Aidan Conway - A Known Evil - A gripping debut serial killer thriller full of twists you won’t see coming

“No, I don’t believe so, sir. I really don’t believe it is a question of them.”

The judge was looking straight at him now, his gaze stony, his mouth pursed tight, as though holding back an avalanche of emotions or profound knowledge.

“I want you to know,” Rossi continued, “that I feel sure your daughter was the victim of a killer who chooses his victims according only to his own deranged criteria and not because of who you are or who your daughter was. And besides, his methods,” he began again, before feeling an irresistible pressure to lower his gaze, “are not consistent with the type of murder you perhaps fear. I am sure the killer doesn’t even know who you are. Just as he didn’t care who the first two victims were, and who the next will be, if we don’t stop him first.”

“Yes,” the judge nodded. “Yes. He must be apprehended. At all costs,” he added, seeming to have re-conquered some of his old fight and voglia di vivere , the will to live. It would have made it all so much more perversely understandable. A mafia-pool judge and the worst possible revenge – that of taking a loved one. It was, instead, a senseless killing. A random folly, like being struck by lightning on a family picnic.

“You know,” he began again, “she always refused the protection she would have been entitled to. She maintained she could look after herself pretty well. She refused to live like a prisoner in her own life.”

“She was very brave,” said Rossi.

“Yes, she was. But it would have saved her.”

Rossi reached for the glass and took a sip.

Feeling that it was time to bring things to a close, he asked if he might use the bathroom. He splashed his face and, on coming back into the dining room, his incorrigible reader’s curiosity led him to turn over the book lying flat on the corner of the table.

“Ah,” he said, “Buzzati.”

The book was The Seven Messengers , one of his favourites. Its title story told of a prince who, on leaving his father’s kingdom to discover what lies beyond the confines of the realm, takes with him seven riders to relay news between the old world and the new one he is to discover. As time passes, however, the narrator realizes the growing futility of his system as the future relentlessly and inexorably eclipses the past.

“You can have it if you like,” said the judge. “It was for my daughter. I had been putting aside the whole series for her as they came out with the newspaper. She loves, loved to read.”

Although he knew he had a copy of the book on a shelf somewhere in his flat, Rossi accepted it then handed the judge his card, should he need to get in touch.

“There was just one more thing,” said Rossi. “I was wondering whether I could ask you if you have a picture of your daughter, sir, one I can use for the investigation.”

“A picture? A photograph? Yes, of course, one moment.” And he slipped out and into an adjoining room. He returned carrying a large album into which, over the years, many extra pictures had been accommodated, so much so that when he opened it some spilled onto the table. For a moment the judge seemed to be lost in some bitter-sweet melancholy of reminiscence as he searched for a recent image.

“No. She seems to be just a little young in these,” he said, “her hair’s quite different. Now, let me find something more up to date,” he said, almost jumping up and leaving Rossi alone again. There was one photo which Rossi felt could, nonetheless, be of some use to him and he slipped it into his jacket pocket.

“Here’s what I was after,” the judge exclaimed on returning, then, as if dampening his own temporary enthusiasm, he placed the image in front of Rossi.

“Thank you,” said Rossi, with due reverence.

As he left, descending the staircase, after a moment’s thought he was able to recall, almost by heart, the closing lines of the Buzzati story. He repeated the words to himself, like a seasoned priest reciting the requiem: Tomorrow, new hope will drive me on towards those unexplored mountains shrouded in the shadows of the night. Once more, I will break camp while Domenico disappears over the horizon in the opposite direction, carrying with him my now quite useless message to the far, far distant city.

“I did think about waking him up,” she said, “in case he was going to be late for something important, but then I just thought, sod him. And then I felt bad about it and went back.”

Yana was leaning on the reception desk of the Wellness Health and Fitness Complex. She was wearing wedge-like training shoes, ultramarine Lycra leggings and a tracksuit top. Her blonde hair was pulled into a high ponytail. Sporty and sexy. Get the clients in. Give the housewives and harassed professionals something to aspire to but without being too far out of their league. She knew what worked.

“Would have served him right,” said Marta, staring into a small mirror balanced on the counter and applying yet another layer of mascara. Her eyes had taken on the appearance of two very beautiful tropical spiders. Always experimenting, there was nothing she couldn’t tell you about beauty and treatments. Yana looked after the business and the fitness side but Marta had the X-factor, without a doubt. She closed her little box. “What do you think? Never know who might walk in that door, do you? Could be George Clooney, with his mates, couldn’t it?”

“And Fabio?” said Yana, not so very mock-scandalized.

“Always good to have a spare, darling. Never know when you might need another.”

Yana laughed and dealt her friend and partner a playful push.

“Your Michael,” said Marta, “he doesn’t, you know, when he’s ‘working late’?” and she gave a knowing wink.

“Noo!” said Yana, in fake outrage at the scandalous suggestion. “He’s too busy with his books.”

“Oh! Him and his books!”

“Uh huh,” said Yana, scanning the appointments for the day. “Novels, poetry, theology even.”

“Theology! He wanna be a priest or something? Watch him, darling. Hey, you might be left on the shelf, if you follow.”

A year in the seminary. How often she had wondered about that, at first – Michael’s lost vocation in the Church. But then it just became kind of normal, like all the things that take up their place in a relationship and perhaps to outsiders seem strange or puzzling. Like ornaments around a living room. She wouldn’t mention that to Marta, though. Not a secret, just personal.

He had often tried to explain to her his desire to do some good, his love of thought and philosophy, and the disappointments that had pushed him towards a life of reflection and sacrifice. Then he had woken up, as it were, and decided to take a more practical approach. Grab life by the scruff of the neck as he used to say. He thought he had been running away from the world, so he decided to come back and face it. But there was a part of him that was perhaps still monastic, withdrawn, thoughtful. Suppose it helped, at times, she concluded, trying again to make sense of it all and how she’d got to where she was and everything she’d had to leave behind. And she had secrets, too, mind, but they really were under lock and key. In a safe, with a combination for good measure, so to speak.

“On your feet, girl,” said Marta, rousing Yana from her temporary dreamy state as the door to the health centre opened. A tall, athletic, Mediterranean male, maybe mid-forties, ambled towards the desk. “Here he comes now, your real Mr Right, or maybe your future bit on the side.”

“Perhaps either of you young ladies could be of assistance,” he said and deposited a holdall of some considerable weight on the polished parquet floor, the heavy tools clinking inside as he did so.