Viper

Bernadetta was done. She buried her face in Genarro's shoulder and sobbed.

Sylvia spoke to someone behind her and a police-woman gently ushered them both offstage.

The journalists almost created a stampede to get their final shots and Sylvia had to virtually shout into the microphone to restore order.

'Bernadetta and Genarro thank you all for your support and help. The printed handouts we gave you have a telephone number for the Murder Incident Room that anyone can ring if they have information. Calls to that number can be anonymous if people wish. Now, are there any further questions?'

A man's hand went up. A TV reporter, late twenties, well groomed, still hoping one day to get his shot at studio anchor. 'Will there be an opportunity to do one-on-one interviews with Francesca's parents?'

'No,' snapped Sylvia, more curtly than she'd intended. 'You saw how painful tonight was for them. Please give them some privacy. No personal interviews. We won't take kindly to anyone who hassles them for interviews. Next question.'

A woman reporter waved her hand and caught Sylvia's eye. 'Can you tell us how Francesca died?'

'Not at the moment. We have detailed forensic reports that we are following up. Right now it would be inappropriate to comment further.'

A middle-aged man waved a notebook. 'Francesca was pregnant when she died – do you know who the father was?'

Sylvia raised the palm of her hand. 'I can't comment on that at the moment.' She was keen to change the subject and saw someone waving at the back, a face she half recognized. 'Yes, at the back. Your question, please.'

'Capitano Tomms, would you say that this killing is connected to the disappearances of Luisa Banotti, Patricia Calvi, Donna Rizzi and Gloria Pirandello – all local women who have gone missing over the last five to eight years?'

The names stopped Sylvia in her tracks.

Inside the carabinieri canteen Jack stood up and immediately left the TV set he'd been watching.

All eyes flitted backwards and forwards between the reporter and the silent carabinieri Capitano. Sylvia's mind was running at frantic speed. How had someone made the connection between Francesca and the other missing women? Was there a leak in her inquiry team?

The well-informed journalist pressed for an answer. 'Capitano, do you deny that all these women are missing and may, like Francesca, have been murdered?'

Sylvia knew she couldn't stall any further. 'I'm sorry. I'm hesitating on my answer because I don't want anyone here to lose focus of the facts – we're hunting for the killer of Francesca Di Lauro, a young woman, a young mother-to-be, murdered in the prime of her life. I don't want to speculate on other random cases, I don't want distractions, I want to concentrate on this one woman's death. I and Francesca's parents need your help. Please remember the faces of Genarro and Bernadetta – let's make sure we catch this man and ensure no other parents suffer like they have. Thank you, everyone. This press conference is over.' As she stepped from the stage she finally nailed the identity of the journalist. She motioned frantically towards Pietro Raimondi. Half the press were suddenly in her way. Squashing towards the exits to file their stories.

Sylvia finally reached Pietro on the other side of some security doors. Before she could say anything, Jack arrived. He was breathless but took the words right out of her mouth.

'That was Creed. The man who just asked those questions wasn't a journalist. It's Luciano Creed.'

49

Via Caprese Michelangelo, centro citta, Napoli At dusk, high-powered halogen security lights fizzled into life, illuminating the six-storey salmon-coloured building that housed the penthouse of Camorra consigliere Ricardo Mazerelli.

The forty-eight-year-old's home off Corso Vittorio Emanuele was located behind tall black railings in a private park, plush with palm trees and pristine lawns. Three armed security guards – Finelli men – patrolled the grounds 24/7.

In keeping with the trend for glass conservatories built over sky-high terraces, Mazerelli's was probably the biggest and longest in the city. Inside, a fountain-fed pond of ghost koi carp was the central feature of a Japanese garden specifically designed for peace and tranquillity. The privileged few who had stood inside, and gawped at the incongruity of the place, could also tell you that the windows were not only bullet-proof, they were strong enough to withstand a mortar attack.

Don Fredo Finelli sat in a wicker chair, a glass of chilled Prosecco on a small stone table at his side. He loosened his tie. He and his consigliere were alone after a routine business meeting in the financial district. Mazerelli looked tense and the Don wanted to know why. 'So, Ricardo, spill your troubles. Tell me what is on your mind.'

The family lawyer leaned forward, elbows on knees, a businesslike look on his face. 'May I speak openly; without fear of causing offence?'

'You know that is your privilege,' said Don Fredo, 'but please don't use it as a licence for disrespect.'

'It is your son-in-law.'

The Don's eyebrows arched. He couldn't help but tense in his seat.

'How do I know this is not going to be good news?'

'I'm afraid you are right.' Mazerelli slid open the top of another stone table and dialled the combination of the safe hidden inside. He pulled out a large Manila envelope and passed it to his employer. 'You need to see these.'

For a moment Don Fredo considered not opening the packet. He was going to deal with Valsi when he was ready. When the time was right. He feared that whatever the photographs showed might enrage him so much it would cloud his judgement.

The consigliere stood behind the Don and explained the stack of prints. 'They are all pictures of child drug dealers, fornitori run by Bruno or, at least, by his associates. The youth you're looking at is the spacciatore, the pusher; he is dealing wraps of cocaine and heroin.'

'How old is he?' Don Fredo's voice was low and sombre.

'This one is about fourteen. I'm told younger boys and girls are involved. Maybe as young as nine or ten.'

'Porca Madonna! This is not what we do.' Don Fredo threw down the photographs.

'In some ways it is clever,' continued Mazerelli. 'Juveniles are not punished as severely by the polizia or the courts. They are often given second chances rather than detention.'

Finelli banged his fist on the arm of the chair. 'Children are not pawns, Ricardo! We offer them jobs when they are old enough to choose, not when they are too young to say no.'

The consigliere paused and let his boss's passion fade before passing over a new print. 'Now we go up the chain, this is the main dealer -'

'You are sure of that?'

'Yes. There are several shots of him. Look at the blow-up and you will see.'

Finelli took another print and screwed up his face. The shot was taken from a high angle, maybe from an apartment building, or a factory rooftop. It very clearly showed bags of cocaine in the trunk of the dealer's Alfa. Digital scales, wire ties, silver foil and latex gloves were visible near a wheel and a jack.

The Don put two prints to one side and tapped one with his right hand. 'Who are these men? Please tell me they are not who I think they are.'

'I am afraid they are. Alberto Donatello and Romano Ivetta.'

The Don shook his head, reached for the glass of Prosecco and drained it.

'They're clearly the gang masters. They organize the children every day. Supply them with the packages and take the cash from them.'

'Scum!' Valsi had defied him and it made his blood boil.

Heavy moments passed as Don Fredo examined the other photographs. A long-lens surveillance shot showed Valsi shoulder to shoulder with the other men. All three were laughing. The background confirmed they had been taken on the same day and in the same place where the kids had been dealing. 'Where did you get these from? Did you spy on my son-in-law, without asking me for permission – without my authority?'