by Unknown
The unusual request threw Nancy and she weighed it up for a moment before agreeing. ‘No. No, I don’t mind at all. We don’t encourage the staff to mix with the guests out of the hotel, but providing this is purely a business arrangement, then I don’t have any objections at all.’
‘Great, thanks.’
Nancy smiled and started to walk away, to have a quiet word with Paullina while the matter was still fresh in her mind. ‘Have a nice day, Mr McLeod.’
‘And you,’ said McLeod, adding, ‘Oh, by the way, did you catch him?’
Nancy spun round. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘The man last night. Did you catch him? Everyone in the restaurant was talking about it. Some hooded guy running through the place.’
Nancy gathered her wits. ‘No, no, we didn’t. But let me reassure you, it wasn’t anything serious. Nothing was taken and we’ve called the police. Please don’t be worried by it. I can assure you everyone and everything here is perfectly safe.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ said McLeod. ‘Was it your husband who chased him off? I think I read somewhere that he’s an ex-cop, ex-fed or something?’
Nancy wished the conversation would end. The fright last night had left her irritable, and while she supposed that it was only natural that the guests would ask questions about what had happened, this guy was bugging her. ‘No, Mr McLeod. It wasn’t my husband. It was my chef and his kitchen boy. He was a lucky man. I hate to think what they’d have done with him if they’d caught him.’
‘I guess battered burglar would have been on the menu?’ quipped McLeod, feebly.
‘And that would be just for starters,’ said Nancy King.
She smiled again and this time did manage to walk away from his table. Terry McLeod was delighted. If former FBI man Jack King hadn’t been here last night, on Independence Day of all days, and he wasn’t here this morning to comfort his wife after her ordeal, then just where the hell was he?
47
Rome
Jack had been unable to shake off the horrors of his latest nightmare until he’d spoken to Nancy on the phone. He’d waited until just after seven, the time when he was sure the bedside alarm would have woken her. He had been soothed by listening to his wife’s sleepy voice and imagined how warm she would have felt if he had been lying in bed with her. Nancy hadn’t mentioned the burglar, although it had still been very much on her mind.
After the call, Jack felt reassured and energized enough to take a short jog around the centre of Rome, followed by a hot shower and a healthy breakfast on the terrace. By the time he climbed into the chauffeur-driven car to take him to police HQ the streets were almost gridlocked with traffic. The journey took twice as long as it should have done and Jack got out feeling hot enough to need another shower.
He tipped the driver Massimo had sent him, even though the guy insisted that there was no need, and made his way to the meeting room. Massimo had other appointments that day and it had been arranged that Jack would sit with Orsetta, Benito and Roberto to get an update on their enquiries and swap any new thoughts they might have had. The starting time for the meeting was noon and Jack was still finding it hard to become accustomed to the fact that people weren’t at their desks by eight a.m. or earlier, as he was used to in New York. The Italians seemed to have the work-life balance thing better sussed than the Americans. They worked to live rather than lived to work. Free time, family time, me time – those were the three things they looked forward to most.
Jack sat in the plain, dull room on his own and was going over a checklist of the subjects he wanted to cover when Orsetta walked in.
‘Buon giorno,’ she said. ‘You are a little early, no?’
‘Not by US standards,’ he answered. ‘The meeting’s not until twelve, right?’
‘That’s right,’ said Orsetta, ‘I thought I might already find you here, so I came along ahead of the rest.’
‘Thought or hoped?’ he asked, unable to resist flirting a little.
‘I guess both,’ she said coolly. ‘But it’s something professional rather than personal that I have in mind.’ Nevertheless, she couldn’t stop her eyes sparkling playfully.
‘Then shoot,’ he said.
They both settled into black plastic chairs across the corner of a long table that faced whiteboards and video screens. She was dressed demurely in matching dark brown jacket and trousers, accompanied by a green striped blouse, her hair tied back in a green ‘scrunchy’.
‘Okay,’ she said, finally deciding how she was going to open the discussion. ‘Some years back, I went to England and attended some courses at Scotland Yard and at a place in the country called Brams Hall…’
‘Bramshill,’ interrupted Jack. ‘It’s called Bramshill, not Hall, and it’s the location of the National Police Staff College run by the Association of Chief Police Officers. I guess you were there as part of your profiling training?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Orsetta, a little irritated at being corrected.
‘It was ACPO that launched offender profiling in the UK. They had to nurture it through the regional forces for years. The Bramshill course is probably the best in the world – outside Quantico, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Orsetta. ‘Well, when I was there, at Bramshill,’ she continued, ‘apart from the training, I learned a very important English saying.’
‘Which is what?’ asked Jack, intrigued as to what point she might eventually get round to making.
Orsetta spoke slowly, making sure the strange English expression came out right. ‘We are all avoiding talking about the elephant in the room.’
‘We’re all what?’ said Jack, wearing a smile as broad as his shoulders.
‘We’re avoiding talking about the biggest, most obvious thing. We’re pretending it’s not there,’ explained Orsetta.
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ said Jack, ‘but you’ve lost me. To be truthful though, most of those Brit sayings are lost on me. There’s many a slip twixt cup and lip, pride before a fall, shutting the barn door after the horse has bolted, crying over spilt milk – they talk in damn riddles half the time.’ He could see from the look on her face that she was in no mood for levity. ‘Apologies. You had a serious point; we’re avoiding the obvious, the big thing that’s staring us in the face. So what’s that? What’s the big thing?’
She chewed her lip, and then spat out what was on her mind. ‘You, Jack, you’re the big thing. You are the elephant.’
‘Come again?’
‘I’ve heard you and Massimo talking about how BRK is taunting the police, and how even the FBI reports refer to it. But what if it’s more personal than that? What if it’s Jack King that BRK is taunting?’
Jack shot her a dismissive look. ‘Not worth putting in the frame. I don’t see it. Why on earth should he fixate on me?’ He paused for a second, searching for possibilities. ‘Nope, I really don’t see it. Over the years, there were seven senior investigating officers heading that enquiry, I don’t think I did anything different from any of them.’ He let out a sigh. ‘I certainly didn’t get any closer to catching him. Have you got something specific in your mind?’
Orsetta hadn’t, it was only a feeling, but she’d learned not to ignore her instincts when they kept nagging away as this one was doing. ‘I don’t know. I can’t get away from thinking that you’re the only thing linking BRK, Italy and the USA. Maybe you’ve somehow come to represent the police, or some government authority for him, and he has to destroy you to get revenge for something that was done to him. Perhaps you’ve come to symbolize an injustice against him, or someone he loved.’ The explanation had come out much weaker than she’d intended, but she didn’t know how to put it any better, and now she could see that Jack was looking at her as if she were some police academy first-termer who was hopelessly out of her depth. ‘Look,’ she added quickly, ‘he killed when you were in the States, now he’s killing while you’re in Italy. Is that just a coincidence?’
Jack’s sharp
stare of disapproval disappeared. Simplicity was something that always appealed to him, and like all detectives, he didn’t believe in pure coincidences. As a seasoned profiler, he knew there had to be a good reason to discount anything. ‘BRK was killing long before I was drafted into the case. I only worked his files for about five years and PROFILER, the FBI computer system, links murders to him a good twelve years before that. The Kearney case, for example, well, that’s now exactly twenty years old, and…’ Jack stalled, as pieces of the case paperwork flashed through his mind. ‘In fact, unless I’m wrong, it’s exactly twenty years ago since Sarah’s body was found. Now, that’s far more likely to be the trigger for these latest activities; you might have inadvertently hit on something.’
Orsetta put her hand on his arm. ‘Jack, this isn’t adding up. If BRK was aroused just by the thought of the upcoming anniversary of his first victim, that might be a reason for him going back to her grave, but you’re ignoring the fact that he sent that victim’s skull in a package specifically addressed to you at the FBI, and the possibility that he killed in Livorno.’
Jack shrugged. It was something he’d already thought about. ‘I was the last person heading the enquiry. I was in all the papers and on television; the front man always gets the attention, especially when it involves psychopaths.’ He flinched. ‘Even me quitting the case was in the papers, so I guess I was simply a soft target for his scorn.’
Orsetta’s face soured. ‘So, if you rule yourself out, then what’s the connection to Italy?’
Jack thought he had the answer. ‘Italy may be his new hunting ground, but that doesn’t mean he can’t fly home to mark an anniversary. When these whackos get all wired up they tend to be erratic, offending in sprees, until their energies have been spent. I’m much more inclined to believe that, than think BRK has some personal beef with me.’
Jack pulled away from her hand and sat back in his chair. He was thinking about what she had just said. Somehow she’d touched a nerve. The Italian connection really was an odd thing. And then, a thought struck him.
‘You’ve got me wondering though. Why Italy? If it really is BRK, then why kill in Italy? There’s nothing in his profile that links him with the country, and you’re right, I am the only geographic link.’
Orsetta couldn’t resist flashing him a ‘told-you-so’ look.
‘Let’s say we are dealing with BRK, and let’s say the excitement of the anniversary has made him want to start killing again,’ said Jack, starting to see a pattern. ‘It would be very much in BRK’s profile to organize his return to action, to set up a decoy, to have us spread our resources not just nationally but internationally and be massively distracted so he can indulge his sick little fantasies.’
Orsetta could sense Jack reliving the hatred, and the pain, of hunting his old foe. Subconsciously, he started twirling the gold wedding ring on his finger, and continued, ‘So, following your line of thought, BRK kills in Italy, knowing that the Italian police will turn to me. That’s a fair bet; our move to Tuscany was in all the papers back home, so he could well have read about that. He’d know that a dismembered body on a coastline, plus a note claiming to be from him, would be bound to get you guys calling at my door.’ Jack visibly warmed to the theory. ‘That would explain why he went to such lengths to mention twice in the note that we were dealing with BRK. Then, while everyone is focused on Italy, he turns his attention back to his old flame Sarah Kearney, as part of what he’s really got in mind.’
Orsetta was unsure of his train of thought. ‘Where are you going with this, Jack? Are you saying that you think he is no longer in Italy and he’s planning to start killing again in the States?’
That was exactly what he was thinking. ‘Either he’s planning to kill there, or he has already killed. Italy’s a red herring, built around me. You were right about me being the elephant in the room. Now it’s only a matter of time before another body turns up, probably in the States. And you can bet that if BRK is killing again, then this time he’ll be on a spree that is going to be worse than anything we’ve ever encountered before.’
48
San Quirico D’Orcia, Tuscany
Nancy King’s morning was thrown into disarray when a landscaper unexpectedly turned up to survey the area of subsidence in the rear gardens. Vincenzo Capello was an old friend of her hotel manager Carlo, and the two hugged and kissed so affectionately in reception they could have been mistaken for gay lovers. It had been so long since Carlo had promised that his friend Vincenzo would fix the gaping hole that had opened up at the foot of their terraced garden, that she’d almost completely forgotten about him.
Vincenzo was living testimony to the much heralded benefits of a healthy Italian diet of fresh foods, olive oil and strong red wine. Nancy had been told he was nearer seventy than sixty, but looking at him now, she didn’t think he looked a day older than fifty. Carlo said, ‘Ciao!’ and went off to chase up his staff, leaving Nancy to show a still grinning Vincenzo to the trouble spot.
‘Carlo, he tell me that you have a big hole in your garden. He says all the staff are afraid of a-falling in it.’ Vincenzo’s eyes twinkled and his permanent smile showed a full set of strong, white teeth.
‘Not quite,’ said Nancy, leading him from the reception. ‘But it is a big fall of soil and I’d hate it to get worse. The end of the garden terrace, behind where we grow vegetables for the kitchen, has given way and some kind of tunnel has opened up beneath it. What I’m most worried about is whether the ground above it might also be unsafe.’
Vincenzo didn’t appear to hear her. His eyes were fixed on the bathroom sign. It seemed that the one thing that might not be holding up as well as his looks was his bladder. ‘Un momento brevissimo,’ he pleaded and ducked inside. Nancy waited patiently, her eagle eyes spotting some chipped paintwork that would have to be touched up once the summer season was over and all the guests had gone. Mr Capello duly reappeared, shaking water from his just washed hands. ‘You like Italy?’ he asked.
Italians visiting La Casa Strada always asked that, and Nancy loved the fact that they wanted her to share their passion for the country. ‘I adore Italy,’ she said with gusto. ‘We’ve been here a couple of years now and I feel more and more at home every day.’
Vincenzo’s face lit up. ‘Meraviglioso, wonderful,’ he said.
‘Let me show you the damage,’ said Nancy.
As they walked outside, she slowed down and looked around. It was something she did every time she stepped outside La Casa Strada. To her, every view around the hotel was a visual feast, a delicacy marinating in time itself, growing deliciously better every day she spent there. Today the sunlight in the private garden behind the kitchen was as soft and golden as pure honey.
‘It’s just down that slope there,’ said Nancy, pointing across the garden. ‘You can see where my husband has moved some old fencing across to stop anyone going down.’
Vincenzo nodded and walked slowly over, his eyes drinking in the view across the lush valley towards Mount Amiata in the south and Siena in the north. Nancy watched him disappear down the banking, and then, amid the birdsong in the orange trees she heard a strange sound, a sort of harsh clunk and click, a metallic kind of noise, the type that simply didn’t belong in a garden. She took a couple of paces around a tree and was startled to find herself face to face with her highly inquisitive fellow American, Terry McLeod.
‘Excuse me,’ she said abruptly, ‘it’s private back here. Would you mind returning to the guest gardens?’
‘Oh hell, I’m sorry,’ said McLeod jovially. ‘You’ve got such a wonderful place; I was just walking around taking some photographs. I’m real sorry.’
Nancy noticed the expensive-looking camera strung on a thick Nikon strap around his neck, his finger still on the shutter button. ‘That’s okay. Just please remember in future.’ There was something about McLeod she didn’t like, something that she just couldn’t work out.
‘New camera, I just can’t leave it
alone,’ said the American. He lifted it from his neck to show her and in the same moment clunk-clicked off a head and shoulders shot of Nancy. This irritated the hell out of her. ‘You never think of asking permission, do you?’ she snapped, her face colouring.
‘Hey, sorry again,’ said McLeod, disingenuously. He sauntered off without saying goodbye, swinging the camera on its strap.
For one moment Nancy’s mind went into flashback. The heavy black camera looked strangely familiar. Why?
And then she remembered. It looked identical to the square, black object she’d seen the previous night. The object in the hand of the burglar in her bedroom.
49
FBI Field Office, New York
Angelita Fernandez put down the desk phone and grimaced as she turned to Howie Baumguard. The big guy really looked as though he could do with a break. And this wasn’t going to be it. ‘I just talked to Gene Saunders out at Myrtle. Seems our man Stan is a no-show.’
‘He ever done that before?’ asked Howie, lost in some work on his computer.
‘Nope. Doesn’t seem that way. His boss at UMail2 Anywhere says he’s a good kid. Always bang on time. Never swings a day off without asking, or at least calling in with a reason rather than an excuse.’
‘Sounds like Jack’s right,’ said Howie, typing with two fingers. ‘Poor kid.’
Fernandez tried to picture what the delivery boy looked like and settled on young, thin and scrawny, still trying to make his way in life. ‘You really think Stan got wasted before BRK did a runner from Myrtle?’
‘It’s sure starting to look that way,’ said Howie.
Fernandez picked up a pencil and twirled it like a baton through the fingers of one hand. It was a trick she’d picked up in high school and somehow it helped her concentrate. ‘I’ll check on the bones downstairs. Dental should have some results now on Kearney. You think it’s a match?’
