第 24 页

Olanzapine. The ‘atypical’ – or second-generation – antipsychotic worked well enough. But today, he was struggling. The Black Screams were nipping at the edges of his mind. And the desperation swelled. He had to move, move, move along the stations of his own cross, en route to Harmony.

Shaky-hand, sweaty-skin.

Had he been a drinking man, he would have taken a shot of something.

A ladies’ man, he would have bedded a woman.

But he wasn’t either of those. So he hurried to do the one thing that would keep him from surrendering to the Black Screams: find the next ‘volunteer’ for a new waltz.

So. Move!

Into his backpack he placed the black cloth hood, the thin sealed bag of chloroform, duct tape, extra gloves, the gag. And, of course, his calling card: the cello string wound into a small noose. He pulled off his blue latex gloves, showered, dressed in jeans and a gray T-shirt, socks and his Converse Cons. He pulled on new gloves and peered out the window. No threats. Then he stepped outside, locked the bulky door and collected his old Mercedes 4MATIC from the garage. In three minutes he was on the uneven country road that would eventually lead to the motorway and the city.

Another step to Harmony.

To Heaven.

Religion and music have been forever intertwined. Songs in praise of the Lord. The Levites carrying the Ark of the Covenant on their shoulders amid songs and the music of cymbals, lyres and harps. David appointing four thousand righteous to be the musical voice of the temple he had hoped to build. The Psalms, of course – 150 of them.

Then that trumpet at Jericho.

Stefan had never attended church as an adult but had spent many, many hours of his early adolescence in Sunday school and vacation Bible study, deposited there by a mother who was savvy about finding convenient places to stash the boy for an afternoon here or a late morning there, sometimes a whole weekend. She probably recognized he was about to tumble into madness (bit of that herself) and she might have to keep him home, so Abigail rarely missed a chance to get him tucked away in finger-paint-scented basements or retreat tents before her male friends came a-calling.

The Sunday school days were before the Black Screams had begun in earnest, and young Stefan was as content as a boy might be, sitting among the other oblivious youngsters soaking up a bit of the old theo, dining on cookies and juice, listening to tweedy teachers recite lesson plans with the devotion of, well, the devout.

The words were mostly crap, he knew that even then, but one story stuck: how, when God (for no reason that made sense) sent evil spirits to torment the first king of Israel, Saul, only music could comfort him. Music from David’s harp.

Just like for Stefan, only music or sounds could soothe, and keep the Black Screams away.

Driving carefully, Stefan found his phone and went to his playlist. He now chose not pure sounds from his collection but a melody, ‘Greensleeves,’ not technically a waltz, though written in six-eight time, which was essentially the same. (And, rumor was, written by Henry VIII.)

‘Greensleeves’ … A sorrowful love ballad – a man abandoned by his muse – had a second life: It was borrowed by the church as the Christmas carol ‘What Child Is This?’

The world loved this song, absolutely loved it.

What, he wondered, was there about this particular melody that had persisted for so many years? Why did this configuration of notes, set to this tempo, continue to touch souls after a thousand years? The tune spoke to us like few others. Stefan had thought long about this question, and had come to no conclusion other than that sound was God, and God was sound.

Harmony.

The sad strains of the music looping through his mind, Stefan decided it set the stage for what was about to happen.

Alas, my love, you do me wrong, to cast me off discourteously …

He slowed now and made the turn onto the side road that would take him to the Capodichino Reception Center.

CHAPTER 32

In the situation room beside the Scientific Police’s laboratory on the ground floor of the Questura, Beatrice Renza said in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘I am afraid I have created a fail.’ She was not particularly downcast about this glitch, whatever that might be, but it was hard to tell; she seemed to live in a perpetual state of overcast.

She was speaking to Rhyme, Massimo Rossi, Ercole Benelli and Amelia Sachs.

Rossi asked her a question in Italian.

The forensic analyst said in English, ‘I was able only to make reconstruction of a partial fingerprint from the leafs that you’ – a nod to Ercole – ‘recovered. Yes, it was a print on the leaf, yes, I would assume it was left by our furfante, our villain, the Composer, for his footprint was below the place where you sawed the branch off. But it is merely a very minor portion of a friction ridge. It is not enough for the systems to match.’

‘And the trace?’ Rhyme asked.

‘I have had more successfulness there. From the soil in the tread marks of his Converse shoes I have discovered several grains of soil … infused with carbon dioxide, unburned hydrocarbons, oxides of nitrogen, carbon monoxide, kerosene.’

‘Engine exhaust,’ Rhyme said.

‘Yes, exactly as I had considered.’

‘What do the proportions suggest?’

‘Jet aircraft. Because of the levels of kerosene. Not automobiles or trucks. And in addition, I found this: Fibers that are coerente …’

‘Consistent,’ Ercole said.

‘Sì, with those in napkins or paper towelettes. And in the trace and in the fibers were substances that are consistent with these foods: sour milk, wheat, potatoes, chili powder, turmeric, tomatoes. And fenugreek. You are familiar?’

‘No.’

Ercole said, ‘Ingredients in Northern African cuisine, most frequently.’

Beatrice said, ‘Yes, yes. With those materials, ingredients, possibly it is being bazin, a bread from Liberia or Tunisia.’ She touched her belly and added, ‘I know food well. All types of food I know, I will say.’ No smile, no embarrassment.

She added, ‘Allora, I called restaurants in the area of his staking-out, fifteen kilometers around, a circle, from D’Abruzzo, and they are all traditional Italian. There are no establishments of Middle Eastern or North African eating nearby.’ She spoke to Ercole, who translated: ‘So, the Composer had recently been somewhere near cooking of this kind, a restaurant, a family.’

Rhyme scowled.

‘Is something wrong?’ Massimo Rossi asked.

‘The analysis is fine. The problem is I don’t know how to put the evidence in context. You have to know the geography in this business. The landscape, the culture of your crime scenes.’

‘Sì, this is true,’ Beatrice said.

‘Allora,’ Rossi said. ‘Perhaps, Captain Rhyme, I can be of help. We had an incident not long ago. Refugees from Africa refused to eat Italian pasta. True, it was simple, with only pomodoro – tomato – sauce.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘I prefer ragù or pesto. But, my story is this: The refugees complained, can you believe that? And they insisted on native food. My feeling is, your expression in English, beggars cannot be choosers, but many people took their protests to heart and an effort was made to give the refugees traditional Libyan and North African food. But the refugee camps and facilities are not always able to do so. So, near the camps are many vendors selling Libyan and Tunisian ingredients and fully cooked food.’

‘That must cover much land.’

Rossi suddenly smiled. ‘It does, except for—’

Rhyme interrupted: ‘The jet exhaust.’

‘Exactly! The biggest camp in Campania is the Capodichino Reception Center located near the airport. And there are North African food vendors there.’

‘Refugees,’ Ercole said. ‘Like Ali Maziq.’ To Rossi: ‘Could this be the pattern Procuratore Spiro was thinking of?’

‘I would say we don’t know enough yet. The Composer might have in mind as his next victim another refugee. But it might also be someone connected with the place. An employee.’

Sachs said, ‘Send Michelangelo and the tac team to the camp. And tell the security people there. And I’m going too.’

Rossi looked her way with a wary smile.

‘I know, I know,’ she said. ‘Spiro won’t be happy. But I’ll deal with him later.’ She looked him over. ‘Are you going to stop me, Inspector?’

Rossi made a show of turning his back to her and staring at the evidence chart. He said, to no one in particular, ‘I wonder where Detective Sachs has gotten herself to. The last I saw of her, she was at the Questura. And now, gone. I would guess she is off to see the sights of Naples. The ruins of Pompeii, very likely.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered to Rossi.

He said, ‘For what? I cannot imagine.’

As she and the Forestry officer headed for the door, Rhyme noted that Ercole dug into his pocket, fishing for something. Then, for a reason Rhyme could not figure out, the young man’s face tightened with dismay as he produced a set of car keys and dropped them into Sachs’s outstretched palm.

CHAPTER 33

Their deduction was a solid one – that the Composer might be looking for victims at the refugee camp near the airport.

The forensics were good: Aviation fuel suggested an airport, and the ingredients in Libyan food suggested refugees’ meals or vendors near a refugee camp like the Capodichino Reception Center.

And yet …

As sometimes happens with the most solidly and elegantly constructed theory, this was marred by a tragic flaw.

It had been made too late.

The Composer had done exactly what Rhyme and the others had guessed. Though with one variation: He had not bothered using a kidnapped person’s gasping breath as the rhythm section for a waltz. He’d simply slashed the victim’s throat and, after leaving his trademark noose, fled.

Amelia Sachs and Ercole Benelli had arrived about a half hour after the team at the Questura had deduced that the camp might be the site of the next kidnapping. Already present were a dozen Police of State and Carabinieri, along with some officers of the Financial Police specializing in immigration enforcement. Sachs had spotted the flashing lights and the crowd just outside the camp, at the far end from the main gate. There, the chain link had been cut open, making an impromptu exit.

Perhaps a hundred people ganged outside – and from the vigilant way the officers were watching those present, Sachs assumed that many were refugees who’d slipped through the gate to view the incident. Others, workers from the vendor stands, protesters, journalists and passersby, milled about as well, hoping for a look at the carnage, Sachs supposed.

Sachs mounted an earphone and hit a call button, then slipped the live cell back into her hip pocket, sitting just above her switchblade knife.

‘Sachs. The scene?’

‘Beyond contaminated. Must be fifty people surrounding the body.’

‘Hell.’

She turned to Ercole. ‘We have to get those people away. Clear the scene. Clear the whole area.’

‘Sì. I will do that. I will try. Look at all of them.’

He stepped away from her and spoke to some of the Police of State officers, who at first paid little attention to him. She heard him mention the names ‘Rossi’ and then ‘Spiro.’ And the men grew wary and attentive and began clearing the crowd in earnest. Some men and women, apparently soldiers with the army, assisted.

Sachs told Rhyme she’d call him back, she had to secure the scene, and disconnected.

‘Find out who’s in charge.’

‘Yes.’

Pulling on gloves and donning rubber bands – even though it was pointless, given the trampled ground – she crouched, then lifted the corner of the sheet. She studied the victim.

He was a young, dark-complexioned man, eyes half open. He lay in a thick pool of blood. A half-dozen cuts were prominent in his neck. He was in stocking feet. She laid the sheet back.

Ercole had a conversation with several officers and he and one of them walked up to Sachs. He was, she recognized, with the Police of State.

Ercole said, ‘This is Officer Bubbico. He was the first on the scene when the workers called about the death.’

‘Ask him who the victim is.’

Bubbico offered his hand and Sachs shook it. He said, ‘I speak English. I studied in America. Many years ago. But I can speak all right.’

But before he could say any more, a female voice sounded behind her. In Italian.

Sachs turned to see someone approaching quickly. A short woman with a pretty but severe face, a mass of thick auburn hair tied into a ponytail with a black ribbon. She was slim but seemed in fighting shape. She wore a dusty khaki blouse and gray skirt, long, and had a lanyard around her neck, a clattering radio on her hip.

Her demeanor, more than the laminated credentials, spoke of authority.

The woman grimaced at the sight of the corpse.

Sachs asked, ‘You’re connected to the camp?’

‘Yes.’ Her eyes were still on the covered body. ‘I am Rania Tasso.’ Sachs noted that her badge said Ministero dell’Interno. ‘The director.’ Her English revealed a slight accent.

Sachs and Ercole introduced themselves.

‘Orribile,’ she muttered. ‘This is our first murder. We’ve had robbery and fights but no rapes, no murders. This is horrible.’ The last word was solidly anglicized, with the ‘h’ pronounced.

A moment later Massimo Rossi arrived and strode close, nodding to Ercole and Sachs. He identified himself to Rania and, after a few words in Italian, they both switched to English. The inspector asked the camp director and Bubbico what had occurred.

Rania said, ‘The guards are still looking for witnesses but one worker, a cook, saw the killer crouching over the body and setting the noose on the ground. Then he fled to those bushes and trees. He got into a dark car and sped away. I asked what kind of car, but the cook did not have any thought.’

Bubbico said, ‘Several officers and I ran to the road as soon as we heard. But, as I told Director Tasso, he was gone by then. I ordered roadblocks but this is a congested area. We are near the airport and there are present many factories and some farms, of course – and there are many roads and streets by where he could escape.’ He opened a tissue and displayed the all-too-familiar noose, made of dark gut.

‘Where was it?’ Sachs asked. ‘The noose.’

‘There. Near the head,’ Bubbico explained.

‘The victim? Do we know his identity?’ Sachs asked.

Rania said, ‘Yes, yes. He had gone through the Eurodac procedure. The Dublin Regulation. You are familiar?’

‘Yes,’ Sachs said.

‘He was Malek Dadi, twenty-six. Tunisian by birth but he lived in Libya for the past twenty years, with his family – his parents and sister are still in Tripoli. He had no criminal record and was a classic economic refugee; he’d taken no public political stance in the conflict in Libya and was not a target of any of the factions there. He was not the sort the extremists, like ISIS, would target. He was here simply to make a better life and bring his family over.’