Viper - Michael Morley [16]
‘French and English. Behind the gravy,’ said his mother-in-law.
Nancy joined them. ‘That little guy doesn’t look too sleepy. We might have a visit in a few minutes.’
As they finally tucked into the food, Nancy and her folks spoon-fed nostalgia to each other and Jack’s thoughts slipped to Luciano Creed.
Was Creed a bungling amateur profiler who’d wrongly mistaken runaway women for murder victims? Was he the jilted lover – or, more probably, the unwanted admirer – of Francesca Di Lauro – and was he obsessed with finding her? Or was he something even worse – was he right? Were there a number of unsolved disappearances that the police in Naples for some reason – scarce resources, lack of interest – hadn’t properly investigated?
‘Could you pass me the wine, honey?’ Nancy pointed to a bottle of Brunello that had come from a vineyard less than ten kilometres from their home in Tuscany.
A further thought distracted Jack. He remembered working a case in Queens – a hospital porter had called in at a precinct house with a tip-off on where to find a murdered youth. Said he’d overheard two out-of-state youths talking about a murder while they ate in a burger bar. Cops had followed up and dug a thirty-year-old black man from beneath steel in an old warehouse. Eventually, the white porter turned out to be the killer. And the dead guy hadn’t been his first black victim. He’d contacted the cops with the bogus story of the youths because he’d killed three times before and ‘wasn’t getting the recognition he’d deserved ’. The world was full of weirdoes, and those who killed for fame sometimes went as far as injecting themselves into the heart of the inquiry.
Nancy tried again. This time waggling a wine glass in her fingers. ‘Could you please pass me the wine, honey?’
‘What? Yeah, sure.’ Jack grabbed the bottle and poured its rich red liquid into the sparkling glass. ‘Sorry.’
His wife smiled, but he was already far away again. Tomorrow morning he’d go and see Creed. There were questions he just couldn’t leave unanswered.
12
Napoli del nord
Scampia’s hollow-eyed skyscrapers cast slim shadows over the old Fiat gliding through town. Alberta Tortoricci took in the grim vista as she headed into her darkest nightmare. By the time the real cops had arrived to escort her back to her home in Assisi the fake ones had pulled into the grounds of one of the area’s many disused factories. The huge building was derelict and bare of branded signage. Buckled and broken chain-link fencing ran all around it. Dogs sniffed garbage and lifted their heads as they passed.
Alberta’s hands had been tied and her mouth gagged. But they’d made no attempt to blindfold her. There was no need. She wasn’t going to live to identify them.
They dragged her down the side of the old factory. Her feet slipped on sodden cardboard boxes that had rotted in the rain. A metal door jerked back in rusted spasms and they pushed Alberta into the cold, damp twilight of the factory. Grey light drizzled through dozens of small windows high off the ground. Across in the corner of the room, in soft silhouette, she saw a man sitting on a slatted fold-up chair.
‘Buon giorno, Alberta,’ said a voice that leached the blood from her heart.
She recognized it as Bruno Valsi’s.
‘Please, sit down. I’ve been waiting. Waiting five years for you.’
Valsi stood up and stepped away as his men forced Alberta down on to the chair. Unseen fingers refastened her hands around the back of it and then bound her feet to its front legs.
‘I’m sorry to be so impolite, but you’ve got to be tied. Otherwise, the sheer amount of pain that I’m going to inflict upon you will throw you to the ground.’ Valsi snapped his fingers, summoning one of the two henchmen who’d brought her.
Alberta never saw the hammer in his hand.
Without any backswing he crashed its flat metal head into her gums and teeth.
The shock was instant. A dull crack. An explosion of pain in her skull.
Pieces of broken teeth jammed at the back of her mouth. She had to swallow jagged bone