Viper

55

Parco Nazionale del Vesuvio Pale pink sunlight streamed through the rain clouds, making patches of broken ground in the National Park look like rare-cooked steak. On the safe side of the crime-scene tape, Sylvia Tomms slouched against the broad trunk of an evergreen and wondered how many women's bodies had been buried in the earth that her team was now digging and sifting.

Necropolis.

Sorrentino's word rolled noisily over her thoughts, like a primed hand grenade.

Inside the cordoned-off search area, young carabinieri soldiers ignored the rain and dug hard volcanic earth. Each crack of a shovel made Sylvia wonder whether they'd hit centuries-old lava, or recently buried bone.

'Caffe! ' announced Pietro, handing over a plastic cup that was so thin Sylvia couldn't hold it.

'Che caldo, that's hot!' She hurriedly put it down, at the foot of the tree.

'It is the boiling water that makes it like that,' joked her lieutenant.

Sylvia was too tired to laugh. Every volt of her brain power, every watt of her energy, was spent on the investigation. 'You check with the overnight team? Any news? Any sign of Creed?'

'I checked. Nothing. I have two details canvassing houses near where Jack and I saw him pull off the autostrada. Local patrols are still searching for the car. It's his own, not stolen.'

'Good. I want this man sitting in a cell – as soon as possible.' Her eyes scanned the scarred, rugged parkland, settling on the soldiers as they dug for bones. 'How many, Pietro? How many bodies do you think might be out here?'

The big Italian gazed over the fluttering tape. 'Depends. Maybe we'll find only one more.'

What an optimist! Only one more? Somehow Sylvia didn't think so.

Necropolis.

She retrieved her coffee from the foot of the tree and warmed her hands around the cup.

A serial killer's secret graveyard.

The rain stopped and the sun's warmth created an eerie mist around the soldiers as they dug. A much larger area had now been measured out in a grid. One team was still deployed on the inner squares of the old excavation zone – the area that had yielded the remains of Francesca Di Lauro. Another group worked intensely on the neighbouring site – the one that, according to Sorrentino, had produced the second victim. Four other groups, one for each point of the compass, dug outwards into new ground. It was hit and miss whether they would find anything. Sylvia hoped they wouldn't.

Sorrentino was back in the thick of the action, his hands darting this way and that, as expressive as an orchestra conductor. His staff bobbed from dig to dig and checked when the topsoil had been removed and lower layers of earth had been sieved. Meanwhile, a pace back from them all, a crime-scene photographer alternated between snapping away with a digital camera and filming video footage with a hand-held recorder. It was hard, laborious work, and it had to be done meticulously.

'Do you think we'll read about all this in the newspapers tomorrow?' asked Pietro.

Sylvia threw the dregs of her coffee on the ground. 'I hope not.' She crumpled the empty plastic coffee cup and shoved it in the pocket of her blue wool coat. 'I really hope Sorrentino now understands that this kind of exercise is best done without the public knowing.' Her thoughts turned to the families of the missing women. She knew they'd be reading every column inch of every paper, praying every day for news that would end their doubts and suffering.

The sun was soon high enough to show the brooding outline of Vesuvius and to start casting shadows on the hard ground near where the teams toiled. Armed carabinieri ringed the excavation area and brusquely turned away a few early morning dog walkers and an old, breathless jogger. Sylvia had seen enough. 'Come on, let's go back to the office. This place has all the atmosphere of a funeral. We can't do anything more here.'

Pietro nodded and fell in behind her. She was right, the depressive solemnity of the dig was tangible, no one even talked as they dug.

And amid the silence, no one noticed him.

Watching.

Silently cursing.

Damning them all for the sacrilege they were carrying out on his hallowed ground.

His eyes bored into Sylvia. She was nothing much. He was good at first impressions. Not a threat. Not nearly intelligent enough to worry him.

His gaze slipped across to Sorrentino.

The anthropologist's face was easy to recognize. It was plastered all over the press. Il Grande Leone. Now he could be a threat. A serious one.

Why was he here again? What had he found now?

Another victim. That would be it. That would explain all the activity.

The so-called genius was about to make more discoveries. He was pointing and people were running. He was creating excitement. Not the kind of excitement that was wanted. Not the kind that was helpful.

Kill him and you stop the inquiry in its tracks. Slow them down. Screw them up. Burn them out.

Sylvia caught his eye again as she walked back to her car.

Come to think of it, there was something about her. Not drop-dead beautiful – he liked that phrase, drop-dead – but she had a certain style. A certain way about her. She was – he struggled to describe her – challenging.

Yes, that's it. She was challenging. Well, he was always up for a challenge.

Sylvia Tomms walked out of his view, but not out of his mind.

She'd look good naked. The stupid policewoman heading the inquiry would look great dressed in flames.

But first, there was some lion-taming to be done.