Viper

'That's possible,' said Jack. 'These cousins are – what? Twenty-four, twenty-five?'

Pietro searched his memory. 'Both twenty-four. Franco is twenty-five in a couple of months.'

Jack took another slug of cold beer. 'Agewise they're on the edge of the profile that I'm thinking of. If these missing women are all connected, they stretch back eight years or so, which puts these cousins around sixteen. It's kind of tender for this sort of sadism, but not unheard of.'

Sylvia was following his drift. 'I get what you mean. The sexual component in this case puts the offenders north of the puberty line. But what about the element of control used? Surely the offender, even back in the days of his first clumsy kills, must be much older than sixteen?'

'Agreed,' said Jack, 'but two offenders working together can distort things. They cover for each other, make fewer mistakes. A combination of two young offenders can give the impression of one more mature single perpetrator.'

Glumness hung in the air as they all pictured the possibility of the two cousins working in concert, picking off the women together, maybe one providing a distraction, the other delivering a disabling blow from behind. 'To be truthful,' said Jack, 'I think we're at that stage where we can't rule anything out. It's worth keeping in mind, though, that Bianchi and Buono were not a one-off. The eighties threw up Dave Gore and Fred Waterfield. When the curtain came down they pinned six rape murders on Gore and two on Waterfield. Though some old-timers say they might have killed as many as fifty. And, in fact, the first real recorded case of serial murder was the Harpe case.'

Sylvia uncapped another bottle of Peroni. 'Harpe? We didn't do that at the academy. How long we going back?'

Jack played with his beer. 'Way, way back, to the eighteenth century – late 1700s, I think. Micajah and Wiley Harpe were wild kids, rode with outlaws and renegade Indians. Murdered some men and boys, but it's thought they killed about forty women between them. Maybe more. They kidnapped, raped and murdered their way across frontierland. Used to ride into farms, rustle livestock, rape the women and then burn down the buildings and leave them to die inside. The crimes bound them together.'

'Burned them to death?' asked Pietro.

'So the reports say. Fire has been an age-old method of covering tracks. And sociopaths who kill for fun and profit are not a modern-day phenomenon.'

Sylvia looked down at the notes she'd made on the back of the pizza box. She scrunched up the waste and binned it. 'Time to go, I think. Let's get some sleep. Pietro, I have a job for you. Early doors, crack of dawn. And tomorrow I'll have another session with Franco's cousin and see if he really is hiding anything.'

64

Campeggio Castellani, Pompeii Pietro Raimondi was cursing both Jack and Sylvia as he prised himself away from the warmth of his naked fiancee and rolled out of bed. Sylvia's last instruction of the night was for him to pay an early morning visit to old man Castellani.

The recent spate of long days and long nights meant he was spending too little time with his fiancee Eliana, and he didn't like it. It was straining their relationship. Pietro didn't mind working for a living, but he wasn't one of those cops who made the mistake of living solely for his work. Far from it. He lived for Eliana – for money to spend on them both – for the chance to have a better home than their one-bed studio in a flea-pit tenement building. He lived for better than this. He mulled everything over as he drove out to the Castellani place.

Mussolini, the Castellani's mongrel dog, ran at his old Lancia, barking at its tyres as he pulled to a stop. He decided to wait a beat until it backed off.

A caravan door clunked open. Castellani creaked down the short metal stairs and recognized him. He tied the dog up and walked back inside. Left the door open for Pietro to follow. The younger man climbed the steps and was still shutting it when Antonio asked, 'When are you letting my Paolo come home?'

'Buon giorno! Just as soon as he helps us find Franco.'

The old man headed to the kitchen sink. 'You want caffe?'

'Si. Please.'

The van was roasting hot and stank of stale sweat. It must have been years since it'd been cleaned. If, indeed, it ever had been.

The two men sat either side of a cheap, narrow table that flapped down off the wall.

It almost broke as Pietro leaned his big heavy arms on it. 'Antonio, you are too old and, I suspect, too wise to play games with us.' There was a glint of menace in the lieutenant's dark-brown eyes. 'We have found three people murdered on your land. One of your grandsons is in custody and the other is on the run. You've had time to reflect since yesterday. Now I need answers from you. I need to be able to clear up these crimes.' Pietro flipped open a pocket-sized spiral pad and tapped a pen on the blank page.

Antonio rubbed his bald brown head. Dry skin fell like snow in the grey air of the caravan. 'I don't know where Franco is. If I did, I'd tell you. He is ill and I want him to be safe – even if that means he has to be safe with you.'

'Does Paolo know where he is? Did they hang out anywhere special together?'

'He could do. Though they never went anywhere special. They have no money. Times are tough. Maybe you noticed?'

'I noticed. I grew up around here. As you see, I'm no Roman millionaire.'

The old man shuffled back to the kitchen area. Poured the coffee that had been brewing.

Pietro came straight to the point. 'Are they capable of murder? Could your boys do that?'

He studied the old man for his reaction.

Antonio looked away. He'd been floored by so many big moments in his time. So many body blows, kidney punches, surprise knockdowns. Anything was possible. But surely not this? 'Not Paolo. He's gentle. I've never seen him hurt anyone.'

'But Franco?'

'Franco has a temper. He hates how he is. You can understand that, can't you?'

Pietro nodded. 'The way he is would give me a temper too. But could he kill?'

Antonio remembered his missing gun and shells. 'He could kill. You know he has my gun. He fires it in the pit. I don't know if he hits anything – he says he aims at rats – but he fires it. And he has this temper. But I don't think so. No, I don't think so.'

Pietro's eyes gave away his thoughts – parents never considered their kids to be capable of murder.

Antonio held the officer's gaze. 'Please go gentle on him. Do whatever you can to bring him in safely.' The police cell was cold and Paolo Falconi hadn't been given the second blanket he'd asked for. He was tired and his body ached as they marched him to the interview room. They showed no interest in his complaints about last night or his requests for something to eat or drink.

Sylvia Tomms, however, was well rested and raring to go. She got the formalities out of the way as they settled themselves at a small table. Once more Paolo said he didn't want a lawyer. Insisted he had nothing to hide. She opened a case file and slid over pictures of the dead bodies of Rosa Novello, Filippo Valdrano and the still unidentified female corpse found in the Castellani pit.

'I hope these people came to you in your dreams last night, Paolo.'

You could hear a pin drop in the interview room as her words sank in.

'Did they? Can you live with their deaths? With what was done to them?'

The pictures turned his stomach. Now he was glad they hadn't given him breakfast.

'Nothing to say, Paolo?'

'Nothing new. I told you everything yesterday. How's my nonno? Can I see him? He's really old and -'

'We let your grandfather go home. He's fine.'

Paolo looked relieved.

Sylvia touched Rosa's picture. 'This girl can't go home, though. She used to be pretty – not now. Look at her.'

He glanced at the picture, took in the missing part of the girl's skull. Her milky eyes. His face showed both shock and sympathy. Right from the start Sylvia had been having trouble seeing him as a killer, but the conversation last night with Jack had raised doubts in her mind. 'Do you like girls, Paolo, or are boys your thing?'