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

She had worked hard after that, getting her MBA, setting up the business with Marta and, when the profits began coming in, finally making a down payment on a place of her own which she was now well on the way to paying off. A small but well-proportioned flat with a mezzanine split-level of her own design, it was where Rossi was now heading, specifically to the calm oasis of her bedroom.

The call in the restaurant had been from her. He’d gone outside to take it where it was marginally quieter, and they had talked. She had been more relaxed and interested to hear about the case. They’d both had tough days and amidst the mutual expressions of solidarity, Rossi had persuaded her to let him come over later. He had his own key but never entered without prior arrangement. Yana had her rules and had her reasons and he respected that. They were together, an item, maybe, but there were limits and lines drawn in the sand, even if he felt sometimes that the tides of their two lives changed and shifted the sands so much as to render such confines meaningless. Periodically, they disappeared completely only to then reappear, perhaps, in the cold light of day, or when he had overstepped the limits of reasonableness. That said, the bond, though unusual, was strong.

She would be asleep now. So, he would let himself in, as quietly as he could, slip off his shoes and maybe, no, definitely, help himself to another cold beer. He would watch a little TV with his feet up, perhaps glance at his papers then climb the wooden steps, placing his feet where he knew he wouldn’t cause the boards to creak before finally sliding in beside her. He’d test the water to see if she wanted to satisfy his more primal nocturnal needs, knowing she’d probably just shove him away. But tomorrow, if she was not working early, they could make up for lost time.

A shivering street-worker in black leather boots and a short fake-fur jacket peeled herself slowly off the corner where she had been trying her best to recline.

“Hello, darling. Looking for fun?” she said through gritted teeth.

Rossi stopped. Was she a mind reader? He smiled, and declined, adding a polite but sincere warning concerning the concomitant risks of being out at night, a woman, and alone. Not all the girls had pimps here, he knew. They wanted, quite rightly, to be free agents but it could be a double-edged sword, especially at times like this.

As a matter of course, he put a hand to his jacket pocket to check his phone. A missed call from Carrara. He rang back. He must have just got off the Metro, he thought. His heart was beating faster now. Not another victim. Not so soon.

“Gigi?”

“Yes, we’ve got news, Mick. ID on the third victim.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Very. She was Maria Marini. A lawyer, 35, single mother, separated and …” Carrara paused.

“And what?” said Rossi

“You’re going to like this. Her father’s a judge. Guido Marini, anti-mafia, Palermo pool, in semi-retirement but put a lot of people inside for a long time.”

“Has he been informed?”

“Informed? He identified the body. And we got a handbag with ID inside picked up by the Tiber. They ran some checks and it seems the lady had missed a regular dinner appointment with her father and wasn’t answering her phone. Out of character and all that. He called the police around 10 p.m. then came straight over.”

Rossi was thinking at full tilt. So, Maroni had kept that to himself until now.

“Are you there, Mick?”

“Yeah. What have you got on her personal life?”

“Like I said, her father told us she was separated, got a kid too.”

“And the ex?”

“Looks clean enough but not exactly in a state of shock. Took it rather philosophically, shall we say. He’s in Milan for work. Travels a lot. He’s been informed and is heading to Rome ‘as soon as he can’.”

Rossi had turned on his heel and was heading towards the square.

“Gigi, send a car to Piazza Vittorio, Fassi’s ice-cream place,” he said then shoved his phone into his pocket.

The girl was still propping up the wall like an eroticized flying buttress.

“C’mon on, hun,” she said. “You know you want to. We’ll have a ball!”

“No, thanks, love. Back on duty myself, I’m afraid.”

When Rossi awoke it took him a while to realize where he was and that he was alone. He listened for familiar sounds and, hearing none, threw back the covers. The heating was on, but the flat was still a bit on the chilly side. There was some coffee still left in the machine. It was more warm than cold. Drinkable. By the kitchen clock it was nine. So, Yana had performed all her morning duties without even waking him or perhaps without even trying to wake him. At least she hadn’t come around with the Hoover.

He had finally let himself in at, what was it? Four or five? He tried to reconstruct the night’s events. Yes, after they’d persuaded the judge to let them check out his daughter’s flat. It had been a hassle with that guy, and Rossi remembered his own exasperated words: “Anything could help, you must understand that, sir. So, if you’ll just give me the keys we’ll get it over and done with tonight.” It had been, as always, sobering, with the judge standing sentinel-like as he and Carrara and the officers had gone through bins, opened cupboards, drawers, the fridge, in the search of any indicator that might point to a motive other than sheer, random, insane violence. As he checked levels in liquor bottles, read personal notes and, ever the foodie, squeezed and sniffed groceries for freshness, Rossi could feel the judge’s disdain as though by these very actions his daughter were being violated for a second time. “Nothing much to go on here,” Rossi had concluded with the standard phrase. “We’ll come back tomorrow to tie up any loose ends, if you don’t mind.”

He had slept late. She must have given herself the early shift after all. Or changed it. He couldn’t detect any sign of emotion, neither anger nor indifference, in the otherwise empty flat and, scratching his head, he wondered whether she had let him sleep out of pity or a simple desire not to have to exchange strained pleasantries with him. Maybe she hadn’t felt she had the energy to confront him head-on. Maybe he didn’t either. Was that a bad sign ? Time would tell , he concluded and splashed some milk into a saucepan then sat down to mull over more of the events of the previous night.

Of course, once the powers-that-be had learned of the possible judicial connection they had all become very interested. So, it had been a torrid night of claim and counter claim and a back and forth of theories about “reprisals” and “warnings” and “clear threats to the institutions” – the judiciary, the government, and so forth. Rossi, however, had resolutely maintained his line that it was pure coincidence. The modus operandi, the signature, were all consistent with the previous killings. Apart from the handbag having been subtracted from the crime scene – probably a self-conscious act of arrogant defiance – it bore all the key traits of the first murder.

They’d learned then that the girl’s father had been pulling all the strings at his disposition and had even wanted to take over the case and put his own men on the job. Rossi gave a dry little laugh to himself. How quickly things moved when tragedy touched the lives of the luminaries. Yes. When sometimes there wasn’t even money to put petrol in a squad car, along came one of the Establishment and they were sending up helicopters and cancelling leave right, left, and centre.

To his credit, Maroni had held his own, for the sake of the force, ostensibly. Possibly. He’d had to leave the opera midway through and was faintly comical in his evening garb. It was only the Rome opera though. Not as if he’d been to La Scala or San Carlo. He had, nonetheless, insisted on leaving the investigation in Rossi’s hands now that he had begun. “Rossi has my full confidence and the full confidence of my superiors,” he’d rather grandly announced at one point, which had tickled Rossi not a little. They had agreed to keep all and sundry informed of subsequent developments, should anything have arisen which might indicate a mafia or other organized backdrop. A press conference was to be arranged, in part, to placate an anxious business community now that the murders were becoming news, international news, and in part to keep a lid on the possible motives. The Home Secretary had even phoned from the ski-resort where he was contributing to the nation’s economic welfare by giving a significant boost to consumer spending, albeit with taxpayers’ money, and racking up a quantity of sexual misdemeanours sufficient to keep priests busy with confessions and journalists replete with favours paid for by their silence.