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  Franco was poor and he was ill, but he wasn’t stupid. He understood much of what the doctors had told him. Werner Syndrome was a rare and cruel disorder caused by missing proteins and damaged genes. It made him look old – very old – long before he should. It was responsible for him being smaller than most kids at school, but it hadn’t really kicked in and done its terrible damage until he’d reached puberty. Then it had turned his body to Plasticine. Reshaped him in its own terrible way. His hair was already greying and thinning. His hands were becoming clawlike and mottled. The sickness would only get worse with age and would soon make him vulnerable to a range of cancers, heart disease and diabetes. Doctors wanted to carry out regular checks and tests on him, but he shunned them. The worse it got, the less care he took of himself. The more he needed to stay warm and infection free, the more he desired to wander in the freezing rain.

  Tonight the downpour was so cold it made his face burn. Through the gap in the curtain of a caravan that people had just moved into, he saw the most beautiful woman in the world. Her hair was damp from the shower and she wore a white towelling robe. Franco slid back and felt his heart pound. From inside the van he heard someone shout her name. ‘Rosa. Rosa, your dinner is ready.’

  Rosa.

  Franco spoke her name in the dark, cold wetness of the night. Rosa. His breath smoked white in the light from her window. Rosa. Even saying her name excited him.

  His thoughts ran wild.

  Rosa.

  He knew exactly what he wanted to do to her. And he could barely wait for the chance to do it.

  28

  Grand Hotel Parker’s, Napoli

  Jack kicked off his shoes and slumped on to the hotel bed. It needed new springs or a better base. He’d barely slept last night. Before he’d left New York he’d filled Howie in on Creed and why he was heading to Naples. As he dialled his number he hoped his old partner wasn’t too juiced to remember.

  ‘Hi there, H. You sober?’

  Howie Baumguard croaked a laugh back down the line. ‘You joking? I left sober ’bout the same time you left charm school.’

  Jack checked his watch, it would be just after seven p.m. in New York. ‘What wild evening are you cranking up for yourself?’

  ‘A couple of trays of Chinese slop. A few Buds. And I’m twenty minutes into Apocalypse Now.’

  ‘Terrific. “I love the smell of Napalm in the morning.”’

  ‘“Smells like victory,”’ returned Howie.

  ‘Man, that’s a grim movie.’

  ‘Grim, but brilliant. You wait two friggin’ hours for Marlon Brando to come on screen and, when the thing’s over, all you can remember is him.’

  Jack recalled the classic Coppola epic and Brando’s chilling Colonel Kurtz. ‘Wouldn’t you be better with something lighter?’

  ‘Only other thing I’ve got is The Grinch Who Stole Christmas,’ said the big guy. ‘My son left it on top of the TV after his last sleepover.’

  ‘You up to helping me with something?’

  ‘Sure, what d’you want?’

  ‘Remember the creepy Italian guy I met at the conference – Luciano Creed?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘He stayed at the Lester. You know the place?’

  ‘Yeah, I know it. Not exactly Trump Towers.’ Howie found a pen down the side of the settee and used the cardboard lid from the Chinese food tray to write on.

  ‘And that’s a bad thing?’ Jack would rather sleep on the street than at Trump. ‘Would you take a ride out there and have a look around the nearby bars, clubs, check out the hotel again? See if he had any friends, visitors, such like while he was there?’

  ‘You mean friends that get paid by the hour and never stay for coffee?’

  ‘Yep, those are the ones I mean.’

  ‘Okay. What’s he look like?’

  ‘Shit. He looks like shit. Small, thin, bony, five-five maybe, a hundred and ten to a hundred and twenty pounds, really dark beard line –’

  ‘Designer stubble?’

  ‘No, more Bluto black. Like this guy could never shave clean. I’ve got a picture from the cops over here; I’ll email it to you.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll hit the street tomorrow. That okay?’

  ‘That’s great.’ Jack’s voice grew serious. ‘Howie, I need a break here. Girls have been going missing. Maybe even getting murdered. It would be good if you gave up the sauce – good for you too.’

  His friend let out an exasperated sigh, the kind he used to reserve for his nagging wife – now his nagging ex-wife. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t screw up on you. My fat ass will be on the case and will do good.’

  29

  Secondigliano, Napoli

  Luciano Creed stood by a window in a slum apartment he’d rented in an area that the locals call Terzo Mondo, the Third World. It bore no relation to the false address he’d listed at the Lester in New York. For the moment he wanted to stay away from the cops. Soon he’d be ready to show himself again. But not yet.

  His mind drifted as he watched neighbours in the street below. They were all dressed in their best clothes, heading off to church for a wedding.

  Secondigliano was a poor, drug-infested neighbour-hood in a north-eastern suburb where unemployment and crime were high and cops never came unless their sirens were wailing, their guns cocked and they had a big supply of body bags. This was a neighbour-hood where drive-by shootings weren’t uncommon. Where any attempted arrest could result in officers facing a mob of hundreds of violent protesters. Put simply, for many cops, this area was out of bounds. A strict no-go zone. Creed had grown up here. He knew its alleyways and escape routes better than any cops, even the carabinieri. Naples was an obligatory posting for most of the military, a rust-belt city that they were sent to for a year or two while they clawed their way up the promotional ladder towards the big jobs back in Rome as Colonello, Generale or even Comandante Generale.

  Years back he’d dreamed of being a law enforcement officer, using his brain and his energy to catch the bad guys. Now, well, now things were different. Very different.

  Loud cheering and clapping in the street broke his thoughts. The bride appeared from the neighbouring building. Confetti blew in the chilled air. Voices shouted their best wishes. Kisses on her cheeks. A considerate friend gathering the train of her long white dress. A proud father waiting in the back of a rented black Bentley, ready to give away the apple of his eye. Creed turned his back on the merriment. On the floor of the rented apartment, beneath an unshaded light bulb dangling from an exposed flex, lay his collection. Photographs of all the missing women, old photocopies of police reports dating back years, a map of the Bay of Naples marked with the places where they’d lived and small faded clippings from local newspapers reporting their disappearances. None of them had even warranted more than a paragraph in the local paper, let alone made the headlines. He thought long and hard about the women, their murders and what the police were now doing.

  Nothing.

  That’s what they’re doing. Nothing.

  And that big-shot Jack King had no idea what he was up against.

  No idea at all.

  Well, he’d teach him. Teach him and the carabinieri not to ignore him. He’d give them a lesson they’d never forget.

  30

  New York City

  Howie Baumguard woke with a hangover the size of Grand Central Station. It was so big he reckoned it could be seen from space. But despite the pain, he hit the streets. All day he pressed flesh and pounded pavements. He re-interviewed the Polish receptionist who had taken a shine to Jack. He bought coffee for beat cops who worked the neighbourhood. He shook up informants who infested the local strip joints and pick-up bars.

  By mid-afternoon he wasn’t only clear-headed, he was enjoying himself. Back to your roots, Big H, this is what you do best. And he wasn’t just bragging, he really was good at it. Somehow people opened up more to fat guys with a sense of humour. It was something he’d learned long ago and he’d regularly
shared these words of wisdom with every FBI medic that had tried to get him to diet.

  As the afternoon clouds darkened, he was satisfied that he had enough scraps of information to start to put together a good picture of Luciano Creed.

  Then things took a turn for the worse.

  Three blocks from home he cut through a back alley to save time. And that’s where it all went wrong. He stumbled straight into a good old-fashioned New York mugging.

  Two black teenagers in hooded sweats had cornered a tall woman with short, spiky blonde hair. One was barking orders and holding what looked like a gun. Howie knew the hoodies had at least theft on their minds. If they felt lucky, then they might just roll the dice and go for rape as well.

  The woman was holding a thin cardboard carton, literally hanging on to it for dear life.

  Howie took a deep breath. No longer an FBI agent. No longer the bearer of a badge or a gun. All he had was fifty pounds more weight than both of the punks put together. That, he decided, would have to be his weapon of choice.

  ‘Give it up, an’ your fuckin’ money!’ screamed the bigger perp. ‘Fucking bitch. Give it me, lady, or I’ll put a fucking cap in your shitty white head!’

  Howie slid along the shadows. Stuck to the cover of some overflowing dumpsters. He could tell the muggers were as jittery as hell, no doubt crackheads desperate for their next score. ‘Jus’ fuckin’ whip the bitch and get her money!’ shouted the smaller one.

  Howie was still pinning down a game plan when his cellphone rang.

  The hoodies’ heads cranked towards him.

  He had no choice but to break cover. Rush them now or get shot at.

  Howie found he had all the speed of a rhino with a hernia. But, fortunately, about the same weight and strength.

  ‘Fuuuuck! ’ was all the guy with the gun could manage as Howie crashed him into a brick wall, taking down his buddy at the same time. He heard the gun scatter across the ground and took the chance to pound a meaty fist into the face of the youth trapped beneath him.

  Somehow the kid wriggled free and was damned well upright while Howie was still struggling to get up off all fours.

  Howie knew a blow was coming but couldn’t stop it.

  A boot smashed into his face. A screen of eggshell-white light slammed down behind his eyes. More blows battered his body.

  ‘Get the fuck outta here!’ shouted one of the hoodies. Their feet slapped off into the distance.

  The big guy lurched to his feet. Vision blurry, heart trying to bust through his chest. He rocked unsteadily. Caught half a glimpse of the woman – running safely the other way down the alley.

  Then it hit him.

  Sharp and hot. A numb pain that caused him to cramp before it exploded into white-hot agony.

  Howie staggered. Put a hand on a wall to stop himself passing out. Reached back to find the source of the pain.

  He’d been stabbed.

  The smaller punk, the little bastard without the gun, had stabbed him in the ass. And the blade was still there. This was both good and bad. Bad because someone was going to have to pick the metal out of his butt, and that sounded a long way from fun. Good because he guessed the wound was so deep that if the knife had come out, then he might already be bleeding to death.

  I mean, Howie asked himself, how the fuck can you put a tourniquet on your own ass? In fact, how can anyone put a tourniquet on an ass?

  He steadied himself against the alley wall. Realized he was barely able to move, let alone walk. He had to think his way out of the jam.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked a woman’s voice.

  Howie peered to his side. It was the dame with the big package. She’d obviously seen her attackers hightail it and come back to help.

  ‘Sure,’ he grunted through clenched teeth, ‘apart from this blade in my butt, I’ve never been better.’

  The woman looked around, and then disappeared behind him.

  ‘No! Don’t touch it! For fuck’s sake, don’t lay a finger on that friggin’ knife.’ And to make sure, he awkwardly turned himself away from her.

  ‘You don’t want me to pull it out?’

  ‘No, no! I most definitely do not want you to pull it out.’

  ‘Okay, okay!’ she sounded panicky.

  Howie could see the shock of the attack starting to roll in on her. ‘Take it easy, lady. They’re gone. Everything’s fine. But I’m gonna need your help now. Okay?’

  ‘Christ!’ she spluttered. ‘They could have killed us. I mean, they had a gun and I don’t know if it was real but it sure looked real and I never even saw the knife, but God, that’s real, I mean, you… they’ve stuck a knife in you… and you’re bleeding, and…’

  ‘Yeah, lady, I’m bleeding – like a stuck pig,’ said Howie, cutting her off, ‘and you think we might be able to do something about that? Like maybe call an ambulance and get a paramedic here?’

  ‘Yes, oh yes. God, I’m sorry. That must hurt, doesn’t it?’ She glanced to her left and right. ‘Oh my, oh no! They’ve taken my purse! My phone, my cell was in that bag. With my keys, my house keys and things, personal stuff and pictures, and…’

  ‘Whoah!’ shouted Howie. ‘Use my phone and ring a goddamn ambulance, and please be quick!’ He painfully produced his cell from his jacket.

  ‘They could have killed me. They could have raped me, or anything.’

  ‘Lady, the phone!’ Howie held it out to her, then steadied himself against the wall again.

  The woman looked as though she was in a trance. She extended her hand in slow motion and took the phone. She flipped it open and stared at the keypad, like she’d never used one before.

  And then, just as Howie thought she was about to punch in 911 – she fainted.

  31

  Campeggio Castellani, Pompeii

  Rosa Novello.

  Franco had seen her full name written down in his grandfather’s Visitors Book. He kept suggesting they get a computer but he was told they were too expensive. A computer would be a relief for Franco. He’d had a stolen laptop for a while, bought it cheap from a Romanian gypsy staying on the camp. It had an aircard and pre-paid Internet access. But the real owner had cancelled the subscription after a few days and Franco had thrown it away in case the police traced it and caught him. For the brief time he’d used it, it had been a window on to the wider world. He’d looked in detail at his own disease, without the staring faces and probing lights of doctors around him. And he’d also tentatively explored the cyber underbelly of sex sites and chat rooms.

  Rosa emerged from her caravan carrying a black sack of garbage. It was full and sharp corners of hidden trash were stretching it to bursting point. He wanted to go over and offer to carry it for her. That’s what would happen in the films. That’s how the hero would break the ice and get to know the girl of his dreams. Only real life wasn’t like that. In real life she’d look at him and be scared. The shock would show in her eyes and she might even drop the whole sack. That’s what others had done.

  Rosa wore blue jeans and a red jumper. They didn’t meet in the middle and her tummy showed. It stuck out like the top of a muffin, peeping above the rim of its greaseproof paper. He longed to touch her. Press his cheek against her muffin top. Smell it. Lick it.

  The garbage bin was full so she dropped the sack alongside it and sashayed away. Her tight jeans showed her firm legs and what looked like the top of some tattoo on her back. Franco wondered what it was. Whether it stretched down into the crack of her bottom. What it would be like to run a finger over.

  He was still thinking about the tattoo as he picked up her sack of trash and took it away. Precious treasure. He couldn’t wait to be alone with it. To be able to secretly touch parts of Rosa’s life.

  32

  Ristorante di Rossopomodoro, Napoli

  Lunch was a first for the three eleven-year-old street kids. Before today, none of the boy soldiers had ever eaten in a restaurant.

  The three friends forked pasta and meatb
alls into their mouths, barely pausing to gasp for air. They looked at the parents and kids around them, laughing and chatting. They couldn’t believe that people lived like this. Happy, full, fat. Stealing from bins at the back of the kitchens was the closest to restaurant food they’d ever been. Opposite them were their heroes, Alberto Donatello and Romano Ivetta. The Camorristi were not eating; they were sipping espresso and talking in hushed tones. Soon the kids would be back on the streets, running the rounds, delivering their small plastic packs of heroin and cocaine. They got no pay for their labour, just food, the hint that one day they could have a future within the System and the most valuable thing of all, respect from their peers.

  ‘You want some wine? I think maybe I’m gonna take a glass of red.’ Donatello poured himself some. He was twenty-seven and looked like a young Al Pacino with a beard.

  ‘Not me.’ Ivetta put his palm over his glass. ‘I think I’ll go to the gym.’ He rolled up the sleeve of his black T-shirt and a tattooed male angel in chains grew in stature as he ostentatiously flexed his biceps. On the opposite arm was one of St Michael slaying a demon. Ivetta’s body bore another twenty, all forms of angels and demons, ink-on-skin illustrations of his own mental struggles.

  It had been a good morning. The boys had done well. Their deliveries had grossed a cool three thousand euros. Not a fortune, but the day was only half done and the kids were only one group of the six that Donatello and Ivetta ran. The boys pulled in an average of 5k per day per gang – 30k in total – and they worked six days a week. All in all, it added up to a chunky 180k a week, just short of three-quarters of a million per month. And, if the two Camorristi pushed the kids a little, they should gross almost ten mill for the year.