?’
‘Rosa Novello, she was eighteen.’ Sylvia gave him time to write. ‘She was with nineteen-year-old Filippo Valdrano. Their parents expected them to get married shortly.’
‘I have influence in this community; I will ask for you. And the other victim, you have a name?’
‘We don’t. Not yet. Signor Finelli, we are wondering if these deaths are connected to that of a woman called Alberta Tortoricci. I’m sure you know her name. She was recently found dead in Scampia. Her body had also been burned –’
Finelli cut her off. ‘The whole of Italy knows I am aware of the woman you mentioned, and the ridiculous accusations she made about me. But I have no knowledge of her unfortunate demise.’
Lorenzo butted in. ‘We’re not seeking to hurt you on this. We’re merely trying to share with you the information that we believe the man who killed Alberta Tortoricci may be the same person who killed the people on the Castellani campsite.’
‘Excuse me,’ interrupted Jack, ‘do you mind if I use one of your washrooms? I’m afraid I really need to go.’
Sylvia and Lorenzo shot daggers at him. Finelli was on the rack. It was a crazy time to interrupt their flow.
‘I’m sorry, I have some stomach problems.’ Jack looked embarrassed.
The all-round discomfort seemed to amuse Finelli. He chewed back a wry smile. ‘Certainly. I’ll show you.’ He walked his troubled guest to the double doors of the lounge and pointed across the marble hallway.
Jack waited until he heard the doors click shut behind him, then confidently strode up the stairs. If he was stopped he would just say the bathroom downstairs was occupied or he was confused about directions.
As he hoped, Finelli’s guards were kept out of the private quarters. Windows, doors, exits and driveways are the places you mostly find mob muscle. Seldom are they allowed near master bedrooms. As he strode up the steps, he could hear Gina and the child playing in a room near the front of the house. On the top landing he opened doors quickly – and took in the facts even faster. Finelli’s room – neat, tidy, black suit on a hanger, silk-sheeted bed already made. Guest room – no one in it, no fresh flowers, no water jug or glasses by the bed, the room smelled of damp. Another guest room – windows partly open, a woman’s shoes on the floor, make-up and jewellery on an antique dresser, designer bags on the floor. This was where Finelli’s daughter was staying. He stepped in. The soft toys on the bed and a Lego spaceship seemed evidence of an early morning visit from her son, a mother and child’s moments of play before starting the day. Jack opened the door to the en suite. Shampoo, conditioner, tampons, toothpaste, one adult toothbrush. He’d seen all he needed. Within ten seconds he was out of the room. He quickly checked next door. This was the child’s room. Toys everywhere, books on the floor, clothes turned inside out and not yet put into the laundry basket by the maid. He shut it and headed downstairs. Quickly he found the toilet, flushed it, splashed cold water on his face and didn’t towel it dry. By the time he reentered the lounge he knew the water would make his face red and give the appearance of the sweats. ‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve got some bad kind of stomach bug.’
‘Probably the change of diet, good food can be a shock to the system.’ Finelli did his best to sound understanding. ‘When did you get in from the United States?’
‘You could be right,’ said Jack. ‘I’ve been here a while but probably not made the full adjustment yet.’
A tray of coffee and water arrived, courtesy of a young woman in a black dress that fell modestly to below her knees. She never spoke, except for the obligatory prego as they took their drinks and thanked her. She left without having looked directly at anyone. The air was thick with discretion. The kind of well-practised, silver-service discretion that always prevailed in the homes of the monstrously corrupt.
‘This is an incredible house,’ said Sylvia, balancing an espresso on her lap. ‘You live here alone, or with the whole family?’
‘My wife died some years ago, but I still live here. As you said, it is our family home, and I cannot see myself living anywhere else.’
‘And your daughter, Gina, she lives here too?’ added Jack.
Finelli read the depth of the question. He answered cautiously. ‘At the moment, yes. She and her family come to stay sometimes. It is nice for us all to be together.’
The bedrooms Jack had just looked in had told a fuller story. Bruno Valsi was certainly not staying in the house. There was clearly a rift in the family. But was it between Gina and her husband, or between her husband and her father?
‘Why do you ask?’ the Don added, defensively.
Jack put on half a smile. ‘Guess I’m missing my wife and child. Seeing your daughter and grandson here made me think of my own family.’
Finelli looked across at the door and worked out how Jack might have spotted them. ‘Forgive me, but I am quite busy tonight. Is there anything more I can help you with?’ He put his coffee cup down and gave out all the signals that he wanted them to leave.
They rose and Finelli shook hands with Sylvia, Lorenzo and finally Jack. ‘I hope you feel better very soon.’
‘Thank you, I think I already do. Before we go, I’m interested to know how you get on with your son-in-law?’
Finelli smiled. ‘Signore, I’ve been very generous in my hospitality, please don’t abuse it.’ He motioned an open hand to the doorway.
Jack stood his ground. He leaned towards Finelli and spoke in a confidential tone. ‘From what little I know of Bruno Valsi, he is not the type of man I would want my daughter sharing her life with. And not the kind of man I would consider good for my own health.’
Finelli looked amused. ‘Thank you for your opinion. Now, it really is time for you to go.’
A gym monster in a black suit appeared from nowhere. Jack guessed he was six-two, late thirties and no doubt tooled up. Nothing would have delighted him more than demonstrating how quickly he could disarm a monkey that big, but he didn’t have to. Lorenzo stepped forward and quietly said something in Italian that stopped the guy in his tracks. It gave Jack a final chance to speak to Finelli. ‘Signore, your charm doesn’t disguise the fact that you’re a very worried man – and you have a right to be. If there is anything you can tell us about your son-in-law, then you may well be helping yourself and your daughter and grandchild as much as you help us.’
The Don said nothing but, just before he walked away and left them, the look on his face told Jack, Lorenzo and Sylvia that he’d probably rather die than offer them any help.
80
Campeggio Castellani, Pompeii
Antonio Castellani had become desperately worried about Franco. So much so, that he was actually pleased to get a knock on the door from two new carabinieri officers who wanted to go over everything again with him.
Once more the old man faithfully retold it all – leaving out only the private arrangement he’d made with the big lieutenant. Antonio was old enough and smart enough to know that you only told such import ant secrets to one person. Apart from that, he did as they asked. He went right back to the very beginning. Started from the moment the people on Lot 45 had reported their daughter and her boyfriend missing. Went right up to his recent brushes with the Camorra and the order from the Finelli clan that he leave his home and surrender his business.
The woman seemed genuinely moved, sympathetic and kind. The male officer app
arently didn’t care that much. They were quite a pair. Chalk and cheese, he thought. The man, Mario or Marco something, he couldn’t remember the name, was intense and wiry, maybe even a little rude and disrespectful, while she – Cassie – was beautiful, polite and intelligent. He even liked her name. She was everything that he’d hoped his own daughter would have turned out to be. Cassie was one of those bright girls who would go far, he could tell. For a start she’d written everything down, had been careful not to miss anything. Her male partner had seemed happy just to fire off the questions. In fact, he’d only really become interested when Antonio had mentioned that Franco was missing. He still believed the police were the best hope of finding him. His grandson wasn’t well. Sometimes he got really sick, they had to find him, look after him, bring him back home. She said they would. She promised they would. Good girl, that Cassie, you could tell. She even took away some pictures of Franco. Promised again she’d find him.
Antonio settled down in his chair and knew he’d fall asleep. He was tired of it all. These days just living exhausted him. If he’d known that the two carabinieri officers he’d spent so much time with were actually Luciano Creed and a female journalist called Cassandra Morrietti, then it may well have been the death of him.
81
Via Caprese Michelangelo, centro città, Napoli
Ricardo Mazerelli’s visitor parked more than two blocks away and insisted that at the end of their meeting he was given the footage from the surveillance cameras that he was sure would be running.
Lieutenant Pietro Raimondi settled down in a chair in the penthouse conservatory, overlooking the streaming firefly lights of cars heading along the Bay of Naples. Ice tinkled in the two highball glasses of vodka and Coke that Mazerelli placed on a stone-topped coffee table beside the trickling waters of the Japanese garden. ‘So, what have you got that is so valuable you wish to see me at such short notice and under such unusual conditions?’