Viper

THREE
39

Santa Lucia, Napoli The early morning sun burned gold on the balconies of the rich and famous along the Santa Lucia seafront. In a fit of pique, Bernardo Sorrentino slammed his morning newspaper on to the glass breakfast table. The exclusive he'd given Il Giornale di Napoli hadn't even made the front page. The days when murder had been a forty-eight-point bold-font lead in Naples were long gone. Worse than that, the photograph they'd used on page sixteen was terrible. He was bending in undergrowth and looked like he had a double chin and a fat stomach. What was the point of a hundred sit-ups a day, if the media made a fool of you like this?

He paced uncomfortably by the apartment window and stared east across the bay. Dark rain clouds gathered in the distance like a flotilla of grey ships readying themselves for battle with the weak winter sun. There would be only one winner. He returned to his paper and read the story again. Six paragraphs, that was all he'd got. And he suspected that if Francesca Di Lauro hadn't been pregnant then he might not have got any at all. Merda! He poured himself orange juice while his ego feasted on the few words that praised him – The scientific expert had reconstructed skull fragments to make up Francesca's lower jaw and enable identification from dental records. Sorrentino's painstaking labours are making him a law enforcement legend.

Legend. He liked that bit. Okay, so these days murder was no longer big news, but Il Grande Leone was a legend and still warranted newsprint. He was starting to feel much better when his gold-plated cellphone rang – a ringtone of music that he'd personally composed. He looked at the caller display and grimaced. 'Buon giorno, Capitano. I have been trying to call you.'

On the other end, Sylvia Tomms erupted. Her language would have shamed a Neapolitan docker.

Sorrentino protested the best he could. 'Sylvia, it wasn't me! It was a leak. Truly, a dreadful leak.'

Sylvia's swearing continued to scorch the phone and Sorrentino had to wait for the abuse to die down before adding, 'My assistant Ruben was responsible for it. I have fired him. He's cleared out his desk and gone back to his precious Catalan friends in Barcelona. Treacherous snake! I am so angry and so embarrassed. I tried to call you as soon as I found out but I was told you were unavailable. And as you know, you refused to give me your private cellphone number when I asked for it.'

Sylvia Tomms felt furious and sickened. His comment about her private number reminded her of the awful day when Sorrentino had hit on her. He'd told her how exciting she would find it to spend an evening – and maybe a night – with him. The memory stoked her anger and she imagined what a good punchbag he'd make if only she were near him and had a spare half-hour to let off steam.

'I really am very sorry about this leak, and I do hope it doesn't personally cause you too much trouble.' Sorrentino made little effort to sound sincere.

Finally she hung up on him and he allowed himself a smile. He was happy there had been no need to tell her what else he'd discovered. What vital information he'd held back from the press, and from her. Something far more significant than Francesca being pregnant. Something that would teach her not to treat him as though he weren't good enough for her. Something that might even make the front page.