Michael Morley - Spider

'The big difference for me,' continued Jack, 'is the head thing. We're pretty certain BRK took trophies from his victims and we're fairly sure these amounted only to the left hand of the women he murdered.'

Fernandez looked down and wriggled the fingers of her left hand, grateful to see all the joints working and intact, including the one where her wedding ring had almost refused to come off despite her yanking at it like a cowboy on the back of a bronco.

Jack held up his own hand, as he finished his point. 'We can't prove the significance of this, but maybe it's because the left hand is somehow more representative of female fidelity; after all, it's the wedding-ring hand.' He fingered the gold band that encircled his own finger and for a fleeting second thought of Nancy, falling confetti and the day they had married almost eleven years earlier. 'Then again, it may be something not so romantic. The left hand may play a part in his life because he or a woman he once loved had a disfigured left hand. We just don't know, so we shouldn't jump to conclusions. That said, heads are something entirely new. He's removed heads from victims before, but never kept them for any reason, not even as trophies.'

'But these are not really trophies,' said Massimo, thoughtfully. 'He had no intention of keeping these body parts. Surely it was more an egotistical action, in keeping with the note he sent? It seems more like a show of strength to me, like he was looking to make sure he got our attention.'

Jack wasn't so sure. 'There's a lot of psychological debate about what a trophy actually is. Some experts say that just taking anything away from the crime scene, even a button or tiny piece of jewellery, makes it a trophy. It's a prize, something the killer has won in their own emotional and sexual battle to take a life and they keep it as a reminder of the elation they felt. There's now widespread evidence of serial killers taking stuff from their victims and not keeping it for very long. Often, they "gift" it elsewhere; they pass stuff on to charity shops or give it to a family friend or neighbour. It's a repulsive thought, but they clearly get a kick out of putting part of a brutal crime scene into the hands of innocents.'

'Also, they grow bored with it,' added Howie. 'Some of them are like teenagers buying their first pornographic magazine. The first time, they're afraid and excited and it takes all their courage to go shop for it. Then they buy regularly and amass a collection; eventually they start throwing old mags out and need much harder stuff to light their fire.'

'Your line of expertise?' whispered Fernandez, a little too loudly for only Howie to hear.

'Back to the point,' said Jack, rescuing his buddy. 'I buy the egotist angles, that's certainly all over the note, but not the idea that this guy is after publicity. He's not a headline hunter. That theory would stand up if he'd sent the heads to the press, but he didn't, he deliberately sent them to law enforcement offices, so it's much more like he's throwing down a challenge to us.'

'We all need to spend a lot more time on the note,' added Massimo. 'As Jack said, we will be sending a copy over to you, and I'm sure we'll be having a much longer discussion about this.' He turned his left wrist to check his watch and couldn't help thinking of the saw cut across the same joint on Cristina Barbuggiani. 'As time is moving on, let's briefly discuss item number four, the package that contained the head that I am told is of Sarah Kearney, one of BRK's earliest – maybe even first – victims.'

'Okay,' said Howie, unfastening his shirt cuffs and rolling up his sleeves in a businesslike manner. 'I don't want to get everyone too excited, but we've got some good news. We've got a healthy trail on the delivery of the package. It was shipped through Myrtle International by a company called UMail2 Anywhere. Turns out they're a very small courier company, just local to Myrtle Beach, and we've found who the pick-up boy was.'

'Did he get a good look at the customer?' asked Massimo, trying to hold back a surge of hope. A description of the killer would be a real breakthrough.

'We think so,' said Howie. 'It's a guy called Stan Mossman. Not at work today, seems he's got a pile of time off, days worked in-lieu, that sort of thing. He's thought to be partying out of state with friends. We don't know where, or we'd already have pulled him in. We've got someone from the local office out on his patch and hot on his heels, so hopefully we'll interview him tomorrow when he's due back.'

'Where was the pick-up?' asked Jack.

'Out at the Days Inn,' answered Fernandez. 'The Grand Strand on South Ocean Boulevard. Cheap and cheerful, just a spit from the airport.'

'That figures,' said Jack. 'I put my money on our killer catching a flight from Myrtle within as short a time as possible from the moment that he handed over that package to Mossman.'

'Va bene,' said Massimo, enthusiastically. 'This could be the most valuable thing we have. If you get a photo-fit together then we must talk quickly about issuing it in both our countries. Dealing with the scarafaggi will be bearable if they can help save the life of his next potential victim.'

Jack was the only one not looking optimistic. Something just wasn't right. It's such a loose end; BRK would never leave such a loose end.

And then he realized what it was.

'Howie, are you one hundred per cent sure your witness – this Stan guy – is out of state having fun, and he's not already dead and buried somewhere?'

'Shit!' said Howie, suddenly seeing the grim possibility. 'You're thinking BRK whacked him before he caught his plane?'

'That's absolutely what I'm thinking,' confirmed Jack. 'When was our man Stan's last day at work?'

Fernandez looked down at her notes. 'July first. The date we got the package posted to us. No one's seen him since then.'

San Quirico D'Orcia, Tuscany The warm house lights and the dinner-table laughter from La Casa Strada spilled across the dark and silent hills of the Val D'Orcia as Nancy King carried out her final duties of the day. The restaurant had been full for the evening but now there were only a few guests still at their white-linen tables, drinking coffee and sipping brandy. For Nancy, this was one of the magical moments of running the restaurant. She loved to see a room full of happy guests, relaxing at her beautifully laid tables, bursting from the satisfaction of her food. The room hummed with conversations about which part of Europe someone planned to go to next, and whether or not Florence was really worth a day visit out of their schedule.

Paolo had let the rest of the kitchen staff go home and only Giuseppe remained, stacking pudding plates in the giant dishwasher that Jack joked was large enough to wash an average car. Paolo told him that when he had washed down the floors, he could go as well.

'Mrs King, would you care to join me for a glass of wine outside on the terrace, for our little talk?' asked Paolo, with over-dramatic graciousness. He said the same words every night and Nancy always replied with the same pat answer and a theatrical nod of her head. 'That would be most delightful, Signore Balze, thank you for asking me.'

'Take a table, please, I'll be out in a moment,' said Paolo.

Nancy left him and walked through the kitchen door into the private garden outside. The night was alive with the pungent smell of roses and the incessant chirp of crickets. She'd heard somewhere that the insects could be roasted, or even baked into brownies, but she'd never managed to catch one, let alone pondered what to do with it gastronomically.

Suddenly, the door to the kitchen burst open. 'Surprise!' shouted Paolo, standing shoulder to shoulder with Giuseppe, who was holding a small cake with a plastic Statue of Liberty stuck in its middle and a lit birthday candle taped to Liberty's torch.