Читать книгу A Known Evil: A gripping debut serial killer thriller full of twists you won’t see coming - Aidan Conway - Страница 11

“C’mon,” said Rossi, glancing at his watch as they strolled back to the car. “Talk about a wasted day but I reckon we’ve still got time to get over to the Colombo scene before dark and run some office checks before we go to the mortuary. Let’s see what Silvestre failed to pick up on there.”

The best part of a day spent trawling through past cases and suspects vaguely fitting a broad possible profile had produced nothing of note and had succeeded only in giving Rossi a thumping headache and more lower-back pain.

“Have you got the case notes?”

“There,” said Carrara as he opened the driver’s door and jerked his head to indicate a thin folder on the back seat.

Rossi got in and turned to look at the meagre offering.

“Been busy has he then, Silvestre? Lazy sod. Have to do that one from scratch, won’t we?”

“It’s actually off the Colombo,” said Rossi, leafing again through the scant inherited offering. A modest car park by a school on Via Grotta Perfetta. Road of the perfect cave. This certainly had given it a twist of the grotesque too. But in Rome, sordid murder locations were soon enough forgotten when the media coverage dried up. They were rubbed out by the eraser of the daily city grind and few victims got epitaphs. Serial or no serial. Carrara turned left off the Via Cristoforo Colombo’s zipping dual carriageway, driving slowly then until Rossi had picked out the turning.

“Tucked away, isn’t it? Easy to miss, wouldn’t you say?”

A sloping slip road led up to the smallish car park, which, in turn, gave onto grass and play areas that formed part of the long extension of the Caffarella Valley Park, a precious green lung in the midst of south-east Rome. It was empty and unremarkable. Broken glass, cigarette packets, and in the corner where the vehicle and the body had been found, the usual discarded tissues, wet wipes, and prophylactic paraphernalia could be seen.

“A lovers’ lane then,” Rossi concluded. “Not much lighting at night. Ideal for trysts.” He shuffled through the scene-of-crime photos showing the victim sprawled next to the front wheel on the passenger’s side. Blood was smeared across the bonnet.

“Do we have the car still?”

“Dunno,” said Carrara.

“Well, it’s clear enough she was outside the vehicle when he hit her, isn’t it? And no lovers? Nothing?”

Carrara checked the notes.

“Luzi’s statement says he was training for a marathon – and he does actually run marathons – while she was at a yoga class.”

“Any phone calls? Any calls to men?”

“The care worker looking after Anna Luzi’s mother – lives, lived with them – got a call from her but her phone wasn’t found at the scene. Could be important, if someone didn’t want it to be found.”

Rossi let out a sigh.

“We’ll have to get onto the telephone company to get transcripts. Can you do that? All her calls. We’ll have to check everything. Or does that have to go through ClearTech too? Was there an address book, by chance? I know no one uses them anymore but …”

Carrara shook his head. “Not as far as I know.”

“OK,” said Rossi.

“Shall I pencil in another chat with Mr Luzi?”

“Yes, you could pay him a visit,” said Rossi. “And check his movements again. See if you can find a witness for that running story. A flower seller, a petrol-pump attendant or something. And see if his wife really went to the yoga class, what time it was, and what time he went running and for how long. See if he wears one of those armband thingies, for measuring his calorific output. They all have them, don’t they?”

“You think he might have done it?”

“Why not? Husbands kill wives. How many times have we seen it?”

“He just doesn’t seem the type. Very Christian and all. You know he’s treasurer of The Speranza Foundation?”

“Perfect cover.”

“Sure you don’t want to come?”

Rossi shook his head.

“Where shall I drop you?”

“The bloody Questura,” said Rossi, “may as well keep working through the case files. See what comes up.”