Spider - Michael Morley [110]
She quickly sorted the clothing into piles. She presumed the smarter underwear was for work or the few dates Cristina had, and the older, tattier stuff was for when she was hanging out at home on her own. That left two matching pairs of white Lotto running socks, the type found in a three-pack. Orsetta dipped into her jacket and produced a picture of Cristina to remind herself of the girl’s size and shape.
‘In the laundry pile, did you find a sports bra, or any white Lotto socks to match these?’ She pointed to the pair she’d balled up.
Marco thought for a moment. ‘No. No, we didn’t.’
Orsetta felt a kick of excitement. She had a hunch.
She grabbed the photographs and scanned them again. ‘No running shoes. The shot in the wardrobe shows no sports shoes,’ she announced with a look of triumph. She could picture Cristina’s last night. ‘I think she was snatched while she was out jogging, probably not far from here. There are no trainers, no sports pants or sports bra among any of the belongings we’ve examined and I bet she was wearing the third pair of Lotto running socks.’
Marco got her drift. ‘So, she turned down her friends’ dinner invite around seven, then you think she went for a run straight after that?’
Orsetta weighed it up. ‘Yes. She was on a fitness kick, so she said no to them in order to stick to a diet and probably went for the run almost straight away, before it started to get dark. So we can say she probably went out between seven and maybe nine, nine-thirty.’
The two police officers recognized the importance of the moment. They’d just discovered how, when and roughly where Cristina Barbuggiani had spent the last moments of her life before meeting her killer. It was a breakthrough that would allow them to filter their witness statements and start seriously focusing their enquiry on anyone seen within a short radius of Cristina’s apartment on the night of the ninth.
Only one thing still preyed on Orsetta’s mind as she left the landlord to lock up – Jack King. And if Jack himself wouldn’t help her uncover the link between him and Cristina’s killer, then maybe a visit to his wife would.
74
San Quirico D’Orcia, Tuscany
Terry McLeod took his equipment back to his hotel room and packed his suitcase. If his face-to-face with Nancy King went badly, then she’d no doubt have him thrown out of the hotel within the hour.
He checked the bathroom, wardrobes and bedside cabinets to make sure he hadn’t left anything important behind, then locked his case and put it down by the door.
The veteran photo-journalist knew his main strength was his pictures rather than his editorials, so he took time to rehearse his questions before setting off again in search of Mrs King. He decided he would start by pretending he was doing a feature on hotels and restaurants for a new magazine and that, like the Michelin Guide inspectors, he had to keep his identity secret until after he’d tested the cooking and hotel facilities. He’d promise her a page, or maybe two, of free publicity, and then he’d say he just needed some background details on the family, stuff such as: when had they moved in, what had they needed to do to the place to make it into what it was today, how was life in Italy? All that non-controversial stuff. After that he’d get down to the nitty-gritty: where was her husband at the moment, what exactly was he helping the Italian police with, was he now officially back with the FBI or was he working on his own as a consultant? And, of course, how were things between the two of them?
McLeod checked that the micro-cassette in his pocket dictaphone was fully rewound and tucked it up his sleeve, so he could secretly record everything she said.
Sunday lunch had been incredibly busy and Nancy was enjoying a well earned rest in the cool shade of the patio, when she dozed off for five minutes. She woke with a start, and immediately looked around for Zack. When she’d