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

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      “Here’s what I was after,” the judge exclaimed on returning, then, as if dampening his own temporary enthusiasm, he placed the image in front of Rossi.

      “Thank you,” said Rossi, with due reverence.

      As he left, descending the staircase, after a moment’s thought he was able to recall, almost by heart, the closing lines of the Buzzati story. He repeated the words to himself, like a seasoned priest reciting the requiem: Tomorrow, new hope will drive me on towards those unexplored mountains shrouded in the shadows of the night. Once more, I will break camp while Domenico disappears over the horizon in the opposite direction, carrying with him my now quite useless message to the far, far distant city.

       Thirteen

      “I did think about waking him up,” she said, “in case he was going to be late for something important, but then I just thought, sod him. And then I felt bad about it and went back.”

      Yana was leaning on the reception desk of the Wellness Health and Fitness Complex. She was wearing wedge-like training shoes, ultramarine Lycra leggings and a tracksuit top. Her blonde hair was pulled into a high ponytail. Sporty and sexy. Get the clients in. Give the housewives and harassed professionals something to aspire to but without being too far out of their league. She knew what worked.

      “Would have served him right,” said Marta, staring into a small mirror balanced on the counter and applying yet another layer of mascara. Her eyes had taken on the appearance of two very beautiful tropical spiders. Always experimenting, there was nothing she couldn’t tell you about beauty and treatments. Yana looked after the business and the fitness side but Marta had the X-factor, without a doubt. She closed her little box. “What do you think? Never know who might walk in that door, do you? Could be George Clooney, with his mates, couldn’t it?”

      “And Fabio?” said Yana, not so very mock-scandalized.

      “Always good to have a spare, darling. Never know when you might need another.”

      Yana laughed and dealt her friend and partner a playful push.

      “Your Michael,” said Marta, “he doesn’t, you know, when he’s ‘working late’?” and she gave a knowing wink.

      “Noo!” said Yana, in fake outrage at the scandalous suggestion. “He’s too busy with his books.”

      “Oh! Him and his books!”

      “Uh huh,” said Yana, scanning the appointments for the day. “Novels, poetry, theology even.”

      “Theology! He wanna be a priest or something? Watch him, darling. Hey, you might be left on the shelf, if you follow.”

      A year in the seminary. How often she had wondered about that, at first – Michael’s lost vocation in the Church. But then it just became kind of normal, like all the things that take up their place in a relationship and perhaps to outsiders seem strange or puzzling. Like ornaments around a living room. She wouldn’t mention that to Marta, though. Not a secret, just personal.

      He had often tried to explain to her his desire to do some good, his love of thought and philosophy, and the disappointments that had pushed him towards a life of reflection and sacrifice. Then he had woken up, as it were, and decided to take a more practical approach. Grab life by the scruff of the neck as he used to say. He thought he had been running away from the world, so he decided to come back and face it. But there was a part of him that was perhaps still monastic, withdrawn, thoughtful. Suppose it helped, at times, she concluded, trying again to make sense of it all and how she’d got to where she was and everything she’d had to leave behind. And she had secrets, too, mind, but they really were under lock and key. In a safe, with a combination for good measure, so to speak.

      “On your feet, girl,” said Marta, rousing Yana from her temporary dreamy state as the door to the health centre opened. A tall, athletic, Mediterranean male, maybe mid-forties, ambled towards the desk. “Here he comes now, your real Mr Right, or maybe your future bit on the side.”

      “Perhaps either of you young ladies could be of assistance,” he said and deposited a holdall of some considerable weight on the polished parquet floor, the heavy tools clinking inside as he did so.

       Fourteen

      Despite his initial certainty and strenuous defence of his own interpretation of events, something was nagging at the back of Rossi’s mind. He had called the office to let Carrara know he had sorted things out with the judge. He had then had lunch in an anonymous eatery near Tiburtina station and frequented by locals, just to see what the vibe was like. They were talking about the murders in hushed tones, studying the papers, speculating. A couple of Romanian workmen walked in and drew a few dirty looks from the barman and some of the older patrons. Potential scapegoats. It couldn’t be the work of an Italian, after all.

      Rossi had then decided to take a couple of hours off before the press conference, to think things through. He would take the Metro to Flaminia from where he could then have a stroll through Villa Borghese. It was one of Rome’s most beautiful parks, bequeathed to the people in perpetuity by public-minded aristocrats from a bygone age. As he was passing under the archway at its entrance, he noted a pickpockets’ graveyard behind one of the ventilation shafts of the Metro system; it was a sorry corner where you might find the detritus of drug users’ paraphernalia and, as often as not, abandoned purses, handbags, and wallets, picked clean of all valuables by the thieves that plagued the more touristic stretches of Rome’s transport system.

      Sometimes there were even coins, Polish zloty, or roubles: useless as they could neither be spent nor exchanged locally and would only risk incriminating any self-respecting pickpocket. So, most thieves were after ready cash or maybe credit cards and, almost as a matter of course, would jettison any ID, which would, sometimes, get returned to its rightful owners. He’d even witnessed bizarre scenes of freshly fleeced individuals getting their wallets thrown back through the closing doors of a tube train about to depart; a little lighter for cash but at least freeing the owner of the trauma of having to drag themselves through the Italian bureaucracy.

      The judge had left him feeling slightly perplexed. He was evidently a cold individual, and likely still in a state of shock. The two factors had combined to render his replies somewhat enigmatic but as yet Rossi hadn’t been able to put his finger on what it was that was bothering him. He was also thinking about Marini’s handbag and why the killer might have taken it. It had been cleaned out but by an opportunist third party, or even the killer himself. Had he decided to make a little bonus while he was at it? Had he needed cash? For drugs, possibly. But then why hadn’t he left it at the scene? Maybe fearing prints, and they had been able to get some, but they could have been from any passer-by who had taken a hopeful peek.

      There was also the possibility that he had been disturbed, had heard someone approaching, and taken it with him as he made his escape. Like a wild animal slinking off with its kill so it can be studied, savoured, enjoyed in peace, away from the nagging attention of jackals and hyenas. Or had he been looking for something? Even the calmest person, in the least stressful of situations, can sometimes feel like they are losing their mind while trying to find a house key at the bottom of a bag chock-full of items, and in poor light, too, not to mention the risk of being seen. Was it all beginning to add up to something more complex? But what could he have been looking for? And why? He stopped by the ornamental lake and took out his phone to call Carrara.

      “Gigi?”

      “Yes, boss.”

      “Put the press conference back to six or seven. Something’s come up. I think the judge might have been on to something all along.”

      “What do you mean? Mafia?” Carrara’s voice betrayed ill-concealed incredulity.

      “Something,”

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