Sad memories flowed between them. The moment sagged from the weight of emotion. Sylvia tried to give them space. Let them feel their way around their grief. Finally they looked across at her. Two thin smiles. A cue to continue. And she did, with the hardest questions of all. 'You've seen the newspapers today; you know they have now reported the fact that your daughter was pregnant?'
Francesca's parents nodded. They looked uncertain and uncomfortable about where the conversation was heading.
'I know this is awful for you, but we have to do everything we can to keep this story in the newspapers.' Her heart went out to them. 'Murder is now so common here in Campania that it is hard to get people to pay any attention, let alone come forward with information that might help us catch your daughter's killer.' She could see pain welling in their eyes. 'Your daughter's pregnancy gives us a chance to do that. It touches people and, as horrible as it sounds, we have to take advantage of that. We're holding a press conference tonight and I'd like you to be there, to say something about what Francesca was like as a person.'
Sylvia's statement was met with silence. They were in no-man's-land – their grief was private, their horror so great they didn't even want to face the daylight let alone the press – but they did want to do whatever they could to catch their daughter's killer.
Sylvia smiled a serious smile – an expertly crafted friendly but serious smile – the type that only police officers can manage when they want you to do the right thing no matter how painful it is for you. 'We've been advised by one of the world's top psychological profilers that it's vital we make the public understand Francesca was a person, not just a murder statistic. If we can get them to feel your loss, then maybe we can persuade someone who knows the killer to come forward. Would you appear at the news conference? Make that appeal for people to contact us with any information that they think might help?'
Genarro squeezed his ex-wife's hand and she squeezed back. In the split second before he answered he wondered if they should get back together again. Fall in love again. Help each other over this hole in their lives. 'Yes. Yes, if you think it will help, then we'll do that.'
'Good. Thank you.' Sylvia's relief was visible. 'I'm afraid I still have a few questions I need to ask you. Are you all right for me to do that now?'
They both said they were and Sylvia found herself momentarily disarmed by their dignity.
'Signora, in the last months before Francesca disappeared, did you have any unusual discussions with her?'
Bernadetta sighed but said nothing. She'd spent years cudgelling herself over questions like this. Had there been something she'd said or done that had upset her daughter? Or, maybe even something she hadn't said or done? She'd tortured herself but had come up with nothing.
Sylvia pressed for an answer. 'Maybe a particular argument? Something that surprised you and caused you to fall out?'
Bernadetta finally shook her head.
'No mother-daughter talk about something awkward? Perhaps men, marriage? Anything like that?'
Bernadetta's mind felt like it was bound with razor wire. It hurt to think. But then something stirred.
At the centre of the ball of grief there was an ugly five-year-old memory struggling to get out. She put her fingers to her temples and closed her eyes. The pain was too great.
There was something. What? What was it?
Bernadetta shook her head. 'No. There is nothing special I can remember.'
And then she looked away and hoped the police-woman couldn't tell she was lying, couldn't guess the dark secret she was hiding.
47
Parco Nazionale del Vesuvio The forest was sodden and smelled of rotting leaves and swampy earth. Franco Castellani didn't mind. Not one bit. Lying flat on his growling, hungry stomach he steadied his outstretched arms and then, with all the patience of a trained assassin, gently squeezed the trigger of the old Glock.
Fifty metres away a small red deer jolted backwards. It crumpled on its spindly legs and collapsed beside the spidery lower branches of a giant fir. Franco was up and running before the gunshot had finished rolling off the distant hillsides.
The headshot was perfect.
The fawn, along with twenty other deer, had only been introduced into the park in the summer as part of a new wildlife expansion programme. He stood over it. It looked like it had three little black eyes instead of two. It twitched and went into spasm as he touched its head. Franco considered shooting it again, but didn't want to risk any further noise, and he wanted to save the bullets for what he had planned for later. He slipped out his hunting knife, the one he used for fishing, carving and odd jobs at the campsite. He lifted its chin, exposing the soft fur and thin flesh at the neck.
One of the fawn's back legs kicked again. He wondered how long the animal would take to die if he just left it. Its eyes were glazed and vacant. Blood started to trickle from its mouth and nose, but amazingly it still seemed to cling to life. He lowered the chin and rested its head on his knee. Shuffled round so his back was against the giant trunk of a spruce. Settled back to watch it die.
It took several minutes for the animal to stop breathing and, when it did, Franco felt dis appointed. Not sad, most definitely not sad, but disappointed.
Even though the fawn was quite small, he found it was too big for him to carry. He picked up the knife again and began the bloody task of cutting meat. He wished he had one of his axes. With one of those he'd glide through the bone. Whoomph, and it would be in pieces. But the knife was too small to sever the head. He sliced skin away, then tried to break the neck bone over the top of a rock. He stomped hard. But everything was wrong. The head got in the way – the ground was too soft – the bone slipped off the rock. Franco found himself just standing there, dribbling sweat and staring at the young dead animal's head.
Young. Dead.
The words touched him. Mirrored his own fate. Cut down in his prime. One moment happy and free – oblivious to the savageries of the world – then killed by a bullet from out of the blue. He felt a rage building. A terrible rage against the unfairness of life. The unfairness of everything. Franco fell to his knees.
Knife gripped tight, he plunged it. Not once, or twice, but dozens of times into the body of the fawn. Only when he was exhausted did he stop.
Only when he was really sure that the rage was spent, did he finish.
Then he collapsed. Wrapped his arm round the dead, mutilated animal and cried.
Wept like he hadn't wept since he was a child.
48
Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna Sylvia Tomms took a deep breath as the press conference started. Her hands shook a little as she stared into a white wall of light blazing out from above the TV cameras. But she made sure none of her nervousness showed. She was in a stylishly cut black business suit with a long-collared white silk shirt. She knew she looked smart, authoritative and fully in control. She also knew that her performance was vitally important not only for her, but also for the case and for Francesca and her brave and dignified parents. She'd give them all her best.
Photographers shouldered each other for space. Radio journalists held microphones high above their heads, like unlit Olympic torches.
Sylvia, along with Francesca's parents, sat behind a table covered with a white cloth, on a raised rough wooden stage in what was normally the carabinieri's gymnasium. Feedback made everyone jump as a sound engineer adjusted the levels to amplify Sylvia's opening words. 'Buona sera. I am Capitano Sylvia Tomms, the officer in charge of the Francesca Di Lauro inquiry.' Sylvia cleared her throat. 'I am joined by Francesca's parents, Genarro and Bernadetta, who have a very personal statement that they would like to read to you. Before they do that, for those of you who are new to the case, there is a written handout being circulated. It gives details of how, where and when Francesca's remains were discovered in the National Park of Mount Vesuvius.'
Sylvia paused while an assistant from the Press Office handed out single sheets of white pa
per. Photographers seized on the spare seconds and launched another volley of camera flashes.
'As some of you have reported, one of our forensic experts, Professore Bernardo Sorrentino, has discovered that Francesca may well have been pregnant at the time she was murdered. I say may well because we still have to complete matching DNA tests as a formality.'
Jack watched the conference live on Mediaset from a small TV in the corner of the carabinieri canteen. He thought Sylvia was handling herself well. She looked cool, calm and highly professional. But he was worried about Francesca's parents; they weren't media savvy. It was clearly a stressful and emotional ordeal for them.
Genarro Di Lauro stared into the alien lights and bug-eyes of the TV cameras. A pre-written statement shook noisily in his hands. 'My daughter was a very special woman. She was everything to us – everything.' The words stuck in his throat and his grief welled up so quickly that it took several seconds before he could continue. 'Francesca was a beautiful young woman, full of dreams and laughter. She brought us – and everyone who met her – great joy. She was kind and generous and…' His mind wandered. A flashback of her as a baby – soft arms around his neck, angel face pressed against his cheek. He wiped tears from the corner of his left eye. 'My daughter had the most amazing laugh. It was the laugh of someone who loved life and who filled it with love, the kind of life that would warm you all the way through to your heart. I – I want to…'
He was lost now. Eyes flooded. Memories welled up, so large and vivid that he thought he would suffocate. Birthdays, Christmases, holidays, Sunday mornings, bathtimes, bedtimes, story times – all the sweetness flooded in but burned like acid. He couldn't hold back the pain any more. He covered his face with his hands and sobbed. 'Mi dispiace. I'm sorry – very sorry.'
Public grief is a rare, exotic animal and the big-game hunters of the national press took every shot they could. The high-tech cameras clicked like machine guns, another trophy head for tomorrow's papers.
Bernadetta put her arm protectively around her ex-husband. Her voice sounded only a sentence away from breaking. 'Our daughter is dead. Our baby is dead.'
The camera flashguns intensified. Lenses zoomed and refocused, elbows jostled for space and angle.
'The police think that somewhere, someone might know something that could help them catch her killer. Please – please – if you are that someone, come forward. Help us.'
Bernadetta was done. She buried her face in Genarro's shoulder and sobbed.
Sylvia spoke to someone behind her and a police-woman gently ushered them both offstage.
The journalists almost created a stampede to get their final shots and Sylvia had to virtually shout into the microphone to restore order.
'Bernadetta and Genarro thank you all for your support and help. The printed handouts we gave you have a telephone number for the Murder Incident Room that anyone can ring if they have information. Calls to that number can be anonymous if people wish. Now, are there any further questions?'
A man's hand went up. A TV reporter, late twenties, well groomed, still hoping one day to get his shot at studio anchor. 'Will there be an opportunity to do one-on-one interviews with Francesca's parents?'
'No,' snapped Sylvia, more curtly than she'd intended. 'You saw how painful tonight was for them. Please give them some privacy. No personal interviews. We won't take kindly to anyone who hassles them for interviews. Next question.'
A woman reporter waved her hand and caught Sylvia's eye. 'Can you tell us how Francesca died?'
'Not at the moment. We have detailed forensic reports that we are following up. Right now it would be inappropriate to comment further.'
A middle-aged man waved a notebook. 'Francesca was pregnant when she died – do you know who the father was?'
Sylvia raised the palm of her hand. 'I can't comment on that at the moment.' She was keen to change the subject and saw someone waving at the back, a face she half recognized. 'Yes, at the back. Your question, please.'
'Capitano Tomms, would you say that this killing is connected to the disappearances of Luisa Banotti, Patricia Calvi, Donna Rizzi and Gloria Pirandello – all local women who have gone missing over the last five to eight years?'
The names stopped Sylvia in her tracks.
Inside the carabinieri canteen Jack stood up and immediately left the TV set he'd been watching.
All eyes flitted backwards and forwards between the reporter and the silent carabinieri Capitano. Sylvia's mind was running at frantic speed. How had someone made the connection between Francesca and the other missing women? Was there a leak in her inquiry team?
The well-informed journalist pressed for an answer. 'Capitano, do you deny that all these women are missing and may, like Francesca, have been murdered?'
Sylvia knew she couldn't stall any further. 'I'm sorry. I'm hesitating on my answer because I don't want anyone here to lose focus of the facts – we're hunting for the killer of Francesca Di Lauro, a young woman, a young mother-to-be, murdered in the prime of her life. I don't want to speculate on other random cases, I don't want distractions, I want to concentrate on this one woman's death. I and Francesca's parents need your help. Please remember the faces of Genarro and Bernadetta – let's make sure we catch this man and ensure no other parents suffer like they have. Thank you, everyone. This press conference is over.' As she stepped from the stage she finally nailed the identity of the journalist. She motioned frantically towards Pietro Raimondi. Half the press were suddenly in her way. Squashing towards the exits to file their stories.
Sylvia finally reached Pietro on the other side of some security doors. Before she could say anything, Jack arrived. He was breathless but took the words right out of her mouth.
'That was Creed. The man who just asked those questions wasn't a journalist. It's Luciano Creed.'
49
Via Caprese Michelangelo, centro citta, Napoli At dusk, high-powered halogen security lights fizzled into life, illuminating the six-storey salmon-coloured building that housed the penthouse of Camorra consigliere Ricardo Mazerelli.
The forty-eight-year-old's home off Corso Vittorio Emanuele was located behind tall black railings in a private park, plush with palm trees and pristine lawns. Three armed security guards – Finelli men – patrolled the grounds 24/7.
In keeping with the trend for glass conservatories built over sky-high terraces, Mazerelli's was probably the biggest and longest in the city. Inside, a fountain-fed pond of ghost koi carp was the central feature of a Japanese garden specifically designed for peace and tranquillity. The privileged few who had stood inside, and gawped at the incongruity of the place, could also tell you that the windows were not only bullet-proof, they were strong enough to withstand a mortar attack.
Don Fredo Finelli sat in a wicker chair, a glass of chilled Prosecco on a small stone table at his side. He loosened his tie. He and his consigliere were alone after a routine business meeting in the financial district. Mazerelli looked tense and the Don wanted to know why. 'So, Ricardo, spill your troubles. Tell me what is on your mind.'
The family lawyer leaned forward, elbows on knees, a businesslike look on his face. 'May I speak openly; without fear of causing offence?'
'You know that is your privilege,' said Don Fredo, 'but please don't use it as a licence for disrespect.'
'It is your son-in-law.'
The Don's eyebrows arched. He couldn't help but tense in his seat.
'How do I know this is not going to be good news?'
'I'm afraid you are right.' Mazerelli slid open the top of another stone table and dialled the combination of the safe hidden inside. He pulled out a large Manila envelope and passed it to his employer. 'You need to see these.'
For a moment Don Fredo considered not opening the packet. He was going to deal with Valsi when he was ready. When the time was right. He feared that whatever the photographs showed might enrage him so much it would cloud his judgement.
The consigliere stood behind the Don and e
xplained the stack of prints. 'They are all pictures of child drug dealers, fornitori run by Bruno or, at least, by his associates. The youth you're looking at is the spacciatore, the pusher; he is dealing wraps of cocaine and heroin.'
'How old is he?' Don Fredo's voice was low and sombre.
'This one is about fourteen. I'm told younger boys and girls are involved. Maybe as young as nine or ten.'
'Porca Madonna! This is not what we do.' Don Fredo threw down the photographs.
'In some ways it is clever,' continued Mazerelli. 'Juveniles are not punished as severely by the polizia or the courts. They are often given second chances rather than detention.'
Finelli banged his fist on the arm of the chair. 'Children are not pawns, Ricardo! We offer them jobs when they are old enough to choose, not when they are too young to say no.'
The consigliere paused and let his boss's passion fade before passing over a new print. 'Now we go up the chain, this is the main dealer -'
'You are sure of that?'
'Yes. There are several shots of him. Look at the blow-up and you will see.'
Finelli took another print and screwed up his face. The shot was taken from a high angle, maybe from an apartment building, or a factory rooftop. It very clearly showed bags of cocaine in the trunk of the dealer's Alfa. Digital scales, wire ties, silver foil and latex gloves were visible near a wheel and a jack.
The Don put two prints to one side and tapped one with his right hand. 'Who are these men? Please tell me they are not who I think they are.'
'I am afraid they are. Alberto Donatello and Romano Ivetta.'
The Don shook his head, reached for the glass of Prosecco and drained it.
'They're clearly the gang masters. They organize the children every day. Supply them with the packages and take the cash from them.'
'Scum!' Valsi had defied him and it made his blood boil.
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