Viper

Valsi smiled. 'The only sirens I've ever heard were from the polizia.'

Don Fredo ignored him. 'There is a hotel near Positano that is special to me. It is where my wedding reception was held, many, many years ago.' He paused and made the sign of the cross in memory of his wife Loretta who'd passed eight years back. 'Tonight it will hold another reception. In fact, it will hold two. If I recall correctly, you were taken from us the night before your son's first birthday.'

'That's correct.'

The Don nodded. 'Quite. So, tonight, we will start with Enzo's birthday party. One big one to make up for all the ones you missed. I have jugglers, clowns, acrobats; everything needed to light up his life.'

'I'm sure he will love them. That is very kind, very generous of you.'

Don Fredo took another pull on the Havana and looked at his son-in-law through the smoke. 'And then, when Enzo has been put to bed by Gina, we will be joined by members of our other Family and we will have your reception, a very special "welcome home" party.'

'Thank you, Don Fredo.' Valsi sounded distant as he contemplated for a moment what life would be like again with his wife. He'd forbidden Gina to visit him in prison and knew things were going to be horribly strained as they started over.

The Don had smoked only a fraction of the cigar but he was already finished with it. As a teenager, he'd struggled to break into the tobacco-smuggling racket rooted in the port of Naples. Fifty years later he had the lion's share and could afford to be wasteful. He pushed the Havana through the gap, glided the window shut and turned to Valsi. 'Now, there is something else, Bruno. Something a little more serious that I have to discuss with you.'

Valsi felt a shiver slide down his spine.

4

Carnegie Hall, New York City Jack escaped a pack of flesh-pressing professionals who swamped the stage following his speech. He headed out of the auditorium and searched for a washroom.

A hand touched his shoulder. 'Can I please speak with you a minute, Mr King?' The request came from the thin, pale-faced man that Jack had spotted on the front row. Standing, the guy was barely five-five. Jack guessed he was in his late twenties, though the dark shadow of his beard made him look older. His frame was almost skeletal. Eyes black and empty. Teeth so poor you could tell straight away that he wasn't American. And there was something else; a bitter-sweet stink of salty body sweat that made Jack wince. 'Sure. Will it take long? Only, I need to find the men's room.'

The man looked over his shoulder. 'It's around here.' The accent was now recognizably Italian. 'Come, I'll show you.' He headed off so quickly that Jack had little option but to follow.

'Thanks,' said the profiler, as his escort held the door and then followed him in. Jack used the urinal, all the time conscious of the strange Italian standing by the washbasins, watching and waiting for him.

Think I've hooked myself some serious creep, he thought as he washed, then dried his hands beneath a blower.

'You want to talk here? 'Cause I thought maybe outside would be better?' Jack motioned outside, his patience already wearing thin.

The Italian got the message. He opened the wash-room door and found a space in the crowded lobby. 'I am Luciano Creed.' He extended his hand.

Jack shook it. It was limp and sweaty. 'Pleased to meet you, Luciano. Now, how can I help?' He fought an impolite urge to wipe his hand on his trousers.

'I work in Naples. I'm a psychology graduate…'

A female theatre worker in tight red jeans walked by. 'I am being, how you say…' he stammered, 'on attachment to the police there.' He was so distracted by the woman that he dried up completely. His head even swivelled as she walked past.

'How can I help?' repeated Jack, irritation now obvious in his voice.

Creed gathered his thoughts. He unzipped an unfashionable blue checked cardigan and pulled out a polythene document case that had been tucked partly down his pants and pressed close to his chest. 'I came all the way to New York to hear your lecture and to show you these.'

Jack grimaced. Work was supposed to end today. One speech and then a chill-out Christmas at Nancy's mom and dad's. That's what he'd promised her.

'I'm sorry, buddy, you're probably about to show the wrong thing to the wrong guy at the wrong time.'

Creed ignored him. 'Five women, all reported as missing. I think there's more to it than that, more than just missing.' He unzipped the case and produced a map of the Bay of Naples. 'I've mapped seventy different aspects of behaviour in the five cases, used Multidimensional Scalogram Analysis to combine variables and connections in the incidents. I'm sure they are connected.'

Jack was well versed in geographical profiling. He'd studied what the Brits and the Germans had been doing with Dragnet and he'd been particularly impressed by the Canadians and their Criminal Geographic Targeting programmes.

'Look at these papers and tell me what you think.' Creed held them out. Jack tried not to look. Finally, he took them and glanced down at the map.

Red dots marked Casavatore, Santa Lucia, Barra, Soccavo and Ponticelli. At first glance there was no obvious connection. Then, like old-fashioned photographic paper developing in a darkroom tray, Jack saw the links. None of the women's homes were very close together; they probably didn't know each other. The marked sites were spread across the outskirts of Naples, and all were served by fast motorway routes spreading north, south, east and west. Their killer – if indeed there was one – most likely met them in Naples itself, offered them lifts home. Maybe he picked them up at nightclubs, perhaps he was a cab driver, or even knew them personally and they felt comfortable enough to travel willingly with him. The A56 beltway bisected the map. He guessed that at night you could travel fast down there and likewise along the A1 and A3 that ran off it. Jack looked up at Creed. 'In non-scientific, non-sociolinguistic language, just tell me straight, why do you think these women aren't just walk-aways?'

Creed stepped forward and talked excitedly. His voice, basted in garlic, was hushed and confidential. 'Five women, all within a twenty-kilometre radius of each other; none prostitutes, all respectable; none showing any previous signs that they wanted to leave the neighbourhood.' He paused and saw the interest register in Jack's eyes. He took a slip of paper with their names written on it and pressed it into the profiler's hand. 'Mr King, none of these women, not a single one of them, took any clothing or personal possessions with them when they disappeared.'

Jack's face showed surprise. He didn't want to get sucked in, but he couldn't help seeing red flags. He looked down at the slip of paper and the list of five names. 'What do the cops in Naples say? If your case is that convincing, then I guess they're all over it?'

'Mr King, every day there are so many murders in Naples that there is no time to look for those who are merely missing.'

Jack made one last effort to block him off. He glanced pointedly at his watch. 'I'm sorry, but I have to go. The weather's really bad and I've gotta make a family dinner.'

Creed snatched the mapped papers and returned them to the plastic wallet. His face was red with anger. 'I have come all the way to New York to ask for your help.' He nodded in the direction of Jack's hand and the list of names. 'Those women are dead. I know they are dead. And if you turn your back on me now, then more will die and both you and I will feel like we have blood on our hands. Of that I promise you.'

5

Hotel Le Sirenuse, Positano Ten thousand euros' worth of fireworks exploded across the Bay of Naples. Italy's hottest boy band sang their own special version of 'Happy Birthday'. Under patio heaters beside a shimmering pool, crowds laughed and cheered as streamers and balloons filled the night sky. But none of this made six-year-old Enzo Valsi crack a smile. Most kids would have thought they were in heaven, but the only moment light came to the youngster's eyes was when a waiter slipped while carrying a tray of white wine. The birthday boy's life, young and tender as it still was, had already been corrupted and bled of its innocence. He lived in a world where the bogeymen were real. So real that it was inevitable that one day they'd turn up, spilling out of cars with smiles on their faces and machine pistols in their hands.