Viper jk-2

by Michael Morley

  Farina grabbed Franco by the chest and pinned him to the wall of the van.

  'Please, don't hurt him!' pleaded Antonio. 'He didn't know you were here, he didn't mean anything -'

  'Fuck! What is this shit?' Valsi grabbed at Franco's chin. 'What the fuck is wrong with you? You've got the face of a fucking hundred-year-old.'

  Antonio pushed himself between his grandson and Valsi. 'He's ill. He has Werner Syndrome. It makes him look old. It's not his fault. Please, don't hurt him.'

  'Enough!' said Valsi. He let go of Franco and brushed his hands together, as though wiping filth from them. 'This shit better not be catching.'

  'It's not!' Franco stared straight into the man's eyes.

  Valsi sized him up. 'Fucking weirdo.' He turned back to the grandfather. 'Be ready to sign the documents my men bring you.' He pushed Franco to one side. 'Stay out of the fucking daylight, Freak Boy; it's not Halloween for another year.'

  Valsi and his laughing henchmen left. The door swung loose and banged in the wind.

  Antonio ignored it and wrapped his arms around his grandson. 'Ignore them, Franco. I love you and God loves you. Everything will be all right.'

  Franco fought back his rage and nodded as his grandfather held him.

  'It will be all right, I promise,' repeated Antonio. But they both knew that it wouldn't be.

  Everything was going to be far from all right.

  20

  JFK Airport, New York City The United flight rose in slow motion above the insipid winter whites of snowbound New York, then disappeared into the dark December night.

  Ten hours later, Jack King dejectedly peered through the window at rain-sodden clouds barrelling across the Bay of Naples. Dozens of container ships swayed slowly in a sludge of polluted foam beneath him. On the dockside, metal cranes bent their iron beaks and pecked poisonous cargoes of illegal drugs, counterfeit goods and smuggled immigrants. This was one of the world's busiest ports, a crossroads of global criminality.

  Thunder boomed as the plane touched down at Capodichino. Rain beat like ball bearings on the metal roof of the 737. They surfed to an air bridge on a wave of runway water.

  Naples is Italy's third largest city, the birthplace of pizza and home to more than a million people. On passing Customs, Jack thought each and every one of them had turned up at the airport for what must be National Talk as Loud and as Fast as You Can Day. He caught a cab and watched the city unfold before him. His mind soaked up the surroundings that may have shaped the psyche of a serial killer.

  The journey was long and depressing. A few fields of denuded cherry trees and ranks of industrial greenhouses reminded him of Naples' agricultural heritage. The rest looked like urban wasteland. Traffic was as bad as, if not worse than, New York, and there was a palpable anger and aggression in the way people drove. Driving was combat. Parking was territorial. Pedestrians were prey.

  Management at The Grand Hotel Parker's told him with pride that they'd upgraded him to a luxury room with a sea view. The description was only partly right. The view across the bay was indeed stunning, but the room fell short of luxury. Modest and clean were the kindest descriptions he could come up with. Like the city, the hotel lived on past glories.

  He unpacked, hung his shirts over a hot bath to let the creases fall out and was fighting off the first wave of jet lag when Massimo Albonetti rang and said he was in reception.

  Even in the most fashionable crowd, his old friend always stood out. Today he wore a bespoke mid-length black calfskin leather jacket, evocative of Marlon Brando's motorcycle days. He matched it with understated charcoal-grey trousers of wool and silk, a cashmere jumper and a grey cotton T-shirt.

  'I curse Naples. Driving in this city is now completely impossible! How are you, my friend?' Massimo extended both arms and Jack surrendered to the inevitable cheek-kissing. If the truth be known, it still made him feel awkward.

  'I'm fine. Red-eyed, but good. You got time to grab a bite?'

  'Hey, I'm Italian; I always have time to eat. In here, or we go out?'

  They settled on a table upstairs, at the hotel's famous George's restaurant. Jack's body clock was already out of kilter. Jet lag reduced the distinctions of breakfast, lunch and dinner into a simple desire to eat. They drank fresh orange and espressos while they perused the menu. Massimo put his glass aside and from the look on his face Jack knew something was troubling him.

  'What's on your mind?'

  'It's your friend Luciano Creed and his missing women.' Massimo Albonetti interlocked his fingers and cracked his knuckles. 'I received a phone call on the way over to you. It was from Sylvia Tomms, a carabinieri Capitano here in Naples.'

  'And?'

  'She's been working a case out near Pompeii, not that far from where a couple of Creed's women lived. Some human remains were found in a stretch of woods, way off the tourist road that leads up to the top of Vesuvius.'

  'The volcano?'

  'Yes, the volcano,' Massimo smiled. 'It is the only Vesuvius we have.'

  Jack raised an eyebrow to acknowledge the levity. Humour always surfaced when cops got down to the blackest aspects of a case. 'Were they bagged? In a sack, a case, or anything that might give forensics?'

  'You think Italian killers are more stupid than American ones?'

  'I live in hope.'

  'Sadly not. No container. They were just dumped in the soil. Not much chance of trace evidence from the killer, though the labs are sifting through samples. Let me get to the main point, though. Tomms has had a local anthropologist and his team piece together the bones recovered from the site. These people are good. They're used to digging up corpses that are centuries old, so they put this skeleton together very quickly -'

  'And?'

  The last of the levity left Massimo's eyes, 'And, it's a woman, one of the ones you mentioned.'

  Jack took a slow breath. 'Which?'

  'Francesca Di Lauro.' The lines on Massimo's forehead rippled again. 'Her jawbone had been smashed in more than a dozen different places but they pieced much of it together again. One of Sylvia Tomms' team managed to get some X-ray transparencies from her last dental check-up. The fit is identical.'

  'You got a time on when she was buried?'

  'Not yet. But we're talking years, not months.'

  Jack voiced what was in both of their heads. 'So Creed was right about her being missing and being murdered. And if he's right about her, then he may well be right about the other missing women as well.'

  'Why was he right, though?'

  'Because he killed her?'

  Massimo fell deep in thought. 'I don't know, Jack. The only thing that I'm certain of is that we're going to have to reopen all those damn cases. And believe me, that's going to cause a hell of a lot of work and generate huge political opposition. We're not going to win any friends with this one!'

  21

  Centro di Visitatore, Pompeii Franco Castellani and his cousin Paolo Falconi slipped past the glass-screened kiosk without paying. Within seconds they'd vanished in the labyrinthine ruins of Pompeii.

  They were serial non-payers and knew the place like the back of their hands. Pompeii was their playground. First stop, as usual, Forum Olitorio. Through iron bars, Franco stared into the old granary, studying every inch of the plaster casts of victims engulfed in the torrent of lava that erupted from Vesuvius back in 79@C.

  When the site had been excavated in the 1800s, imprints of the dead had been found in the hardened lava. By pouring plaster into cavities left in the bed of ashes by the gradual decomposition of a corpse, it had been possible to recreate a near perfect replica of the victim's form.

  The figure that always fascinated Franco was that of a young man, sitting with his knees tucked up and his hands on his chin, his moment of thought preserved forever by the awful lava flow that had consumed him.

  Franco stared intently at Ash Boy, as he called him. He had the frame of a youth, but the plaster and the pose suggested someone older. Someone old before his
time.

  Dead before his time.

  The observation resonated with Franco. The disease that had engulfed his own body – slower but just as deadly as the lava – had already stolen his youth. It had cruelly taken the years in which he should have been most attractive to women, the years in which he should find his soulmate.

  Inevitably it would kill him. Just like Ash Boy. He would be dead before his time.

  Franco walked with his hood up. Dark sunglasses not only hid his face from prejudiced eyes, they also made him feel safer and calmer. His doctor had recommended them. Partly as a cosmetic aid. But also to help rein in his explosive temper. He'd once almost beaten to death a teenager who'd made the mistake of taunting him. It had resulted in a suspended prison sentence for Franco and a long stay in intensive care for the mocking youth.

  Five feral dogs followed them as they stopped at the junction of Via del Tempio d'Iside and Via del Teatri. The cousins sat on the cobbles that had once been stepping stones over Pompeii's open sewers. They drank water and ate the cheese, ham and bread they'd brought with them.

  'Get lost, go away!' Franco kicked out at the dogs as they hassled for scraps.

  'Hey, they're okay, let them be.' Paolo tore off some of his bread and threw it to the pack.

  The dogs scavenged as the boys ate. Crowds flowed past, heading to the Doric Temple and Great Theatre. A group of schoolgirls sauntered by. Multicoloured rucksacks swung low over tight blue jeans. Pretty hands marked off worksheets.

  'Francesi,' whispered Franco, picking up their accents as they gabbled to each other.

  'Bonjour,' shouted Paolo in poor French, then added in English. 'You ladies need a guide?'

  The girls giggled.

  Franco's Anglo-Saxon was less subtle. 'Show us your cunts and we'll do your schoolwork for you.'

  The giggling stopped. A young male teacher appeared from the back of the group. The cousins hadn't spotted him. He was suntanned, fashionably dressed and had the kind of confidence that only teachers have. As he strode over he'd probably weighed up the two young men and, being several inches taller and far more muscular than either of them, no doubt felt confident about his task.

  He shouldn't have done.

  Franco got to his feet. Before the teacher had uttered a word he adjusted his balance and thundered a kick between the man's legs. More followed. Rapid, vicious kicks, delivered with all Franco's hatred for the world and for what good-looking young men like this one stood for.

  The teacher doubled over, hands clutching his groin. Franco drop-kicked him in the chest. The impact made a dull and muffled sound. Ribs cracked like ice on a lake.

  The girls screamed. Franco felt jolts of power and energy surge through him. Violence made him feel good. Feel complete.

  'Bastardo! ' swore Franco. He took a final kick at the man's head as he lay unconcious on the ancient cobbles.

  Everyone looked away. A collective wave of nausea washed over them. Paolo pulled at his cousin.

  'Now, we go. It's done. Come on!'

  Franco was in a trance. Fixated by the sight of the pain and chaos that he'd created.

  'Now!' shouted Paolo. Finally he got Franco to move. Dragged him down Vicolo del Menandro. Through an ancient block of houses that pre-dated Christ, then right into the wide, ancient thoroughfare known as Via dell'Abbondanza. At the end of it they ducked out of sight and Paolo exploded. 'What the fuck was that for? Why did you do that?'

  'Because I wanted to,' wheezed Franco. 'Because he's a French cunt and he deserved to have his French cunt-face beaten to a pulp.'

  'Hell, the guy hadn't even said anything.'

  'He didn't have to. You saw the way those bitches looked at us.'

  Paolo let out a sigh. 'Stupido, they only looked at us because we spoke to them. Nothing would have kicked off if you hadn't asked to see their cunts.'

  The criticism stung Franco. 'It was a joke. If you'd have said it they'd have laughed. But because I said it, they looked like they were going to be sick.'

  Paolo let it rest. When his cousin was in this kind of mood there was no point trying to explain that the world wasn't always against him.

  Franco's temper was snapping again. 'Bitches. Fucking little bitches. They think they're too good for me. Too pretty for me, all because of this!' He slapped his hands on either side of his face then scratched up and down at his wrinkled and mottled skin.

  Paolo saw blood coming from his cousin's cheeks. 'Hey, stop it! Come on. Don't do that.' He pulled his cousin's hands away from his face.

  'Too good? Huh!' said Franco. 'They're no better than the bags of trash we burn every day. That's what they are – trash. I'd like to take them down to Grandfather's pit, fuck them one by one and then burn them all.'

  The pit was Franco's private place. No one went there but him. And nothing seemed to calm him more than spending time alone there, burning things.

  'Fine. Whatever,' said Paolo, 'but unless we get moving again, the only burning you're going to be doing is your backside on a prison bench.' He put his hand on his cousin's shoulder and tried to push him into a jog. 'C'mon, let's move.'

  'I'm not coming.'

  'What?'

  'I'm not running any more. I'm going to the Orto.'

  'Don't be crazy. You nearly killed that French guy. Come on!'

  'No.'

  'Yes!' Paolo tried again to move him, but Franco wheeled away from his hand. 'Those kids will have told another teacher by now. The guards and polizia will be all over us in a minute. C'mon.'

  'No! I don't give a fuck. I'm going where I want to go. I always go to the Orto and I'm not leaving today until I've been.'

  Paolo stopped and thought for a brief moment. 'Well, I'm not. Crazy fucker! You get caught by the polizia if you want. I'm gone.'

  Franco didn't even watch him head off. Instead, he cut slowly back through Vicolo dei Fuggiaschi and wandered towards an area of Pompeii that had been a vineyard before Vesuvius erupted.

  Franco Castellani looked at the haunting sprawl and tangle of plaster mummies lying in the grey stony dirt of the Orto dei Fuggiaschi, the Garden of the Fugitives. More than a dozen adults and children had been found dead, huddled together, seeking the solace of human touch in the last moment of life.

  Human touch. Something he craved.

  He raised his eyes to the sky and felt a strange spiritual connection with the dead.

  What had killed them? The boiling flow of lava and the billowing fires? Or the choking whirlwind of pumice, ash and volcanic dust?

  Had they been good people? Bad people? Had they deserved to die? He doubted it. No one deserved to die such a horrible death. No one but those little French bitches. Such an end would have been perfect for them.

  Franco took his time wandering around. Paolo was right, the cops were soon everywhere. Swarming all over the place, like roaches. No problem, though. He knew the ruins like the back of his hand. He slipped outside the gates into the town of Pompeii. Disappeared down by the railway line heading east. He curled up behind a giant old hoarding advertising sanitary towels, and slept for several hours.

  It was dark and late when Franco Castellani crept back into the rusty caravan he shared with his cousin.

  Paolo looked up from his bunk, an old football magazine on his lap. 'You okay?'

  'Yeah,' mumbled Franco, his head down in shame.

  'Grandpa brought us two beers. I saved them till you came.' Paolo nodded at the small second-hand fridge that buzzed and clanked beneath a worktop in the tiny galley kitchen.

  'Fuck!' swore Franco as he opened the door and sharp white light blazed into his face. 'Why does it have to be so bright?'

  'Opener's on the top. Come sit with me.'

  'Peroni. He spoils us.' Franco popped the caps. Foam fizzed over the bottle necks. 'He say anything to you about the Camorristi?'

  Paolo took a beer from his cousin's hand and clinked bottles. 'Salute! They want the place. Plan to move us out. They're going to build here, or someth
ing.'

  'What? You fucking joking?'

  'No. That's what they say. They are going to send the guys round. Grandpa has to sign, and that's it.'

  'The guys. I hate the fucking guys. Where we supposed to go?'

  'Like they give a fuck? It would have been different if we were guys.'

  Franco started to peel the label off the bottle. He always tried to get it off without tearing, but never managed. 'Camorra soldiers. Us? You think so?'

  'Why not? We can do stuff. We can run messages, do deals, scare the shit out of people and that.'

  'Well, at least, I can. I'm not sure you can scare a fish.'

  Paolo laughed and took a long swig of the beer. It wasn't as cold as it should have been; the fridge was playing up again. 'Grandpa would never let us work for the System, you know his feelings.'

  Franco knew them well. The Camorra was the thing that he hated most. The thing that had ruined his life.

  'You going to stay in tonight?'

  'No. I'll have another beer with you, then I'm going out. You know I have to.'

  Paolo avoided his eyes. He never knew where his cousin went, or what he got up to. He just understood that sometimes he had to be on his own. It was better that way.

  22

  Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna The wet morning air tasted of stone and flint. Jack King clacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and prayed he'd find decent coffee inside the local carabinieri HQ.

  It was a rectangular, purpose-built, brick barracks. Four storeys high and home not only to the investigation division but also more than a thousand soldiers. Grey metal gates opened as Massimo flashed his ID. They were ushered across a gravelled driveway, past a frayed but still fluttering Italian flag, into a small, cool dark reception area tiled in cheap, dull marble.

  'Wow, this place is depressing.' Jack squinted down a warren of dimly lit corridors decorated in spirit-sapping greys and faded blues.