'Hi there. I'm looking for Mrs King. Any idea where I might find her?'
Giuseppe stopped mopping and shrugged. Then, as an afterthought, he said, 'Signora King, she may be in the garden with her son.'
'Okay, thanks,' said McLeod. 'Can I go that way?' he added, pointing at the kitchen door that led into the private gardens.
Giuseppe moved protectively in front of it, holding the mop like a weapon. 'No, not that way, I'm sorry. That's private. Wait in reception and I will tell Mrs King you want her.'
McLeod glared at him. God damn it, minus ten was too generous for this place. If he had his way, he'd have the whole friggin' place shut down.
81
San Quirico D'Orcia, Tuscany Spider manhandles his prey deeper into the darkness.
He'd spent days stalking the King woman and her child, following them at a safe distance, noticing and timing their movements, studying the way the free-spirited child wandered off from the over-busy mother who was constantly torn between attending to her business and carrying out her maternal duties.
Spider followed their car in the old Fiat motor-home he'd bought for the purposes of abducting, killing and then dismembering the young woman he'd targeted in Livorno. The motor-home meant he did not have to rent villas or check into hotels. It gave him untraceable freedom and the opportunity to spend time with his victims. The girl in Livorno had been killed in there. He smiled as he remembered how well that little escapade had gone. The surprising fun that had come with what was only ever going to be a functional kill. It had been early evening and he'd been parked up on a quiet country lane, doing a recce of the area when, through his rear-view mirror, he had seen her walking, red-faced from jogging, heading towards the back of the van. He was excited by how beautiful she looked.
Just your type. Dark hair, slight build, nice shape. Mother would approve.
He got out, taking a road atlas with him. He could see that there was no one around, no prying eyes to save her. He waved the road atlas and explained that he and his wife were lost, could she show him on the map where they were. He unlocked the back door of the motor-home to get some light, and handed her the atlas. As she traced a finger over the page, he grabbed her from behind, a well chloroformed handkerchief stopping her struggle as he bundled her into the van.
He'd planned to do the same with the King woman, but she was not so foolish. She was never alone. Except at night.
For the past few days, as Nancy and Zack had slept in their beds, Spider had been less than a hundred metres away from them, quietly preparing the underground area in their garden for what he was about to do. Here in the damp, stinking darkness he's hidden the tools of his trade: some specially customized electronics, several lengths of rope, thick coils of heavy-duty tape, a selection of razor-sharp knives, a sixteen-inch bone saw and a gun. The firearm came from Rome's Porta Portese. What the locals call mercato delle pulci. It has more than four thousand stalls, most of them trading illegally. It's not only Europe's biggest flea market, it's one of the continent's best-known one-stop shops for anything from counterfeit clothing to drugs and guns.
Spider shines his flashlight and can see that the Lidocaine is starting to act on King's wife. Her legs are beginning to buckle beneath her. Soon, the anaesthetic will rob her of the ability to move, let alone walk. He pushes her and the child on, deeper into the blackness of the catacomb, closer to their fate.
82
Marine Park, Brooklyn, New York Jack stood impatiently in Yoana Grinsberg's small kitchen, while she insisted on boiling the kettle again.
'How can I help?' she said, excited by the idea of being involved with the FBI. Jack was praying she was going to give him the right answers to his questions and give them to him quickly. 'Do you know the man across the road? The guy in number fifteen?'
'Can't say I do. I've seen him from time to time. Never spoke to him once, though.'
'How long has he been living around here?' asked Jack, sensing he had to play a patient game with the old lady.
Yoana frowned so deeply that her face became completely corrugated with wrinkles. 'Fifteen, maybe twenty years. Fancy that. All that time and we've never so much as exchanged the time of day.'
The pieces were coming together. Jack fished a little further. 'Does he drive a yellow car, a four-door Japanese model, probably about three to four years old?'
Yoana shook her head. 'No, not him, that wouldn't be his car.'
'You sure?'
'I know my cars,' said Yoana, smiling as memories flooded back. 'Cars have fascinated me since I was a child. My husband once had a Buick. An Oldsmobile; beautiful it was. I think the stupid company has stopped making them these days.'
Jack's heart sank. Still, she was quite old and could be wrong. 'You really are sure?' he persisted.
'Positive,' said Yoana. 'The man across the road has a Hyundai, but that's South Korean not Japanese. And anyway it's white not yellow. I don't know of any Japanese cars around here. Mr Cohen had one…'
Jack cut her off. 'I'm sorry to stop you. But it might be our mistake. It is a Hyundai that we're looking for. Do you know exactly what type he has?'
Yoana didn't hesitate. 'Hyundai Accent SE. Nothing special, not even alloy wheels. I always thought that was a bit odd.'
'Why?' asked Jack gently. 'What was odd?'
'Well,' began Yoana hesitantly. 'Well, like I just said, I don't know his name, he never seems to be around and I've never met him, but he's always got personalized plates on his car. I used to think he was a car dealer of some sort, but then I noticed that sometimes he even changed the plates before he changed the cars.'
Jack felt a surge of excitement. His phone rang again, but he ignored it once more. Whoever it was, whatever they wanted, it couldn't be as important as this. 'Yoana, you don't know what plate he currently has, do you?'
She smiled. She liked helping the FBI, they asked such easy questions. 'Don't be silly. Sure I do. It's B – 898989.'
83
San Quirico D'Orcia, Tuscany The entrance floor of the catacomb is covered in soft soil but, after you walk about twenty feet through the narrow gap, the surface underfoot changes into hard rock, cinder and compacted earth. Spider shines his flashlight up the walls. They are damp and green from an underwater stream that dribbles down from the hillside above them. He is searching for the point where the narrow route dog-legs left and opens up into a much wider, high-ceilinged chamber dominated by a raised marble tomb. The air gradually loses its last vestiges of freshness, as they move deeper into the sterile darkness where nothing grows. Spider feels perfectly at home amid the dank smell of infertile land. The smell of death.
He pushes the woman and child to the back of the catacomb and forces them to sit with their backs to the tomb, which contains the remains of a soldier and his family from Medici times.
Little Zack, his hands still bound in front of him, crawls over to his mother and puts his head on her knees, desperate for protection and reassurance. Nancy's wrists are still tied viciously tight behind her back, but her real pain comes from being unable to comfort or touch her son. She bends her body over the top of him and rubs her face against his back, like an animal nuzzling her injured young.
Spider clicks his laptop off standby. It hums into life and instantly locks in on the hotel's wi-fihot spot, located almost directly above his head. He glides through Webmail and logs on to his own intranet system.
As the computer monitor fills with an overhead camera shot of Lu Zagalsky's body, he sees her face and shivers with anticipation. Not long now. Soon all that waiting will be deliciously rewarded. A tingle spreads from his neck, down the sweat forming on his spine.