Viper

60

Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna Within seconds of seeing Antonio Castellani being interviewed in the holding cell, Jack knew he had nothing to do with the triple murder on his land. The old man's body language showed he was completely confused by the whole affair. His brow was furrowed, his eyes startled, but there was no indicator of guilt, only genuine bewilderment.

Sylvia was gentle but firm with him. First she explored his relationship with his grandchildren and the absence of their parents. Then she moved on to his business and the kind of activities that happened at the site. From the viewing window in the adjoining room Jack listened to the man's strange Neapolitan dialect. It was nothing like the Italian he'd learned. What was clear, though, was how arthritis had stiffened the old guy's joints, how old age had bent his spine and slowed his responses. Antonio Castellani would have trouble swatting a fly in his filthy caravan, let alone hunting and killing humans.

On the other side of the viewing room, Pietro Raimondi was in another interview area using completely different tactics on Paolo Falconi. He was leaning half across the thin grey table that separated them; his broad neck bulged with bloated veins and stretched muscles, his eyes piercing and provocative. 'Don't mess with us, Paolo. You know something about what went down, now tell us.'

'I told you. I don't know a thing.'

'Rosa Novello. You had the hots for her, right? You've been sniffing around her like a big bad street dog just waiting for the chance to grind up against her leg.'

Paolo shifted in his chair. 'No!'

'No?'

'Yes – no! How many times do I have to tell you? I don't even know who you're fucking talking about.'

'Hey, watch your filthy little mouth.'

Paolo backed up in his seat and looked away from the big lieutenant. He was staring straight off into space, right at Jack, but couldn't see him through the one-way glass.

The profiler studied him. Paolo was stressed to the hilt, anxious, aggressive and panicky under pressure. But was he really clever enough, mature enough and controlled enough to carry out a triple murder? Not on his own. Certainly not on his own. Did he have a killer instinct? They were about to find out.

Pietro undid his pistol from its holster and slid it across the table. 'Pick it up. Cock it. Aim it at me.'

'What?'

'You heard me. Do it! Now!'

Paolo fumbled with the Beretta. He picked it up and swapped it between hands. He ignored the safety and raised it. Pointed it, not at Pietro – but off into space, well wide of his left shoulder. His finger wasn't even inside the guard.

Jack had seen enough. The stunt with the gun – unloaded, of course – had been his idea. He could see that Paolo had no affinity with the weapon. He was cautious, clumsy and almost scared when he handled it. The real killer would be more than comfortable with a firearm. Even if he'd tried to disguise his familiarity with a gun, there would have been telltale traits in the lifting, levelling, sighting and gripping. Even the putting down of the weapon would have betrayed him.

Pietro holstered his gun and stared into Paolo's eyes. It was a look of controlled violence. A visual threat that stuck needles in the brain of anyone on the receiving end. 'A pair of girl's panties were found in your caravan. What were you doing with them?'

'I don't know what you mean.'

'You don't know what panties are?'

'Yes, of course I do. But I don't know about any in my van.'

'Well, they were found in there. Nice yellow ones, G-string type. You know, the type that Rosa would have looked really sexy in.'

Paolo looked angry. 'I told you – I don't know any Rosa and I don't know anything about her underwear!'

Pietro slammed a hand on the table and Paolo jumped back. 'Let me jog your memory. Rosa is the dead girl we found not far from your van. She's the pretty kid who was staying at your camp and whose brains were blown all over the inside of a car. The girl who, according to her mother, owned yellow panties, just like the ones we found in your caravan. So, I think you do know Rosa. And I think you'd better start talking to me now, before I charge you with her murder.'

Jack could see sweat rolling down Paolo's cheek. Seconds passed while Pietro's words sank in. Paolo rubbed away the salty drizzle from his forehead. 'Franco, my cousin. I think he must have had the panties.'

'Explain.'

Paolo sweated some more. Finally he gave up what he was holding back, 'I've seen him with women's underwear before.'

Pietro read his face – it was full of secrets. 'What else, Paolo? You're not telling me everything. What else about Franco?'

Paolo sucked in air. All the pressure in the world seemed to be on him. 'Look, he's my best friend. Franco and I are like brothers. I'm not saying anything else.'

'As you like. But then you both end up in jail. We will find him, Paolo. It's only a matter of time. You know that, don't you?'

Paolo looked away. Stared at the wall. Stared at his hands on the table. Looked anywhere in the room except into the face of the cop who looked like he wanted to tear his head off.

'Paolo, look at me. Pay attention. This is for your own good.'

He turned his head slowly towards the big policeman. Did his best to stare him down.

'From what I know, your cousin's not well. He's sick and he's in trouble. Unless you tell me what you're holding back, things are only going to get worse for him – and for you.'

Paolo held his silence. Looked into the dark-brown eyes that were boring into him.

'Paolo!' Pietro slammed his hand on the desk again. 'You want us to make a mistake? To chase after him and shoot him down in an alleyway? You want to risk all that?'

Paolo swallowed. Looked around. Fought the doubt in his mind. 'He's got a gun. My grandfather lets him use one of his guns to kill rats on the site. I looked yesterday, and it's missing.'