A Known Evil: A gripping debut serial killer thriller full of twists you won’t see coming. Aidan Conway

Чтение книги онлайн.

       Eleven

      “Rome is Afraid.” That would be the headline for tomorrow’s paper. That would get copies moving and, to his delight, ad-space had already been filling up fast. Giorgio Torrini, editor-in-chief of the Roman Post, was not quite rubbing his hands but had the look of someone who has just bagged a sizeable win on the horses or the lottery. Until now, the public had been taking more interest in the apparently drug-related killings spilling out of the usual run-down and deprived ghetto territories and into the “civilized” centre, sometimes in broad daylight. Yet people didn’t really feel threatened. Just like with the dodgy heroin-killing junkies, or the ex-husbands losing their jobs then losing the plot and massacring entire families; all that was still going on but it didn’t make people afraid. But now The Carpenter had made sure they were. More cautious husbands weren’t letting wives go out on their own. The city was becoming a virtual ghost town after dark. Taxis were doing a roaring trade.

      Torrini had his best man on the story and he was dictating what line to take now that Marini had been identified.

      “Nobody cares about Mafia,” he was saying. “Unless they start planting bombs outside the Stadio Olimpico, in St Peter’s Square, or in pizzerias, it’s water off a duck’s back. They’ve heard it all before.”

      “So we stick with the serial-killer line?”

      “Rome is Afraid,” he repeated, holding up hands which grasped the extremities of an imaginary banner headline.

      “And tourism? Isn’t it going to hit tourism? All this negative publicity.”

      “Tourism?” spluttered Torrini. “Tourism? They always bounce back. They can drop their prices. Probably boost tourism once it all dies down,” he added, “and I mean, how long is it going to last? A couple of weeks, a month or two? By Easter it’ll all be forgotten. Mark my words. It’ll be history. More history for Rome. More guided tours. ‘This is where The Carpenter killed his first victim.’ Blah, blah, blah.”

      Senior reporter Dario Iannelli was taking notes. So far, he had only written “mad heartless fucker”. Dario knew a good story and had the knack of finding them but what he wanted was the scoop that went right to the top and could let him get at the real criminals. Serial killers were one offs, sad fucked-up losers, true enough. But the others, those who were selling the country down the river for thirty pieces of silver? They were the real nasty pieces of work. It was them he wanted to nail.

      But he was also beginning to feel that there might be something more to this story. Rome didn’t do serial killers. It wasn’t in its nature. But he couldn’t prove anything, not yet. So, for now he would have to go along with the official line. Fear sells papers. Fear is good. Tell the Romans to be afraid. But he was searching; he was on the lookout for any and every clue, the slightest slip that might let that crucial something come his way.

      “So, you get your arse down to the press conference, right, and get a good question in, on mike, and on camera, if possible, so stand up or something?” Dario nodded.

      “I want everyone to hear the Roman Post is covering this story. Fuck the nationals. We’re on the ground here. This is our big one.”

      Dario made another careful note: “egomaniac arsehole. Fuckwit”.

      “Let’s milk it. Oh, and try and get something on his methods.”

      “Meaning, sir?”

      “His methods!” blurted Torrini, popping out suddenly from the comfort zone of his ego-bubble. “What he does!”

      “He kills them, sir,” said Iannelli, scenting a prime piss-taking opportunity.

      The editor’s face contorted in a sign of near total non-comprehension before he finally put two and two together.

      Never been quick on the uptake, have you? thought Dario. Romans often weren’t.

      “I mean, does he cut their fingers off! Does he carve shit into their skin or something? I don’t know!” He leaned over the desk at a more intimate distance. “Does he fuck them, or what? We’ve got none of that yet. Is there something they’re not telling us?”

      “Ah,” said Iannelli, “those methods. I’ll see what I can find, sir. Do my damnedest. Try and get something out of Rossi.”

      But for now he knew he would still be keeping his word. Rossi was about as close as anyone could be to being his friend, but he might need to cash in a favour from him, perhaps sooner rather than later.