Spider

'Buon giorno, hello, La Casa Strada. I am Maria, how may I help you?'

Howie immediately thought of a couple of ways in which a girl with a voice as sexy as hers could help him, both of which would instantly get him on the path to divorce, so instead he stuck to his main reason for calling. 'Hi there, I'm ringing from America and I'm trying to get hold of Jack King. Could you please put me through to him?'

He felt bad because good old Jack was no doubt enjoying a fine Tuscan morning and now his old buddy Howie was about to turn all that into a ball of elephant crap.

'I am sorry, Signore King he is not here at the moment. Would you like to be speaking with Signora King?'

Given the option, Howie would rather shave his own eyeballs than risk a dressing-down from Nitric Nancy.

'Yeah, put me through please,' he said, wincing while he waited. Man, Nancy had really scorched him a few times in the past. Fact was, she and Howie had never really hit it off. In the early days, he was sure she'd resented how much time he and Jack had spent together. Then at the end, well, even though she'd never said it, he knew she partly blamed him for Jack's breakdown.

'Hello, Howie?' said Nancy, a hint of incredulity in her voice. 'What are you doing calling at this time?'

Hell, that kind of put him on the spot. What could he say now? Well, Nancy, someone's mailed the severed head of the victim of a twenty-year-old murder to your husband and I was just wondering when he could swing by and pick it up? Nope, that didn't seem a runner.

Howie went for a safer option. 'Hi, Nancy, I'm up out of bed raiding the fridge, but I need to speak to Jack, we need to chat about some stuff.'

'What stuff?' said Nancy, quicker than a New Jersey switchblade.

'Just an old case. Some new evidence has kinda cropped up. Any idea when I can get him?'

Nancy knew she was being blanked, knew it as surely as when that female Italian detective refused to tell her why she'd called. And she also knew there was no point asking Jack's old buddy if there was any connection or not.

'Howie, is this going to hurt us? Right now Jack is still on the mend, and, you know, we really could do without any extra stress.' She found herself scratching at her neck, a nervous habit that she thought she had under control. 'Tell me honestly, is this going to set him back?'

Howie needed to drain the last of the beer can before he could answer her. 'Truth is, Nancy, we're going to have to reopen the BRK files, and there's a good chance the press are going to be dragging up lots of old stuff on Jack.'

'Oh my God!'

'I'm real sorry,' said Howie, hearing her catching her breath on the other end of the line. 'Are you okay?'

She breathed out hard. 'No, I'm not, Howie. I'm really not okay.'

The good feeling that the beer and chicken had given him vanished. Howie knew it'd take more than a food-high to stop him feeling bad about this one. 'Nancy, can you at least see that it's best that I talk to Jack first? Best that I fill him in before he starts catching things on the news or in the papers?'

'Howie, I don't know. I can't even think straight at the moment. Jack is in Florence, I'll have him call you when he gets back.'

'Thanks,' said Howie, pushing the plate of chicken away.

'Sure,' said Nancy, her voice tinged with bitterness. 'By the way, Carrie's right – you are a fat selfish pig who thinks more about the FBI than about anything that should really matter to you.'

The line was dead before Howie could even think of a reply. It was just gone four a.m. but there was only one thing to do now, and that was open another can of beer.

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.