Michael Morley - Spider

Howie's chubby fingers struggled to pick up the stray salmon. Finally, he caught it and then accidentally wiped the grease residue on a mid-shot of Sarah Elizabeth Kearney's decapitated corpse. Poor kid, thought Howie, dabbing away the grease, just twenty-two when she was butchered. If she'd lived, she would have been forty-two today, probably with a daughter of her own and maybe even grandkids. What kind of sick fuck would rob someone of their future like that? And more to the point, what even sicker fuck would dig her up two decades later and pull the skull off her skeletonized corpse? Howie shook his head in disbelief. To the best of his knowledge, twenty-first-century grave-robbing was damned unusual stuff. On the rare occasions that it happened, the perp was usually some whacked-out druggie, maybe a weird devil worshipper or, every now and then, an extremely disturbed husband who simply couldn't accept that his wife was gone for ever. Local cops always tried to hush up these kinds of cases and the newspapers usually played ball on the latter.

But there would be no chance of keeping this one quiet. No siree, the press wires were already buzzing like a queen bee at mating time. Seemed a Georgetown hack had got lucky with some photographs of his own. The little weasel had no doubt got a tip-off from the cops or ambulance crews, or maybe had even been listening in to the 911 comm's traffic. Anyway, he'd netted himself an exclusive and the pictures were now J-pegging their way across the news world and banking him some big bucks.

Howie looked at one of the hack's shots, forwarded to him by Billy Blaine, a tame NYC journo who ran a press agency and often traded favours with the feds. The shot was certainly a good one. Howie wiped his fingers again and held up the print that had been faxed through to his office. Even though it was a telephoto 'snatch', it was rock steady, with no blur or shake. Nodoubtthe guy had used one of those new fangled stabilizers that cost more than most people's cameras. Howie was always teasing the CSU boys that hacks took better pictures and this was no exception. It had been shot low-angle between the headstones, so you could just see flashes of out-of-focus graves and a glint of sunshine from behind the photographer, but no sign of the cops and crime-scene tape that must have been making the shot incredibly difficult if not damn near impossible. Despite all the problems, everything that mattered was razor sharp, perfectly exposed and absolutely in focus. Smack, bang, centre of the frame was Sarah Kearney's headless skeleton, grotesquely propped against her headstone.

Howie shook his big head again. The picture had a truly shocking power. He held it out at arm's length, not because he had vision problems, but so he could imagine he was actually at the crime scene and had stepped back for a more considered look. Shit, thought Howie, if Steven Spielberg ever made horror movies then this was the kind of shot he'd take. It was out on its own, a real spine-tingler and too gruesome for the TV news channels. The Internet had no such scruples though; it was already top of the virals and had beaten the download record set after Saddam's hanging.

Howie took a hit of the Americano and turned his mind to Jack King. It had been nearly two months since they'd spoken, and even then it had only been small talk. Howie had been deliberately careful to avoid anything that might have scratched at old sores. 'How you doin'? How're Nancy and little Zack? Did you read about the Yankees star that got busted in Queens?' Guy stuff that kept their cop bonds and personal friendship alive. They'd been through hell together and Howie wasn't going to let the mere matter of a continent and six hours' time difference stand between him and his ex-boss. But now he was going to have to call Jack and tell him about the wacko shit going on at Kearney's grave. He needed to warn him that any minute all the stuff about him and his breakdown was likely to be back in the press again. Hell and damnation. Would this case never go away?

Howie Baumguard looked at the photographs again and knew what Jack would say. He knew it, just as sure as he knew that one day his stick-insect wife would leave him for a younger, fitter, more-at-home guy. No doubt about it, this was the work of one particular man, the work of BRK, the killer that he, Jack and all the rest of FBI's finest had never managed to catch.

Montepulciano, Tuscany Ispettore Orsetta Portinari parked her car and, despite heels slightly too high and far too fashionable for most female detectives, walked elegantly up the steep cobbles and slabs of the Corso, the historic main street of Montepulciano.

Orsetta's friend Louisa had promised coffee, pictures of her sister's new baby and eighteen months' worth of unheard gossip. It seemed a good way to pass the time until the damned ex-FBI guy returned from wherever he was and called her. Madonna porca! His wife had been trouble; no wonder the man was spending time away from her. She must be hell to live with. Orsetta bought flowers and Tuscan cherries from a market stall and was within a hundred metres of her friend's home when her phone rang.

'Pronto,' she said, catching it just before the message system kicked in.

'Inspector Portinari?'

'S?.'

'This is Jack King. My wife says you called to see me.'

She stepped out of the sun into a shaded doorway. 'Aah, Signore King, grazie. Thank you for calling me. My boss, Massimo Albonetti, he is in Belgium at the moment, at a Europol meeting, and he sent me to see you -'

'Massimo?' interrupted Jack, sounding surprised. What does that old goat want?'

'Scusi?'

Jack laughed. 'Apologies. Mass and I go back some. We spent a lot of time at the Academy, back when you guys were first interested in VI CAP – the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. You work for him?'

'si,' confirmed Orsetta, instantly picturing her six-teen-hours-a-day workaholic boss calling her into his dark office, rubbing his chubby bald head, chainsmoking and handing out files without even looking up. 'Yes, I work very hard for him.'

Jack imagined that was true. Massimo was a bulldog of a man. He was physically and mentally muscular, and when he got his teeth into something he didn't let go, even if he exhausted his teams in the process. 'Are you in CID, CSU, profiling or what?'

Orsetta looked down at her new shoes, dusty from the walk and in need of a loving shine. 'I work in a special department attached to our national Violent Crime Analysis Unit. Briefly, we are called behavioral analysts, but yes, I am what you call a psychological profiler.'

Jack understood. Police forces relabelled departments to suit the whim of whatever particular politician was pulling the purse strings at the time. 'I've heard worse names,' he said. 'But, Detective, as I'm sure you know, I'm not here on holiday. I've retired now, I help my wife – who, by the way, you seem to have upset – run a hotel out here. I'm no longer in the Job, so why the call?'

Orsetta mentally cursed the wife again. 'Massimo, I mean Direttore Albonetti, he said forget about that. Said you would never retire.'

Jack laughed again. 'He said that?'

'Well no, what he actually said was: "Jack King is no more retired than I am. Jack King cannot even spell the word retire."'

Jack fell silent. Massimo was right. He might no longer be putting in a twelve-hour day in New York or spending the night looking at crime-scene reports, but his brain was still clocking-on and doing the shifts. 'What does he want?'

A moped carrying two teenagers throttled its way uphill and drowned out the conversation. 'Scusi?' shouted Orsetta, covering one ear.

'Massimo, what does he want?'

'I have a file here,' explained Orsetta, shouting above the scooter. 'A murder of a young woman that he thinks you can help us with. Are you back at your hotel, Mr King? I can drive over and show you.'