Viper - Michael Morley [109]
Franco took his meagre hoard to one of the places he and Paolo frequented near the visitors’ entrance of Pompeii. The rain started again as he sat behind the street hoardings near the railway line and hurriedly fumbled the bottled water to his mouth. From his shelter he watched families and couples passing on the street. The feelings of loneliness and isolation multiplied inside him – bred like the mutant cells that were silently murdering him.
Exiled.
An outsider. That’s what he was. Sitting with the sodden rubbish behind the hoardings, he’d never felt as low as he did right now. His fumbling, claw-like hand found the Glock.
Soon he would use it.
Soon they would understand the true depths of his pain.
79
Capo di Posillipo, La Baia di Napoli
Armed officers flanked Sylvia, Jack and Lorenzo as they walked towards the tall wooden gates of the Finelli mansion.
‘Cameras just about everywhere.’ Jack’s head swivelled from one to another.
Sylvia pressed a bell and waited. ‘I hope they catch my good side.’ She shot him a flirtatious smile and tucked her hair behind her right ear. Static stung the air – a tinny male voice trickled from the entry phone, asking who they were and what they wanted.
‘I’m Capitano Sylvia Tomms.’ She stood on tiptoes to speak into a small grille. ‘I’m here with my colleague, Lorenzo Pisano, and an American psychological profiler, Jack King. I do not have a search warrant or an arrest warrant. It is a matter of public importance that brings us here and we really would be most grateful for Signor Finelli’s assistance.’
There was another sizzle of static, then the intercom went dead. Several minutes later there was a clunk and the big automatic gates swung slowly open.
Jack caught himself saying, ‘Wow!’
The view was breathtaking.
Manicured lawns and magnificent marble statues gave way to a grand old palazzo complete with castellated frontage, shuttered casement windows and gutter-height Boston ivy.
Lorenzo nodded. ‘Yeah, big wow. Who was the jerk who said crime doesn’t pay?’
Rich, golden light spilled from an open door across the gravelled courtyard. The small, trim form of Fredo Finelli appeared. He was alone and looked relaxed in navy-blue striped suit trousers and an open-necked white shirt.
‘Buona sera,’ said the Don, extending his hand and a smile to all of them. ‘Please come inside, it will be much easier for us to talk.’
Jack scanned the area as they walked. There were no guards to be seen, but they were there. He could feel invisible eyes on his back as he passed into the warmth of the house. Jack was the only one to slip his shoes off at the front step.
‘No, no, there’s no need for that,’ said Finelli, touched by the courtesy.
‘It’s the way my wife trained me,’ joked Jack.
They were shown through to one of the lounges on the side of the house, overlooking a floodlit lake. Servants materialized to take coats and attend to drinks with all the speed and subtlety of a top hotel.
Finelli settled his surprise guests in a plush, wide curve of bespoke light-brown settees covered in a mix of cotton and silk. ‘Lorenzo Pisano, I don’t think I’ve seen you since my son-in-law’s trial?’ He smiled fondly, as if he were talking to an old friend. ‘How are your parents? I understand your father, Benito, spent a little time in hospital with a hip problem?’
If Lorenzo was bothered by the intimate knowledge, he didn’t let it show. ‘They’re perfectly well, thank you. Both my mother and father are very carefully looked after, as I’m sure you know.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ Finelli then turned to Jack and spoke in perfect English. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m being very rude. We will continue in English, so you can follow us. Major Pisano and I were merely exchanging pleasantries.’
‘That’s kind of you.’ Jack didn’t mention that his Italian was good enough to have understood everything being said.
‘So,’ continued Finelli, sitting back in his armchair. ‘How exactly can I help you?’
Sylvia outlined the three murders on the Castellani campsite, stressing