Michael Morley - Viper

'We'll get her ourselves.' Sal pushed past her. Farina followed.

Valsi smiled. Sal had no style. No flair. 'You have to excuse him – Mondays are not his good days,' he said as he drew level with her. 'In fact, he doesn't have any good days.'

Kristen smiled back. He had a nice mouth. Good body too. 'Shall I get you some drinks?'

Valsi shook his head. 'Not now. But I'll get you one, when I'm done here.'

Kristen tried not to look too interested. 'I'm working late, and I'm not sure my boss will give me time off.'

Valsi laughed. 'By the time I've finished with your so-called boss, believe me, you'll be able to take the whole damned week off.' He turned away, cracked his knuckles and headed to the office.

Laboratorio di Scienze Sorrentino, Napoli Forensic anthropologist Bernardo Sorrentino put his freshly manicured hands around the back of his head and shook out his long, black curly hair. The shoulder-length mane was his trademark. That and the black Gucci sunglasses he always wore whenever there was a photographer or TV camera around. The forty-two-year-old double divorcee had recently had one ear pierced, and wore a small thousand-euro diamond in it. Much to his disappointment this hadn't attracted a single column inch of comment.

The man the media called Il Grande Leone stared down at the monstrous mosaic of blackened bones laid out before him. On one brightly lit, large white marble table, lay the partially articulated skeleton of the woman who had been identified as Francesca Di Lauro. On an adjacent worktop were more of her blackened and splintered bones, some as small and fragile as pieces of eggshell. Given that the police had an ID there was now no point in piecing them together, but Sorrentino would do it anyway. To him it was like not completing a five-thousand-piece jigsaw, you didn't give up just because you could see what the picture was halfway through. His personal assistant, Ruben Agut, was already exhausted but was also committed to finishing the job. Sorrentino had picked the twenty-four-year-old straight from university. He was gay and Spanish and the anthropologist considered him to be yet another exotic accessory that would draw attention to himself. 'I'm going to get a lab coat,' he told him. 'Then we'll take those photographs and shoot more video.'

Ruben let out a deep and telling sigh. He was bored rigid with being the Great Lion's not-so-great gofer and was planning to quit and return to his native Barcelona. He and Sorrentino had had sex once. 'Purely an experiment in bisexuality,' his boss had called it. It had left Ruben feeling cheap and worthless. Before getting the camera he opened the recently arrived lab reports. He and Sorrentino had managed to unearth not only bone, but also dried organs and semi-fried muscle. These had been testable, they'd both been certain of that. It was a common mistake to presume that fire was the best means of destroying a body – far from it. The flames never destroyed everything of evidential value. Nothing did.

Ruben flipped open the paperwork. The results lifted his mood. He'd correctly identified pieces of liver, kidney and lower intestine.

But what he saw next almost brought him to his knees.

The young assistant slumped over the documentation and double-checked the summary. His stomach turned. At times like this, he was sure he should be doing something else.

Ruben was still catching his breath when his boss returned. Sorrentino was buttoning up his newly starched and pressed lab coat, watching his own reflection in the window as he walked past. 'What is it? What's wrong?' he asked, almost sensitively.

Ruben moved back from the worktop and pointed towards his discovery. 'You were right. The material you picked out was from a uterus. The extra DNA profiling confirms that Francesca Di Lauro was pregnant.'

Campeggio Castellani, Pompeii The black waterproof anorak and trousers that Franco Castellani wore for garbage collection helped him disappear into the rainy darkness of the night. He slid from shadow to shadow around the campsite, checking on the safety of the guests. Or, at least, that's what he told his grandfather he did. For years he'd been prowling. Feeding on any flash of naked female flesh that he could find. Summer was best. Many young couples came to the site to be alone and he'd often see them lost in their lovemaking. He longed for the same. Ached for the sensation of sex. The mysterious closeness he'd witnessed.

In the past, Paolo had brought him hookers. The first had been his age, maybe even younger. She'd fled as soon as she'd got a good look at him. The second had been in her forties. As old and cold as his runaway mother. She was drunk and ridiculed him. Laughed at his withered face, his buck teeth and birdlike body. Asked if Bird Boy had got a worm for a cock? He'd have killed her if Paolo hadn't stopped him. At times like that – times like now – he felt more dead than alive.

Franco was poor and he was ill, but he wasn't stupid. He understood much of what the doctors had told him. Werner Syndrome was a rare and cruel disorder caused by missing proteins and damaged genes. It made him look old – very old – long before he should. It was responsible for him being smaller than most kids at school, but it hadn't really kicked in and done its terrible damage until he'd reached puberty. Then it had turned his body to Plasticine. Reshaped him in its own terrible way. His hair was already greying and thinning. His hands were becoming clawlike and mottled. The sickness would only get worse with age and would soon make him vulnerable to a range of cancers, heart disease and diabetes. Doctors wanted to carry out regular checks and tests on him, but he shunned them. The worse it got, the less care he took of himself. The more he needed to stay warm and infection free, the more he desired to wander in the freezing rain.

Tonight the downpour was so cold it made his face burn. Through the gap in the curtain of a caravan that people had just moved into, he saw the most beautiful woman in the world. Her hair was damp from the shower and she wore a white towelling robe. Franco slid back and felt his heart pound. From inside the van he heard someone shout her name. 'Rosa. Rosa, your dinner is ready.'

Rosa.

Franco spoke her name in the dark, cold wetness of the night. Rosa. His breath smoked white in the light from her window. Rosa. Even saying her name excited him.

His thoughts ran wild.

Rosa.

He knew exactly what he wanted to do to her. And he could barely wait for the chance to do it.

Grand Hotel Parker's, Napoli Jack kicked off his shoes and slumped on to the hotel bed. It needed new springs or a better base. He'd barely slept last night. Before he'd left New York he'd filled Howie in on Creed and why he was heading to Naples. As he dialled his number he hoped his old partner wasn't too juiced to remember.

'Hi there, H. You sober?'

Howie Baumguard croaked a laugh back down the line. 'You joking? I left sober 'bout the same time you left charm school.'

Jack checked his watch, it would be just after seven p.m. in New York. 'What wild evening are you cranking up for yourself?'

'A couple of trays of Chinese slop. A few Buds. And I'm twenty minutes into Apocalypse Now.'

'Terrific. "I love the smell of Napalm in the morning."'

'"Smells like victory,"' returned Howie.

'Man, that's a grim movie.'

'Grim, but brilliant. You wait two friggin' hours for Marlon Brando to come on screen and, when the thing's over, all you can remember is him.'

Jack recalled the classic Coppola epic and Brando's chilling Colonel Kurtz. 'Wouldn't you be better with something lighter?'

'Only other thing I've got is The Grinch Who Stole Christmas,' said the big guy. 'My son left it on top of the TV after his last sleepover.'