Viper - Michael Morley [72]
‘Do you think we’ll read about all this in the newspapers tomorrow?’ asked Pietro.
Sylvia threw the dregs of her coffee on the ground. ‘I hope not.’ She crumpled the empty plastic coffee cup and shoved it in the pocket of her blue wool coat. ‘I really hope Sorrentino now understands that this kind of exercise is best done without the public knowing.’ Her thoughts turned to the families of the missing women. She knew they’d be reading every column inch of every paper, praying every day for news that would end their doubts and suffering.
The sun was soon high enough to show the brooding outline of Vesuvius and to start casting shadows on the hard ground near where the teams toiled. Armed carabinieri ringed the excavation area and brusquely turned away a few early morning dog walkers and an old, breathless jogger. Sylvia had seen enough. ‘Come on, let’s go back to the office. This place has all the atmosphere of a funeral. We can’t do anything more here.’
Pietro nodded and fell in behind her. She was right, the depressive solemnity of the dig was tangible, no one even talked as they dug.
And amid the silence, no one noticed him.
Watching.
Silently cursing.
Damning them all for the sacrilege they were carrying out on his hallowed ground.
His eyes bored into Sylvia. She was nothing much. He was good at first impressions. Not a threat. Not nearly intelligent enough to worry him.
His gaze slipped across to Sorrentino.
The anthropologist’s face was easy to recognize. It was plastered all over the press. Il Grande Leone. Now he could be a threat. A serious one.
Why was he here again? What had he found now?
Another victim. That would be it. That would explain all the activity.
The so-called genius was about to make more discoveries. He was pointing and people were running. He was creating excitement. Not the kind of excitement that was wanted. Not the kind that was helpful.
Kill him and you stop the inquiry in its tracks. Slow them down. Screw them up. Burn them out.
Sylvia caught his eye again as she walked back to her car.
Come to think of it, there was something about her. Not drop-dead beautiful – he liked that phrase, drop-dead – but she had a certain style. A certain way about her. She was – he struggled to describe her – challenging.
Yes, that’s it. She was challenging. Well, he was always up for a challenge.
Sylvia Tomms walked out of his view, but not out of his mind.
She’d look good naked. The stupid policewoman heading the inquiry would look great dressed in flames.
But first, there was some lion-taming to be done.
56
Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna
Back at her desk, Sylvia mainlined on more coffee and nicotine. Creed’s picture stared up at her from an open file and begged a bunch of questions. Was he the type to kill because he felt inadequate? The type to crash a press conference to flaunt his power? Or, was he the proverbial fly in the ointment? One of those weird interlopers who bog you down and bleed you of resources?
The last thing she needed right now was another twist in the already tangled tale of murder and missing women. But that’s exactly what she got. It came in the form of the man hastily ushered in to see her. A fresh-faced detective from the local homicide division of the polizia. He’d arrived unannounced and had insisted on seeing her straight away.
‘Capitano, my name is Mario Dal Santo.’ He was in his early thirties, maybe even late twenties. Sylvia noticed the trousers of his smart grey suit were splashed with mud, as were the soles and heels of his highly polished shoes. ‘Please, sit down.’
‘I saw you on the news yesterday – the Di Lauro killing. Everyone at the station house