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

Iannelli had arrived early and secured himself a place in the front row. He’d always taken the hard way, fully aware that his choices would condemn him to pursue the slow build, the long haul, yet he didn’t have to avoid anyone and his name rarely featured in the gossip over drinks. All the usual faces were there and he’d been careful enough to press the flesh and backslap his way around the room, devoting a few moments of special attention to Luca Iovine of The Facet , already pencilled in as his future employer.

But he’d been here since five, and he wasn’t the only one beginning to think that if they put back the scheduled start-time again, the jovial atmosphere might turn rather more sour as first aperitifs and then dinner appointments got interfered with and grumbling stomachs and editors’ demands began to have undesired effects on tired brains. There was little worse than a projected early finish transforming itself into a protracted all-nighter. One downside to the job then.

There were signs of movement, however, coming from the temporary wings set up to give the conference room its heightened air of police-like institutional drabness. TV crews had just switched on their lights before a row of suited men, some in plain clothes and others in uniform, filed out and took their positions on the podium. They moved at a pontifical pace and with what seemed to be an equally apparent disdain for what constituted urgency in the non-police world. Despite their indifference to the long wait to which the waiting media men and women had been subjected, it was clear that they would not be hanging around either. And if the press wasn’t ready, it was their problem. Iannelli scanned the faces, but there was no sign of Rossi.

“I will be brief,” said Chief Superintendent Maroni, head of the Rome Serious Crime Squad, at the centre of the seven-man line-up which included the city prefect and two of the three magistrates so far involved. “I think most of you know who I am by now and, well, there have been,” he continued, briefly looking down at his notes, “certain developments regarding the recent murders of the two women in Rome and the earlier murder near the Via Cristoforo Colombo, and it is with some cautious optimism that I can say we are pleased,” he said turning briefly to survey his colleagues before recommencing, “to be able to confirm that these developments are ‘significant’.” As he raised his head, there was a wild paroxysm of flash photography and a forest of phone and pen-clutching hands shot up hoping to spear a question-asking opportunity.

At the back of the conference room, Michael Rossi entered through a side door and took up a position where there was still a little space. He had a shaken, ruffled appearance, but despite his still simmering anger he was also quite resigned for he knew exactly what was coming next.

He knew because before leaving the Questura he had already accepted yet another slice of his fate. Nonetheless, he was glad at least to have had some time with Spinelli. It had been crucial. As such, he had taken the call from Maroni, deciding to swallow the toad sooner rather than later. Incandescent, his superior had summoned him to a private room where in no uncertain terms he’d dressed Rossi down, ordered him to steer clear of making any trouble, and told him exactly how things were going to be played out later before the press. Then, true to form, Maroni had half-excused himself for his barbarity before sending Rossi away with instructions to “be late for the conference because you’re so fucking busy chasing killers that you can’t remember your own name.”

“My officers and I would like to thank in particular Inspectors Michael Rossi and Luigi Carrara and their team of investigators, who have been working flat out on this case and have not been able to join us, as yet.”

“Well here I am,” proffered Rossi, like a madman taunting his other self and anyone else who might hear him, but all eyes were on Maroni.

“My officers and I have been able to reconstruct a significant series of events leading up to the murder of Maria Marini, the details of which will emerge in due course but suffice to say the information we have so far been able to gather has been judged sufficient by the public prosecutor for us to move in the direction of making an arrest in this case with a view to bringing charges.”

More hopeful arms were thrust into the air to the accompaniment of rabid camera flashing and clicking but all to no avail as Maroni continued what was turning out to be nothing more than a statement.

“I will not be taking any questions now as there is, as I am sure you can all imagine, much work still to do. If there are any further developments this evening, we will endeavour to inform you forthwith. Thank you and good evening.”

And with that they filed out as indifferently as they had when they arrived.

Rossi, moving towards the centre of the melee, had caught Iannelli’s eye. The two men exchanged a glance, the import of which they both understood.

“Fancy Arabic?” said Rossi to the journalist now sitting beside him in his car. “We can talk there, it’s off the beaten track, don’t worry.”

“Suits me fine.”

They found parking easily enough on Via Merulana and walked up the slight incline of the broad flagged pavement in the direction of the Basilica. In January, with Christmas done and dusted, the area saw little human activity and, with the pall of fear over the city, tonight it felt deserted. In winter, from this spot, if you could ignore for a moment the hypnotizing fairy-tale gold mosaics and baroque facade of Santa Maria Maggiore which greeted you, it was possible to see in the distance the sister basilica of San Giovanni by looking over your shoulder down the dead-straight boulevard. When spring came the plane trees would burst into life making the same long road between the two basilicas richly forest-like and mercifully cool, dappling the fierce sun held at bay overhead. But now, in the dark, all was bare and skeletal against the ashen sky.

They slipped into the warmth of Shwarma Station and ordered liberally from the dazzling array of Syrian and North African specialities at much saner prices than some of the more di moda kebab joints where conservative Romans went to be cosmopolitan. Stuffed vine leaves, falafel, couscous, hummus, and kebabs. There was no alcohol but they could wait. They took a table under the TV at the back of the room. There were the usual diners: expatriate Arabs, students, nostalgic types relishing the simplicity of paper table cloths and ordinary people and just a little edge. This was a meeting place, too, for the Islamic community and in the coming and going of Moroccans, Egyptians, Arabs, and Libyans there were, for sure, some less than legitimate characters caught up in the mix. For a good five minutes they ate in silence until they had seen off the first wave of their hunger.

“So, what’s new, Dario?”

“Depends what you mean? You mean the local shenanigans or the murder mystery?”

“All right,” said Rossi, “if you could give me some firm leads on either score, I’d be buying you dinner next time as well as today, but I’ll take whatever’s going.”

“Well, as far as my theories on the immigration rackets are concerned, I can’t get much unless you can secure me those wire taps on a few key individuals.”

Rossi shook his head.

“You know that’s impossible. No judge will give me the time of day if it’s anyone near the top of the tree with connections to high-ranking individuals. They’ll laugh me out of town. And for me to take the law into my own hands on this one, well that would be signing my own, I won’t say death warrant, but it could be close.”