Viper - Michael Morley [128]
‘But it could be?’ Sylvia pressed.
Luella let out a light sigh. She repositioned the skeleton and pulled up the tail of the tattered grey jacket. She looked closely at the back of the ribcage. ‘I can’t exactly line them up, but there’s corresponding damage at the back.’
‘The bullet’s exit point?’ asked Jack.
Luella smiled. ‘I’m really, really not qualified to –’
‘Don’t worry, you’re not in court and we won’t quote you,’ said Sylvia.
Luella hesitated. ‘Okay. Yes, it looks like an exit wound.’
It all added up for Jack. This was most definitely Numero Uno. The first kill. Not nearly as professional as the later ones. He walked around the skeleton. The chest wound would have come from the killer’s first shot. Probably aimed for the heart and missed. The victim would have just looked stunned, dropped to his knees, mouth open, hands to his wound. The killer would have panicked and rushed to finish him off. Hence the second shot to the cheekbone. Also not good. Finally the trigger-man would have got his shit together. Probably walked up close and finished the job with a bullet to the brain. Determined but messy. The work of a beginner.
The crime team didn’t rush anything. Numerous photographs were taken. Dozens of items were bagged and tagged. Most were mundane and useless. Some were pure treasure. The hands had been hacked off, an old-fashioned way of stopping fingerprint identification, but the skull was good enough to get a very accurate facial reconstruction from. They’d get DNA as well.
There had been nothing in the pockets of the jacket or trousers but there was a label in the waistband, naming the tailor as Tombolini, Napoli.
Luella said she’d send bone samples to specialists in Rome for isotopic examination. It would take more than a month to get the results but she was confident they’d confirm her suspicion that the body had been buried for at least ten to fifteen years.
Aside from the forensic clues, there was a big psychological one too. The body hadn’t been violated. It hadn’t been stripped, let alone burned. It was almost as though there had been respect between killer and victim.
Respect.
Jack hung on to the word.
Maybe the kind of respect the Camorra would show to someone?
94
Centro città, Napoli
Cicerone consigliere Emile Courbit was the son of a French immigrant who’d died of bronchitis in a Neapolitan slum before his fortieth birthday. Emile vowed he’d never suffer the same fate as his father. As a consequence, he worked harder and longer than anyone Carmine the Dog had ever known. The two met just before midnight, the late hour not being a problem for either of them.
‘Ciao, Emile, you like espresso?’
The lawyer nodded.
The Dog called his PA, also well used to burning the midnight oil, and ordered coffees and water. There was only one thing on the agenda – a meeting earlier that evening with Finelli’s consigliere.
‘Did he show?’ asked the Capo, his lush leather chair creaking as he craned forward over the desk.
‘Sì, Mazerelli came. He said they understood our position, respected our rights. They will pay restoration for their actions.’
‘Hmmm,’ grunted Dog. ‘He say how much exactly, and when?’
Courbit shook his well-groomed head. ‘No, not how much. Mazerelli has spoken to his boss and to Valsi. I cannot distinguish whether payment will be made by Finelli or by his son-in-law. But he did promise we would have it within forty-eight hours.’
‘If Fredo has any sense he will beat it out of the young blood’s hide and make him bring it here on his knees, the money in his mouth like a whipped dog.’
‘Amusing thought. But I don’t see Valsi backing down. Not if our information on him is correct,’ said Courbit. ‘It’s possible Finelli may pay, even if Valsi doesn’t, and then he’ll settle the dispute internally. As we know from Vito, all is not well in the Family.’
‘I don’t care. I just want my money and their undertaking that they will never again trespass into our territory