Viper - Michael Morley [79]
Things were different in the other caravan.
Forensics were having a ball.
Mud from the pit was all over the place, but especially close to one of the stinking bunks. There were specks of heroin all over the floor. They stripped the bed sheets and sent them off to be tested for other substances – specifically gunshot residue. The pillow cover was pulled off and bagged. Something soft tumbled lightly on to the floor.
Alberto Morani, a veteran forensic investigator, felt his heart thump. ‘Stop! Don’t touch it until you’ve photographed it.’
His assistant, newcomer Giulietta Sielli, pulled back her hand. She flicked round the camera she was holding and took several pictures of what even she knew could be hugely significant.
Lying on the floor by Franco Castellani’s bed was a pair of tiny yellow panties. The type that undoubtedly matched the yellow bra that had been worn by Rosa Novello.
60
Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna
Within seconds of seeing Antonio Castellani being interviewed in the holding cell, Jack knew he had nothing to do with the triple murder on his land. The old man’s body language showed he was completely confused by the whole affair. His brow was furrowed, his eyes startled, but there was no indicator of guilt, only genuine bewilderment.
Sylvia was gentle but firm with him. First she explored his relationship with his grandchildren and the absence of their parents. Then she moved on to his business and the kind of activities that happened at the site. From the viewing window in the adjoining room Jack listened to the man’s strange Neapolitan dialect. It was nothing like the Italian he’d learned. What was clear, though, was how arthritis had stiffened the old guy’s joints, how old age had bent his spine and slowed his responses. Antonio Castellani would have trouble swatting a fly in his filthy caravan, let alone hunting and killing humans.
On the other side of the viewing room, Pietro Raimondi was in another interview area using completely different tactics on Paolo Falconi. He was leaning half across the thin grey table that separated them; his broad neck bulged with bloated veins and stretched muscles, his eyes piercing and provocative. ‘Don’t mess with us, Paolo. You know something about what went down, now tell us.’
‘I told you. I don’t know a thing.’
‘Rosa Novello. You had the hots for her, right? You’ve been sniffing around her like a big bad street dog just waiting for the chance to grind up against her leg.’
Paolo shifted in his chair. ‘No!’
‘No?’
‘Yes – no! How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t even know who you’re fucking talking about.’
‘Hey, watch your filthy little mouth.’
Paolo backed up in his seat and looked away from the big lieutenant. He was staring straight off into space, right at Jack, but couldn’t see him through the one-way glass.
The profiler studied him. Paolo was stressed to the hilt, anxious, aggressive and panicky under pressure. But was he really clever enough, mature enough and controlled enough to carry out a triple murder? Not on his own. Certainly not on his own. Did he have a killer instinct? They were about to find out.
Pietro undid his pistol from its holster and slid it across the table. ‘Pick it up. Cock it. Aim it at me.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me. Do it! Now!’
Paolo fumbled with the Beretta. He picked it up and swapped it between hands. He ignored the safety and raised it. Pointed it, not at Pietro – but off into space, well wide of his left shoulder. His finger wasn’t even inside the guard.
Jack had seen enough. The stunt with the gun – unloaded, of course – had been his idea. He could see that Paolo had no affinity with the weapon. He was cautious, clumsy and almost scared when he handled it. The real killer would be more than comfortable with a firearm. Even if he’d tried to disguise his familiarity with a gun, there would have been telltale traits