Armando put his hand to his mouth. 'Oh, fuck!' He was close enough to see now. Fredo Finelli lay jammed up against the back headrests. Tossed there like a rolled-up umbrella thrown in the back in case of a rainy day.
'Don, Don Fredo!' He didn't expect an answer but hoped beyond hope that he might get one.
He could see blood now. Spread and spattered across the cream trim and matching leather.
The doors had locked and Armando couldn't get in. Shards of glass stuck up like stalagmites from the rubbers on the door frame. Armando took off his jacket, balled it up and knocked them out. Finally, he was in.
The left side of Don Fredo's face was smashed up. His jaw broken and out of line. Teeth had been hammered back. There was so much blood in one eye socket that it seemed the eye was missing too.
Armando felt sick. He put two fingers to the Don's neck and felt for a pulse.
Nothing.
He shuffled his hand around a little to see if he'd missed it.
Still nothing.
The Don had been good to him, always paid him well, always respected him. The sense of loss kicked in. Death is truly awful when you're the first to discover it.
Thump.
He couldn't believe it.
Thump, thump.
A slow but slight beat between his fingers. My God, the old bastard was actually alive!
He put his face close to the Don's mouth and checked for breath.
Nothing.
Thump.
Thump, thump.
Outside he could hear voices. Help was close at hand! Thank God.
'Here! In here!' he called.
Armando could see the feet and trousers of the paramedics descending the last rocks. They'd know what to do. They'd save him.
Thum- The pulse fell again.
'Quick! Please, come quick, he's dying!'
Thu- Fainter.
'Hey, we came as quick as we could,' said a calm male voice.
Armando turned to the side window. His eyes widened just before a bullet smashed into the middle of his face.
Romano Ivetta lowered his weapon and fired two more shots into the still-beating heart of Fredo Finelli. 9.00 a.m. Napoli En route to the Anti-Camorra Unit's HQ, Sylvia pulled over to the side of the road and took another call from the Murder Squad. This time it was one of the coordinators, Susanna Martinelli. 'Boss, Missing Persons have come back with a match on victims three and four.'
Sylvia held her breath. 'And – are they our women?'
'Yes. Yes, they are.'
Sylvia didn't know whether to feel elated or dejected. 'Go on.'
'Victim number three is Patricia Calvi. That's the nineteen-year-old student from Soccavo.'
Sylvia remembered her. Long brown hair, razor-thin eyebrows, pale brown eyes. She'd been missing almost six and a half years. 'And the other?'
Susanna read from her notes. 'Luisa Banotti, the secretary from Santa Lucia. She's been missing seven years and two months.'
Sylvia recalled the photographs. She'd looked much younger than her twenty years. Dark hair – like all the victims – but very fine and barely shoulder-length. Eyes pale blue and beautifully large, like a child's. 'Have we informed the families?'
'Not yet. We've got positive DNA matches, so now we can call them in. Do you want to be there?'
Sylvia wished she could. She hated this kind of news being delegated. 'I can't. Can you look after it? Make sure the parents have time to talk about it, don't rush them.'
'Sure. I'll be careful.'
'Thanks.' Sylvia started the engine and was about to ring off.
'Boss, one more thing. Bernadetta Di Lauro just rang. Can you call her back?'
Sylvia turned off the engine and took down the number. What could she want? An update? A complaint? Just someone to talk to?
Francesca's mother answered on the second ring. 'Pronto. This is Bernadetta.'
'Signora, this is Capitano Tomms. My office said you just called and asked for me.'
Francesca's mother sounded surprised. 'That's very fast. It's less than ten minutes since I rang.'
'How can I help you?'
'I hope I'm not wasting your time. You said if I remembered anything…' for a moment she struggled, 'then I should call you! Well, to be honest, there is something. Something I should have told you last time we met but I couldn't bring myself to say it.'
'Signora, whatever you say to me is in complete confidence.'
Bernadetta relaxed a little. The policewoman seemed to understand her desire not to share in public any private thoughts about her daughter.
'Grazie. It's a long time ago. And I'm not really sure if it's that important, but -'
'Please let us be the judge of the importance, Signora.'
'Okay. I think Francesca was seeing someone. A married man.'
Sylvia's investigative senses prickled. 'Do you know who he was?'
Bernadetta let out a sigh. 'No. No, I don't. Not at all. Like I told you at your office, Francesca was a very private person. She didn't talk a lot about the men in her life.'
'So why do you think she was seeing a married man?'
'There was an old film on TV, with Tony Franciosa in it. The one in which he and his wife both have a string of affairs, and I said to Francesca that she should steer clear of married men as they brought nothing but trouble. She laughed and said it was a bit too late for that. I asked her what she meant. She went shy and said she was just joking. But I don't think she was. She looked awkward that she'd said it. I tried to get her to discuss it some more but she grew quite irritated with me.'
'And the reference to too late, you now think that was because she was already pregnant?'
Bernadetta paused. 'I don't know. I torture myself by going over every word she ever said to me. Maybe I should have pushed her more. Maybe she was trying to let me in and wanted me to make her talk about it. But I couldn't. She just clammed up. I'm sorry.'
Sylvia told her not to blame herself, but she could tell her words had little effect. She thanked her for the call and drove away.
A married man and a dead, pregnant woman.
It was an interesting development. A development that at last might provide them with a motive and a link to someone.
96
9.50 a.m. Pompeii Luciano Creed was playing a waiting game. Something that irritated the hell out of freelance journalist Cassandra Morrietti. 'I have deadlines and I have bills,' she glared at him over the bad espresso she'd bought from a tourist bar near the Castellani campsite.
'Patience, Cassandra. Patience.'
Creed was backing a hunch. When he and the hack had posed as cops, old man Castellani had told them that his grandson Franco was missing. He was certain he knew why. Franco was the kidnapper and murderer they were all hunting. The photograph he'd been given by the doting grandfather showed the kid to be hideously deformed. Freaks like that don't get sex. What they do get is the urge to abduct pretty women, fuck them and then kill them because they can't risk letting them go. It was simple stuff and he was amazed King, Tomms and the rest of the carabinieri hadn't been clued up to it. Actually, he wasn't that amazed. They were all a bunch of fools and not bright enough to realize that sometimes the most obvious things were overlooked. Well, that wasn't a mistake he was going to make.
'Trust me,' he told the journalist. 'We follow the freak's cousin and he will lead us straight to the freak killer. Then all your waiting will have been worthwhile.'
Cassandra was about to argue the point, when she had to swallow both her words and the last of her espresso. 'There's our boy!' Creed nodded across the road. Paolo Falconi was heading straight towards them. 9.50 a.m. Santa Maria Eliana, centro citta, Napoli The sun seemed to bless Carmine Cicerone as nine a.m. Mass finished and he emerged from the heady smell of burning candles and the calming cool of the church. It was almost as though God had lifted the fog for a moment to show his personal approval of the Dog's decision to choose words rather than war.