Michael Morley - Viper

Valsi put his water down. 'Non capisco. Try again. Maybe this time use a language I might understand.'

'Okay.' The lawyer lifted an envelope off the top of a rosewood cabinet in the corner of the room. 'Take a look at these. There are no difficult words, just pictures – you might be able to keep up with the conversation now.'

Valsi fingered open the flap and shook out a set of black and white prints. He felt his pulse race as he fanned through the shots of his team of dealers, pushers and gang leaders plying their trade.

Mazerelli lifted Valsi's glass and put a bamboo coaster beneath it. 'Good, aren't they?'

'I don't know these people. Why are you showing them to me?'

'I didn't take them, a Cicerone took them. And you do know these people. They work for Ivetta, Donatello – and for you. Turn to the back and you'll see some very revealing shots of the three of you. The Fun Boy Three. Only the Don doesn't think you're that much fun.'

Valsi was shrewd enough to say nothing. He stared at Mazerelli as if he'd suddenly grown bored. 'So, why am I here? You got a message to deliver – then deliver it.'

'Ah, see – you do understand that games have rules. Good. Yes, I do have a message to give you.'

Valsi sat forward a little and scratched his back.

'You won't need that.' Mazerelli recognized the move as a cover to check a gun tucked in the back of his belt.

Valsi pulled out the pistol anyway. The conversation had taken a turn for the worse and if it got any uglier – maybe with some armed knuckleheads materializing out of nowhere – then he'd rather have the piece in his hands. 'So, get on with your message. What's the word?'

'Whatever money you made from the dealing, you give to me -'

'The fuck I will.'

'Let me finish.'

Valsi glared at him, then waved a hand. 'Go on.'

'Whatever money you made from the dealing, you give to me. All of it. Plus one hundred thousand euros. I will pass this to the Cicerone consigliere and cement a peace between us.'

'Bullshit!' Valsi stood up, shook the creases out of his trousers and tucked the pistol in his belt. 'I'm leaving.'

Mazerelli stepped to one side and waved him to the door. 'Then go. But if you do not do this, you disrespect Don Fredo. And he may not be able to give you the protection of the Family.'

Valsi slapped Mazerelli between the legs. Grabbed his balls and squeezed hard. 'Now you listen to me, you bollockless, fancy-worded fucker. You dare talk to me about disrespect and protection? Who the fuck do you think you are?' Valsi swished his leg in a fast curl behind the lawyer's knees. Dropped him to the floor with the ease of a father play-fighting a young son. 'I'm paying nothing. If the Don wants to wad-off the Cicerone Family himself, then fine, let the old man do that. If he chooses to encourage a Cicerone goon to try to whack me, then also fine. Good luck to him. Let them try. It would be good to have the war we should have had years ago. So, now I have a message for you, my dear consigliere. Tell my father-in-law not to disrespect me. Tell him that if he's got a problem, he raises it with me personally, he doesn't send his monkey.' Valsi stepped away from the lawyer, held out his hand and helped him stand. 'Oh, and tell the consigliere of the Cicerone that if they move against me, I will personally rip their Don's heart out of his body, make calzone out of it and feed it to his whores.'

Valsi brushed dust off Mazerelli's shoulders. 'Now, I'll leave you to your work. Seems like you've suddenly become a very busy messenger boy.'

Parco Nazionale del Vesuvio Pale pink sunlight streamed through the rain clouds, making patches of broken ground in the National Park look like rare-cooked steak. On the safe side of the crime-scene tape, Sylvia Tomms slouched against the broad trunk of an evergreen and wondered how many women's bodies had been buried in the earth that her team was now digging and sifting.

Necropolis.

Sorrentino's word rolled noisily over her thoughts, like a primed hand grenade.

Inside the cordoned-off search area, young carabinieri soldiers ignored the rain and dug hard volcanic earth. Each crack of a shovel made Sylvia wonder whether they'd hit centuries-old lava, or recently buried bone.

'Caffe! ' announced Pietro, handing over a plastic cup that was so thin Sylvia couldn't hold it.

'Che caldo, that's hot!' She hurriedly put it down, at the foot of the tree.

'It is the boiling water that makes it like that,' joked her lieutenant.

Sylvia was too tired to laugh. Every volt of her brain power, every watt of her energy, was spent on the investigation. 'You check with the overnight team? Any news? Any sign of Creed?'

'I checked. Nothing. I have two details canvassing houses near where Jack and I saw him pull off the autostrada. Local patrols are still searching for the car. It's his own, not stolen.'

'Good. I want this man sitting in a cell – as soon as possible.' Her eyes scanned the scarred, rugged parkland, settling on the soldiers as they dug for bones. 'How many, Pietro? How many bodies do you think might be out here?'

The big Italian gazed over the fluttering tape. 'Depends. Maybe we'll find only one more.'

What an optimist! Only one more? Somehow Sylvia didn't think so.

Necropolis.

She retrieved her coffee from the foot of the tree and warmed her hands around the cup.

A serial killer's secret graveyard.

The rain stopped and the sun's warmth created an eerie mist around the soldiers as they dug. A much larger area had now been measured out in a grid. One team was still deployed on the inner squares of the old excavation zone – the area that had yielded the remains of Francesca Di Lauro. Another group worked intensely on the neighbouring site – the one that, according to Sorrentino, had produced the second victim. Four other groups, one for each point of the compass, dug outwards into new ground. It was hit and miss whether they would find anything. Sylvia hoped they wouldn't.

Sorrentino was back in the thick of the action, his hands darting this way and that, as expressive as an orchestra conductor. His staff bobbed from dig to dig and checked when the topsoil had been removed and lower layers of earth had been sieved. Meanwhile, a pace back from them all, a crime-scene photographer alternated between snapping away with a digital camera and filming video footage with a hand-held recorder. It was hard, laborious work, and it had to be done meticulously.

'Do you think we'll read about all this in the newspapers tomorrow?' asked Pietro.

Sylvia threw the dregs of her coffee on the ground. 'I hope not.' She crumpled the empty plastic coffee cup and shoved it in the pocket of her blue wool coat. 'I really hope Sorrentino now understands that this kind of exercise is best done without the public knowing.' Her thoughts turned to the families of the missing women. She knew they'd be reading every column inch of every paper, praying every day for news that would end their doubts and suffering.

The sun was soon high enough to show the brooding outline of Vesuvius and to start casting shadows on the hard ground near where the teams toiled. Armed carabinieri ringed the excavation area and brusquely turned away a few early morning dog walkers and an old, breathless jogger. Sylvia had seen enough. 'Come on, let's go back to the office. This place has all the atmosphere of a funeral. We can't do anything more here.'

Pietro nodded and fell in behind her. She was right, the depressive solemnity of the dig was tangible, no one even talked as they dug.

And amid the silence, no one noticed him.

Watching.

Silently cursing.

Damning them all for the sacrilege they were carrying out on his hallowed ground.

His eyes bored into Sylvia. She was nothing much. He was good at first impressions. Not a threat. Not nearly intelligent enough to worry him.