Viper - Michael Morley [69]
‘O porca puttana!’ Sylvia looked across at Pietro. He seemed as shocked as she was.
What a setback. One murder like this was a drain on resources, two sucked you dry.
‘How do you know it’s a woman?’ Pietro gestured towards the photograph. ‘And all that about age and size? How do you know her age?’
Sorrentino was glad to explain. ‘Generally, female bones are thinner and shorter than male ones. The biggest clue, though, is in the femur.’
‘The thigh bone?’ checked Pietro.
‘Yes. Femur is Latin for thigh.’ He looked at Pietro as though he were a stupid child. ‘It is the largest and strongest bone in the body. After reassembling the whole of the femur, it’s a simple calculation to project the size of the individual.’
‘And the sex and age?’
Sorrentino sighed wearily. ‘Size and shape of the bone. To determine sex we look at the length and diameter plus the way it joins the hip bone. Age – well, we know the head of the femur is fully developed when a woman is about eighteen or nineteen – and in this case, it was.’
Sylvia stared at the photographs and felt as drained as a dead car battery. She handled the scattered images on her desk and absorbed the reality of what she now accepted was probably another murdered woman. Were these broken and burned bones really all that were left of some lost soul like Luisa Banotti, Patricia Calvi, Donna Rizzi or Gloria Pirandello? The thought angered her. It dropped like a match into a pool of gasoline and sparked her into action.
‘Pietro, I want search teams, exhibit officers, scientists, photographers and every other goddamned overworked person we can find back out in the fields. Dig the whole fucking park up if necessary. We have to see exactly what’s there.’
Sorrentino smirked at her. ‘I’ll tell you exactly what’s there.’ His tone was sotto voce; he waited a beat, then dropped the bomb. ‘A necropolis. That’s what’s there, Capitano. You have stumbled into a serial killer’s secret graveyard and you are about to open up your very own necropolis.’
FOUR
54
Via Caprese Michelangelo, centro città, Napoli
There had never been any love lost between Bruno Valsi and Ricardo Mazerelli. Each had always been fully aware of the other’s ambitions and powers.
Valsi threw his jacket down on one chair and made himself comfortable in another. He hated Mazerelli’s superior tones and condescending looks. Hated his stupid penthouse. ‘What’s with this place? You some kind of Jap lover, Ricardo? All these weird plants and fish.’ Valsi spat into the stream that gently flowed near his feet and tapped the tattoo close to his heart. ‘Vipers have no love for water.’ He turned to his side and contemptuously flicked his fingers at a wooden board with a bowl of black and white playing pieces. ‘And what is this shit? Jap chess, or something?’
The consigliere smiled; he liked it when the anger and hatred were out in the open. It was those with the strength to conceal their emotions that he feared the most. ‘It’s Japanese, yes. But what it is won’t really interest you –’
Valsi took the bait, hook straight into the soft, pink flesh. ‘Don’t treat me like a schmuck. I asked you what the fuck it was; now do me the decency of giving an answer.’
‘It is a game called Go.’
‘Go?’
‘Yes. Go.’ Mazerelli had the upper hand and was making the most of it. ‘Fifty million people in the Far East play the game.’ He smoothed a finger over the wooden base board. ‘Actually, it probably started in China – not Japan – invented by generals who used the stones to map out positions and strategies of attack. The Chinese call it Weiqi – The Surrounding Game.’
‘War games.’ Valsi clapped his hands, ‘Now you’re talking! This is something I’m good at.’
Mazerelli drummed two fingers on the board, then swivelled it round to face his visitor. ‘This is called a goban; it’s made from a tree that is more than seven hundred years old. The stones are called goishi; the white ones in front of you are made from clamshells, these black ones are cut from slate.’
Valsi scratched his