Michael Morley - Viper

'Lieutenant, you come in here making preposterous suggestions about my employer, most of which constitute defamation of his good character, then you demand a million euros for worthless rubbish. You're lucky to be leaving without a lawsuit, let alone with testimony of your offensive visit.'

Raimondi stood up, shook the creases out of his suit trousers and in one swift movement grabbed Mazerelli by the throat. He banged the consigliere against the wall. Knocked the breath out of him. 'Now listen, you sweet-mouthed motherfucker, the price has just gone up to two million. And, unless you give me the recordings, I'm going to pull your balls off, stick them in your mouth and make you swallow a whole lot more than your pride.' Raimondi thumped him against the wall one more time, then let him go. 'Don't piss me around. This is a serious offer, so take it seriously.'

Mazerelli doubled up, red-faced and coughing for air. He was still wheezing when he reached the cupboard in the hallway and ejected the disc from the surveillance unit's recorder.

'Thanks,' said Raimondi as Mazerelli handed it over. 'Two million. One month. Give your boss the message. And tell him not to even think about trying to get at me. If he does, then everything I told you about will be in my boss's hands within an hour of such foolishness.' He opened the front door and was halfway through it when he turned back. 'One final thing; Antonio Castellani and his family get to stay where they are. No evictions and no further intimidation.'

San Giorgio a Cremano, La Baia di Napoli Freshly showered, smelling of apple and swaddled in a white towelling robe, Sylvia Tomms relaxed at her dressing table and dried her hair before going to bed. She'd always had a brutally honest streak and, as she glanced in the mirror, she had to concede she wasn't looking her best these days.

'You are a pig! Look at yourself! How did this happen?' She squinted at the lines beneath her eyes, then painfully tweezed hairs from a brow that she thought horses might have trouble jumping over.

Having chastised herself for going to seed, she determined to get as much beauty sleep as possible.

Unmade and unwashed for almost a month, her bed had never looked so good. She crawled in and curled up. Pulled the duvet tight so she created the illusion she was being held. Sleep came quickly.

It engulfed her. Wrapped itself around her like the warm musky arm of a man who'd just made love to her. She floated. Drifted far, far away. Floated back to when she was seven years old and with her father in his boat. It was her first sailing trip and she remembered almost crying when he made her wear that ugly orange life jacket. They were on Lake Starnberg. The Wetterstein Alps towered up in the background. Water, distilled from Ice Age glaciers, shone crystal blue beneath a high midday sun. A soft breeze stroked her face. Her father's hands guided hers up and down the ropes as the sail swung and the craft flew across the lake. She missed him. Missed him so much that she often dreamt that he was still alive. Just a phone call away.

And then the phone rang.

Her heart banged and her eyes blinked open.

Within two rings she answered, 'Pronto! '

It was eight a.m. The precious night's rest had already gone.

'Sylvia, it's Marianna. You'd better come by the labs as soon as you can. I have those ballistics and forensics reports you wanted – and I'm afraid they don't make easy reading.'

ROS Quartiere Generale, Napoli Unlike Sylvia, Jack had not slept well. He was still yawning when the driver dropped him outside Lorenzo Pisano's office. Armed guards patrolled the outside of the carabinieri building and questioned him at length before he was let into reception, let alone escorted to the anti-Camorra unit.

The major had already been in for more than an hour. A childless marriage in his late twenties had ended in divorce in his early forties. Now work was all he had left.

They made little small talk and got straight down to business – Bruno Valsi's criminal record and his family history.

'Take a look at these.' Lorenzo dropped the rap sheet and briefing notes in front of Jack. 'Valsi was a real problem kid in a real problem area. You want caffe?'

'Sure – whatever you've got. Espresso, if possible, please.'

Lorenzo fired up an ancient Gaggia in the corner of his office. 'Valsi's father died in some industrial accident, when he was a baby. His mother brought him up on her own.'

'Anything more on his father's death?'

'Not much. I can dig around and find the full details. I know a boiler blew. One of those decrepit gas and oil combination jobs. It exploded and old man Valsi and two of his workmates died in a fire at the back of the factory.'

Jack digested the facts. Could such a tragedy become a future trigger for offending? He certainly couldn't rule it out. Was there a tenuous link there with fire and suffering?

Lorenzo shovelled freshly ground Arabica into the machine and sniffed at the last teaspoon before closing the container. 'Valsi lived most of his life in Scampia, an area that's been a Camorra stronghold for as long as I can remember. It's the kind of place that brands you, inks a tattoo on your soul. Tortoricci's body was found less than a kilometre from where Valsi was born.'

'Stupid question, but Forensics didn't find anything to link Valsi to the woman or the body?'

'Not a thing. I had the labs run comparison tests with Valsi's fingerprints, his DNA profile and all the trace evidence. I've also asked for his dabs and DNA to be checked against all the trace evidence in the Castellani campsite murders. So far, nothing.'

Jack wasn't surprised. Thugs as brutal as Valsi were usually careful thugs. He flicked through more of the rap sheet. 'Back in his early childhood, he was arrested several times but never charged. We talking routine stop and search, or was he lawyered-up even then?'

Lorenzo laughed. 'Camorra do that. For the good kids, they treat them good, get them top briefs. Other kids, the ones they don't want, they disown, let them get wasted. The cream of the crop are looked after, though. They make them feel protected and have them back on the streets before Sesame Street has finished. Valsi was cream – creme de la creme. He ran "errands" and pushed drugs before he even pushed a bike. But prior to the big witness intimidation case that put him away, we never got a mark against him.'

'A boy soldier?'

'Si, piciotto. The Camorra has armies of them across Campania. They rope in kids like Valsi and soon they're willing to kill in return for a new Vespa. Children are the cheapest contract killers you can hire.'

Jack read the sheet again. Assault against a male – charges dropped. Assault against three other men – charges dropped. 'These aborted charges – we talking fists or weapons?'

'Early ones were fists. Street fights, bar fights. Polizia did catch him with a weapon once. A semi-automatic. Beretta, I think. They even got as far as charging him.'

'And?'

Lorenzo smiled. 'The gun disappeared before the ink had even dried on the crime sheet. No evidence, no case. They never even got it in front of a magistrate.'

'I understand. We've got our share of bent cops back home.'

'Hasn't everyone?' He tapped the rap sheet. 'Gets even more interesting as he gets older. In his late teens, he wounded a guy. It was the father of a girl he was dating. Old man had had a few drinks and told Valsi he should stay away from his daughter, said she deserved better than drug-dealing scum like him. Valsi beat him senseless and then left him on a kitchen seat with a knife through his pants and a testicle pinned to the chair.'

Jack couldn't help but grimace.

'Sliced him up so bad that the guy had to have one of his balls removed.'