Michael Morley - Viper

'Jack. Look at these.'

He responded slowly to Sylvia's voice, carefully stepping on to a short walkway that had just been put down. It took him to the heart of the group.

The young Exhibits Officer held a long drawer across his arms and a camera whirred and flashed from somewhere to the side.

In the left side of the drawer were maybe six or seven pairs of panties. From their size and style they looked as though they'd been worn by slim – probably young – women. Next to them was a pile of used cosmetics. Lipsticks, eyeliners, blusher, powder, even some hairspray aerosols. In the right side of the drawer was a strange mix of papers – tissues that had yellowed but still bore marks of lipstick or make-up, old letters that had been crumpled up and then straightened out, torn photographs of girls' faces that had been Sellotaped together again.

'You recognize any of these girls?' asked Jack.

'Not yet,' answered Sylvia, 'but I wouldn't be surprised if at least some of them turn out to be our missing women.'

'These are trophies?' said Pietro. He pointed to the tent that covered the place where the last woman had been burned. 'He kills his women there, then he collects here what he wants to keep from them.'

'Maybe,' said Jack, his attention caught by two forensic officers struggling to move heavy cans in an adjacent corner. 'What have they got there?'

Pietro interrupted the search. He lifted one of the cans, his face beaming with an ear-to-ear smile. 'Paraffina! Looks like we've found your paraffin.'

Campeggio Castellani, Pompeii Antonio Castellani was on the toilet cursing his haemorrhoids when the carabinieri rushed his caravan. By the time he'd come out, frightened and still hurting, his grandson Paolo was flat on the floor with his hands cuffed behind his back.

They were both read their rights and told they were being taken to the carabinieri barracks for questioning in connection with three murders. The arresting officers noted they looked genuinely shocked. They also noted that another Castellani – Franco – was missing. His grandfather made frantic protests about needing to stay to run his business but his words fell on deaf ears. Confused campers crushed around the two separate police cars that flashed their blue lights and sped away.

Search teams poured into the old man's van and the one that Paolo and Franco shared. They found nothing in Antonio's office, except accounts, scrap-books of his younger years, old clothes, a cupboard full of cans and dried foods, some letters from his wife and enough medicines to stock a farmacia.

Things were different in the other caravan.

Forensics were having a ball.

Mud from the pit was all over the place, but especially close to one of the stinking bunks. There were specks of heroin all over the floor. They stripped the bed sheets and sent them off to be tested for other substances – specifically gunshot residue. The pillow cover was pulled off and bagged. Something soft tumbled lightly on to the floor.

Alberto Morani, a veteran forensic investigator, felt his heart thump. 'Stop! Don't touch it until you've photographed it.'

His assistant, newcomer Giulietta Sielli, pulled back her hand. She flicked round the camera she was holding and took several pictures of what even she knew could be hugely significant.

Lying on the floor by Franco Castellani's bed was a pair of tiny yellow panties. The type that undoubtedly matched the yellow bra that had been worn by Rosa Novello.

Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna Within seconds of seeing Antonio Castellani being interviewed in the holding cell, Jack knew he had nothing to do with the triple murder on his land. The old man's body language showed he was completely confused by the whole affair. His brow was furrowed, his eyes startled, but there was no indicator of guilt, only genuine bewilderment.

Sylvia was gentle but firm with him. First she explored his relationship with his grandchildren and the absence of their parents. Then she moved on to his business and the kind of activities that happened at the site. From the viewing window in the adjoining room Jack listened to the man's strange Neapolitan dialect. It was nothing like the Italian he'd learned. What was clear, though, was how arthritis had stiffened the old guy's joints, how old age had bent his spine and slowed his responses. Antonio Castellani would have trouble swatting a fly in his filthy caravan, let alone hunting and killing humans.

On the other side of the viewing room, Pietro Raimondi was in another interview area using completely different tactics on Paolo Falconi. He was leaning half across the thin grey table that separated them; his broad neck bulged with bloated veins and stretched muscles, his eyes piercing and provocative. 'Don't mess with us, Paolo. You know something about what went down, now tell us.'

'I told you. I don't know a thing.'

'Rosa Novello. You had the hots for her, right? You've been sniffing around her like a big bad street dog just waiting for the chance to grind up against her leg.'

Paolo shifted in his chair. 'No!'

'No?'

'Yes – no! How many times do I have to tell you? I don't even know who you're fucking talking about.'

'Hey, watch your filthy little mouth.'

Paolo backed up in his seat and looked away from the big lieutenant. He was staring straight off into space, right at Jack, but couldn't see him through the one-way glass.

The profiler studied him. Paolo was stressed to the hilt, anxious, aggressive and panicky under pressure. But was he really clever enough, mature enough and controlled enough to carry out a triple murder? Not on his own. Certainly not on his own. Did he have a killer instinct? They were about to find out.

Pietro undid his pistol from its holster and slid it across the table. 'Pick it up. Cock it. Aim it at me.'

'What?'

'You heard me. Do it! Now!'

Paolo fumbled with the Beretta. He picked it up and swapped it between hands. He ignored the safety and raised it. Pointed it, not at Pietro – but off into space, well wide of his left shoulder. His finger wasn't even inside the guard.

Jack had seen enough. The stunt with the gun – unloaded, of course – had been his idea. He could see that Paolo had no affinity with the weapon. He was cautious, clumsy and almost scared when he handled it. The real killer would be more than comfortable with a firearm. Even if he'd tried to disguise his familiarity with a gun, there would have been telltale traits in the lifting, levelling, sighting and gripping. Even the putting down of the weapon would have betrayed him.

Pietro holstered his gun and stared into Paolo's eyes. It was a look of controlled violence. A visual threat that stuck needles in the brain of anyone on the receiving end. 'A pair of girl's panties were found in your caravan. What were you doing with them?'

'I don't know what you mean.'

'You don't know what panties are?'

'Yes, of course I do. But I don't know about any in my van.'

'Well, they were found in there. Nice yellow ones, G-string type. You know, the type that Rosa would have looked really sexy in.'

Paolo looked angry. 'I told you – I don't know any Rosa and I don't know anything about her underwear!'

Pietro slammed a hand on the table and Paolo jumped back. 'Let me jog your memory. Rosa is the dead girl we found not far from your van. She's the pretty kid who was staying at your camp and whose brains were blown all over the inside of a car. The girl who, according to her mother, owned yellow panties, just like the ones we found in your caravan. So, I think you do know Rosa. And I think you'd better start talking to me now, before I charge you with her murder.'

Jack could see sweat rolling down Paolo's cheek. Seconds passed while Pietro's words sank in. Paolo rubbed away the salty drizzle from his forehead. 'Franco, my cousin. I think he must have had the panties.'