Michael Morley - Viper

Franco took his meagre hoard to one of the places he and Paolo frequented near the visitors' entrance of Pompeii. The rain started again as he sat behind the street hoardings near the railway line and hurriedly fumbled the bottled water to his mouth. From his shelter he watched families and couples passing on the street. The feelings of loneliness and isolation multiplied inside him – bred like the mutant cells that were silently murdering him.

Exiled.

An outsider. That's what he was. Sitting with the sodden rubbish behind the hoardings, he'd never felt as low as he did right now. His fumbling, claw-like hand found the Glock.

Soon he would use it.

Soon they would understand the true depths of his pain.

Capo di Posillipo, La Baia di Napoli Armed officers flanked Sylvia, Jack and Lorenzo as they walked towards the tall wooden gates of the Finelli mansion.

'Cameras just about everywhere.' Jack's head swivelled from one to another.

Sylvia pressed a bell and waited. 'I hope they catch my good side.' She shot him a flirtatious smile and tucked her hair behind her right ear. Static stung the air – a tinny male voice trickled from the entry phone, asking who they were and what they wanted.

'I'm Capitano Sylvia Tomms.' She stood on tiptoes to speak into a small grille. 'I'm here with my colleague, Lorenzo Pisano, and an American psychological profiler, Jack King. I do not have a search warrant or an arrest warrant. It is a matter of public importance that brings us here and we really would be most grateful for Signor Finelli's assistance.'

There was another sizzle of static, then the intercom went dead. Several minutes later there was a clunk and the big automatic gates swung slowly open.

Jack caught himself saying, 'Wow!'

The view was breathtaking.

Manicured lawns and magnificent marble statues gave way to a grand old palazzo complete with castellated frontage, shuttered casement windows and gutter-height Boston ivy.

Lorenzo nodded. 'Yeah, big wow. Who was the jerk who said crime doesn't pay?'

Rich, golden light spilled from an open door across the gravelled courtyard. The small, trim form of Fredo Finelli appeared. He was alone and looked relaxed in navy-blue striped suit trousers and an open-necked white shirt.

'Buona sera,' said the Don, extending his hand and a smile to all of them. 'Please come inside, it will be much easier for us to talk.'

Jack scanned the area as they walked. There were no guards to be seen, but they were there. He could feel invisible eyes on his back as he passed into the warmth of the house. Jack was the only one to slip his shoes off at the front step.

'No, no, there's no need for that,' said Finelli, touched by the courtesy.

'It's the way my wife trained me,' joked Jack.

They were shown through to one of the lounges on the side of the house, overlooking a floodlit lake. Servants materialized to take coats and attend to drinks with all the speed and subtlety of a top hotel.

Finelli settled his surprise guests in a plush, wide curve of bespoke light-brown settees covered in a mix of cotton and silk. 'Lorenzo Pisano, I don't think I've seen you since my son-in-law's trial?' He smiled fondly, as if he were talking to an old friend. 'How are your parents? I understand your father, Benito, spent a little time in hospital with a hip problem?'

If Lorenzo was bothered by the intimate knowledge, he didn't let it show. 'They're perfectly well, thank you. Both my mother and father are very carefully looked after, as I'm sure you know.'

'Glad to hear it.' Finelli then turned to Jack and spoke in perfect English. 'I'm so sorry, I'm being very rude. We will continue in English, so you can follow us. Major Pisano and I were merely exchanging pleasantries.'

'That's kind of you.' Jack didn't mention that his Italian was good enough to have understood everything being said.

'So,' continued Finelli, sitting back in his armchair. 'How exactly can I help you?'

Sylvia outlined the three murders on the Castellani campsite, stressing the deaths of the two young teenagers and touching lightly on the death of the Jane Doe, who'd been found burned to death in the rubbish pit.

'My dear God, how perfectly terrible. What is the world coming to?' Finelli made a passable attempt at sincerity. 'And please, do forgive me – I just realized that I recognize your face. Aren't you also heading the inquiry into the murder of that young woman – what was her name?'

'Francesca Di Lauro.'

'That's right. I saw the press conference.' He let out a playful chuckle. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh. I was just remembering that journalist who threw you with a question about all those other missing women. Seemed a difficult moment for you. Are those cases all connected, as he said?'

Sylvia felt her temper rising, but she kept it in check, even managed an unconcerned smile for the old goat. 'We have to keep an open mind. And, as I'm sure you appreciate, a press conference isn't the best place to divulge our private thinking.'

Finelli nodded. 'Quite so.' There was a noise outside. 'Wait a moment, please.' He rose and left the room. Through the crack of the door Jack recognized the face of Finelli's daughter. Gina looked fatter than in Pisano's picture of her. His eyes dipped. She was holding the hand of a young child, probably her son. The boy lifted his face and opened his arms for Grandpa to kiss him. A touching moment and one that reminded Jack of how deceptive crime dynasties can be when you see them masked in middle-class normality.

A minute later, Finelli returned with a pad and a black Montblanc fountain pen. 'The young lovers, what were their names?'

'Rosa Novello, she was eighteen.' Sylvia gave him time to write. 'She was with nineteen-year-old Filippo Valdrano. Their parents expected them to get married shortly.'

'I have influence in this community; I will ask for you. And the other victim, you have a name?'

'We don't. Not yet. Signor Finelli, we are wondering if these deaths are connected to that of a woman called Alberta Tortoricci. I'm sure you know her name. She was recently found dead in Scampia. Her body had also been burned -'

Finelli cut her off. 'The whole of Italy knows I am aware of the woman you mentioned, and the ridiculous accusations she made about me. But I have no knowledge of her unfortunate demise.'

Lorenzo butted in. 'We're not seeking to hurt you on this. We're merely trying to share with you the information that we believe the man who killed Alberta Tortoricci may be the same person who killed the people on the Castellani campsite.'

'Excuse me,' interrupted Jack, 'do you mind if I use one of your washrooms? I'm afraid I really need to go.'

Sylvia and Lorenzo shot daggers at him. Finelli was on the rack. It was a crazy time to interrupt their flow.

'I'm sorry, I have some stomach problems.' Jack looked embarrassed.

The all-round discomfort seemed to amuse Finelli. He chewed back a wry smile. 'Certainly. I'll show you.' He walked his troubled guest to the double doors of the lounge and pointed across the marble hallway.

Jack waited until he heard the doors click shut behind him, then confidently strode up the stairs. If he was stopped he would just say the bathroom downstairs was occupied or he was confused about directions.

As he hoped, Finelli's guards were kept out of the private quarters. Windows, doors, exits and driveways are the places you mostly find mob muscle. Seldom are they allowed near master bedrooms. As he strode up the steps, he could hear Gina and the child playing in a room near the front of the house. On the top landing he opened doors quickly – and took in the facts even faster. Finelli's room – neat, tidy, black suit on a hanger, silk-sheeted bed already made. Guest room – no one in it, no fresh flowers, no water jug or glasses by the bed, the room smelled of damp. Another guest room – windows partly open, a woman's shoes on the floor, make-up and jewellery on an antique dresser, designer bags on the floor. This was where Finelli's daughter was staying. He stepped in. The soft toys on the bed and a Lego spaceship seemed evidence of an early morning visit from her son, a mother and child's moments of play before starting the day. Jack opened the door to the en suite. Shampoo, conditioner, tampons, toothpaste, one adult toothbrush. He'd seen all he needed. Within ten seconds he was out of the room. He quickly checked next door. This was the child's room. Toys everywhere, books on the floor, clothes turned inside out and not yet put into the laundry basket by the maid. He shut it and headed downstairs. Quickly he found the toilet, flushed it, splashed cold water on his face and didn't towel it dry. By the time he reentered the lounge he knew the water would make his face red and give the appearance of the sweats. 'My apologies,' he said. 'I think I've got some bad kind of stomach bug.'