Viper - Michael Morley [84]
‘Burned them to death?’ asked Pietro.
‘So the reports say. Fire has been an age-old method of covering tracks. And sociopaths who kill for fun and profit are not a modern-day phenomenon.’
Sylvia looked down at the notes she’d made on the back of the pizza box. She scrunched up the waste and binned it. ‘Time to go, I think. Let’s get some sleep. Pietro, I have a job for you. Early doors, crack of dawn. And tomorrow I’ll have another session with Franco’s cousin and see if he really is hiding anything.’
64
Campeggio Castellani, Pompeii
Pietro Raimondi was cursing both Jack and Sylvia as he prised himself away from the warmth of his naked fiancée and rolled out of bed. Sylvia’s last instruction of the night was for him to pay an early morning visit to old man Castellani.
The recent spate of long days and long nights meant he was spending too little time with his fiancée Eliana, and he didn’t like it. It was straining their relationship. Pietro didn’t mind working for a living, but he wasn’t one of those cops who made the mistake of living solely for his work. Far from it. He lived for Eliana – for money to spend on them both – for the chance to have a better home than their one-bed studio in a flea-pit tenement building. He lived for better than this. He mulled everything over as he drove out to the Castellani place.
Mussolini, the Castellani’s mongrel dog, ran at his old Lancia, barking at its tyres as he pulled to a stop. He decided to wait a beat until it backed off.
A caravan door clunked open. Castellani creaked down the short metal stairs and recognized him. He tied the dog up and walked back inside. Left the door open for Pietro to follow. The younger man climbed the steps and was still shutting it when Antonio asked, ‘When are you letting my Paolo come home?’
‘Buon giorno! Just as soon as he helps us find Franco.’
The old man headed to the kitchen sink. ‘You want caffè?’
‘Sì. Please.’
The van was roasting hot and stank of stale sweat. It must have been years since it’d been cleaned. If, indeed, it ever had been.
The two men sat either side of a cheap, narrow table that flapped down off the wall.
It almost broke as Pietro leaned his big heavy arms on it. ‘Antonio, you are too old and, I suspect, too wise to play games with us.’ There was a glint of menace in the lieutenant’s dark-brown eyes. ‘We have found three people murdered on your land. One of your grandsons is in custody and the other is on the run. You’ve had time to reflect since yesterday. Now I need answers from you. I need to be able to clear up these crimes.’ Pietro flipped open a pocket-sized spiral pad and tapped a pen on the blank page.
Antonio rubbed his bald brown head. Dry skin fell like snow in the grey air of the caravan. ‘I don’t know where Franco is. If I did, I’d tell you. He is ill and I want him to be safe – even if that means he has to be safe with you.’
‘Does Paolo know where he is? Did they hang out anywhere special together?’
‘He could do. Though they never went anywhere special. They have no money. Times are tough. Maybe you noticed?’
‘I noticed. I grew up around here. As you see, I’m no Roman millionaire.’
The old man shuffled back to the kitchen area. Poured the coffee that had been brewing.
Pietro came straight to the point. ‘Are they capable of murder? Could your boys do that?’
He studied the old man for his reaction.
Antonio looked away. He’d been floored by so many big moments in his time. So many body blows, kidney punches, surprise knockdowns. Anything was possible. But surely not this? ‘Not Paolo. He’s gentle. I’ve never seen him hurt anyone.’
‘But Franco?