Viper - Michael Morley [62]
‘The police think that somewhere, someone might know something that could help them catch her killer. Please – please – if you are that someone, come forward. Help us.’
Bernadetta was done. She buried her face in Genarro’s shoulder and sobbed.
Sylvia spoke to someone behind her and a police-woman gently ushered them both offstage.
The journalists almost created a stampede to get their final shots and Sylvia had to virtually shout into the microphone to restore order.
‘Bernadetta and Genarro thank you all for your support and help. The printed handouts we gave you have a telephone number for the Murder Incident Room that anyone can ring if they have information. Calls to that number can be anonymous if people wish. Now, are there any further questions?’
A man’s hand went up. A TV reporter, late twenties, well groomed, still hoping one day to get his shot at studio anchor. ‘Will there be an opportunity to do one-on-one interviews with Francesca’s parents?’
‘No,’ snapped Sylvia, more curtly than she’d intended. ‘You saw how painful tonight was for them. Please give them some privacy. No personal interviews. We won’t take kindly to anyone who hassles them for interviews. Next question.’
A woman reporter waved her hand and caught Sylvia’s eye. ‘Can you tell us how Francesca died?’
‘Not at the moment. We have detailed forensic reports that we are following up. Right now it would be inappropriate to comment further.’
A middle-aged man waved a notebook. ‘Francesca was pregnant when she died – do you know who the father was?’
Sylvia raised the palm of her hand. ‘I can’t comment on that at the moment.’ She was keen to change the subject and saw someone waving at the back, a face she half recognized. ‘Yes, at the back. Your question, please.’
‘Capitano Tomms, would you say that this killing is connected to the disappearances of Luisa Banotti, Patricia Calvi, Donna Rizzi and Gloria Pirandello – all local women who have gone missing over the last five to eight years?’
The names stopped Sylvia in her tracks.
Inside the carabinieri canteen Jack stood up and immediately left the TV set he’d been watching.
All eyes flitted backwards and forwards between the reporter and the silent carabinieri Capitano. Sylvia’s mind was running at frantic speed. How had someone made the connection between Francesca and the other missing women? Was there a leak in her inquiry team?
The well-informed journalist pressed for an answer. ‘Capitano, do you deny that all these women are missing and may, like Francesca, have been murdered?’
Sylvia knew she couldn’t stall any further. ‘I’m sorry. I’m hesitating on my answer because I don’t want anyone here to lose focus of the facts – we’re hunting for the killer of Francesca Di Lauro, a young woman, a young mother-to-be, murdered in the prime of her life. I don’t want to speculate on other random cases, I don’t want distractions, I want to concentrate on this one woman’s death. I and Francesca’s parents need your help. Please remember the faces of Genarro and Bernadetta – let’s make sure we catch this man and ensure no other parents suffer like they have. Thank you, everyone. This press conference is over.’ As she stepped from the stage she finally nailed the identity of the journalist. She motioned frantically towards Pietro Raimondi. Half the press were suddenly in her way. Squashing towards the exits to file their stories.
Sylvia finally reached Pietro on the other side of some security doors. Before she could say anything, Jack arrived. He was breathless but took the words right out of her mouth.
‘That was Creed. The man who just asked those questions wasn’t a journalist. It’s Luciano Creed.’
49
Via Caprese Michelangelo, centro città, Napoli
At dusk, high-powered halogen security lights fizzled into life, illuminating the six-storey salmon-coloured building that housed the penthouse of Camorra consigliere Ricardo Mazerelli.
The forty-eight-year-old’s home off Corso Vittorio Emanuele was