Viper

92

Pompeii Paolo Falconi searched in vain. He'd been as far north as Sant'Anastasia, as far east as San Giovanni a Teduccio, as far west as Monterusciello and as far southeast as Santa Maria la Carita. He'd figured Franco would follow the train lines circling the Parco Nazionale, stealing rides in mail wagons, thieving snacks from shops and scavenging slops from restaurant bins. Everyone he'd spoken to knew his cousin was a wanted man. No one had expressed anything that would remotely pass as sympathy. In a town dependent on tourism, Franco wasn't popular.

Paolo drove the family's old white van back to his grandfather's campsite, fully aware of the carabinieri tail that followed him. The old green Skoda Octavia usually stayed three, maybe four, cars back, but sometimes it got confused or careless and ended up just a car behind. Then he would slow down and let a few vehicles pass to give himself cover. That killed Paolo. Only one type of vehicle in Naples wanted to get overtaken, so he might as well have strapped a flashing neon sign to the roof saying Carabinieri Sorveglianza – Police Surveillance.

Back at the campsite Paolo checked on his grandfather. Antonio was asleep in his chair, looking older and more vulnerable than he'd ever seen him. He kissed his mottled head, grabbed a chunk of bread off a wooden chopping board and went out again.

The Skoda was parked in Via Plinio, cop noses pointing towards the west of the city. Paolo dropped back inside the camp and worked his way east along the fencing for more than a kilometre. He climbed back on to the road just where it met the railway line and Plinio became Viale Giuseppe Mazzini.

The street was wet and dark. Tourists were either gone or were heading back to their hotels for hot pasta and red wine. Paolo felt sure he was unwatched as he zigzagged across Via Colle San Bartolomeo. He skirted round the hospital, Casa di Cura Maria Rosario, then slipped into the southern part of the Pompeii ruins.

Unlike Franco, Paolo hated the place after dark. It gave him the creeps. And tonight, the biting December wind and pale moonlight did nothing to improve things. He'd looked here before in the daylight, but now, after searching everywhere else, he reckoned it had to be worth another try.

An hour later he found Franco. His cousin was sitting alone in the necropolis. Milky light played on the side of his face. Most of his body was hidden in the darkness of night. He was throwing sticks for a wild dog that was so thin you could see every rib in its body.

'Ciao, Franco.' His tone was as casual as if it had been only a few hours since he'd last seen him.

Franco looked up. 'Ciao, Paolo. You got the cops with you?' He sounded croaky. It was the first time he'd spoken in days.

'Like I'm that stupid.'

'You are that stupid.' Franco slowly got to his feet and the two cousins embraced.

'Come stai?'

'Not so good. I've been puking my guts out. I had some water, though, and a little food. But my stomach still hurts like fuck.'

Paolo held his arms. 'Cops had me and Grandpa in. They've got your face plastered up in windows, mail offices, every-fucking-where. They think you killed some people on the site.'

Franco pulled away. 'Well, I didn't. They can think what they want.'

They talked in hushed voices, their backs turned against the wind, their conversation constantly interrupted by the feral dog that wanted its stick throwing. Paolo told the whole story about him and his grandfather being arrested. Franco told everything – well, almost everything – about Rosa Novello, her boyfriend, and what was left of another woman in his fire pit.

The dog returned and Franco wrestled the stick in its mouth, pulling the mutt backwards and forwards. The two cousins chatted for nearly an hour before Paolo left. It had felt like old times. Batting the breeze. Talking about something or nothing. There weren't many people in life either of them felt that easy with.

Paolo climbed back out of the ruins and trudged home, lost in his own thoughts.

If he'd been more attentive, he may have seen the grey-faced man hiding in the slim shadow of a doorway opposite the campsite entrance.

The Don had asked Sal to find leverage with old man Castellani. The veteran Camorrista reckoned he'd done just that.