Viper - Michael Morley [61]
Only when he was really sure that the rage was spent, did he finish.
Then he collapsed. Wrapped his arm round the dead, mutilated animal and cried.
Wept like he hadn’t wept since he was a child.
48
Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna
Sylvia Tomms took a deep breath as the press conference started. Her hands shook a little as she stared into a white wall of light blazing out from above the TV cameras. But she made sure none of her nervousness showed. She was in a stylishly cut black business suit with a long-collared white silk shirt. She knew she looked smart, authoritative and fully in control. She also knew that her performance was vitally important not only for her, but also for the case and for Francesca and her brave and dignified parents. She’d give them all her best.
Photographers shouldered each other for space. Radio journalists held microphones high above their heads, like unlit Olympic torches.
Sylvia, along with Francesca’s parents, sat behind a table covered with a white cloth, on a raised rough wooden stage in what was normally the carabinieri’s gymnasium. Feedback made everyone jump as a sound engineer adjusted the levels to amplify Sylvia’s opening words. ‘Buona sera. I am Capitano Sylvia Tomms, the officer in charge of the Francesca Di Lauro inquiry.’ Sylvia cleared her throat. ‘I am joined by Francesca’s parents, Genarro and Bernadetta, who have a very personal statement that they would like to read to you. Before they do that, for those of you who are new to the case, there is a written handout being circulated. It gives details of how, where and when Francesca’s remains were discovered in the National Park of Mount Vesuvius.’
Sylvia paused while an assistant from the Press Office handed out single sheets of white paper. Photographers seized on the spare seconds and launched another volley of camera flashes.
‘As some of you have reported, one of our forensic experts, Professore Bernardo Sorrentino, has discovered that Francesca may well have been pregnant at the time she was murdered. I say may well because we still have to complete matching DNA tests as a formality.’
Jack watched the conference live on Mediaset from a small TV in the corner of the carabinieri canteen. He thought Sylvia was handling herself well. She looked cool, calm and highly professional. But he was worried about Francesca’s parents; they weren’t media savvy. It was clearly a stressful and emotional ordeal for them.
Genarro Di Lauro stared into the alien lights and bug-eyes of the TV cameras. A pre-written statement shook noisily in his hands. ‘My daughter was a very special woman. She was everything to us – everything.’ The words stuck in his throat and his grief welled up so quickly that it took several seconds before he could continue. ‘Francesca was a beautiful young woman, full of dreams and laughter. She brought us – and everyone who met her – great joy. She was kind and generous and…’ His mind wandered. A flashback of her as a baby – soft arms around his neck, angel face pressed against his cheek. He wiped tears from the corner of his left eye. ‘My daughter had the most amazing laugh. It was the laugh of someone who loved life and who filled it with love, the kind of life that would warm you all the way through to your heart. I – I want to…’
He was lost now. Eyes flooded. Memories welled up, so large and vivid that he thought he would suffocate. Birthdays, Christmases, holidays, Sunday mornings, bathtimes, bedtimes, story times – all the sweetness flooded in but burned like acid. He couldn’t hold back the pain any more. He covered his face with his hands and sobbed. ‘Mi dispiace. I’m sorry – very sorry.’
Public grief is a rare, exotic animal and the big-game hunters of the national press took every shot they could. The high-tech cameras clicked like machine guns, another trophy head for tomorrow’s papers.
Bernadetta put her arm protectively around her ex-husband. Her voice sounded only a sentence away from breaking. ‘Our daughter is dead. Our baby is dead.’
The