by Unknown
Carmine went down on his knees, like an opera singer centre stage in the final act. He clutched his heart and opened his mouth wide to hit the top note. The death note. His two men, waiting metres away in his limo, would have sprung to his aid, only they were both dead as well.
The holy sisters disappeared down the side of the steps and headed towards the back of the church. Twenty metres further on they slid into the shade of an alleyway, slipped off their grey habits and heavy wooden rosaries. Sister Vito Ambrossio folded everything into two white supermarket shopping bags and handed the gun to Sister Steph Muller. She pushed it deep into the front of her patched jeans and covered it with her shirt and thick jumper.
Stupid idiot, thought Vito, it was good to be finally rid of him. Valsi had promised him his own territory, half the Cicerone turf and a key position in the bigger Family. Fancy Carmine the Dog, Carmine the great business brain, not understanding how takeovers and consolidations worked.
At the end of the alleyway Steph turned left and Vito turned right. Both became invisible in the bustle and business of the rush-hour streets.
They would never meet again. As Vito vanished he started laughing. That old Dog Carmine had been right after all. You just shouldn’t trust lesbians.
9.50 a.m.
Pompeii
Paolo Falconi had already finished most of the chores that usually lasted until lunchtime. Today he needed time on his side, time to spend with Franco. He’d shifted the overnight rubbish from outside the campers’ vans and chalets and stacked the bags on a bonfire in a field, far from the campers. Since the incident in the pit, the carabinieri had blocked off their usual burning spot, so he’d had to create a new one. He’d burn everything at nightfall, when everyone was in bed – just as Franco had done.
Chores completed, he followed the first part of the route he’d taken the night before. He wasn’t surprised that there was no sign of the carabinieri Skoda. The cops were probably lazy as well as clumsy. He could see the street clearly and felt confident he wasn’t being watched, so he took a more direct route to the ruins. He passed a row of gift shops, cheap cafés and ice-cream bars, then headed up a side street away from the main visitors’ entrance. He didn’t notice Creed or Morrietti, arm in arm, fifty metres back. Minutes later he was inside the ruins, courtesy of one of several secret routes that he and Franco had used since they were kids.
School kids were already strolling down the narrow streets, shepherded by their teachers. It didn’t seem five minutes since he and Franco had been doing the same.
Paolo knew he’d find his cousin in one of three places. He struck out on the first two – the Forum Granary and the Amphitheatre, the last being where he’d seen him last night.
He rounded the south side of the ruins, near the Quadriporticus, and stuck close to the outer walls until he reached the Garden of the Fugitives. There, alongside the huddled plaster figures of the dead, was Franco.
The glass-panelled door that normally held back the viewing public had been broken open. His cousin was sitting cross-legged, leaning against the reconstructed corpse of one of the youngest of Pompeii’s doomed youth. He was shoulder to shoulder with the cast of someone who’d died almost two thousand years ago. Paolo was shocked to see Franco’s left sleeve was rolled up and in his lap was a syringe. He’d been unaware he’d had an extra stash of heroin. More disturbingly, in his right hand was his grand father’s old gun.
His finger was wrapped around the trigger.
To Franco, the world felt blurred and smeared, as though it had been wiped by a giant wet hand across the inside of his eyes. Everything was soft and slow. All the edges had gone. All his anger dissipated.
Franco Castellani felt normal.
Wonderfully normal.
How funny. Franco had heard that most people took hard drugs to make them feel great. He was more than happy just feeling normal.
Through the smears he could see his cousin moving towards him. His face looked taut and stressed.
Poor Paolo.
He wished he had an extra spike to share with him.
Even though the heroin had numbed his senses, Franco clung to the golden thread of his plans. He knew what he had to do. Those people who’d come to stare – to gawp at Pompeii and to scowl at him – would see a sight they’d never forget.
He raised the palm of his left hand in a ‘stop’ gesture to his cousin. Then he raised his grandfather’s gun to his head.
But Paolo Falconi didn’t stop. He knew what Franco intended to do, and it wasn’t going to happen.
Franco forced a smile and mumbled his final message, ‘Love you.’ A surge of energy ran from his brain down to his hand and into his trigger finger. Like he was plugged into heaven’s own generator.
Franco shut his eyes and pulled.
Paolo threw himself. A desperate, last-second lunge.
The gunshot roared and echoed across the ruins.
97
ROS Quartiere Generale (Anti-Camorra Unit), Napoli
Ricardo Mazerelli apologized as his cellphone rang in the middle of the carabinieri interview. He turned it off, let the voicemail deal with it and then switched his attention to Pietro Raimondi. ‘Lieutenant, I called because I hoped you could deal with today’s developments within the framework of our new relationship. Do we have an understanding here?’
‘Of course.’ Raimondi gave the hint of a smile.
Valsi scowled at his brief, then leaned over towards the officer. ‘I want to give a full interview and I want to give it now. That’s presuming a piece of shit like you can actually write.’
The lieutenant had never been the type to allow himself to be intimidated. The two men stared at each other. Less than a metre of air separated them. Valsi didn’t frighten him. ‘Signor Mazerelli, tell your client to watch his foul and offensive mouth, or he’ll need a dentist and will be spending a lot longer in here than he needs to.’
Raimondi heard a voice of calmness in his ear: ‘Keep it cool, Pietro.’ Not the voice of his inner self, but that of anti-Camorra boss Lorenzo Pisano, whispering through a micro-receiver earpiece.
‘We’ll take your written statement in good time,’ said the lieutenant politely. ‘Please be patient, I have just a few more preliminary questions.’
‘Very good,’ said Lorenzo in his earpiece. Raimondi had gone straight to him after interviewing Antonio Castellani, and the major had pulled his strings ever since. If all went well, Raimondi would be in line for promotion and a big salary rise. He’d probably need a transfer too. He and Lorenzo had put Sylvia in the picture only moments before starting the interview with Valsi.
Standing in the darkness of the monitor room, she watched the interview unfold and told Jack how Pietro had deceived her.
‘I understand the need for confidentiality. Of course I do. But damn it, he could have trusted me.’
Jack chose not to comment. Local business was always quicksand and best avoided. ‘What’s Valsi’s game, walking in here all lawyered-up? Why do that? Why not make your guys chase around after him?’
Sylvia cleared her head of Pietro. ‘I’m thinking the same. Maybe he was just spooked by someone whacking his guard and thought here was a safe place to be until he could mobilize muscle and ammunition.’
Jack studied the young Cammorista. Spooked was a word that didn’t fit. The man exuded violence. It glowed around him like a force field. Nope, he wasn’t buying spooked.
‘You tempted to ask him about Kristen Petrov? Or maybe drop Francesca Di Lauro’s name in his lap and see if he jumps like you spilled hot water on his gonads?’
‘Very tempted,’ said Sylvia, ‘especially as Bernadetta Di Lauro told me this morning that five years ago Francesca may have been having an affair with a married man.’
‘Valsi and Francesca?’ Jack pondered on it. Fire and ice. A striking couple.
‘But I think we should wait. I have no forensics to link him to either woman. Not yet. Things might change in the next few days
.’
‘If that dead guard is the start of a turf war, then things are going to change mighty fast and Valsi could be pushing up daisies in a few days’ time.’
Their attention returned to the TV monitor. Pietro was asking the Capo Zona about his movements last night. Who he’d been with? Who could alibi him? Valsi was toying with Raimondi. Promising to show him footage of the woman he’d fucked all night, a woman who wouldn’t look twice at a streak of carabinieri piss like him.
Sylvia’s phone rang. She moved quickly to the back of the room to take it and then hurried outside. There was someone in reception, directed there by the Incident Room, and it was urgent.
Lorenzo flicked a talkback switch on the control panel. ‘Pietro, ask Valsi about Alberta.’
Raimondi did as he was told. ‘Signor Valsi, the body of the key witness in your trial, Alberta Tortoricci, turned up in Scampia…’
‘We’re leaving,’ interjected Ricardo Mazerelli.
‘She was found with her tongue cut out…’
‘My client has no knowledge of, or connection with, the incident you’re describing.’
Valsi looked bored. He checked his watch and yawned.
The Capo stood up and slowly shook the creases out of his trousers and slid his jacket on.
‘She’d been tortured to death. Electrocuted and burned…’
‘We have no further comment to make.’ Mazerelli had to push his client towards the door, otherwise he’d have stood there all day patting his mouth in mockery.
Valsi checked his watch again and bit back a smile. By his reckoning, the Don and the Dog should both already be dead. Murdered at exactly the time he had the world’s best cast-iron alibi, courtesy of the carabinieri.
And any moment, many more of his problems would be solved.
98
Pompeii
Just as Franco Castellani’s life had been a terrible fuck up, so too was his death.
Blood and brain spattered the features of Pompeii’s famous ashen fugitives.
The two cousins lay in a heap. Arms around each other.
But for the smell of muzzle blast and burned flesh, you could have been forgiven for thinking they were wrestling. A boisterous play fight that had ended in deadlock. Dead lock.
Feelings of hopelessness and a hardening addiction to heroin were what had driven Franco Castellani to the brink of despair. The point where suicide seemed a sweeter option than survival.
Paolo Falconi had been too late to stop Franco’s finger from pulling the trigger. And he’d been too quick for his own good. The desperate last-minute lunge had been just enough to knock his cousin’s gun away and divert the fatal bullet into his own head.
Paolo was dead.
Franco lay on his back. His cousin’s brains were all over his face. His blood ran off him and formed dusty balls in the dirt of the Pompeii ruins.
Franco struggled to move Paolo off him. When he was free, he knelt there, crying and cradling his cousin’s corpse. Gradually people crowded around. Strangers’ eyes locked on the two youths and the gun in the dirt. They were uncertain whether to help, or to run.
Franco spotted them. And helped them decide.
He picked up the weapon and pointed it towards them. ‘Get away! Get the fuck away, or I’ll kill you all!’
Most ran. Some stayed frozen to the spot. Franco fired a shot that tore into brick above their heads. Now they screamed. Now they ran.
The Garden of the Fugitives was empty again. Except for the dead. The old dead. And the new dead.
Franco Castellani hugged his cousin and kissed his bloodied head.
And then he put the pistol into his mouth.
And fired.
Capaccio Scalo, La Baia di Napoli
Salvatore Giacomo parked up west of Vesuvius at the junction of the SS18 and SP277. From here he was only minutes away from most of the major routes in and out of Naples. Black coffee in the cup-holder on the dashboard, croissant crumbs on his lap, he dialled the numbers again. First the Don. Then Armando. Next Mazerelli. No replies. Even Valsi was unobtainable. Something was wrong.
Sal guessed it had started. War had broken out. He cursed himself. He should have killed Valsi long ago, killed him first. That son of a bitch would be at the centre of it. The Don had asked him to bide his time, wait until he was ready, and he’d done as he’d been asked. He’d always done as he was asked. And now they were paying the price. He should have followed his instincts, not the old man’s orders.
Gina!
Was she dead too? His big fingers fumbled and misdialled. He tried again.
‘Pronto.’
The air whooshed out of him in relief.
‘Gina, it’s Sal, Uncle Sal. Are you okay?’
She could hear the tension in his voice. ‘Sure, what’s wrong?’
He didn’t want to alarm her. ‘Nothing. Where are you?’
‘I’m in my car. On my way to work.’ Music played from the radio.
‘I’ve been trying to call your father and I can’t reach him. Armando’s not picking up either.’
Gina turned down the tunes. ‘Don’t worry. They’re probably in the doctor’s. He had to go for a check-up this morning and was running late.’
Sal ignored the reassurance. ‘Where’s Enzo?’
There was an edge in his voice that began to worry her. ‘Sal, what’s wrong?’
‘Where’s Enzo?’ he repeated, more urgently.
‘At the house. He’s with his childminder. Probably driving her crazy.’
Sal wasn’t sure what to say next. He didn’t want to panic her, but he couldn’t just say nothing.
Gina picked up on his hesitancy. ‘Sal, tell me what’s happening. What’s going on?’
He searched for a different way to say what was on his mind, but couldn’t express himself as he wanted. He knew it was brutal as soon as he said it. ‘Gina, I think your father’s dead. I think Bruno killed him, and he might now take Enzo from you.’
(Anti-Camorra Unit), Napoli
Sylvia took the backstairs from Lorenzo’s office, down to the main reception which served the various other units in the carabinieri HQ. The last person she’d expected her urgent visitor to be was Luciano Creed.
At first, she thought he’d turned up to waste her time. To complain or cause more embarrassment. But she revised her opinion as the first images from his journalistic friend’s camera card appeared on the computer screen in an office at the back of reception. ‘And this was taken when?’ she asked.
‘Less than an hour ago,’ said the woman glued to Creed’s shoulder. ‘May I politely remind you, Capitano, this is my camera, my pictures, my copyright.’
Sylvia couldn’t help but laugh. ‘My case, my cell block, my right to charge you with anything my little mind can dream up. You remember that. You’ll get your story, but not until we’re ready.’
Five minutes later Creed and Cassandra Morrietti were giving statements in another room. Sylvia went back upstairs to Jack and Lorenzo.
News had just come through that a car bomb had killed Fredo Finelli, and Carmine Cicerone had been shot dead leaving church.
‘Jesus, I only stepped out of the room for half an hour,’ said Sylvia. ‘What the hell next?’
Lorenzo filled her in. He’d been briefed by his own team and half the Anti-Camorra Unit were already out on the streets trying to make sense of it all. ‘Believe me, it’s going to get a lot worse. At least we know why that slimy bastard Bruno Valsi was here this morning with his brief. He was getting himself an alibi that no court in the world would reject.’
They were in Lorenzo’s office. A techy fired up a PC, loaded Sylvia’s pictures and got them on to the monitor.
‘Messy,’ said Lorenzo, looking at the bloody corpses of Paolo Falconi and Franco Castellani. ‘I remember you saying you thought these cousins could be your killers? They still in your frame?’
‘Unlikely,’ said Jack and Sylvia almost simultaneously.
Sylvia s
at behind the computer and worked through the images. She opened shots of the crowd, then a badly out-of-focus zoom, some wide frames of a man approaching the cousins’ bodies. Probably the guy who phoned emergency services, thought Sylvia.
‘Wait!’ shouted Lorenzo. ‘That’s Salvatore Giacomo.’
Jack remembered the name from the slide show Lorenzo had given. The man had a casualness and calmness about him that was chilling.
The major tapped at the picture. ‘Giacomo has been part of the Finelli crew for close on twenty years but we’ve never been able to link him to anything more than a parking ticket.’
‘You said he was the old man’s muscle – his Luogotenente – that right?’
‘Right.’ Lorenzo looked bemused. ‘What the hell is he doing with these kids?’
‘There’s more of him a little later.’ Sylvia clicked her way through the rest of the images. ‘Here. Look, he goes right up to their bodies.’
Jack watched closely. The guy was a pro. All the signs were there. The bodyguard was focused on the gun and Franco’s body but his peripheral vision was sweeping the crowd. His jacket was loose. As he walked his hands were up around his waist, ready to grab for a concealed weapon. ‘I know all this Camorra mob are killers or potential killers,’ said the profiler ‘but what about this guy? You’ve nothing on file to prove he’s a triggerman?’
Lorenzo frowned. ‘Like I said, nothing record-wise. But he has a nickname, Sal the Snake. Word has it that he once strangled someone with a length of chain. But we never found the body, and we’ve certainly never seen him with a chain.’
‘Urban myth?’ asked Sylvia.
‘I think so. The snake part is also said to refer to his rather large manhood.’ He half laughed. ‘In truth we’ve nothing on that either. These fellas all have nicknames; for all we know his might have come from a game of Snakes and Ladders.’