Michael Morley - Viper

'Rings a bell, but I'm not sure why.'

'Tortoricci was the prime witness in a Camorra prosecution. She testified against a mobster called Bruno Valsi, the son-in-law of -'

'Fredo Finelli. I remember it all now. Valsi is just out of Poggioreale. I saw pictures of his release in the papers. Handsome bastard.'

'Brutally handsome, with emphasis on the brutal. Tortoricci testified against him five years ago. A couple of days after his release she disappeared from protective custody.'

Sylvia raised her eyes in irony. 'A pure coincidence, of course?'

'Of course. As was the fact that she turned up dead in the grounds of an old factory complex with her tongue cut out.'

'Typical Camorra revenge attack.'

'Then, someone burned her body. Crisped her up like the last of the chicken on a barbecue grill.'

Sylvia scratched at her hair. 'I didn't read anything on the internal bulletins, or in the news. Did the Anti-Camorra Unit go dark on this?'

'Very dark. Since the last attacks on their staff, the unit is keeping everything close to its chest. I had to ask Lorenzo Pisano if I could share this with you.'

Sylvia let out a sigh. 'I've put two calls in to his office recently, just to fix up a meeting and see if we had any common ground.'

'You know Pisano, his feet never touch. Anyway, they've got Valsi in the frame for the Tortoricci hit. Though I hear no one will go within a kilometre of him until they've got a warehouse full of evidence and three armed units to back them up.'

'Seems the right tactics.'

'Her body's at the morgue if you want to go and see. Seems she was stripped and doused in paraffin and then set alight.'

Sylvia raised an eyebrow.

'Before you ask, the answer's no – I don't yet know whether the paraffin matches the stuff recovered from the Castellani site.'

Sylvia crossed her fingers and held them up for her friend to see.

'Anyway, when they were done they rolled her in an old carpet and dumped her among rubble on an old industrial site.'

'You got the name of the ME?'

'I certainly have. Dimitri Faggiani. You know Dimitri?'

'Nope. I've heard of him, but we've never met.'

'Well, for once you got lucky. He's upstairs now, on the fifth floor. There's a case meeting – not Tortoricci – some child who died of neglect. If you're quick, you might just catch him.' Sylvia was quick.

Dimitri Faggiani was just coming out of the men's room when she caught him.

'Buona sera. Capitano Sylvia Tomms.' She stuck out her hand.

The ME hesitated to shake it. 'No towels. I'm afraid my hands are still wet.'

'Oh, I'm sorry.' She laughed and let her arm drop. He was thin and studious with dark brows and a bush of black curly hair that looked as if he visited a topiarist rather than a hairdresser. 'I've just been with Marianna Della Fratte, she told me you examined the body of Alberta Tortoricci. Is that right?'

He looked puzzled. 'Do you work for Lorenzo Pisano?'

'No, no, I don't. But…'

'Then I'm afraid without his permission, I can't discuss this file with you.'

'I understand. I've called Lorenzo several times. You know how busy he is.'

The ME smiled. 'No permission, no information. Sorry.' He wiped his still damp hands on his black trousers.

'I'm working the murders at Pompeii – the Francesca Di Lauro case.'

Faggiani knew of it. 'My sympathies, I think you too are very busy.'

Sylvia gave him a shy look, a crafted flash of vulnerability, calculated to elicit male help. 'I am. And I really need your help. Marianna told me that Alberta Tortoricci was badly burned. As you may know, Francesca's corpse was also burned. We have another woman's body in a rubbish pit and, again, she was burned.'

His dark brows furrowed. 'I'm sorry; this is not a good time. I need to get back to my meeting.'

'Professore, I'm pushed for time as well – I'm trying to catch a serial killer.' She paused to let her point sink in. 'Please, just tell me one thing. Alberta – was she burned ante- or post-mortem.'

Faggiani cracked. 'Post. This woman had been tortured – crudely electrocuted – and then she was set on fire.'

'Not tortured by being set on fire?'

The ME's face gave away the fact that he'd said enough. Said more than he'd intended. 'No. The body was definitely burned post-mortem.' He held up the palms of his hands. 'Now that's it.'

'Grazie. You've helped a lot. I'll talk to Lorenzo and maybe come back to you – if you don't mind?'

'Not at all. Arrivederci.' He opened a door just a few strides away and was gone.

Sylvia stood and let the information sink in. Was the Tortoricci case really connected to hers, or not? Was she grasping at straws? Post-mortem burning was very different to ante-mortem burning. And if the cases were connected, then what about the electrocution? Was that simply another sadistic pastime in this particular serial killer's repertoire of murder? Then there was another thing. Maybe significant. Maybe not. There was a clear gap of at least five years between the recent murders and the dates the other women went missing. Could it really be only a coincidence that Bruno Valsi had been locked away for exactly that same half-decade?

Grand Hotel Parker's, Napoli The downpour at the burial site had caught Jack without a coat. Back at the hotel he showered, changed and sent his soaked clothes to the laundry. His trousers were so drenched they looked like they'd been made out of crepe paper. Sylvia had called and said she was heading off to the morgue and would see him in the morning, so he settled on the bed and tried to unwind a notch or two.

This case now had the makings of a long one and he couldn't afford to get trapped in it. That meant getting out sooner rather than later – and sooner seemed round about now. The few days he'd promised Nancy it would take had already gone. Christmas was looming. His thoughts turned to his son – still at that incredible age when he believed a fat man in a red suit could land a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer on the roof of a house and then slip down a chimney so narrow you couldn't post a supermodel down it. How beautiful!

Grilled salmon or meatballs and spaghetti? Jack was torn. He'd just about eaten his way through everything room service could offer. He was leaning towards the meatballs when his cellphone rang. He hoped it was Nancy.

'Pronto,' said Jack, rolling his 'r' in his best possible accent, then waiting as usual for his wife to laugh at him.

'Mr King, I'm in reception. Perhaps we could meet downstairs and talk?'

Jack's spine tingled.

Luciano Creed.

Downstairs?

You bet they could talk.

Jack didn't bother answering – or waiting for the lift. He hit the stairs two at a time. Covered four floors faster than an Olympic sprinter on steroids.

Creed was standing near the front desk, wet and stinking. Even if he made a run for it now, Jack could catch him.

'Nice to see you, Jack.' He cracked a yellow-toothed smile and swung out a bony hand.

Jack grabbed it. Not out of friendship, but just to have a firm grip on him. 'Come over here, Luciano. Sit down.' He effectively manoeuvred Creed into a plush wing-backed chair in the reception area. 'Stay still.' He flipped open his phone and dialled. 'Sylvia, it's Jack. I have Creed with me at my hotel. Send a car; I'll bring him to the station.'

His stomach growled. The meatballs would have to wait. Jack said little to Luciano Creed as they waited at the hotel, and even less in the carabinieri car that whisked them back to the barracks.

Creed rattled on about his innocence. Said he'd known they would suspect him because he knew so much about the missing women and because he was unusual, outspoken and honest. They weren't the words that Jack would have used to describe him. He did his best to tune out Creed's monologue. There would be a time to talk – and plenty of it – but not now. He wanted tape machines turning, witnesses present and a proper interview strategy. Another thing was on his mind too, and he needed to call Howie urgently to fix it.