Michael Morley - Spider

Jack King soaking up the good life in Tuscany, on a state pension, while his ex-colleagues have to deal with the desecration of a grave of one of the victims on whom he turned his back. This was great tabloid crime. Maybe a front-page splash in the National Enquirer, or a slide show of pics for Court TV. Only trouble was, King wasn't there.

At first McLeod feared that the story might be dead, but then he patiently set his mind to things. If he was lucky, maybe the Kings had split up; perhaps there was an even better human drama story to tell. Cop that quit BRK case quits wife who stood by him!

Sprinkle the story with some shots of the lonely wife looking after a sad toddler because Daddy's run out on them and he'd have editors eating out of his hand like pigeons.

Then within the last few days had come suggestions that the former Fed guy was somehow helping Italian cops with some job or other. This was also a good angle. 'Retired' FBI man on state pension can't help us, but he can help the Italians and help himself!

The last headline needed work, but McLeod knew it was still a seller. In truth, anything about BRK was a seller.

With that thought in mind, he ended his long vigil and climbed out of his hide to return to La Casa Strada to question Nancy King about her husband's whereabouts. He was going to get the quotes he needed to clinch his story and nothing was going to stop him.

Whatever the King woman said, it didn't really matter. McLeod knew he now had enough to write the kind of exclusive that many people would die for.

Livorno, Tuscany Orsetta Portinari had two questions on her mind as she arrived in Livorno: what were Cristina Barbuggiani's last movements on the ninth of June and what was the link between Jack King and her killer?

Marco Rem Pici from the local murder squad met her at the railway station, with a genuine smile and a kiss on each cheek that he had to stand on tiptoe to administer. He was a small man, even by Italian standards, but was always immaculately dressed in dark suits that complemented his short dark hair, gym-broadened shoulders and trim waist. He drove them to Cristina's apartment, a cheap place, high up a hillside, with a terrific view down on to the Medici port – providing you had a telescope. The ugly concrete building was a stark contrast to the ancient towers and fortresses that led to the historic town centre. They were shown to the third floor by the landlord, a fat, bald man in his sixties who thought white string vests and broken-zipped slacks were fashionable. He opened the heavy metal front door and without saying a word left them to their business. The business of murder.

Orsetta silently cursed Jack as she looked around. This was a trip that he should have been making with her, giving her his expert input on, instead of disappearing back to America. Visiting a victim's home was always like sticking a slide of their whole life under a microscope and uncovering the crucial secrets they thought no one would ever find out. It would have been a huge help to have had him around.

Orsetta took in the light marble flooring that ran throughout the place, a single yellow cotton settee and yellow beanbag crowded in front of an open fireplace filled with dried flowers in a terracotta vase. There were a few archaeology books on a shelf around the fireplace and a small television on a slab of marble in a corner of the room. And that was it. Yellow and white were the only colours on display. Calm but vibrant, simple, dry and uncluttered, thought Orsetta, starting to get a feel for the dead woman.

'You've been through all these?' she asked, waving a hand at the books.

'Book by book, page by boring page. There's nothing of interest to us,' said Marco.

Orsetta's heels clacked over the marble as she checked out the bathroom, then went through everything in the kitchen. A thin calendar hung on the wall near the sink. She lifted it off its drawing pin and thumbed through the months. Each one had a different recipe, tied to the seasonal use of food and wine, but Orsetta wasn't interested in the culinary tips. Fixing her attention on June, she was disappointed at the absence of any jotted remarks on the ninth or tenth.

'Tell me again about who saw her last on the ninth,' she said, still peering at the calendar.

Marco let out a tired sigh. He'd gone over this info so many times he could recite it backwards. 'Two friends, Mario and Zara Mateo, called round at about seven p.m., and invited her out to dinner. She said no thanks and they wentontheir own. The restaurant says they stayed until gone midnight, got a bit drunk and caught a taxi home. Next timing we have is the following day. Cristina's mother wanted her to pick up some medicine and called her mobile, maybe six or seven times. By evening she was worried, so she and Cristina's father came round to the apartment and raised the alarm. Local police booked the call at 8.33 p.m.'

Orsetta nodded and went back to flicking through the calendar. There was almost nothing on it, just an entry in the last week of May: 'Diet and jogging start today!' She smiled and felt a stab of sadness at the same time. There wasn't a woman alive who hadn't made similar dates with herself. She returned the calendar to its pin and followed Marco to the single bedroom. It was barely big enough to accommodate a three-quarter-size bed, a cheap dressing table and a white plastic chair that looked as though it should be in a garden. Orsetta opened a built-in, sliding wardrobe made of slatted pine. It was empty. 'Clothes at the lab?' she asked, already knowing the answer.

'Aha,' said Marco. 'I've brought photographs and lists of everything that's been removed and not put back. I knew you'd want to see.'

Orsetta took a stack of small prints from him. The first shot showed what the photographer had initially seen when he'd opened the door. Jeans on the left of the rail, followed by trousers, then blouses, skirts and finally dresses. They were plain and functional; none of them looked expensive or particularly new. She shuffled through the photos and found the print she was looking for. Shoes. Orsetta's eyes widened.

'Are these the only pairs she had?' she asked, incredulously.

Marco peered over her shoulder. 'Yes, that looks about right.' One pair of high heels, two pairs of flat brown shoes, two pairs of flat black, and a pair of black boots. There was something wrong. Orsetta couldn't put her finger on it, but she just knew that there was something wrong.

She dropped the prints on top of the dressing table and quickly went through the three drawers.

Nothing.

She sat at the dressing table, waiting for her mind to identify what was disturbing her. 'Anything from these drawers still at the labs?'

Marco thought for a moment. 'No, I don't think so.'

Orsetta's eyes searched the room, flicking over every corner of it, desperate to uncover the clue that she knew lay somewhere close to her. 'What about a laundry basket?'

'Done,' said Marco, understanding where her thoughts were heading. 'Three pairs of panties, a couple of T-shirts, jeans, not much else. All free of any trace samples or DNA other than the victim's.'

'That's not what I'm thinking,' said Orsetta, returning to the bottom drawer. She tipped the contents out on to the bed and searched through a mixture of tights, stockings, panties, bras and socks. She was close to something, she could sense it. But what?

She quickly sorted the clothing into piles. She presumed the smarter underwear was for work or the few dates Cristina had, and the older, tattier stuff was for when she was hanging out at home on her own. That left two matching pairs of white Lotto running socks, the type found in a three-pack. Orsetta dipped into her jacket and produced a picture of Cristina to remind herself of the girl's size and shape.