Sylvia pressed for an answer. 'Maybe a particular argument? Something that surprised you and caused you to fall out?'
Bernadetta finally shook her head.
'No mother-daughter talk about something awkward? Perhaps men, marriage? Anything like that?'
Bernadetta's mind felt like it was bound with razor wire. It hurt to think. But then something stirred.
At the centre of the ball of grief there was an ugly five-year-old memory struggling to get out. She put her fingers to her temples and closed her eyes. The pain was too great.
There was something. What? What was it?
Bernadetta shook her head. 'No. There is nothing special I can remember.'
And then she looked away and hoped the police-woman couldn't tell she was lying, couldn't guess the dark secret she was hiding.
47
Parco Nazionale del Vesuvio The forest was sodden and smelled of rotting leaves and swampy earth. Franco Castellani didn't mind. Not one bit. Lying flat on his growling, hungry stomach he steadied his outstretched arms and then, with all the patience of a trained assassin, gently squeezed the trigger of the old Glock.
Fifty metres away a small red deer jolted backwards. It crumpled on its spindly legs and collapsed beside the spidery lower branches of a giant fir. Franco was up and running before the gunshot had finished rolling off the distant hillsides.
The headshot was perfect.
The fawn, along with twenty other deer, had only been introduced into the park in the summer as part of a new wildlife expansion programme. He stood over it. It looked like it had three little black eyes instead of two. It twitched and went into spasm as he touched its head. Franco considered shooting it again, but didn't want to risk any further noise, and he wanted to save the bullets for what he had planned for later. He slipped out his hunting knife, the one he used for fishing, carving and odd jobs at the campsite. He lifted its chin, exposing the soft fur and thin flesh at the neck.
One of the fawn's back legs kicked again. He wondered how long the animal would take to die if he just left it. Its eyes were glazed and vacant. Blood started to trickle from its mouth and nose, but amazingly it still seemed to cling to life. He lowered the chin and rested its head on his knee. Shuffled round so his back was against the giant trunk of a spruce. Settled back to watch it die.
It took several minutes for the animal to stop breathing and, when it did, Franco felt dis appointed. Not sad, most definitely not sad, but disappointed.
Even though the fawn was quite small, he found it was too big for him to carry. He picked up the knife again and began the bloody task of cutting meat. He wished he had one of his axes. With one of those he'd glide through the bone. Whoomph, and it would be in pieces. But the knife was too small to sever the head. He sliced skin away, then tried to break the neck bone over the top of a rock. He stomped hard. But everything was wrong. The head got in the way – the ground was too soft – the bone slipped off the rock. Franco found himself just standing there, dribbling sweat and staring at the young dead animal's head.
Young. Dead.
The words touched him. Mirrored his own fate. Cut down in his prime. One moment happy and free – oblivious to the savageries of the world – then killed by a bullet from out of the blue. He felt a rage building. A terrible rage against the unfairness of life. The unfairness of everything. Franco fell to his knees.
Knife gripped tight, he plunged it. Not once, or twice, but dozens of times into the body of the fawn. Only when he was exhausted did he stop.
Only when he was really sure that the rage was spent, did he finish.
Then he collapsed. Wrapped his arm round the dead, mutilated animal and cried.
Wept like he hadn't wept since he was a child.
48
Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna Sylvia Tomms took a deep breath as the press conference started. Her hands shook a little as she stared into a white wall of light blazing out from above the TV cameras. But she made sure none of her nervousness showed. She was in a stylishly cut black business suit with a long-collared white silk shirt. She knew she looked smart, authoritative and fully in control. She also knew that her performance was vitally important not only for her, but also for the case and for Francesca and her brave and dignified parents. She'd give them all her best.
Photographers shouldered each other for space. Radio journalists held microphones high above their heads, like unlit Olympic torches.
Sylvia, along with Francesca's parents, sat behind a table covered with a white cloth, on a raised rough wooden stage in what was normally the carabinieri's gymnasium. Feedback made everyone jump as a sound engineer adjusted the levels to amplify Sylvia's opening words. 'Buona sera. I am Capitano Sylvia Tomms, the officer in charge of the Francesca Di Lauro inquiry.' Sylvia cleared her throat. 'I am joined by Francesca's parents, Genarro and Bernadetta, who have a very personal statement that they would like to read to you. Before they do that, for those of you who are new to the case, there is a written handout being circulated. It gives details of how, where and when Francesca's remains were discovered in the National Park of Mount Vesuvius.'
Sylvia paused while an assistant from the Press Office handed out single sheets of white paper. Photographers seized on the spare seconds and launched another volley of camera flashes.
'As some of you have reported, one of our forensic experts, Professore Bernardo Sorrentino, has discovered that Francesca may well have been pregnant at the time she was murdered. I say may well because we still have to complete matching DNA tests as a formality.'
Jack watched the conference live on Mediaset from a small TV in the corner of the carabinieri canteen. He thought Sylvia was handling herself well. She looked cool, calm and highly professional. But he was worried about Francesca's parents; they weren't media savvy. It was clearly a stressful and emotional ordeal for them.
Genarro Di Lauro stared into the alien lights and bug-eyes of the TV cameras. A pre-written statement shook noisily in his hands. 'My daughter was a very special woman. She was everything to us – everything.' The words stuck in his throat and his grief welled up so quickly that it took several seconds before he could continue. 'Francesca was a beautiful young woman, full of dreams and laughter. She brought us – and everyone who met her – great joy. She was kind and generous and…' His mind wandered. A flashback of her as a baby – soft arms around his neck, angel face pressed against his cheek. He wiped tears from the corner of his left eye. 'My daughter had the most amazing laugh. It was the laugh of someone who loved life and who filled it with love, the kind of life that would warm you all the way through to your heart. I – I want to…'
He was lost now. Eyes flooded. Memories welled up, so large and vivid that he thought he would suffocate. Birthdays, Christmases, holidays, Sunday mornings, bathtimes, bedtimes, story times – all the sweetness flooded in but burned like acid. He couldn't hold back the pain any more. He covered his face with his hands and sobbed. 'Mi dispiace. I'm sorry – very sorry.'
Public grief is a rare, exotic animal and the big-game hunters of the national press took every shot they could. The high-tech cameras clicked like machine guns, another trophy head for tomorrow's papers.
Bernadetta put her arm protectively around her ex-husband. Her voice sounded only a sentence away from breaking. 'Our daughter is dead. Our baby is dead.'
The camera flashguns intensified. Lenses zoomed and refocused, elbows jostled for space and angle.
'The police think that somewhere, someone might know something that could help them catch her killer. Please – please – if you are that someone, come forward. Help us.'