Michael Morley - Viper

'These guys cover thirty, forty years of Camorra activity between them. All of them have made their bones. The old-timers will have planted between five and ten apiece, the younger bucks two to five. So – in direct personal kills – I'd guess at a minimum of fifty, though they'll have been involved in plenty more. In the past thirty years, countrywide, we connect the Camorra to close on four thousand kills. These guys will have done their quota.'

The projector whirred noisily as they all weighed up the death toll. Jack voiced what was on their minds. 'You know this clan; you understand its values, norms and rules. If they discovered they had a serial murderer in their midst, one who killed just for kicks, and targeted innocent civilians, would they give him up?'

Lorenzo laughed. 'Not a hope. And, for the record, they don't have any values – except get rich quick and kill anything that gets in the way.'

'I agree,' said Sylvia. 'If they found such a person, then they'd probably kill him. They don't like undue publicity so they'd get rid of him. But their contempt for us is so profound they would bury the body rather than give him up.'

Jack pointed at the organization chart. 'Bruno Valsi – from what you know of him, do you think he was personally involved in the torture and murder of Alberta Tortoricci?'

Lorenzo didn't hesitate. 'No doubt about it. If he didn't do it himself, then you can be sure he had a front-row seat, a bag of popcorn and a giant Pepsi. All the intel on him says he's a Grade A sadist, and a clever one too.'

'And he was jailed five years ago, and just got out?'

Lorenzo nodded.

Sylvia completed the picture. 'And most of our women went missing five or more years ago. We've dug around and can't find anyone linking Valsi and the women. Would be good to get to speak to the man himself – and his father-in-law?'

'I've got numbers for their lawyer, Mazerelli. You want me to give him a ring?'

'Thanks, that would be good.' Sylvia let out an ironic laugh. 'I'm just thinking about Franco Castellani. Until the Sorrentino killing he looked good for the murders. Now, if you compare him to Valsi and this mob, he doesn't fit. He's like a frightened kid.'

'Maybe that's exactly what he is,' said Jack. 'That'd explain why he's run away. Everything in life just got too much for him.'

'He's a frightened kid with a gun, though,' said Lorenzo. 'That still makes him dangerous. Maybe even deadly.'

'True,' agreed Sylvia. For a second she wondered how Lorenzo knew about Franco having a gun. Then she realized it had probably been on the APB she'd sent out.

The room lights buzzed into life as Lorenzo killed the projector. 'I'll phone Mazerelli,' he said, heading for the door.

'Hang on,' called Jack, worrying about how long they could get dicked about by a mob lawyer. 'I think I might have a better suggestion.'

Capo di Posillipo, La Baia di Napoli Three carabinieri Fiats sped Jack, Sylvia and Lorenzo through the slow evening traffic and across the Bay of Naples. 'Not exactly good for our global footprint, but impressive nevertheless,' observed Jack as they travelled together in the middle car. He figured a surprise visit to the Finelli home – the Viper's Nest – was more likely to get results than a polite request to their smart-arse lawyer. 'Always better to apologize than ask permission,' he said as they wound their way out towards Capo di Posillipo.

Most of the case got discussed en route, including the post-mortem burning of Alberta Tortoricci and the ante-mortem burning of the still unidentified woman in the pit at the Castellani campsite. 'It's probably a form of pyrophilia,' explained the profiler. 'It's a relatively uncommon deviancy in which the offender derives gratification from starting and watching fires.'

'Firebugs?' said Lorenzo from the front passenger seat.

'Yep, but the worst kind. Not your normal crazies who listen to scanners and chase 911 calls. These guys are twenty-four-carat sadists seeking extreme thrills.'

'What makes them like that?' asked Sylvia.

Jack gave the textbook answer. 'Pyrophilic offenders have feelings of loneliness and sadness, followed by rage. There's always great tension or arousal prior to the act and massive gratification when it is over.'

'That seems to fit all our suspects,' said Sylvia. 'Valsi is straight out of prison, Franco Castellani has been an outcast for much of his life. Even Creed is a loner. They all seem a whole galaxy beyond normal to me.'

'It's more than them just being loners,' corrected Jack. 'In watching the flames they feel a relief of their stress. This condition is rare – much rarer than loneliness – and it's fuelled by the need and the gratification attached to watching objects or, in this case, victims burn.'

'How rare?' asked Lorenzo.

'This form of pyrophilia is extremely uncommon. It's really an impulse control problem.'

'That mainly a male problem?' asked Lorenzo.

'Course it is,' joked Sylvia. 'All males have impulse control problems.'

'Pyros are not all male, but this one undoubtedly is. He may even be in the criminal records system for fire-related offences. That's partly why I asked about Valsi's record. Our man may also have convictions for violence. He may have been institutionalized at a very early age and he will certainly have relationship problems that stretch way back.'

'We'll have the records for you tomorrow,' said Lorenzo.

Sylvia's cellphone rang. 'Pronto. Si.'

Jack and Lorenzo fell silent as her face betrayed the fact that it wasn't good news. She flipped the phone shut and looked totally dejected. 'That was Sorrentino's Number Two, Luella Grazzioli. They've been following your clock-face theory and doing a radar sweep along projected lines before and after the graves we've already exhumed. They've found more burials.'

'How many?' asked Jack.

'She's not completely sure. But she's guessing it could be as many as seven. Seven new bodies. And they've still not hit true north.'

Parco Nazionale del Vesuvio News of the fresh body sites spread like a bushfire across the excavation site. Franco Castellani didn't know it, but this was the reason why he was able to slip, unseen, past the carabinieri and down the steep Vesuvian hillside.

As the rugged parkland gave way to the winding, potholed road that took busloads of tourists to the summit, he jammed the old Glock back into the waistband of his jeans. The retching had stopped but his head was still pounding and he remained desperately thirsty.

On the road below, filled with noise and crowds of people, he felt strangely alien again. Alone in the woods he'd enjoyed not being stared at or whispered about. Now that luxury was gone.

The old horrors were back.

A middle-aged man stepped from a Mercedes and frowned when he saw him; a woman crossing the road turned her head to check what she'd seen; a mother, bending down to fasten her toddler's coat, shielded the child's eyes when she spotted him. All standard stuff. All layers of humdrum humiliation that were regularly piled on top of him. But today Franco felt more vulnerable than ever. Today he felt bad enough to shoot them all.

Every fucking one of them.

The Glock could end their prejudice, wipe it all out in just a single, sweet burst of ear-splitting gunfire. His blood fizzed at the thought of it.

Umberto Leopardi kept an old supermercato on a road off the junction with the A3. He also kept bottled water in stacked trays just inside the door. Two litres of Ferrarelle, fresh from the nearby Val D'Assano, vanished before Umberto had even looked up from the counter. Near the front window of neighbouring Buscaglia's was a rack of stacked snacks. Two fat packs of patatine fritte disappeared with the same deftness as had the water.