Viper

by Unknown

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Viper

  Michael Morley is a former television presenter, producer and director, and is currently a Senior Executive Director for an international TV company. He has produced a number of award-winning documentaries, including Murder in Mind about Dennis Nilsen, which led to a high-profile High Court battle with the government over the right to broadcast it. For that same documentary Michael often visited the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit in Quantico, and followed FBI agents working in the field. He was also able to interview a number of notor ious serial killers.

  Michael divides his time between homes in Derbyshire and the Netherlands. He is married and has three sons.

  Viper is his second novel, following his acclaimed debut Spider. To read more about Michael Morley go to www.michael morleybooks.com.

  Praise for Michael Morley’s first novel, Spider

  ‘A terrifying read that will keep you hooked’

  Simon Kernick

  ‘A chillingly vivid thriller. Don’t read it alone in the middle of the night’ Steven Bochco

  ‘Spider chillingly captures the realities of a deteriorated mind’ Lynda La Plante

  ‘If you’re looking for a great read on the beach, let me steer you towards Spider, a wonderfully horrible serial killer novel’ Star

  ‘A thrilling, fast-paced read’ Shots Magazine

  ‘A perfect crime novel… I was unable to put it down’

  Crime Squad

  ‘This has a terrific race-against-time finale. An exciting debut’

  Bookseller

  ‘Has all the makings of a summer blockbuster and could well make Morley a household name’ Material Witness

  Viper

  MICHAEL MORLEY

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc, 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  www.penguin.com

  First published 2009

  Copyright © Michael Morley 2009

  All rights reserved

  Map of the Bay of Naples by Damien Demaj

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN: 978-0-141-93786-1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To Billy – our magnificent surprise

  Acknowledgements

  Viper is influenced by the criminal activity of the Camorra in Naples. Most of the places mentioned genuinely exist and most events are drawn from real Camorra activities. Some, however – for reasons that will become obvious – did not happen and do not exist.

  I was helped in my research by new-found friends in the carabinieri in Naples, who need to remain anonymous, and by members of the Neapolitan Camorra whom I prefer to keep anonymous. I must also express my gratitude to Guy Rutty, Professor of Forensic Pathology, East Midlands Forensic Pathology Unit, University of Leicester, UK, for his advice on matters of pathology – any deviations from hard cold facts are not his errors but my deliberate fictitious inventions.

  Thanks to everyone at Penguin, particularly: my editor Bev Cousins, who made so many great observations that I lost count, and to Alex Clark, Tom Chicken, Shan Morley Jones and Ellie Smith, who all added their own special polish. Thanks also to Julia Bauer in Germany for her many ideas and as always to Jack Barclay for his invaluable advice.

  I’m blessed with having Luigi Bonomi as my agent and literary guru, and in the international field there’s no one better than Nicki Kennedy and Sam Eden-borough at ILA. A big, fully interactive thank you to Ronald Goes for decoding the mysteries of the web, helping me set up www.michaelmorleybooks.com, and providing more than one or two laughs along the way.

  Finally, my wife Donna and son Billy deserve a special mention for their support, especially during that bizarre moment when I got arrested by the carabinieri in Castello di Cisterna while taking research photographs of their barracks. The phrase ‘Daddy has been arrested again’ still causes us amusement.

  La Baia di Napoli (Bay of Naples)

  Prologue

  La Baia di Napoli

  Francesca Di Lauro had the kind of eyes you never forgot. Hypnotic, almost translucent. An indefinable shade between blue and green. More hologram than optic.

  They were fixed on the man in front of her. Fixed very firmly on him as he watched her naked body. Francesca’s faultless skin and tumbling black hair were backlit by the golden flicker of a newly lit fire. The two of them were alone. Outside, in the pine-smelling woodland. No one to disturb them. Perfect privacy.

  Only this was no romantic encounter. This was the worst moment of her life. The flames around Francesca’s feet crawled up the metal stake she’d been tied to. Wind tugged her hair and suddenly the jaws of an orange dragon were chewing her flesh. Francesca twisted hopelessly, the agonizing heat searing her paraffin-soaked skin.

  He stood a few metres away, mesmerized by the slow murder, stroking himself pleasurably. His eyes fixed on the curtain of flames. This would take time. A deliciously long time.

  Francesca had been tied with coils of wire around her feet, hands and neck. He’d learned from past mistakes.

  Rope burned, then they tried to get away. He didn’t want any more messiness. No mistakes this time.

  Bricks were stacked waist-high, all around her. A kiln to funnel heat up her body. Rags stuffed in her mouth and then bound around her face to choke off any screams. Though sometimes he liked to hear them. Liked to hear the air leave their lungs for one last time.

  Francesca’s head slumped limply on her chest. She was a quiet one. Flames ate her hair. The smell of burning flesh, sweet and greasy like a hog roast, carried in the cold night air. He sucked it in. Savoured it. Fed on it.

  Amid the crackle of the fire he waited. Listened now for the moment when he heard her skull crack and sizzle. Popping chestnuts! How he just loved to peel away those crisp, burned outer shells.

  He’d removed all her jewellery and, while he watched, he played with it in his pocket, turning the trophies in his hand like beads on a rosary.

  The blaze illuminated the pit that he stood in. It was almost three metres deep, seven metres wide and fifteen metres long. It had been dug by the landowner as foundations for a house that never got built. Dead dreams. These days it was mor
e commonly used to burn some of the overflowing stinking rubbish that clogged the city’s vermin-infested streets.

  He stayed until darkness had faded seamlessly into the dawn, then he raised a gleaming stainless-steel spade and began softly singing. He sang in English, complete with a near-comical Dean Martin accent.

  When the stars make you drool joost-a like pasta fazool, that’s amore;

  He scraped Francesca’s bones from the blackened wood, grey ash and red embers. Slammed the blade of his spade across the snake of her spine.

  When you dance down the street with a cloud at your feet, you’re in love;

  The metal sliced through her pelvis –

  When you walk in a dream but you know you’re not dreamin’, signore,

  – through her skull –

  ’Scusa me, but you see, back in old Napoli, that’s amore.

  – through her hips and ribs and any other major bones that had survived the inferno.

  He searched the scorched ground. Made sure he’d been his usual thorough self.

  And then he chopped again.

  This time he used a small hand-axe on the troublesome hip, cleaving through the sacrum, coccyx, ischium and pubis.

  He was dripping with sweat when he climbed out of the pit, carrying Francesca’s young life in two dented steel buckets, her total existence reduced to ash and broken bones; ash that blew away in the wind as he walked to his car.

  Would her beauty have stayed with her into her thirties, forties or fifties? Would her children have inherited those hypnotic eyes?

  The ponderings amused him as he drove to the sacred spot where he laid them all to rest.

  He dug again. The blood-red sunrise painted his skin as he upended Francesca’s remains into a shallow grave.

  He slapped the old steel buckets with his hand. Cleared the last of the dust – the last of Francesca – that stuck to the sides. A couple of smashed bones were still larger than he liked. He stomped them into the earth.

  The first coral-blue hues of morning fought their way into the angry sky as he completed the burial. He bent his head, closed his eyes and slowly prayed: Domine Jesu Christe, Rex Gloriae, libera animas omnium fidelium defunctorum de poenis inferni et de profundo lacu.

  Before leaving, he urinated on the freshly dug grave. Partly because he needed to. Mainly because he liked to. As he zipped up, he wondered whether God would indeed heed his prayer to free the soul of the faithfully departed from infernal punishment and the horrors of the deep pit.

  But then again, he asked himself, did he really give a fuck?

  He sauntered back to his car, singing in Italian this time: Luna rossa lassù, mare azzurro quaggiù: questo è amore!

  ONE

  Five years later

  1

  Prigione di Poggioreale, Napoli

  Camorra mobster Bruno Valsi got a five stretch for frightening the life out of people due to testify against his gang boss father-in-law. It was a walk in the park compared to the life sentences he should have served for several murders and countless sadistic assaults.

  Few had cheered when he’d gone down. Few had been that brave. Maybe the fact that three of his arresting officers had been shot in the legs, and the local carabinieri headquarters had been burned to the ground, had something to do with the silence.

  The Camorra message had echoed around every street corner. Cross the Family – get brutally punished. No one needed telling twice.

  As witnesses withdrew, even the local cops heeded the warnings. Vital evidence vanished from inside the station house. The case against Valsi’s father-in-law crumbled. But the young Camorrista wasn’t so lucky. One young woman came forward and testified about being threatened. It was enough to get him the five years. One day – soon – he would find her and make her pay.

  Three guards marched the Camorrista into the discharge area for him to collect his personal effects and change out of his prison clothes. He gave them the finger as they watched him strip. Above his left breast a tattoo declared who owned his heart. Not a woman. No way. It belonged to the Finelli clan. The guards’ eyes were drawn to the distinctive image of a red viper, slithering down a switchblade. From its mouth dripped three blood-red words: Onore. Lealtà. Vendetta. Honour. Loyalty. Vengeance. The Finellis were one of the few Camorra clans to wear gang markings. Valsi jabbed a finger at the word Vendetta and his jailers looked away. ‘Andate tutti a fanculo – fuck you all,’ he called to them as he struggled into his old, grey Valentino suit. Prison life had made the trousers too big in the waist and the jacket too narrow across the chest. That’s what happens when you pump iron twice a day, every day for 1,827 days behind bars. You get hard. Jail rock hard. Prison had changed him in other ways too. He was meaner. And better connected than he’d ever been.

  One of the bigger and more senior guards walked him the final distance to the front gates. Valsi stood inches from his face. ‘Caccati in mano e prenditi a schiaffi.’ The insult was well known, shit in your hand and then hit yourself, but until now, no one had ever dared say it to a prison officer.

  Jacket over shoulder, he blinked as he walked into the sunlight. To the far east rose the slopes of Vesuvius and Mount Somma. Up close and all around him inner-city slums skulked incongruously in the shadows of the slick and shiny skyscrapers of the city’s business district. Hardly anything of value had been built here without kickbacks to the Camorra clans – the Families who ran the System – an invisible web of corruption that supported and strangled the socio-economic life of the Campania region.

  Valsi gave the guards the finger for a final time. Prison gates creaked shut behind him. Giant bolts slammed. Heavy keys turned. In the safety of the jail the guards cursed back at him. Across the road, locals cheered and clapped as he walked free. He smiled for them and they cheered even louder. Journalists flashed cameras from a polite distance. Valsi’s not oriety and good looks sold papers, the Camorra was akin to celebrity. Within hours his new images would become screensavers on the cellphones of thousands of teenage girls across Naples. He was the ultimate bad boy. The rebel whom girls couldn’t help but fantasize about. The man even their mothers glanced twice at.

  Almost in unison the doors of five waiting Mercedes swung open and a legion of black-suited Camorristi stepped out. It was more than an act of respect, it was a public display of defiance. Heavily armed, their weapons were brazenly on show. No one dared challenge them.

  Valsi soaked up the sight. Cameras clicked again. Another smile for the press and his public. Then he coolly walked towards the one car that stood out – a new chauffeur-driven Mercedes Maybach – the type of limousine that cost more in extras than most Neapolitans earned in a year. Only when he was a metre away did his proud and grateful father-in-law step out and embrace him.

  If Don Fredo had known what was on Valsi’s mind, he’d have had him shot dead before the prison gates had even shut.

  2

  Carnegie Hall, New York City

  A howling nor’easter had bowled up the coast and airdropped a thunderous delivery of snow and ice on a New York City that had complacently thought it was in for a mild winter. Rosy-cheeked kids stretched cold hands at falling flakes. Yellow Cab drivers snarled from rolled-down windows. Their cursing breath froze in the early December air as traffic hit gridlock. Winter was going to be savage.

  Jack King, his wife Nancy and four-year-old son Zack had arrived at her parents’ house in Greenwich Village barely two days before the biggest pre-Christmas snowfall since 1947 had shut down both JFK and Newark airports.

  Nancy had closed Casa Strada, her booming hotel and restaurant business in Tuscany, for two months to enable extension work to be done. Straight after New York she’d be in Umbria, buying property to convert into a second hotel. Jack, meanwhile, was mixing business with pleasure. Pleasure being the chance to catch up with old friends and family that he and his wife had left behind when they’d emigrated to Italy. Business being a well-paid keynote speech in his capacity as a freela
nce psychological profiler.

  He commanded the stage of Carnegie Hall as surely as any entertainer who’d trodden its famous boards. ‘Given the inclement weather, I want to leave you with some chilling thoughts,’ Jack told the International Serial Offender Conference. ‘People are like icebergs; we only ever see ten per cent of them. The really interesting – and sometimes deadly – ninety per cent lies mysteriously hidden in the dark waters of personal secrecy.’ He peered out from the stage in the Isaac Stern auditorium. Almost three thousand people, spread five tiers high, peered right back at him. ‘Bergs are pieces of ice that have broken off from giant glaciers. Similarly, serial killers are people who have broken off from civilized society. Some bergs are small fry, they’re maybe only a metre high. Others are massive and murderous, reaching up to a hundred and sixty-eight metres, about fifty-five storeys high.’ The select audience, comprising law enforcement officers, psychologists and psychiatrists, hung on his every word. ‘You mustn’t let those killer bergs grow. You’ve got to be alert, every step of your long journey, through each investigation.’ Through the stage lights he could see people scribbling, fidgeting and frowning. Some, he guessed, were recalling encounters with their own bergs.

  ‘Serial killers, like those bergs, come in all shapes and sizes, and all of them are potentially lethal. You have to spot them early. Catch them after murder one, while they’re still small fry. And remember, to do that, you have to concentrate damned hard on the ten per cent that’s on view above the surface.’

  Jack took a final look around. His gaze stuck for a second on the front row, where one man, thin and pale, stared up at him with black empty eyes that seemed to be hunting for his attention.