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

“No? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s called what often passes for Italian justice!”

“He threatened me with a transfer. Well, not exactly threatened, but you knew what he was getting at.”

Rossi nodded. He knew both Maroni’s methods and that it was always only a matter of time before he would have things moving in the direction he wanted. But while Rossi had time on his side and was still ahead, he could at least try to make hay.

“C’mon then. What did you give him?”

“I told him about the e-mails but,” he said, slipping back into his usual chatty tone, “but the funny thing is that he asked me if there were any.”

“He asked you if there were any e-mails?”

“Yes, he said there’d been an anonymous tip-off and he needed to know if it could be trusted. Said it could be life or death.”

Rossi dismissed Bianco, who seemed at least relieved to have got the whole thing off his chest. Then he sat down, took up a pencil and began to run through the possibilities. He took a deep breath.

Scenario one: Maria Marini’s killer had given the tip-off about the e-mails to throw them off the scent. So either he had known about the e-mail correspondence or he knocked them out himself, if the Rohypnol theory held up. Which meant he’d wanted to get Maria out of the way, leave the MPD with a serious PR headache, and have Spinelli and his party fighting for their political survival.

But if somebody just happens to tip-off the police, didn’t that actually presuppose that Spinelli was likely innocent and being framed? How could anyone have innocently come by the information. A casual comment from Maria’s ex? A worried friend? But it would still be way too shaky in a court of law.

Scenario two: Volpini, Marini’s ex. After all, he was the aggrieved party in primis, the cuckold. The e-mails had given him the perfect opportunity to lay the blame at his love rival’s door. But from what Carrara had told him he didn’t seem jealous enough, at least emotively. And if it emerged that Spinelli really had been drugged? Could Volpini have organized that little caper too? Again, unlikely, as Spinelli would have recognized him. And he was in Milan, unless he had hired help to get the drugs into Spinelli, gain access to his apartment and then write an incriminating final e-mail. But that was real professional stuff, way too far off the scale.

Third scenario, thought Rossi, his pencil blunting fast. What if it was all a ruse by Spinelli, first to set himself up in order to later get himself off the hook? It would work like this, Rossi said to his junior detective alter ego: make sure the e-mails get found via an anonymous tip-off and it looks like it’s game over. There’s a strong sentimental motive, circumstantial evidence to support it, no cast-iron alibi, and no witnesses to his going to sleep early rather than to the usual bar. Sooner or later the investigators would check his e-mails, but Spinelli goes belt and braces and points the finger at himself with his own poison pen. Then the Rohypnol theory kicks in and throws enough doubt into the equation to theoretically save him.

What if we cops hadn’t come up with it? Well, that would be Spinelli’s ace in his sleeve, his alibi. He could have given himself a dose of the stuff, holding off but planning at the last minute to say “hey, look guys, I felt terrible the other night, what if I was drugged and while I was zonked out on the floor someone got into my computer and set me up?” And maybe he’d even left the bar with some MPD groupie, saluting all and sundry to make sure it looked like he hadn’t left alone, thus furnishing a nice suspect for the cops to run around after. It was a real gambler’s option but it would leave sufficient doubt for him to get away with it and leave the case wide open.

Rossi’s head was spinning. It was feeling more and more like science fiction. But he also knew that before the facts could become the facts they could be anywhere and could be anything. Reality wasn’t like a film, a book; the plot was unwritten or unwritable. People were being murdered and the chances were that it was by someone they knew. It was a question of probability. The difficulty lay in unravelling the human messes of love, hate, politics, revenge, and ambition, not necessarily in that order, and the technical and logistical framework within which they operated – put simply, space and time. That, and establishing how far someone was prepared and able to go in order to remove another human being from the face of the earth. So what was at stake?

His gut instinct was telling him Spinelli was clean, but experience now suggested that he was up against a formidable array of possibilities and a formidable confederacy of deviants, as well, probably, as some dunces, in his own camp. There was a slew of circumstantial evidence, there was political expediency and the constant, pressing need to get a quick conviction. The tip-off story stunk, too, and combined with the urgency trickling down the chain of command via Maroni, despite himself, he feared history might be repeating itself, that this might be another political case dressed up as common crime. Even if you did never step in the same river twice it was still a river, you still got your feet wet.

So much for the straightforward murder enquiry. So much for keeping Rossi on a case that had nothing to do with the powers-that-be. In substantive terms, Maroni knew no more than he did himself. But Maroni also had to jump when “they” said jump and jump bloody high.

No. The more he mulled it over, and the more he processed what had happened in the space of what, three or four days, or two weeks counting the Colombo killing, the more he began to think that something, some mechanism might have snapped into action. Apart from having a killer on the loose, he was going to be coming up against darker forces than he had expected to be facing. His mobile phone rang again. That would be him.

Nineteen

The atmosphere in the conference room where the journalists were gathered was verging on the festive. Working for state-funded newspapers and TV, if you were on a good contract, was a junket and the lifestyle was easy to get used to. Everyone knew everyone, some better than others, of course. And some – how many? – had got to where they now were by dint not only of their wordsmithery but also in varying degrees thanks to the intimacy of their acquaintances, although the gender balance was, stile Italiano, rather more skewed in the predictable direction. Others may have not slept their way to success and though bed-hopping was about par for this course, there were other variations that could be registered on your scorecard too.

The Grand Hotel, being central and within walking distance of Termini station and the underground, had been chosen both to accommodate the revellers and to cater for the expected stampede of local, national, and even foreign correspondents. It provided the necessary space for national TV crews and their entourages as well as for the usual mike-toting local hacks from the galaxy of more or less obscure cable stations.

There was a palpable sense of expectation. All murder enquiries brought out the feeding frenzy instinct and this one was no different. It guaranteed weeks of copy for the crime correspondents, what with the endless speculation, the tawdry spectacle of interviews with victims’ families and neighbours and the footage of the crime scene. Then, like some second stage in a feared and now all too real malady, there would be the morbid pilgrimages to murder locations that sometimes ensued when a killing was perpetrated within the community, or, even better, within a family. The apparent randomness and viciousness of these recent crimes had aroused a particularly grim interest and the hacks were fishing now for more juicy details.

Iannelli had arrived early and secured himself a place in the front row. He’d always taken the hard way, fully aware that his choices would condemn him to pursue the slow build, the long haul, yet he didn’t have to avoid anyone and his name rarely featured in the gossip over drinks. All the usual faces were there and he’d been careful enough to press the flesh and backslap his way around the room, devoting a few moments of special attention to Luca Iovine of The Facet, already pencilled in as his future employer.

But he’d been here since five, and he wasn’t the only one beginning to think that if they put back the scheduled start-time again, the jovial atmosphere might turn rather more sour as first aperitifs and then dinner appointments got interfered with and grumbling stomachs and editors’ demands began to have undesired effects on tired brains. There was little worse than a projected early finish transforming itself into a protracted all-nighter. One downside to the job then.

There were signs of movement, however, coming from the temporary wings set up to give the conference room its heightened air of police-like institutional drabness. TV crews had just switched on their lights before a row of suited men, some in plain clothes and others in uniform, filed out and took their positions on the podium. They moved at a pontifical pace and with what seemed to be an equally apparent disdain for what constituted urgency in the non-police world. Despite their indifference to the long wait to which the waiting media men and women had been subjected, it was clear that they would not be hanging around either. And if the press wasn’t ready, it was their problem. Iannelli scanned the faces, but there was no sign of Rossi.

“I will be brief,” said Chief Superintendent Maroni, head of the Rome Serious Crime Squad, at the centre of the seven-man line-up which included the city prefect and two of the three magistrates so far involved. “I think most of you know who I am by now and, well, there have been,” he continued, briefly looking down at his notes, “certain developments regarding the recent murders of the two women in Rome and the earlier murder near the Via Cristoforo Colombo, and it is with some cautious optimism that I can say we are pleased,” he said turning briefly to survey his colleagues before recommencing, “to be able to confirm that these developments are ‘significant’.” As he raised his head, there was a wild paroxysm of flash photography and a forest of phone and pen-clutching hands shot up hoping to spear a question-asking opportunity.

At the back of the conference room, Michael Rossi entered through a side door and took up a position where there was still a little space. He had a shaken, ruffled appearance, but despite his still simmering anger he was also quite resigned for he knew exactly what was coming next.

He knew because before leaving the Questura he had already accepted yet another slice of his fate. Nonetheless, he was glad at least to have had some time with Spinelli. It had been crucial. As such, he had taken the call from Maroni, deciding to swallow the toad sooner rather than later. Incandescent, his superior had summoned him to a private room where in no uncertain terms he’d dressed Rossi down, ordered him to steer clear of making any trouble, and told him exactly how things were going to be played out later before the press. Then, true to form, Maroni had half-excused himself for his barbarity before sending Rossi away with instructions to “be late for the conference because you’re so fucking busy chasing killers that you can’t remember your own name.”

“My officers and I would like to thank in particular Inspectors Michael Rossi and Luigi Carrara and their team of investigators, who have been working flat out on this case and have not been able to join us, as yet.”

“Well here I am,” proffered Rossi, like a madman taunting his other self and anyone else who might hear him, but all eyes were on Maroni.

“My officers and I have been able to reconstruct a significant series of events leading up to the murder of Maria Marini, the details of which will emerge in due course but suffice to say the information we have so far been able to gather has been judged sufficient by the public prosecutor for us to move in the direction of making an arrest in this case with a view to bringing charges.”

More hopeful arms were thrust into the air to the accompaniment of rabid camera flashing and clicking but all to no avail as Maroni continued what was turning out to be nothing more than a statement.

“I will not be taking any questions now as there is, as I am sure you can all imagine, much work still to do. If there are any further developments this evening, we will endeavour to inform you forthwith. Thank you and good evening.”

And with that they filed out as indifferently as they had when they arrived.

Rossi, moving towards the centre of the melee, had caught Iannelli’s eye. The two men exchanged a glance, the import of which they both understood.

“Fancy Arabic?” said Rossi to the journalist now sitting beside him in his car. “We can talk there, it’s off the beaten track, don’t worry.”

“Suits me fine.”

Twenty

They found parking easily enough on Via Merulana and walked up the slight incline of the broad flagged pavement in the direction of the Basilica. In January, with Christmas done and dusted, the area saw little human activity and, with the pall of fear over the city, tonight it felt deserted. In winter, from this spot, if you could ignore for a moment the hypnotizing fairy-tale gold mosaics and baroque facade of Santa Maria Maggiore which greeted you, it was possible to see in the distance the sister basilica of San Giovanni by looking over your shoulder down the dead-straight boulevard. When spring came the plane trees would burst into life making the same long road between the two basilicas richly forest-like and mercifully cool, dappling the fierce sun held at bay overhead. But now, in the dark, all was bare and skeletal against the ashen sky.

They slipped into the warmth of Shwarma Station and ordered liberally from the dazzling array of Syrian and North African specialities at much saner prices than some of the more di moda kebab joints where conservative Romans went to be cosmopolitan. Stuffed vine leaves, falafel, couscous, hummus, and kebabs. There was no alcohol but they could wait. They took a table under the TV at the back of the room. There were the usual diners: expatriate Arabs, students, nostalgic types relishing the simplicity of paper table cloths and ordinary people and just a little edge. This was a meeting place, too, for the Islamic community and in the coming and going of Moroccans, Egyptians, Arabs, and Libyans there were, for sure, some less than legitimate characters caught up in the mix. For a good five minutes they ate in silence until they had seen off the first wave of their hunger.

“So, what’s new, Dario?”

“Depends what you mean? You mean the local shenanigans or the murder mystery?”

“All right,” said Rossi, “if you could give me some firm leads on either score, I’d be buying you dinner next time as well as today, but I’ll take whatever’s going.”

“Well, as far as my theories on the immigration rackets are concerned, I can’t get much unless you can secure me those wire taps on a few key individuals.”

Rossi shook his head.

“You know that’s impossible. No judge will give me the time of day if it’s anyone near the top of the tree with connections to high-ranking individuals. They’ll laugh me out of town. And for me to take the law into my own hands on this one, well that would be signing my own, I won’t say death warrant, but it could be close.”

Iannelli had the air of the mad scientist on the verge of the big discovery but thwarted by factors beyond his control. Rossi could almost imagine him screaming at the unbelievers “The fools!”

“I know I’m onto something big there, Michael, big and transversal. Do you follow? Everyone could be involved. Left, right, centre, Church, the co-ops and charities, even ex-terrorists. That’s the word I’m getting. We just need those taps and we could do something. Somebody would have to listen then.”

Rossi was intrigued but he knew that in these matters the system moved at a speed and in a manner comparable to that of plate tectonics in the earth’s crust: vast strategic interests that bordered one another yet only clashed decisively in certain key moments and when perhaps you least expected it. But nothing was likely to move until someone wanted it to move. It had to be at the bidding of some deus ex machina, but not a general saviour, rather some saviour of yet higher interests. Russian dolls. Stories within stories. Yes. The Arabian Nights.

“And the murders?” Rossi enquired. “What’s out, Dario? I mean, the notes, the suspect? This prick-teasing at the press conference. What’s the word on that?”

It was Iannelli’s turn now to shake his head.

“Nothing from me, Michael, I’m holding fire, but sooner or later somebody’s always going to let something slip. You know that.”

“And tip-offs?”

“Nothing.”

“But d’you know who they’re going to arrest or not?”

“Well, I do have a sneaking suspicion it might be someone close to Ms Marini, if that’s what you mean.”

“Obviously, but who?”

“Look,” said Iannelli, wiping his fingers on a napkin, “I know about the MPD link but until there’s an arrest we won’t be going with it. ‘Police are close to an arrest in The Carpenter case’, if you like. Something like that. But you clearly know how close, don’t you? Though you don’t look exactly tickled by it.”

Rossi rolled an olive across his plate with his fork.

“What do you want out of this, Dario? The same as me? To get a killer off the street? Or to have a high-profile show trial that can run for God knows how long? Or do you think there’s more here than meets the eye? Do you want it to be more than the sum of its parts? Is that where you think this is going?”

“Michael, isn’t it always more than the sum of its parts when there’s politics in play?”

“So you think Spinelli is involved?”

“In some way, yes. He has to be.”

“But guilty?”

“That remains to be seen. You’re the policeman here, aren’t you?”

“But no smoke without fire. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Look,” said Iannelli, “if a high-profile politician’s lover is brutally murdered close to the most crucial parliamentary elections in recent Italian history, there has to be something going on. It has to be more than coincidence. And added to that, she just happens to be a judge’s daughter, a mafia-pool judge’s daughter. Well, what do you think? What does your instinct tell you?”

“I don’t think he did it.”

“Why not?”

“I have my reasons. It’s partly gut-feeling but it just doesn’t fit.”

“So why are you here talking to me?”

“Because I need your help.”

“And do you think I want to help you?”

“I think we have a common goal here, Dario.”

“Go on.”

“I think we both want to see something finally change, for the better, in this godforsaken country. In this godforsaken political establishment.”

“And this is how it’s going to change? Chit-chatting over kebabs?”

“They want Spinelli to go down, Dario! They’ve practically taken the investigation out of my hands, so something has changed here, for sure.”

“Who wants him to go down?”

“Well,” said Rossi, “I was hoping you might tell me that.”

“All right,” said Iannelli, throwing his crumpled napkin onto the empty plate and sitting back to deliver his peroration. “Nothing happens by chance. Think Pasolini. Think Pecorelli. Think Dalla Chiesa. Go right back to Enrico Mattei. All killed because they got too close to the truth, too close to nailing the corrupt politicians, too close to getting the Yanks and their petro-dollars out of our economy and off our backs.”

“So it’s a conspiracy,” said Rossi, “and the puppet masters pull the strings we can’t even see to cut, never mind get to the guys themselves?”

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