Viper jk-2

by Michael Morley

  They drove in silence for about a minute. Valsi shifted in his seat so he was half facing Sal. He wore an open-necked black and blue striped shirt and had a cream suit jacket across his lap. 'I've got a little surprise for you,' he deadpanned.

  Sal waited. Valsi tilted his eyes down to the jacket on his lap. Between the folds of cream cloth something smooth and shiny caught Sal's eye. Unmistakably, it was the barrel of a pistol.

  'Given that it's your birthday, I'd thought I'd do something truly memorable.' Valsi flicked away the sleeve of the jacket and Sal could see that his right hand was wrapped around the pistol, his index finger already inside the guard and across the trigger.

  For a moment all sound seemed to have been sucked out of the air inside the car. No one dared breathe.

  Then the laughter in the Mercedes nearly tore the roof off.

  Sal the Snake was the only one not splitting his sides.

  'It's yours, you old fool,' said Valsi. He spun the pistol round so Sal could take it off him. 'It's a present. A limited edition Ultimate Vaquero. It's been in the family for years.'

  Up front, Tonino Farina and Dino Pennestri were roaring so loudly that Pennestri had to pull over so he didn't crash the car.

  'Happy birthday, Sal.' Valsi leaned over and embraced him. In the brief clinch, he smelled the older man's fear. A victory in itself. 'It's a point-thirty calibre, a little more unusual and special than the forty-five. The grip is made of white pearl and you'll see the barrel and trigger are bejewelled. Go to a dealer, you won't get change out of three thousand euros.'

  'Grazie mille. It is bellissimo.' Sal checked the chamber. He was glad to find it empty.

  'It's a gift from my wife and me,' said Valsi. 'She gave me a card to give you too.'

  Sal watched as he slid a beige envelope out of the inside of his folded jacket. The envelope and the card were the type that only a woman would buy. Thick, expensive card. A simple artistic picture of a beautiful Fall sunset on the front and no printed message inside, so she could write her own. In a beautiful hand she had written quite simply: Happy Birthday 'Uncle Sal', may your own Fall and Winter be the most beautiful seasons of your life. Love and best wishes, Gina x.

  Valsi could see that for the first time his wife had signed only her own name. He was just the delivery boy. Fucking bitch. 'I'm not one for sentiment,' he explained with disdain, 'but I am one for pleasure. So, my very old friend, we're taking you to Bar Luca for a celebratory lunch.' He produced a thick wad of fifty-euro bills from his pants pocket. 'Today, I'm gonna pay for all the champagne you can drink. All the food you can eat. And all the whores you can fuck. That is, presuming you can still drink and fuck at your age.'

  'I don't drink,' said the Snake.

  'Then you can watch us. We'll celebrate for you!' Valsi slapped his shoulder.

  Farina and Pennestri broke up again. Sal made an effort to smile. Deep down he was thinking about how dangerously close he'd come to killing Valsi when the snot-nosed little punk had pulled the piece on him.

  44

  Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna Sorrentino's minor splash in the newspapers provided the murder squad with a surprising opportunity. Somehow the story was attracting growing national interest. Maybe the nation had a heart after all. Anyway, Sylvia Tomms saw it as a clear chance to keep the case in the public eye and maybe flush out more information. Perhaps, even, the killer himself. With this in mind she scheduled a press conference for the end of the day and hoped to persuade Francesca's parents to attend and make a public statement.

  The inquiry was gathering pace and she needed a brief pause to gather her thoughts. She skipped lunch and took a short walk into the small town of Castello di Cisterna. Missing women, a burned corpse, a dead foetus, no witnesses, an untrustworthy ego-bloated scientist and a murder squad that was exhausted before it had even started.

  It was like trying to catch cats.

  Once she got an investigative focus on one or two aspects, the others escaped her attention and started causing problems.

  Was she out of her depth? There were certainly male colleagues who hoped she was. But she didn't think so. This plainly wasn't going to be the run of the mill inquiry everyone had first thought. Better than that, it was going to be a real challenge. A test of wits as well as techniques. She could raise her game. She was good at not being frightened. Good at facing up to big problems and nibbling away at them until she found bite-sized solutions. And she had Jack. He seemed smart enough to come up with a break for them. Experienced enough to pull her through the unfamiliar quicksands of what she feared may well turn into a serial murder inquiry. Her bosses had scoffed when she'd asked for the profiler, but she knew he'd be of value.

  It was raining again by the time she walked the last half-mile back to the barracks, but she was so focused she didn't even notice. By early afternoon she had the inquiry team fired up again and locked into the drudgery of sifting statements and checking information. Patience and precision were Sylvia's key tools. Never rush. Never miss anything. Jack arrived for the three p.m. briefing and afterwards retreated to a spare office to make his daily call home. No matter where he was, or what he was doing, Jack always broke from events to phone home and speak to his wife and son. Last year's ordeal with the Black River Killer had been a stark personal reminder of how precious his family was, and how much the young boy needed regular contact with his father.

  'How you doing, big guy? You been having fun with Gramps and Grandma?'

  Zack's voice was full of excitement. 'Guess what? Gramps took me to play baseball. He says Santa might bring me a real pitcher's glove and real bat for Christmas. D'you think he will, Daddy? Do you?'

  Jack told him there was a real good chance that Santa would do that. He flexed his left hand as they talked and felt an ache run from the palm to the elbow. Nerve damage that still hadn't healed properly. Another souvenir from his hunt for the Black River Killer. A twinge that always returned whenever he was tired and stretched. 'Has Mommy been good, or has she been spending money again?'

  'She's been spending. And she and Grandma have been drinking wine too.'

  Jack laughed and thanked his small snitch for the inside info before asking for the phone to be given back to his mom.

  'So, how are you holding up?' asked Nancy. 'You sound tired.'

  You sound tired. His wife's diplomatic way of delicately reminding him of the burn-out that had once almost killed him.

  'I'm okay, honey; just things are a bit more complicated than I thought.'

  'They always are, Jack,' she replied tersely. 'You going to make it back sometime soon?'

  He flinched. 'Not so soon. I'm sorry. I think I'm going to have to be here a few more days yet.'

  Silence fell. Then she drew a deep breath and let fly. 'Jack, you said four days tops. Please don't mess us all around on this. I've got Christmas coming up, your son is bursting to see you, and my mom and dad were expecting to share a little time with you as well.'

  The telling-off lasted several more minutes before he invented a white lie that there was a car downstairs waiting for him and he had to go. 'Love you, sweetheart. Kiss Zack for me.'

  'I will. We love you too.' She meant it, but her voice was strained, not only with annoyance and disapproval but also with worry.

  Jack tried to banish the loneliness creeping up on him. Zack had sounded so beautiful. So young. So pure. Pure.

  The word cannoned around inside him. He'd become so obsessed with Vesuvius and Hercules and the geography of the place, he'd forgotten the deep importance of fire. It made things pure. In religious rites, pagan rites and all magical rites since time began, fire was always a way of cleansing impurity.

  But what impurity?

  What had the women done?

  What was their crime against the killer?

  45

  Bar Luca, Napoli They ate steaks and salads for Sal's birthday lunch. From a distance it looked like they were all having a ball. But everyone around t
he table knew that soon – maybe sooner than even they thought – either Salvatore Giacomo would kill Bruno Valsi, or vice versa.

  As far as Pennestri and Farina were concerned, they would try to avoid picking sides right up until the very last moment. Fredo Finelli was their ultimate boss and for now it was far too early to bank on the ballsy young Bruno being able to topple the Don. If anything, they would bet against it. But the two men had been Camorristi long enough to know you should never say never.

  Bar Luca was a basement haunt in the city centre. Recently refurbished, it pumped out ice-cold air conditioning and the kind of atmosphere that made every minute feel like a Friday night. Sitting at a dark wood table, not far from a pole around which a half-naked girl posed and pouted, they'd finished their food and the drink was flowing.

  'Fifty years old – half a fucking century, Sal, it's a wonder you have the strength to haul yourself out of bed in the morning. I salute you.' Valsi raised another cold one to his lips.

  'Salute! Although, to be honest, I've never felt stronger or fitter than I do now.' Sal raised his own glass of Cola Lite.

  'Maybe you should look for a new job, something softer, a bit easier on the old bones?' chided Pennestri.

  Sal forced a smile. 'You know, old bones or not, I'm stronger and tougher than anyone around this table. You'd all do well to remember it.'

  'Even your boss?' said Valsi. There was a hint of steely challenge in his voice. 'You think you're stronger than me?'

  Sal smiled again, but this time he didn't have to force it.

  'Bruno, I know I'm stronger than you.'

  'Okay, birthday boy.' Valsi stripped off his jacket and rolled up a sleeve. 'Arm wrestle me.'

  Pennestri and Farina exchanged glances. This was going to be good.

  Valsi had wrestled plenty in prison, and had never lost. 'Guys, clear the table. Make room for me and Grandpa.'

  Looking across the table, now sticky with beer, he saw no fear in Salvatore Giacomo's eyes. Pennestri and Farina moved plates and glasses from the surface.

  'Break a glass,' insisted Valsi. 'Put half of it on one side, half on the other.' He grinned at Sal. 'Let's make it more interesting.'

  Pennestri rolled a beer glass in two napkins and dropped it on the floor. Sal watched with amusement as he sprinkled slivers and shards at opposite ends of the table. 'I'm going for a piss, Bruno. While I'm away, take time to think about whether you really want to do this.' He started to rise from his chair but Valsi grabbed him by the forearm. 'You leave the table when I tell you, and you don't piss until I tell you. Now wrestle.'

  Sal laughed at him. 'Don't be such a child. I work for your father-in-law, not you. The Don told me to keep you out of trouble, not cut you up.' He pulled his arm free.

  'Just wrestle, you fucking coward,' insisted Valsi. 'Don Fredo would expect you to be a man not a chicken.'

  Sal's smile dropped. He'd been pushed too far. 'Okay. Let's do as you say.' Jacket still on, he angled his elbow and opened his hand so Bruno could grip it.

  'You call it, Tonino,' Valsi ordered. He moulded his fingers into Sal's grip. Tried to gain the first advantage.

  Farina looked at the men's faces, then counted a beat. 'Go!'

  Valsi's biceps tensed and bulged. Blue veins rippled down his arm. He powered all his superior weight into Sal's arm.

  The Snake rocked for a moment. His opponent's speed and sudden force made his whole body quake. His elbow slid and almost buckled. He felt his wrist being stretched and strained. Each opponent's arm shook under the effort. Valsi slowly began to inch his way to victory. 'Birthday, or no fucking birthday, I'm going to teach you a lesson, motherfucker.'

  Sal looked at the broken glass, ominously positioned exactly where his hand would be crushed back. His arm was now almost at a forty-five-degree angle, but his face still showed no fear. Slowly and very deliberately he began squeezing Valsi's hand.

  It took Valsi several seconds to work out what was happening. Sal's arm wasn't going back any further. It wasn't going down. But a vice-like grip was gradually crushing his fingers.

  Sal's eyes registered no emotion. He carried on crushing. He could feel the bones in Valsi's fingers grinding against each other. He kept squeezing.

  The pain started to show on Valsi's face. Pennestri and Farina could see it too.

  Sal hunched forward a little. 'Would you like to stop?' he whispered across the table.

  Valsi said nothing. He tried to use the pain to summon a second surge of strength. He channelled all his efforts into ramming Sal's hand down on to the jagged glass. But he couldn't.

  The Snake's iron grip tightened another notch.

  Then another.

  And another.

  Valsi hung his head low. The pain was unbearable. He wanted to scream. Yell his head off like a teenage girl at a horror movie. He ground his teeth and ate up the agony. Swallowed the fear, and the shame that came with it. But he knew he didn't have much longer. Soon the bastard would break his hand. Crush his fingers like day-old breadsticks.

  'We can stop whenever you want.' said Sal, in a humiliating matter-of-fact tone. 'Just say it.'

  Valsi's eyes blazed. Defiance. One last effort.

  But he didn't have anything to give.

  Sal swung Valsi's crushed hand and drained arm up into the vertical, then, like a felled tree, down towards the spikes of shining glass.

  Valsi shut his eyes. Readied himself for the pain. And the humiliation.

  And it came. But not in the way he expected. Much worse.

  Sal let go.

  Just a centimetre from victory, the Snake opened his fingers and slipped his arm away. 'Enough,' he said, as though bored with a naughty child. 'I'm going to take that piss now.'

  46

  Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna In a grey anteroom to hell – a waiting room inside the carabinieri barracks – the parents of Francesca Di Lauro wept in each other's arms. It was the first time they'd touched since divorcing more than ten years ago.

  The Di Lauros had thought they could never feel sadder than the moment when they'd learned of their daughter's murder. But the news that she'd also been pregnant had ratcheted them deeper into the depths of despair.

  Bernadetta Di Lauro raised her head from her ex-husband's tear-soaked shoulder. She looked sadly into the eyes that she knew had once adored her. 'I'm sorry. I just can't make sense of this.'

  He patted her hand gently. 'I know. I don't believe it either. It all seems so unreal.'

  She found a handkerchief in her purse, next to a small photograph of Francesca graduating from university. She blew her nose and dabbed her eyes. Dreaded to think what she looked like.

  Genarro Di Lauro blinked back the last of his own tears. He was still in shock. He'd never got over the trauma of learning that his daughter had gone missing. Now he could barely cope with the news that the police had identified the remains of her body. Remains. That's what they'd called them – remains – what an awful word. The leftovers. The discarded bits. The final dregs of life that couldn't be better hidden. The remains.

  'Genarro!'

  Bernadetta's raised voice made him realize that he'd been miles away. Lost again in the uniquely depressive fog that engulfs parents of murdered children. 'What?'

  She smiled at him and nodded towards a young carabinieri officer. The policeman was about the same age as Francesca would have been. He looked smart in his full uniform. No doubt his parents' pride and joy. 'The Capitano is ready to see you now.' His voice was soft and respectful. His eyes suggested he understood their pain. But, of course, he didn't. Couldn't. Not until he was much older and a father himself.

  Sylvia Tomms had met them before. She made them as comfortable as possible. Not in her broom cupboard of an office but in a special room reserved for breaking bad news. The furnishings were less harsh but still businesslike. Brown cotton sofas were grouped around a low wooden table littered with plastic cups of coffee left by previous grievers. She cursed the
fact that they hadn't been cleared and hastily palmed them into a steel bin.

  'Do you have any idea who may have been the father of my daughter's child?' asked Genarro.

  Sylvia winced. 'I'd hoped that was something you or your wife might be able to help us with.'

  'Ex-wife,' corrected Bernadetta and in the same breath wished she hadn't. She felt her husband – ex-husband – squeeze her hand and somehow the reassurance made her feel like crying again.

  'Before she went missing, was she seeing anyone regularly?'

  Francesca's parents looked at Sylvia and then at themselves. Predictably, it was her mother who tried to fill in the gaps. 'Francesca didn't say much to me about her love life. Sometimes there'd be a twinkle in her eye, occasionally she'd share a boy's name with me and mention where they were going, but in the main she was a very private person.'

  Genarro was looking off into the distance. Francesca was five years old again. Her thick dark hair in plaits with yellow bows that she kept playing with. Her gorgeous eyes sparkled with innocence as he hid a coin up his sleeve and magically produced it out of her ear. He was lost in the mists of time – an age before womanhood, before pregnancy and long before murder.

  'Anything?' pushed Sylvia, catching his attention. 'A remark, a name, a period where she seemed odd, behaved differently?'

  'I only saw my daughter about once a month,' confessed Genarro. 'When she'd lived with Bernadetta, I'd seen more of her, but when she went to University and got her own apartment, then she had a new life, new friends and not so much time to see me.' His face showed all the regrets of a parent who wished he could turn back time.

  'She loved you very much,' said Bernadetta, looking at him with the soft blue-green eyes that she'd passed down to her daughter. 'She was always saying Papa this, Papa that.'

  'Mamma's girl,' he countered and then looked surprised that he'd said it rather than just thought it. 'She was just like you – looks and temperament. Just like you.'