Michael Morley - Viper

'That was Creed. The man who just asked those questions wasn't a journalist. It's Luciano Creed.'

Via Caprese Michelangelo, centro citta, Napoli At dusk, high-powered halogen security lights fizzled into life, illuminating the six-storey salmon-coloured building that housed the penthouse of Camorra consigliere Ricardo Mazerelli.

The forty-eight-year-old's home off Corso Vittorio Emanuele was located behind tall black railings in a private park, plush with palm trees and pristine lawns. Three armed security guards – Finelli men – patrolled the grounds 24/7.

In keeping with the trend for glass conservatories built over sky-high terraces, Mazerelli's was probably the biggest and longest in the city. Inside, a fountain-fed pond of ghost koi carp was the central feature of a Japanese garden specifically designed for peace and tranquillity. The privileged few who had stood inside, and gawped at the incongruity of the place, could also tell you that the windows were not only bullet-proof, they were strong enough to withstand a mortar attack.

Don Fredo Finelli sat in a wicker chair, a glass of chilled Prosecco on a small stone table at his side. He loosened his tie. He and his consigliere were alone after a routine business meeting in the financial district. Mazerelli looked tense and the Don wanted to know why. 'So, Ricardo, spill your troubles. Tell me what is on your mind.'

The family lawyer leaned forward, elbows on knees, a businesslike look on his face. 'May I speak openly; without fear of causing offence?'

'You know that is your privilege,' said Don Fredo, 'but please don't use it as a licence for disrespect.'

'It is your son-in-law.'

The Don's eyebrows arched. He couldn't help but tense in his seat.

'How do I know this is not going to be good news?'

'I'm afraid you are right.' Mazerelli slid open the top of another stone table and dialled the combination of the safe hidden inside. He pulled out a large Manila envelope and passed it to his employer. 'You need to see these.'

For a moment Don Fredo considered not opening the packet. He was going to deal with Valsi when he was ready. When the time was right. He feared that whatever the photographs showed might enrage him so much it would cloud his judgement.

The consigliere stood behind the Don and explained the stack of prints. 'They are all pictures of child drug dealers, fornitori run by Bruno or, at least, by his associates. The youth you're looking at is the spacciatore, the pusher; he is dealing wraps of cocaine and heroin.'

'How old is he?' Don Fredo's voice was low and sombre.

'This one is about fourteen. I'm told younger boys and girls are involved. Maybe as young as nine or ten.'

'Porca Madonna! This is not what we do.' Don Fredo threw down the photographs.

'In some ways it is clever,' continued Mazerelli. 'Juveniles are not punished as severely by the polizia or the courts. They are often given second chances rather than detention.'

Finelli banged his fist on the arm of the chair. 'Children are not pawns, Ricardo! We offer them jobs when they are old enough to choose, not when they are too young to say no.'

The consigliere paused and let his boss's passion fade before passing over a new print. 'Now we go up the chain, this is the main dealer -'

'You are sure of that?'

'Yes. There are several shots of him. Look at the blow-up and you will see.'

Finelli took another print and screwed up his face. The shot was taken from a high angle, maybe from an apartment building, or a factory rooftop. It very clearly showed bags of cocaine in the trunk of the dealer's Alfa. Digital scales, wire ties, silver foil and latex gloves were visible near a wheel and a jack.

The Don put two prints to one side and tapped one with his right hand. 'Who are these men? Please tell me they are not who I think they are.'

'I am afraid they are. Alberto Donatello and Romano Ivetta.'

The Don shook his head, reached for the glass of Prosecco and drained it.

'They're clearly the gang masters. They organize the children every day. Supply them with the packages and take the cash from them.'

'Scum!' Valsi had defied him and it made his blood boil.

Heavy moments passed as Don Fredo examined the other photographs. A long-lens surveillance shot showed Valsi shoulder to shoulder with the other men. All three were laughing. The background confirmed they had been taken on the same day and in the same place where the kids had been dealing. 'Where did you get these from? Did you spy on my son-in-law, without asking me for permission – without my authority?'

'Don Fredo, no!' Mazerelli steepled his hands together, praying for a pause in the rising outburst. 'I did not take these photographs, nor did I commission them.'

Finelli felt apprehension corkscrew down his spine. 'So, where were they taken?' He feared the worst. 'Tell me it was in the east quarter. Or, at least, in one of our territories.'

Ricardo Mazerelli glanced at the carp swimming through his roof-garden pool. The water needed changing. He'd do it later. The calm and peace that he savoured were about to be ruined. His eyes returned to his boss. 'They were given to me by the consigliere of the Cicerone Family. They were taken on his Family's ground.'

The old man rubbed his face.

He wasn't prepared for this. Not at all.

His thoughts and planning had been on keeping peace within his own Family. The one thing he hadn't contemplated was a turf war. But it was going to happen.

There was going to be a blood feud.

Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna Luciano Creed had vanished.

Pietro barked into a walkie-talkie and marshalled police cars from the back of the barracks. With luck Creed wouldn't have got far.

'He'll take the autostrada,' Pietro motioned to Jack. 'There's a junction only a few kilometres from here, we must go now.'

Jack followed the tall lieutenant to an old Lancia parked across the road. The profiler's mind was more troubled about why Creed had turned up than whether they had a chance of catching him.

'Motherfucking bastard!' Raimondi swore softly as he sped away from the barracks with a squeal of car tyres.

Jack had guessed that the press conference would provoke a reaction. Maybe a letter from the killer. Maybe a tip-off from someone who'd been touched by Francesca's parents and thought they knew the killer. But he hadn't bargained on this.

The old car lurched round bends and accelerated down the autostrada slip road. Pietro opened it up and the exhaust rattled.

'There! There!' shouted Jack as they drew level with a Land Rover Freelander.

Passing sodium lights played on and off the wind-shields as the two cars drove in parallel at approaching 140kph.

Luciano Creed looked across and spotted Jack King peering back at him. He didn't seem frightened. He smiled a jagged yellow-toothed smile, lifted his right hand off the wheel and used his thumb and small finger to illustrate a phone.

'What's he doing?' asked Pietro, wondering whether the old Lancia was strong enough to force the Freelander to stop, or whether it would just get chewed up under the 4x4's big wheels.

'I'm not sure,' said Jack. 'He's making fun of us, I think.'

Suddenly the Freelander veered sharp right. It crossed on to the hard shoulder and careered down the banking.

'Fuck!' shouted Pietro. 'What happened? Has he crashed?'

Jack craned his neck and squinted out of the rear window while the Lancia squealed to a stop. 'I can't see anything.' His eyes scanned the darkness for any sign of flames or lights.

Nothing.

'Christ, where's he gone?' Pietro hit reverse and backed up. 'There was no turn-off there. You can't get off the autostrada for another five kilometres.'