by Unknown
‘Exactly,’ said Pietro. ‘Look at it this way. He books out of his hotel early in New York and then he comes back to Naples and won’t talk to us. He turns up at the press conference tonight and then he runs away again. These are not the actions of an innocent man.’
‘No, they’re not,’ agreed Sylvia, the message stoking her anger.
Jack wasn’t so sure. To him the actions seemed like taunting. More a case of someone proving their point. ‘The question that he asked at the press conference, when he listed the names of the missing girls –’
‘What about it?’ snapped Sylvia.
‘If Creed is Francesca’s killer, and maybe the murderer of more women, then it was a bold and crazy thing to do. An unnecessary risk. Why put himself so clearly in the frame and chance being caught?’ Jack looked across at Pietro and Sylvia and made sure they were following him. ‘The more I look at this case, the more I think we’re hunting someone who is willing to cope with risk, but doesn’t court it.’
‘Evil can’t always be explained,’ said Raimondi.
Jack disagreed, he thought evil could always be explained. ‘Let’s look at the options. Creed was either egotistically trying to point the spotlight at himself as the killer – trying to enjoy the public horror and concern over the crimes he’s committed – or else, he was being public-spirited and was attempting to focus attention on the missing girls and force you to put more resources into trying to find them. Angel or devil? Which is he?’
‘Perhaps both?’ said Pietro. ‘Perhaps he is a Mr Jecky and Dr Hid?’
Sylvia laughed. ‘I think you mean Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.’ She patted him playfully on the shoulder. ‘Good try, Pietro.’
‘I mean half of him wants to kill and half of him wants to be stopped,’ explained the big lieutenant, not amused at his own faux pas.
Split personality? It was something Jack hadn’t thought about. But that didn’t fit the profile either. ‘There’s one other possibility,’ he said.
‘I’m all ears.’
‘What if Creed is doing all this as revenge?’
‘Revenge? How so?’ asked Sylvia.
Jack rolled out his latest thoughts. ‘The carabinieri crushed his dream of becoming a psychological profiler. Stopped him being a hot-shot working high-profile police cases. The force ended his secondment and complained about him to his university, which also ruined his academic career. So, this could be his idea of payback. And I bet there’s a lot worse to come.’
51
Casa di famiglia dei Valsi, Camaldoli
By the time he got home, Bruno Valsi’s hand was hurting even more than his damaged pride. That old thug had maybe broken two of his fingers. He went straight upstairs, showered and changed. If he’d had it his way he wouldn’t even have acknowledged that his wife was in the house. But she followed him around, complaining that he was late for dinner and shouting at him. He’d eaten enough for the day and now he was going to go out and have some fun on his own.
Gina dogged him all the way to the hallway, where he finally stopped to adjust his tie in the mirror. ‘I can’t believe you’re going out again. Since you’ve come out of jail, you’ve spent virtually every night away from me and Enzo.’
‘You have a better idea?’ he snapped. ‘You think I should stay here, so you can shout all night and sit with a sour face? Or maybe instead I should go out and earn some money?’
‘Ma vai! ’ Gina waved a hand at him and flounced away. But she couldn’t leave it like that. Pride and her fierce spirit stopped her in her tracks. ‘Work, you say? Since when did fucking other women qualify as work?’
Valsi tried to ignore her. He’d had a bad day. That bastard Sal had publicly humiliated him. The last thing he wanted was trouble at home.
‘Do you think I’m stupid?’ Gina pushed him. ‘Do you think I can’t smell your whores on you and your clothes? See their scratches on your body? You make me fucking sick.’
‘You are stupid. And you’re talking nonsense. So shut the fuck up.’
A text message bleeped on Valsi’s phone beside his wallet on the hall cabinet. Gina picked it up. ‘Who’s sending you text messages?’ She held it behind her back. ‘I read the ones you sent to Kristen. Is it her?’
Valsi wheeled round from the mirror. Slapped her hard. ‘You never touch my phone. That’s my business. Right!’
Gina held her cheek. It burned. ‘You piece of shit. You cheating piece of shit.’ She hurled the phone at his head.
Valsi dodged. It hit the wall and then the floor, smashing into several pieces.
The look on his face told Gina she was in for a beating.
She made a run for it.
‘Come here, bitch!’
Valsi slipped to her left and blocked the corridor into the main body of the house.
Gina doubled back. One foot slipped on the tiling, twisting her ankle. She kept her balance. Ignored the stab of pain.
‘Leave me alone! Bruno, just leave me!’
She headed towards the conservatory. If she made it through to the pool house she could lock herself in.
But she never got there.
Valsi grabbed her left shoulder and spun her round. His face was like stone.
Gina was scared. She jerked her right knee up between his legs. It never made impact.
His hands were quicker than a crocodile’s jaws. His instincts still prison-quick. Fast enough to dodge a cell-made knife, let alone a clumsy woman’s knee. He held her leg off the ground and slapped her face. She put her hand up to the burning skin and lost her balance. Her head struck the wall. He held on tight and kept her upright.
‘Bruno, please don’t. Please.’
Valsi could see the fear in her face. Wonderful. He felt powerful. Made him forget all about Sal the Snake and the humiliation he’d experienced.
He pulled her leg higher. Stretched her hamstring until it burned.
Gina had to hold his shoulders to stay upright. He flipped the door open behind her, backed her into the sitting room and dragged the door closed with his foot.
He could smell the fear on her now. See it in the sweat on her brow. Feel it as her heart pounded against his chest. It was exhilarating. It was the first time she had made him hard since he’d come out of prison.
He jammed her against the wall. Forced his mouth against hers.
She tried to bite him.
His hand grabbed her throat. Strong fingers on her windpipe. She wouldn’t do that again. He could feel her heart banging against his chest. So fast. So afraid.
Gina closed her eyes. She didn’t want him to see her cry. Didn’t want him to see the disgust she felt as he fumbled between her legs.
And when he finished, when he’d fucked away the last of the love she had for him and had walked off, laughing, somehow she still held back the tears. Still kept the tiniest shred of her dignity. Just enough to build a new life with.
52
Capo di Posillipo, La Baia di Napoli
Salvatore Giacomo was always nervous meeting the great Don Fredo Finelli. Always had been, always would be.
Although they’d known each other for more than two decades, Sal still felt intimidated by his employer. And in a strange way, he liked that feeling. Liked to work for someone who was better, richer and cleverer than him.
As Sal was shown through the hallway to the office in the Don’s home he found himself more nervous than usual. Two things were making him anxious. Fear that the Don knew about the incident in Bar Luca with his son-in-law. And the fact that there had been no card on his doormat from his boss. Don Fredo had never forgotten before. Never. But this time – and this was a landmark birthday too – there had been nothing. He was afraid he might say something. Might forget his position.
Fredo Finelli instantly rose from behind his fine desk when the bodyguard showed Sal into the study. ‘Ciao, Salvatore, come here, my friend!’
Finelli embraced him warmly, patted his back and gripped his shoulders. ‘Let me look at
you. My, you don’t look bad at all for a man of fifty. You feeling good?’
Sal straightened his jacket and nodded. ‘Sì, Don Fredo. I think I am as fit and healthy as I have always been.’ For a moment Sal feared the old man was about to pension him off, put him out to grass and bring in some young gun to fill his place. It was in his nature to always fear the worst.
‘Sit down, Sal.’ He pointed to the leather sofas. ‘I have to get something from my desk.’
Sal sat and waited. His eyes took in the wood panelling, the photographs of the Finelli family. He liked it here. Liked to feel part of it all.
‘I have a little gift for you. Something small to say “Happy birthday”, and also “Thank you” for everything that you’ve ever done for me.’
Sal’s face didn’t show it, but he was as excited as a kid. The Don handed over a small square box wrapped in gold paper, topped with a gold ribbon and bow. Thirty years ago Sal had dated a girl called Giovanna. She’d kept every bow and ribbon from every present she’d ever been given and had stuck them on her bedroom wall. He remembered it now as his big clumsy hands fumbled to open the gift.
‘It’s nice,’ he said, finally getting through all the wrapping. ‘Thank you, Don Fredo, it is nice.’
Finelli smiled. Most people would have managed more than nice if they’d been given a €15,000 watch, but he was all too familiar with Sal’s ways. The manner in which he kept himself to himself. His emotions always tight and under control. Nice was about the best he could have hoped for.
‘It’s a special watch, Sal. Do you know why?’
Sal turned the gold Rolex over and over in his hands. He concentrated hard on the question. He looked relieved, and proud, when the answer came to him. ‘It’s like yours, Don Fredo. It’s just like yours.’
Finelli shook his head. ‘No, it isn’t. It’s not like mine at all. It is mine.’
Sal was shocked. ‘Then, Don Fredo, I must not take it. It is too much.’ He stretched his hands out and offered his boss the watch.
The Don waved him away. ‘No, I want you to have it. It’s a Cosmograph Daytona. Eighteen carat gold, with a diamond dot dial. I hope it serves you well.’
The Don paused for a reply, but Sal remained speechless.
‘Salvatore, I hope it proves as reliable and trustworthy to you as you have been to me. It’s supposed to be the most dependable watch in the world. It is always good to have at hand something or, better still, someone you can rely on.’
Sal didn’t look up as he slid the bracelet awkwardly on to his left wrist, pocketing his old Sekonda with its cracked glass and frayed leather strap that stank of his sweat. He couldn’t find the words to express himself but he fully understood the compliment he was being paid.
‘I can always rely upon you, Sal, can’t I?’
Now Salvatore’s eyes lifted from his gift. He knew his boss’s ways, just as well as his boss knew his. He was going to be asked something important. Something that needed his full attention. ‘Yes, Don Fredo. Of course you can. I hope you know that of me?’
Fredo nodded. ‘Of course I do, Sal. I need to talk to you about my son-in-law, Bruno. What I am about to say to you must never leave this room. You must never discuss it with anyone else, do you understand?’
Sal understood. He always understood this kind of chat. He was going to be given the best birthday present of all. The chance to kill Bruno Valsi.
53
San Giorgio a Cremano, La Baia di Napoli
That night, Creed came to Sylvia in her nightmares. In the fitful two hours that she slept, his yellow-toothed mouth spat out the question again: ‘Would you say that this killing is connected to the disappearances of Luisa Banotti, Patricia Calvi, Donna Rizzi and Gloria Pirandello?’
Well? Would you, Sylvia? Would you?
Calm – he’d been so damn calm – and arrogant. Creed was still on her mind when she woke. And he stayed there as she showered, dressed, skipped breakfast and drove to work. She was so preoccupied she didn’t notice her lieutenant walking in behind her.
‘Buon giorno. Are you okay, boss?’ asked Raimondi.
‘Yes, yes I’m fine, Pietro. I’ve been thinking of what Jack said about Creed. What do you think? Is he innocent or guilty?’
‘Well…’
‘No wells! No painfully long answers! This man is driving me mad. Just tell me; what do you think? Innocent or guilty?’
‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged. ‘I really don’t know.’ And neither did Sylvia. There was no real evidence – certainly no forensic evidence – but his behaviour was so odd, his character so unpleasant, that it made it hard to even connect the word innocent to him. ‘I know we’ve run checks on him having any links or relationships with these women, but please run them again. Shake the whole thing down once more. See if we can sieve something out.’
Pietro’s reply was halted by a knock on her office door. A woman clerk stuck her head round it, ‘Scusi, Capitano, but your phone, it is off the hook.’
Sylvia peered through the rubbish on her desk, found the receiver and slapped it back on its cradle. ‘Grazie.’
‘Downstairs there is a Professore Sorrentino, asking to see you. May I bring him up?’
Pietro laughed. Sylvia dropped her head into her hands. ‘No, you may not! God save me from this. Sorrentino is the last person I want to see.’
‘Shall I send him away, Capitano?’ The clerk seemed confused.
Sylvia turned to Pietro and looked flirtatiously at him. The look was a little jaded, but still did the trick.
‘Okay. I will see him.’ He followed the clerk to reception.
The door banged shut behind them and Sylvia stared down at the mass of paperwork, growing like bacteria on her desk. If the Francesca Di Lauro case had been the only one she was overseeing then things might not have been too bad. But to her left were witness statements, forensic evidence and psychiatric evaluations on a teenager from Portici who had raped five elderly women. And to her right was a reminder from her chief that a week ago he’d requested her Quarterly Crime Analysis Reports. She settled down in the middle of the paper maze and tried to find her way out.
Minutes later, the door reopened and Pietro entered with Sorrentino.
Sylvia’s heart sank. She’d hoped Pietro would have got rid of him.
‘I thought you had better hear this yourself,’ he explained.
Sorrentino flashed his perfect white teeth. She could see that he’d dyed his hair again. This was a man who would go to his grave denying he’d ever had a grey hair on his head.
‘Professore, good to see you,’ she pretended. ‘To what do we owe the enormous pleasure of your company?’
Sorrentino killed her sarcasm in mid-air, swatted it like a pesky fly.
‘There are more bodies.’ He tossed a file on to her desk. ‘Some of the human bones recovered from the park don’t belong to Francesca Di Lauro. They belong to someone else.’
Sylvia was open-mouthed. ‘You’re sure? You’re certain they are not Francesca’s?’
Sorrentino enjoyed his moment. ‘I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t certain.’ He reached across her desk and flipped open the file he’d dropped in front of her.
‘Here in this picture you see the skeleton of Francesca Di Lauro. Okay, maybe we’ve missed some bones, here and there, but it is a good reconstruction.’
Horrible, not good – that was the word Sylvia would have chosen. She looked at the photograph and couldn’t suppress a shiver of sisterly sympathy.
Sorrentino slid the black and white blow-up to one side. ‘This photograph shows sixteen separate fragments of bone, also burned and blackened, and as you can seen I have assembled them. They’re clearly from the left tibia and right femur of another woman.’ He paused and went back on himself to make sure Sylvia fully understood. ‘Bones not from Francesca, but from another woman. This one is aged somewhere between nineteen and thirty, probably about one-and-a-half metres tall.’
‘O porca puttan
a!’ Sylvia looked across at Pietro. He seemed as shocked as she was.
What a setback. One murder like this was a drain on resources, two sucked you dry.
‘How do you know it’s a woman?’ Pietro gestured towards the photograph. ‘And all that about age and size? How do you know her age?’
Sorrentino was glad to explain. ‘Generally, female bones are thinner and shorter than male ones. The biggest clue, though, is in the femur.’
‘The thigh bone?’ checked Pietro.
‘Yes. Femur is Latin for thigh.’ He looked at Pietro as though he were a stupid child. ‘It is the largest and strongest bone in the body. After reassembling the whole of the femur, it’s a simple calculation to project the size of the individual.’
‘And the sex and age?’
Sorrentino sighed wearily. ‘Size and shape of the bone. To determine sex we look at the length and diameter plus the way it joins the hip bone. Age – well, we know the head of the femur is fully developed when a woman is about eighteen or nineteen – and in this case, it was.’
Sylvia stared at the photographs and felt as drained as a dead car battery. She handled the scattered images on her desk and absorbed the reality of what she now accepted was probably another murdered woman. Were these broken and burned bones really all that were left of some lost soul like Luisa Banotti, Patricia Calvi, Donna Rizzi or Gloria Pirandello? The thought angered her. It dropped like a match into a pool of gasoline and sparked her into action.
‘Pietro, I want search teams, exhibit officers, scientists, photographers and every other goddamned overworked person we can find back out in the fields. Dig the whole fucking park up if necessary. We have to see exactly what’s there.’
Sorrentino smirked at her. ‘I’ll tell you exactly what’s there.’ His tone was sotto voce; he waited a beat, then dropped the bomb. ‘A necropolis. That’s what’s there, Capitano. You have stumbled into a serial killer’s secret graveyard and you are about to open up your very own necropolis.’
