Michael Morley - Viper

As usual the back of the church was littered with homeless drifters who'd come in off the street to shelter from the weather. He dipped his hand into the holy water, made the sign of the cross facing the altar, and then turned to walk outside into the bright winter sunlight. He was right to have chosen peace, not war. He and Fredo Finelli would talk. They'd find common ground and then they'd both enjoy the rest of their lives. 9.00 a.m. Capo di Posillipo, La Baia di Napoli It took Armando Lopapa almost ten minutes to run from the first broken barrier on the bend of the winding hillside road to the second one. He was breathless by the time he reached the mangled metal and peered over the side at the crushed and crumpled Mercedes. The car had hit all manner of rocks and trees on its deadly drop. He called the emergency services, then hurdled the last barrier and began the final steep climb down the ankle-twisting terrain.

'Please God, let him be alive,' said the loyal chauffeur, his suit patched with sweat and his cap long since lost.

First glance at the $300,000 Mercedes told him that despite layers of armour plating, it was still a write-off.

He replayed the astonishing events as he descended. A double blast. Two cars parked front and back. The car flipped like pizza dough. Someone had clearly known their route. Had been aware of the strict drill that made sure the Don always stayed the other side of the anti-hijack locks and bulletproof glass until he was assured that everything was okay. Some safety drill. It all seemed pointless now. The attackers must have known about that too, and the fact that the Maybach was a tank, so strong it would have stood a chance of surviving one blast. But not two. Especially when they were coordinated and calculated so well that the car would be sent plunging down the rocky hillside. It was an inside job. About as inside as you could get.

Armando put his hand to his mouth. 'Oh, fuck!' He was close enough to see now. Fredo Finelli lay jammed up against the back headrests. Tossed there like a rolled-up umbrella thrown in the back in case of a rainy day.

'Don, Don Fredo!' He didn't expect an answer but hoped beyond hope that he might get one.

He could see blood now. Spread and spattered across the cream trim and matching leather.

The doors had locked and Armando couldn't get in. Shards of glass stuck up like stalagmites from the rubbers on the door frame. Armando took off his jacket, balled it up and knocked them out. Finally, he was in.

The left side of Don Fredo's face was smashed up. His jaw broken and out of line. Teeth had been hammered back. There was so much blood in one eye socket that it seemed the eye was missing too.

Armando felt sick. He put two fingers to the Don's neck and felt for a pulse.

Nothing.

He shuffled his hand around a little to see if he'd missed it.

Still nothing.

The Don had been good to him, always paid him well, always respected him. The sense of loss kicked in. Death is truly awful when you're the first to discover it.

Thump.

He couldn't believe it.

Thump, thump.

A slow but slight beat between his fingers. My God, the old bastard was actually alive!

He put his face close to the Don's mouth and checked for breath.

Nothing.

Thump.

Thump, thump.

Outside he could hear voices. Help was close at hand! Thank God.

'Here! In here!' he called.

Armando could see the feet and trousers of the paramedics descending the last rocks. They'd know what to do. They'd save him.

Thum- The pulse fell again.

'Quick! Please, come quick, he's dying!'

Thu- Fainter.

'Hey, we came as quick as we could,' said a calm male voice.

Armando turned to the side window. His eyes widened just before a bullet smashed into the middle of his face.

Romano Ivetta lowered his weapon and fired two more shots into the still-beating heart of Fredo Finelli. 9.00 a.m. Napoli En route to the Anti-Camorra Unit's HQ, Sylvia pulled over to the side of the road and took another call from the Murder Squad. This time it was one of the coordinators, Susanna Martinelli. 'Boss, Missing Persons have come back with a match on victims three and four.'

Sylvia held her breath. 'And – are they our women?'

'Yes. Yes, they are.'

Sylvia didn't know whether to feel elated or dejected. 'Go on.'

'Victim number three is Patricia Calvi. That's the nineteen-year-old student from Soccavo.'

Sylvia remembered her. Long brown hair, razor-thin eyebrows, pale brown eyes. She'd been missing almost six and a half years. 'And the other?'

Susanna read from her notes. 'Luisa Banotti, the secretary from Santa Lucia. She's been missing seven years and two months.'

Sylvia recalled the photographs. She'd looked much younger than her twenty years. Dark hair – like all the victims – but very fine and barely shoulder-length. Eyes pale blue and beautifully large, like a child's. 'Have we informed the families?'

'Not yet. We've got positive DNA matches, so now we can call them in. Do you want to be there?'

Sylvia wished she could. She hated this kind of news being delegated. 'I can't. Can you look after it? Make sure the parents have time to talk about it, don't rush them.'

'Sure. I'll be careful.'

'Thanks.' Sylvia started the engine and was about to ring off.

'Boss, one more thing. Bernadetta Di Lauro just rang. Can you call her back?'

Sylvia turned off the engine and took down the number. What could she want? An update? A complaint? Just someone to talk to?

Francesca's mother answered on the second ring. 'Pronto. This is Bernadetta.'

'Signora, this is Capitano Tomms. My office said you just called and asked for me.'

Francesca's mother sounded surprised. 'That's very fast. It's less than ten minutes since I rang.'

'How can I help you?'

'I hope I'm not wasting your time. You said if I remembered anything…' for a moment she struggled, 'then I should call you! Well, to be honest, there is something. Something I should have told you last time we met but I couldn't bring myself to say it.'

'Signora, whatever you say to me is in complete confidence.'

Bernadetta relaxed a little. The policewoman seemed to understand her desire not to share in public any private thoughts about her daughter.

'Grazie. It's a long time ago. And I'm not really sure if it's that important, but -'

'Please let us be the judge of the importance, Signora.'

'Okay. I think Francesca was seeing someone. A married man.'

Sylvia's investigative senses prickled. 'Do you know who he was?'

Bernadetta let out a sigh. 'No. No, I don't. Not at all. Like I told you at your office, Francesca was a very private person. She didn't talk a lot about the men in her life.'

'So why do you think she was seeing a married man?'

'There was an old film on TV, with Tony Franciosa in it. The one in which he and his wife both have a string of affairs, and I said to Francesca that she should steer clear of married men as they brought nothing but trouble. She laughed and said it was a bit too late for that. I asked her what she meant. She went shy and said she was just joking. But I don't think she was. She looked awkward that she'd said it. I tried to get her to discuss it some more but she grew quite irritated with me.'

'And the reference to too late, you now think that was because she was already pregnant?'

Bernadetta paused. 'I don't know. I torture myself by going over every word she ever said to me. Maybe I should have pushed her more. Maybe she was trying to let me in and wanted me to make her talk about it. But I couldn't. She just clammed up. I'm sorry.'

Sylvia told her not to blame herself, but she could tell her words had little effect. She thanked her for the call and drove away.