Michael Morley - Viper

There had been nothing in the pockets of the jacket or trousers but there was a label in the waistband, naming the tailor as Tombolini, Napoli.

Luella said she'd send bone samples to specialists in Rome for isotopic examination. It would take more than a month to get the results but she was confident they'd confirm her suspicion that the body had been buried for at least ten to fifteen years.

Aside from the forensic clues, there was a big psychological one too. The body hadn't been violated. It hadn't been stripped, let alone burned. It was almost as though there had been respect between killer and victim.

Respect.

Jack hung on to the word.

Maybe the kind of respect the Camorra would show to someone?

Centro citta, Napoli Cicerone consigliere Emile Courbit was the son of a French immigrant who'd died of bronchitis in a Neapolitan slum before his fortieth birthday. Emile vowed he'd never suffer the same fate as his father. As a consequence, he worked harder and longer than anyone Carmine the Dog had ever known. The two met just before midnight, the late hour not being a problem for either of them.

'Ciao, Emile, you like espresso?'

The lawyer nodded.

The Dog called his PA, also well used to burning the midnight oil, and ordered coffees and water. There was only one thing on the agenda – a meeting earlier that evening with Finelli's consigliere.

'Did he show?' asked the Capo, his lush leather chair creaking as he craned forward over the desk.

'Si, Mazerelli came. He said they understood our position, respected our rights. They will pay restoration for their actions.'

'Hmmm,' grunted Dog. 'He say how much exactly, and when?'

Courbit shook his well-groomed head. 'No, not how much. Mazerelli has spoken to his boss and to Valsi. I cannot distinguish whether payment will be made by Finelli or by his son-in-law. But he did promise we would have it within forty-eight hours.'

'If Fredo has any sense he will beat it out of the young blood's hide and make him bring it here on his knees, the money in his mouth like a whipped dog.'

'Amusing thought. But I don't see Valsi backing down. Not if our information on him is correct,' said Courbit. 'It's possible Finelli may pay, even if Valsi doesn't, and then he'll settle the dispute internally. As we know from Vito, all is not well in the Family.'

'I don't care. I just want my money and their undertaking that they will never again trespass into our territory and our businesses.'

'I understand. If they do pay, then the question is, what will you see as acceptable and what will you consider an insult?'

Cicerone waved a hesitant hand in the air. 'If Finelli pays, he will be generous. I think maybe half a million. If he leaves it to Valsi, then the stack will be short. Less than two fifty would be unacceptable. Less than six figures would be insulting.'

The tray of coffees arrived, brought in by a young J-Lo shaped Russian girl called Agata. They both fell silent until she'd gone. Then Courbit continued, with a wry smile, 'Do you want these troubles with Finelli to go away, or do you want to try to take advantage of them?'

Cicerone bobbed his big heavy head from side to side as he weighed up his answer. Instinct urged him to wait. Play the long game. But the cards pressed a different case. Today's Tarot had told him to be brave and opportunistic, to be strong when others were weak, to lead and not to follow. 'What would you advise, consigliere?'

There was no hesitation in Courbit's voice. 'I would not wait any longer. If you do not kill both Valsi and Finelli in the next twenty-four hours, then one day Bruno Valsi will control our neighbour's clan and you can be sure that he will make it a priority to try to kill you.'

'Twenty-four hours?' The Dog looked amused. Haste was seldom wise in business.

'Yes. Strike now, before the payment is made. You will have a story on the streets. Wait until after Finelli pays, then you will look unfair. Untrustworthy. After a war, we then have to win the loyalty of the beaten soldiers, we have to become one Family.'

Cicerone liked the idea. But secretly he was frightened. It was one thing to order someone to be beaten up or even killed, but an all-out firefight was something completely different. Something he had no experience of. As usual, he erred on the side of caution. 'Consult with Vito; you will find him in some bar somewhere in the city. Finalize the plans we have spoken of and be ready to explain how they will be executed. I will sleep on your notion and we'll talk before morning Mass.'

Cicerone looked at Courbit and could see that the young man didn't understand his reasoning, his reluctance to draw first blood. Nor should he. At his age, the Dog had known little about the combined powers of God and the Supernatural. But he'd learned his lessons. And so too would Emile. After a brief sleep he'd cleanse his soul, consult the Tarot and then decide whether to fill the gutters of Naples with the bodies of his rivals.

December 22nd

3.45 a.m. Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna They'd drawn straws – literally drawn straws from the carabinieri canteen – and Claudio Mancini had picked the short one. He dialled the emergency number on the Incident Room wall and waited for Capitano Sylvia Tomms to answer the phone.

It was the dead of night and she was going to kill him.

Most of the Murder Squad's graveyard shift watched with amusement as he braced himself for a nuclear blast to the ear.

'What? What is it?' slurred Sylvia. She was coming out of a deep sleep. Brain grinding to find first gear.

'Capitano, it's Mancini from the Murder Squad. I am sorry but it is urgent, that's why I'm calling you.'

'What? What's urgent?' She frowned at the bedside clock. Eyes too blurry to read. The digits just red snakes.

'Capitano, you left instructions that whatever time it was you wanted to be informed as soon as we had an ID on the Jane Doe in the pit.'

'Yes, I did. Is that what you're calling with?'

Mancini thought he detected a sense of understanding in her voice. Maybe he would be okay. 'Yes. We got DNA back from the lab very late last night and we've been working on an ID ever since. Missing Persons didn't come up with anything but we checked the blood banks and hospitals and…'

'Mancini, cut the how, just tell me the who.' Sylvia dragged herself upright and propped pillows behind her back.

'Kristen Petrov, twenty-four years old, born in Prague, emigrated when she was nineteen, has been in Naples for three years.'

She was awake now. Wide awake. 'Who the hell is she? Does she have any connections to our suspects?'

Mancini glanced across at a whiteboard. 'She worked as a call handler in a sex centre that the Finelli clan has run for the past decade. You know, they advertise on late-night TV, you can telephone and…'

'I know what phone sex is, Mancini. Un momento…' Sylvia used her phone-free hand to rub an itch from her eyes. 'Get this information to Lorenzo Pisano's office – you know who he is?'

'Yes.'

'Good. Mark it urgent. I'll call him as soon as he gets in. Get round to this woman's apartment and strip the place bare. I want calendars off walls, diaries out of drawers, unwashed underwear, receipts; absolutely everything that can tell us anything about who she is, who she knows and who she's ever slept with. Got it?'

'Got it,' said Mancini.

The phone went dead and the young officer realized just how short the straw was. His night shift was about to go on for a whole lot longer than he'd expected. 6.30 a.m. Casa di famiglia dei Valsi, Camaldoli The angel-faced lap dancer from Luca's Bar was proving a much better fuck than Bruno Valsi had dared imagine she would be. In his mind, beautiful women usually turned out to be a big disappointment between the sheets. The plain ones usually tried harder. But this babe, well she was an exception. Just how exceptional, Valsi would never know.