Viper - Michael Morley [78]
The pit was at its deepest at this point. The place with the planks and the oil drum was most sheltered from the elements. It had been carefully chosen. This was his place to linger. He sat here to savour the blaze. Wanted to be alone with his thoughts. The drum was his seat. The drawers now being rifled by Forensics were his treasure chest. He was a regular – no, more than that, he was a routine visitor. Jack looked again at the makeshift shelter. It really wasn’t very big, and certainly not sophisticated. Some old wooden doors – one a front door of a house with splintered panels that looked as though it had been staved in during a drugs raid – formed the sides of the shelter. A small trench, about six or eight inches deep, had been dug in the ground so the doors would slot in. Planks of wood – rough flooring timbers and pieces of cheap plywood – had been crudely layered on top and nailed down. Old plastic sheeting had been fed and trapped beneath them to form some kind of waterproof membrane. Whoever had done this wasn’t tall; the height and poor design of the roof showed he’d struggled to arrange things with any real neatness or competence. More than anything there was a real sense, though, that he’d spent a lot of time here – he’d come with a spade and tools and had collected the right combination of wood and sheeting to make the shelter. This undoubtedly was his place.
‘Jack. Look at these.’
He responded slowly to Sylvia’s voice, carefully stepping on to a short walkway that had just been put down. It took him to the heart of the group.
The young Exhibits Officer held a long drawer across his arms and a camera whirred and flashed from somewhere to the side.
In the left side of the drawer were maybe six or seven pairs of panties. From their size and style they looked as though they’d been worn by slim – probably young – women. Next to them was a pile of used cosmetics. Lipsticks, eyeliners, blusher, powder, even some hairspray aerosols. In the right side of the drawer was a strange mix of papers – tissues that had yellowed but still bore marks of lipstick or make-up, old letters that had been crumpled up and then straightened out, torn photographs of girls’ faces that had been Sellotaped together again.
‘You recognize any of these girls?’ asked Jack.
‘Not yet,’ answered Sylvia, ‘but I wouldn’t be surprised if at least some of them turn out to be our missing women.’
‘These are trophies?’ said Pietro. He pointed to the tent that covered the place where the last woman had been burned. ‘He kills his women there, then he collects here what he wants to keep from them.’
‘Maybe,’ said Jack, his attention caught by two forensic officers struggling to move heavy cans in an adjacent corner. ‘What have they got there?’
Pietro interrupted the search. He lifted one of the cans, his face beaming with an ear-to-ear smile. ‘Paraffina! Looks like we’ve found your paraffin.’
59
Campeggio Castellani, Pompeii
Antonio Castellani was on the toilet cursing his haemorrhoids when the carabinieri rushed his caravan. By the time he’d come out, frightened and still hurting, his grandson Paolo was flat on the floor with his hands cuffed behind his back.
They were both read their rights and told they were being taken to the carabinieri barracks for questioning in connection with three murders. The arresting officers noted they looked genuinely shocked. They also noted that another Castellani – Franco – was missing. His grandfather made frantic protests about needing to stay to run his business but his words fell on deaf ears. Confused campers crushed around the two separate police cars that flashed their blue lights and sped away.
Search teams poured into the old man’s van and the one that Paolo and Franco shared. They found nothing in Antonio’s office,