The Dante Conspiracy - By Tom Kasey Page 0,1

longer – a lot longer – than most.

But they had to be sure.

The questioner nodded to himself, his decision made.

‘I’m almost inclined to believe you,’ he said, his voice soft and pleasant, ‘but I’m sure you understand that we do need to make absolutely sure. Guido, use the torch.’

The captive’s head snapped round to his left, to see what his tormentor was planning to do next. Then, even before the man stepped back beside him, he started screaming again.

Guido picked up a simple and utilitarian object, a chef’s blowtorch, turned the knob to start the flow of gas, then squeezed the trigger on the handle to light the flame, the roar of the burning gas a deeper counterpoint to the noise the academic was making.

‘Last chance, Professor. Tell me now or you’re going to fry.’

But Bertorelli just kept screaming, the noise echoing around the barn. That didn’t matter, because there was nobody within half a mile of the farmhouse, and both the men knew it.

Guido smiled at the captive, then slowly lowered the blowtorch until the flame was just licking the back of the professor’s hand, burning off the hairs. Then he lowered it still further and watched with interest as the living flesh began to cook, the blood boiling, and the unholy smell of roasting human meat started to fill the barn.

After about thirty seconds he released the trigger, took a small bottle of water from his briefcase and splashed some onto Bertorelli’s hand. A small cloud of steam rose, and the rest of the water, stained red with blood, dripped onto the floor.

The academic was screaming and sobbing, taking in great gulps of air and weeping copiously.

Guido looked across at his companion.

‘I really don’t think he knows,’ he said.

The questioner – the name he used was Marco – nodded.

‘You might be right,’ he agreed, ‘but do it again, for a minute this time. We really do have to make sure.’

Guido nodded, and pressed the trigger again. Once more the roar of burning gas and Bertorelli’s agonised screams echoed from the old solid stone walls of the barn as he bent forward to continue his work.

The man’s screams grew louder and more intense as the electric-blue core of the flame dug ever deeper into the back of his left hand, the flesh sizzling and popping as it burned. Then, suddenly, he fell silent, his head slumping forward. Immediately Guido released his grip on the trigger, silencing the roar of the gas. He felt the captive’s neck, and nodded at Marco.

‘He’s still got a pulse,’ he announced. ‘Probably just passed out from the pain. But I genuinely don’t think he knows the answer we’re looking for.’

Almost reluctantly, Marco nodded.

‘I think you’re right. Finish it now,’ he ordered, ‘while he’s still out.’

Guido replaced the blowtorch in the recess in his briefcase and took out a loop of rope and a long screwdriver. He seized Bertorelli’s hair and lifted his chin so that he could drop the rope underneath, then put the screwdriver into the other end of the loop and began twisting it to form an effective garrotte. Within a few seconds, the rope was tightening around the academic’s neck, and then he began to really put the pressure on, twisting the screwdriver until it would move no further, and just held it there in position for nearly two minutes. He knew from experience that that should be time enough.

Then he pulled out the screwdriver blade to release the rope and again felt for a pulse, before glancing over at his companion.

‘He’s gone,’ he reported briefly.

Guido put the screwdriver back in the briefcase, checked that the soldering iron was now cool – he’d switched it off before he’d started using the blowtorch – and packed it away. Then he cleaned the jaws of the pair of wire cutters and put that tool into the correct position as well. He was always neat and methodical in his work. Once he got home, he would boil the wire cutters and every other tool which had come into direct contact with the professor in a strong solution of bleach, which would eliminate any possible forensic evidence to link his tools with the crime.

The exception was the rope, the actual murder weapon, and his apron and gloves. He dropped all those on the concrete floor behind the dead man, took a small plastic bottle of petrol from his case and splashed the contents over the pile, then lit a match and tossed it onto the