Spider

25

Florence – Siena, Tuscany Jack read the case documentation twice. He turned back to the handwritten covering letter and dialled the cell phone number of Massimo Albonetti. The outskirts of Florence faded behind him as the train rattled and rumbled towards Siena.

'Pronto,' said a strong, male Italian voice, the 'r' sounding as richly deep as if it had rolled out of the mouth of an opera-trained baritone.

'Massimo, it's Jack – Jack King.'

'Aaah, Jack,' Massimo responded warmly, hoping his former FBI colleague had not been too disturbed by his request for help. 'My friend, how are you?'

'I'm fine, Mass,' said Jack, picturing 'the old goat' at his desk in Rome, no doubt with an espresso on one side and a cigarette burning in an ashtray on the other. 'I'm sure your young inspector has reported back to you.'

Massimo cleared his voice, coughing politely into his hand. 'Forgive me, please. I am so sorry I couldn't be there toask youin person. Jack, you've seen the file, so you know why I needed you to see it so urgently.'

'Yeah, I understand, Mass. No hard feelings, we go back too far for that.' Jack recalled one of the many long nights they'd spent together, Italian reds to start with, American bourbon to finish. 'I'd have probably done the same thing myself.'

Massimo could hear Jack was on a train, knew he was returning to a family he was now being asked to turn his back on. 'Jack, I wouldn't have asked this of you if I thought we could solve this case without you. This man, this killer, no one knows him like you do.'

Jack frowned. He was under no illusions about what joining the investigation could cost him. 'It's hardcore, Massimo. Hunting this creep nearly robbed me of everything.'

Massimo felt awful. 'iz. I know this. If I was not a policeman, then I would advise you not to get involved. As a friend, I would urge you to stay away and think only of yourself and your family. But Jack, I am a policeman, and so are you. And I know that only you can make a big difference. I know your skills, and with your assistance we have every chance of catching this man.'

Sunlight blazed across an outspreading quilt of patterned green countryside. Jack stared towards the tree-lined horizon. Had BRK really been here? Had he brought his madness across the continents and poisoned this beautiful land with his bloodshed and barbarism?

'The Barbuggiani case, there can be no mistaking any of the critical details?'

'No,' said Massimo unhesitatingly. 'There is no mistake,' he added, draining the last thick dregs of the inevitable espresso. 'You are thinking about the hand, Jack, aren't you?'

Dozens of images flickered through Jack's mind: the faces of women, the white morgue sheets being whipped back to reveal skeleton remains, the stumps of young girls' arms from which the monster had hacked away his prize, the left hand – always the left hand – the hand of marriage.

Massimo pulled on his cigarette. He wished he were face to face with his friend, glasses of something strong on a table between them, something to numb the shock he was sure Jack was feeling, something to remind them of old times. He blew out the smoke and tried not to make his words sound too hard. 'There is no mistake. This man, he severed the hand in the same way as your other cases.'

'Where?' pressed Jack. 'In the notes it's not clear exactly where he made the cut.'

'The incision was around the lower carpals.' Massimo picked a speck of tobacco from his tongue. 'It was a diagonal cut, slicing between the carpals and the ulna and radius bones.'

Jack started to sweat. His mind filled with more flashbacks, this time of the killer, not his victims. He saw the man at work, moving slowly and carefully, preparing meticulously for what he was about to do. The monster manoeuvring his victim's arm into position – was she alive at the time? Amputation attempts on the first victims were crude and sickeningly experimental; there were chisel marks and hesitant saw lines, chipping and gouging on bone, signs that maybe a hammer had been used to try to smash off his trophies. But that quickly became a thing of the past; soon BRK got himself the right tools for the job, no doubt read up on where to make the most effective cuts.

'Are you still there, Jack?' said Massimo. 'I can't hear you.'

'A bad line,' said Jack. 'Tell me, Mass – what had your guy used to cut with?' He steadied himself for the answer.

'Some kind of professional hacksaw. By the look of the teeth marks it's a bone saw, maybe an autopsy saw, most probably a butcher's bone saw.'

'Shit!' said Jack. 'Were the teeth on the saw clean, or were any of them broken?'

'Not clean,' confirmed Massimo. 'It was an old saw. It had been used before. Forensics say they think it's most likely a 35- or 40-centimetre blade with two sets of damaged teeth.'

'Thirty-five to 40, what's that, 15, 16 inches?'

Massimo confirmed the conversion. 'That's about right.'

'Let me guess,' said Jack. 'The first breaks come in a cluster of three. Then there's an undamaged stretch of teeth running for about 7 inches, that's roughly 17 centimetres, and then one more damaged tooth, slanting to the left.'

'Hard to say,' said Massimo. 'There's certainly evidence of some broken teeth. Jack, I'm afraid it's the same man. There can be no doubt about it.'

Jack couldn't speak. It was all still sinking in. Just over twenty-four hours ago he'd travelled to Florence seeking what Nancy called 'closure'. Now everything was very much open again. Wide open, like an infected wound that refuses to heal up.

Massimo waited patiently. Down the line he could hear silence and then the sound of a passing train. He knew his friend was struggling to come to terms with it all.

'Okay. I'm in,' said Jack decisively. 'I'll help you. There's no choice really. I have to give this another shot. I'll call you on a better line when I'm at home in San Quirico and we can work out the logistics from there.'

'Va bene. Molto bene, grazie,' said Massimo gently. He was going to add something else but the line went dead; Jack had already hung up.

Massimo held the phone in one hand and tapped it thoughtfully into the palm of the other, before returning it to the cradle. There were still some things he hadn't told Jack about Cristina Barbuggiani's murder; disturbing facts he could now only tell him when he saw him in person.