第 26 页

Capodichino Reception Center

• Victim:

Malek Dadi, 26.

Tunisian national, spent time in Libya, economic not political refugee.

Causa di morte: loss of blood due to lacerated jugular vein and carotid artery (see medical officer’s report).

• No murder weapon recovered.

• Crime scene trampled, largely destroyed.

• Individual spotted observing the camp within past day or two, fitting the Composer’s description. No further information.

• Traces of amobarbital (anti-panic drug) found in soil beside victim, in suspect’s footprint.

• Miniature noose, made from musical instrument string, no manufacturer determined. Probably cello. 32cm in length.

• Tire tread: Michelin 205/55R16 91H, same as at other scenes.

• Footprints: Converse Cons, Size 45, same as at other scenes.

• Witnesses report suspect drove large black or navy-blue vehicle.

• Post-it note, yellow.

Unable to determine source.

Address written in blue ink (unable to determine source of ink): Filippo Argelati, 20-32, Milan.

No readable fingerprints.

Located under victim but unclear whether he or Composer or someone else was source.

• Camp officials presently searching for other witnesses.

• See FACETTE facial composite rendering.

The Composer’s composite picture revealed a round, bald white man, depicted both with a hat and without. He resembled ten thousand other round white men. Rhyme had worked very few cases in which an artist’s rendering provided leads that resulted in an arrest.

Looking at the chart, Rossi mused, ‘That Post-it note, Milan … What could it be? Was it Malek Dadi’s? Or does the Composer have a connection there? He might have flown in there, established a base, and then drove to Naples for his mischief.’

‘Is it nearby?’ Rhyme asked.

‘No. Seven hundred kilometers.’

Sachs said, ‘We have to follow up.’

‘Someone from the Milan police,’ Ercole suggested. ‘You must know officers there, Ispettore.’

‘Of course I do. But one who can understand the nature of the case quickly? What to look for? I think it would be better for someone here to go. Daniela and Giacomo have other caseloads. Ercole, with respect, you are new to this game. I wonder if—’

Sachs said, ‘I’ll go.’

‘That is what I was going to suggest.’

Rhyme said, ‘But what about Spiro?’

‘Oh, I didn’t tell you, Rhyme,’ Sachs offered. ‘I’m on the A list. Some reporter was talking about him getting praised for the insight of flying us here from America.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He came close to smiling.’

‘Dante Spiro smiling?’ Rossi laughed. ‘As often as a pope’s death.’

Sachs said, ‘I’ll find somebody in the consulate there to translate for me.’ She looked at Ercole. ‘You can stay here and take care of other matters.’

Other matters …

He understood, as Rhyme did, that she was talking about the Garry Soames case. There was still the student’s apartment to search. Ercole looked worried for a moment, concerned that she might mention this mission in front of Rossi, but of course she did not.

She said, ‘The jet we flew here on is in England for the time being. Is there an aircraft of yours I can use?

Rossi laughed. ‘We have none, I’m afraid. We fly Alitalia, like everyone else, except in very rare cases.’ He looked at Ercole. ‘The Forestry Corps has aircraft.’

‘For forest fires. Bombardier Four-Fifteen Super Scoopers. We have a Piaggio P One-Eighty. But none of those are nearby.’

He said this in a tone that, to Rhyme, really meant they were not available to shuttle American detectives anywhere, even if one had been nearby.

‘I will check with Alitalia,’ Ercole said.

‘No,’ Rhyme replied. Then to Sachs, ‘No commercial flights. I want you to have your weapon with you.’

Rossi said, ‘Yes, it would add considerable time and paperwork.’

Irregularness …

Sachs asked, ‘Then what? An overnight drive?’

Rhyme said, ‘No. I have an idea. But I’ll need to make a call.’ Then he looked Thom’s way. ‘All right, all right. I’ll do it from the hotel.’

Besides, he was eager to continue his mission to acquire the acquired taste for grappa.

V

SKULLS AND BONES

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 25

CHAPTER 35

At 8 a.m. Rhyme, Sachs and Thom were once again displaying passports to the US Marine guards at the well-fortified entrance to the US consulate and were shown inside, to the lobby.

Rhyme was rested and had only a slight hangover – grappa seemed to be kinder in this regard than single-malt whisky.

Five minutes later they were in the office of the consulate general himself, a handsome, well-built man in his mid-fifties. He wore a gray suit, a white shirt and a tie as rich and blue as the water sparkling outside. Henry Musgrave had the studied manners and perceptive eyes of a lifer in the diplomatic corps. Unlike Charlotte McKenzie, he had no problem striding up to Rhyme and shaking hands.

‘I’ve heard of you, of course, Mr Rhyme. I get to New York and Washington. You make the news, even in the nation’s capital. Some of your cases – that fellow, the Skin Collector, he was called. That was quite something.’

‘Yes. Well.’ Rhyme was never averse to praise but wasn’t inclined to tell war stories at the moment; he was sure that the Composer was planning another attack – because the one at the reception center had failed or because he was indeed slipping further into madness.

Musgrave greeted Sachs and Thom with an enthusiastic grip. He sat down and his attention drifted to his computer screen. ‘Ah, it’s confirmed.’ He read for a moment and looked up. ‘Just got a National Security briefing report. Not classified – it’s going to the media now. You’ll be interested. The CIA and the Austrian counterterrorism department, the BVT, stopped a terrorist plot in Vienna. They scored a half kilo of C4, a cell phone detonator and a map of a mall in a suburb. No actors yet but they’re on it.’

Rhyme recalled that there’d been a flurry of reports of suspected terrorist activity – both in Europe and in the United States. That was why the Police of State had fewer officers to help investigate the Composer case than they otherwise might.

Okay, got it. Happy news for all. Let’s move on.

Musgrave turned from the screen. ‘So, a serial killer from America.’

Rhyme glanced toward Sachs, a reminder that they didn’t have time to correct the diplomat about the Composer’s technical criminal profile.

The consulate general mused, ‘The Italians have had a few – the Monster of Florence. Then, Donato Bilancia. He killed about seventeen. There’s a nurse currently suspected of killing nearly forty patients. And there were the Beasts of Satan. They were convicted of killing only three, though they’re suspected of more. I imagine the Americans win the serial killer prize in terms of body count. At least if you believe cable TV.’

Rhyme said in a clipped voice, ‘Colombia, China, Russia, Afghanistan and India beat the US. Now, as to our request? We’re still good?’

‘Yep. I just double-checked.’

Last night, Rhyme had called Charlotte McKenzie, asking if she had access to a government jet to shepherd Sachs to Milan. She didn’t but would check with the consulate general. Musgrave’s assistant called Rhyme to report that an American businessman, in Naples for trade promotion meetings, had a private jet that was flying to Switzerland this morning. The plane could easily stop in Milan on the way. He’d meet them this morning to discuss the trip.

And now Musgrave’s assistant appeared in the doorway, followed by a lanky man, topped with a shock of strawberry-blond hair. He grinned to all and stepped forward. ‘Mike Hill.’ He shook hands with everyone, Rhyme included, paying no attention to the wheelchair.

Rhyme was not surprised when the consulate general told him that Hill – nerdy and boyish, a younger Bill Gates – was here to hawk high-tech products to the Italians; his company exported broadband and fiber-optic equipment, built in his Midwest factory.

‘Henry was telling me what you need, and I’m happy to help.’ He then frowned and now glanced at the wheelchair. ‘But have to say, the plane’s not, you know, accessible.’

Sachs said, ‘I’ll be going alone.’

‘What’s the timing?’

‘If possible, I need to get up there this morning and back tonight.’

‘Definitely we can get you there in a few hours. The only issue is returning. The crew’s got other flights after Milan. If they time out, they’ll have to spend the night in Lausanne or Geneva.’

‘That’s fine,’ Rhyme said. ‘The important thing is to get there as soon as possible.’

Hill said, ‘Now, where do you want to go? There’re two airports in Milan. Malpensa, the bigger one, is about twenty miles northwest of the city and depending on the time of day, the traffic can be pretty bad. Linate’s the downtown airport. It’s much more convenient if you’ve got to be in the city itself. Which would be better?’

Rossi had said the warehouse was in town, not in the suburbs. ‘Linate.’

‘Okay. Easy-peasy. I’ll tell the crew. They’ll need to file a flight plan. Coupla hours should do it. And I’ll have my driver take you to the airport.’

Sachs began, ‘Mr Hill—’

‘Mike, per favore.’ Spoken with the worst Italian accent Rhyme had ever heard. ‘And if you’re gonna bring up money, forget it. Won’t cost much to make a stop in Milano. So consider this gratis.’

‘We appreciate it.’

‘Never had a chance to help catch a psycho and probably never will again. Glad to do my duty.’ Hill rose, pulled his phone from his pocket and stepped to the corner of the office, where, Rhyme could hear, he had conversations with the pilot and his chauffeur, coordinating the trip.

‘Lincoln, Amelia.’ A woman’s voice from the doorway. Rhyme looked up to see Charlotte McKenzie walk into the office, looking rumpled. Her short blond hair was a bit spiky and her copper-colored blouse a bit wrinkled. Maybe her cold was taking its toll. ‘Henry.’ She nodded to Thom too.

‘So, hitching a ride to Milan,’ she said to Rhyme. ‘That worked out?’

Musgrave nodded toward Mike Hill, still on the phone, and said to McKenzie, ‘Mike’s plane’ll get Detective Sachs up there this morning.’

‘Good. You think this guy, the Composer, he’s left Naples? He’s up there?’

Sachs said, ‘We don’t know the connection. Just an address on a note from the crime scene at the refugee camp.’ She then said to Musgrave, ‘One thing I’m hoping. Is there someone at the consulate in Milan who could drive me, translate for me?’

Charlotte McKenzie said, ‘I have a colleague there. He does what I do, legal liaison. Pete Prescott. Good man. I can see if he’s free.’

‘That’d be great.’

She texted and a moment later her phone chimed with an incoming message. ‘Yes, he is. I’ll text you his number, Amelia.’

‘Thanks.’

Mike Hill joined them, slipping his phone away. Musgrave introduced him to McKenzie and then the businessman said to Sachs, ‘All set. You’re good to go. My driver’ll pick you up at eleven … where’s good?’

She gave him the hotel address.

‘Know it. Great old place. Makes me feel like I’m part of the Rat Pack when I stay there.’

Another figure appeared in the doorway, the slim, very pale man of indeterminate age Rhyme remembered from the other day. Ah, yes, the public relations officer. What was the name again?

He nodded to those present and introduced himself to Hill. ‘Daryl Mulbry.’

The slight man sat and said to Rhyme, ‘We’re getting inundated with requests from the press – about both Garry and the Composer. Would you be willing to sit down for an interview?’ Mulbry stopped short and blinked – undoubtedly at the awkward choice of a verb, considering Rhyme’s condition.

As if he cared. ‘No,’ Rhyme said shortly. ‘I don’t have anything to say at this point, other than that we’ve got a composite rendering of the Composer and that’s gone to the press anyway.’

‘Yes, I’ve seen it. Intimidating-looking guy. Big. But what about Garry? Any statement?’

Rhyme could just imagine Dante Spiro’s reaction when he read in the press that an unnamed ‘American consultant’ was commenting on the case.

‘Not now.’

McKenzie added, ‘I should tell you: Garry’s been getting threats. Like I mentioned, those accused of sexual assault are at particular risk. Add that he’s an American … Well, it’s a problem. The authorities keep an eye on him but there are no guarantees.’

‘No press,’ Rhyme said insistently. But he added, ‘While Amelia’s away I’ll be following up with his case, though.’

McKenzie said, ‘Ah. Good.’ The uncertainty told Rhyme she’d be wondering how exactly he could follow up when his ass was parked in a wheelchair, in a country that did not seem to have the equivalent of the American With Disabilities Act in force.

He didn’t tell her that he had a secret weapon.

Two, in fact.

CHAPTER 36

The Black Screams had begun.

But the failure at the camp and the sight of the redheaded policewoman had conspired to shake him awake early and fill his head with the screams, shrilling like a dentist’s drill.

Yes, he had a plan for Artemis. Yes, Euterpe had whispered calming sentiments from on high. But, as he well knew, very little could stop determined Black Screams. He’d hoped to control them himself, but ultimately, he knew, he’d lose. It was the same as when you wake with that first twist in your gut, small, nothing really. Still, you understand without any doubt you’ll be on your knees over the toilet in an hour with the flu or food poisoning.

Whispering screams, soon to become the Black Screams.

And soon they were.

Shaky-hand, sweaty-skin – these were nothing compared with a Black Scream.

Pacing the farmhouse, then outside in the wet dawn. Stop, stop, stop!

But they hadn’t stopped. So he’d popped extra meds (that didn’t work, never did) and, in the 4MATIC, sped to where he stood now: to chaotic downtown Naples where he prayed the ricocheting cacophony would drown out the screams. (That sometimes worked. Ironically, noise was his salvation against Black Screams – as much and as loud and as chaotic as possible.)

He plunged into the jostling crowds filling the sidewalks. He passed food vendors, bars, restaurants, laundries, souvenir stores. He paused outside a café. Imagined he could hear the forks on china, the teeth biting, the jaws grinding, the lips sipping …

The knives cutting.

Like knives slashing throats …

He was sucking up the noise, inhaling the noise, to cover the screams.

Make them stop, make them stop …

Thinking of his teenage years, the girls looking away, the boys never looking away but staring and, sometimes, laughing as Stefan walked into the classrooms. He was thin then, passable in sports, could tell a joke or two, talk about TV shows, talk about music.

But the normal didn’t outshine the strange.

How often he would lose himself in the sound of a teacher’s voice, the melody of her words, not the content, which he didn’t even hear.