Michael Morley - Spider

'In the laundry pile, did you find a sports bra, or any white Lotto socks to match these?' She pointed to the pair she'd balled up.

Marco thought for a moment. 'No. No, we didn't.'

Orsetta felt a kick of excitement. She had a hunch.

She grabbed the photographs and scanned them again. 'No running shoes. The shot in the wardrobe shows no sports shoes,' she announced with a look of triumph. She could picture Cristina's last night. 'I think she was snatched while she was out jogging, probably not far from here. There are no trainers, no sports pants or sports bra among any of the belongings we've examined and I bet she was wearing the third pair of Lotto running socks.'

Marco got her drift. 'So, she turned down her friends' dinner invite around seven, then you think she went for a run straight after that?'

Orsetta weighed it up. 'Yes. She was on a fitness kick, so she said no to them in order to stick to a diet and probably went for the run almost straight away, before it started to get dark. So we can say she probably went out between seven and maybe nine, nine-thirty.'

The two police officers recognized the importance of the moment. They'd just discovered how, when and roughly where Cristina Barbuggiani had spent the last moments of her life before meeting her killer. It was a breakthrough that would allow them to filter their witness statements and start seriously focusing their enquiry on anyone seen within a short radius of Cristina's apartment on the night of the ninth.

Only one thing still preyed on Orsetta's mind as she left the landlord to lock up – Jack King. And if Jack himself wouldn't help her uncover the link between him and Cristina's killer, then maybe a visit to his wife would.

San Quirico D'Orcia, Tuscany Terry McLeod took his equipment back to his hotel room and packed his suitcase. If his face-to-face with Nancy King went badly, then she'd no doubt have him thrown out of the hotel within the hour.

He checked the bathroom, wardrobes and bedside cabinets to make sure he hadn't left anything important behind, then locked his case and put it down by the door.

The veteran photo-journalist knew his main strength was his pictures rather than his editorials, so he took time to rehearse his questions before setting off again in search of Mrs King. He decided he would start by pretending he was doing a feature on hotels and restaurants for a new magazine and that, like the Michelin Guide inspectors, he had to keep his identity secret until after he'd tested the cooking and hotel facilities. He'd promise her a page, or maybe two, of free publicity, and then he'd say he just needed some background details on the family, stuff such as: when had they moved in, what had they needed to do to the place to make it into what it was today, how was life in Italy? All that non-controversial stuff. After that he'd get down to the nitty-gritty: where was her husband at the moment, what exactly was he helping the Italian police with, was he now officially back with the FBI or was he working on his own as a consultant? And, of course, how were things between the two of them?

McLeod checked that the micro-cassette in his pocket dictaphone was fully rewound and tucked it up his sleeve, so he could secretly record everything she said. Sunday lunch had been incredibly busy and Nancy was enjoying a well earned rest in the cool shade of the patio, when she dozed off for five minutes. She woke with a start, and immediately looked around for Zack. When she'd shut her eyes, he'd been playing happily on his trike.

'Zack, where are you, sweetheart?' she called, as she trekked across the garden. She was in no mood for hide-and-seek. She'd played it a dozen times already and she'd promised Paolo she would review the Specials menu for tonight, while he and Gio made a quick trip into Pienza.

'Come on, sweetheart, Mommy's very busy. Let's go inside and get some chocolate.' Bribery usually worked. But this time Zack was obviously standing his ground and making her hunt some more. The handle on the kitchen door was too high for him to reach, so she knew that he had to be in the garden somewhere.

She searched among the apple, orange and peach trees, looking for evidence of his red sandals hiding behind some trunk or other. But she could see nothing. If he was lying down in the vegetable garden, she was going to be cross. He'd been told about that before. And if he was sitting in the herbs, stuffing them in his mouth again, then there really would be trouble.

Nancy strode over to the areas she'd told her son were out of bounds and shouted sternly, 'Zack! Come out right now.'

There was no answer.

'The game's over now, Zack; come on, please.'

Nancy's maternal instinct prickled. Her eyes darted around the gardens, across the pathways, among the trees.

No Zack.

And then she saw it.

At the edge of the terrace, where the ground had collapsed and where Vincenzo the landscaper had moved the temporary fencing to survey the subsidence, there was Zack's overturned trike.

FBI Field Office, Brooklyn, New York Jack and Howie cleared an office of furniture and spread a variety of maps on the floor. They had everything from military maps to Brooklyn bus and cycle routes and there wasn't room enough or time enough to pin them to the walls. They both agreed that they had to take chances. There was no way they could canvas all of Brooklyn, so they had to send out teams to highly prioritized areas.

Jack's eyes ran down the Westside. Hunters Point – down where the ferries ran to Manhattan – this was a place that would have old isolated housing. Coming north down the East River – Williamsburg, near the Bridge area looked promising. Fulton Ferry and Brooklyn Heights – they were good too.

Howie was making similar choices: Prospect Park, out near the zoo – that offered ample opportunities. 'What about Greenwood Cemetery, close to the 278, lots of residential nearby – Perfect for getting rid of his leftovers too?'

'That's a good one,' said Jack, 'put it towards the top of the list.'

'And maybe Dyker Heights around 72nd Street, it's residential but isolated out there,' added Howie, circling the areas with black markers.

Jack looked down at his map, focusing on Brighton Beach, zooming in on Beach Avenue where he'd just been. He now visualized the area as if he were in a helicopter flying over it. He could see the cars crawling down the shopping streets looking for somewhere to pull in and park. SUVs were heading up to the sands. A marching army of ant-like office workers moved out towards Manhattan. Day-trippers with sandwiches, soft drinks and excited kids migrated to Coney Island. And then, his earlier thoughts tumbled back to him: a street girl would never have agreed to drive a long distance with a stranger. The killer would not have wanted her in his car any longer than necessary. It couldn't be far from there.

Jack's eyes moved east on the map. A patch of isolated green caught his attention. He slid a fingertip along Belt Parkway; just four junctions away was the exit to Brooklyn Marine Park and the residential settlement of Gerritsen. Flatbush Avenue ran northwards from the other side of Marine Park, a straight road all the way down to Brooklyn Bridge. 'Come here and look at this,' he said.

Howie was still on his knees and stumped his way over to him.

'Look at Marine Park,' said Jack, jabbing a finger at the map. 'It's ideal. Flatbush and the Belt give fast exit routes. It's pretty isolated and JFK is just down the road. What's more, the Beach is less than ten minutes away and then you have the huge cover of Little Odessa in front of you. The guy is about as screened as you can get.'

Howie felt his mouth turn dry with excitement. 'Still a friggin' lot of homes to search, though.'