Frame-Up (19 page)

"I doubt it would be granted. It would have to be a death or something
serious in my immediate family that requires me to travel. Not for
somebody who isn’t even related to me. But even if they allowed me,
right now I cannot afford to be away. I need to clear my name and I must
keep the
mafioso
busy. He might get suspicious if I’m away for several
days."

"I really hoped you could come along."

"I will, the moment this is over."

"I miss you. Will I see you tonight? Spend the night with you?"

"I’ll come to the restaurant at seven thirty, with my dad."

"Is he a regular here?"

"He was, but before you came. I guess when he was still married to my
mother." The iPhone begins playing the opening notes of Beethoven’s
third symphony. "Silvio, my cell phone is ringing. It may be urgent.
Ciao
.
See you tonight."

It’s Fausto. He wants to see me. We agree to meet in half an hour at
the café on the south side of Oxford Street, next by the Bond Street
underground station. It seems that Long’s e-mail folders will have to wait
another day.

Thursday, 6:20 p.m.

Not knowing whether I’ll have enough time to change into an outfit
suitable to go to dinner with my father, I changed before taking the Circle
line to Bond Street. So I’m five minutes late. Fausto is waiting outside the
café. We enter and find a screened-off table. I order a double macchiato.

"They serve that here? A real macchiato?"

"Yes," I reply, bemused by his surprise. He orders the same.

"And what did Signor Carvaggio say to your request to work with me
rather than against me?"

"How do you know I even talked to him, signorina?"

"Because that is in your best interest."

He nods. "He agreed to give you ten days, and also said that I should
keep a close eye on you."

"Good," I reply smiling. I know who is going to keep a close eye on
whom. "So what have you found out so far?"

"Last night, I staked out the building where this guy Long lives. I saw
him drive away in a Maserati."

"A Maserati?"

"Yes, worth at least two hundred thousand euros."

"You are sure it was him?"

"Yes, no doubt. He stopped as he drove out of the underground garage
to light a cigarette. I saw him clearly. You think he is our man?"

"Could be. He just recently bought the penthouse studio he lives in and
now owns a car that costs twice what he had before. I will investigate
where the money came from. That will tell us more."

"I could shake him up a bit."

"Not yet. You see, he could have inherited recently. He sometimes
bragged about his rich Australian uncle. So, give me till next week. By
then I should know."

The waitress brings our order. Fausto takes a sip and grins. "That’s the
genuine article. I didn’t know one could get a decent coffee in this god-forsaken country."

"What else do you have for me?"

He hands me the camera. "There are six or seven pictures of Long with
people he met."

I scan through the photos. One is with two colleagues, Grant one of
them, just as they come out of the building of Lewis’ offices. Another
shot has him with Fred Garland, two blocks away from the office. A third
and fourth show him sitting in a bar with other people. One of them looks
familiar. Where have I seen this face before? Then it comes to me. Gary
introduced me to him some weeks ago, I think just outside Goldsax, when
I met him there after work: Bob Gough, the stockbroker who found me
a buyer for the Sanvino shares. Is this a coincidence or something more?"
I try to recognize the bar. It doesn’t seem to be one of the usual haunts for
stockbrokers.

"You remember where this bar is located?"

"Yes, it’s near Trafalgar Square. The … sorry, it slipped my mind."

"The Governor?"

"Yes, that’s it. You know it?"

"I was once in there."

So Bob Gough could be the link between Long and Gary, if these two
worked in concert. A somewhat big ‘if’. Could Gary really have done that
to me at the same time as he had sex with me? Something inside me
revolts against that conjecture. I push these thoughts to the side for the
moment, and look at the other four shots. They show Long with various
other stockbrokers, either eating lunch or standing near the bar in one of
the usual lunch places.

"Fausto, you have done well. Tomorrow night and over the weekend,
I want you to observe this man." I take a picture of Gary from my
handbag. "His name is Gary Buxton."

"I know him. He is your ex-boyfriend."

"Right, he told me you had a friendly conversation with him."

He grins.

"He works for Goldsax. Do you have a London map?"

He nods and retrieves a British Tourist Authority mini map of London.
I show him the location of Goldsax. "This is where he works."

"Yes, I caught him just outside the office."

"How did you know about him?"

"I saw you with him last Thursday at lunch. It looked like you two
were having a lovers’ tiff. I followed him after you walked out on him."

That’s when Gary told me that it was over between us and that he had
told Somes I was a compulsive liar. I take two deep breaths to calm my
rising anger.

"He is the one who confirmed the false rumor. The guy you saw with
Long at the Governor also works for Goldsax. So all three could be
accomplices." As I say that I’m not sure whether it is wise to speculate
like this to Fausto. What if he goes after them on his own? But it’s too
late. I just have to make sure he only does what I want him to. "So, over
the weekend, shadow this man. See with whom he meets and where. As
far as I know, he has no car. So find out if he has one now. Give me a call
by tomorrow morning. I may have new directions for you then."

"And what about tonight?"

"I think you may take the evening off."

"Can you recommend a decent Italian restaurant, signorina?"

"In the vicinity? Yes, there is the
Dolce Vita
. Show me the map again."

He does.

"It’s here." I mark it with the letters DV. "It’s very classy, expensive,
genuine
cucina romana
. If you like fish,
Il Pescatore
, here, is excellent."
I mark it P. "And over here in Soho is
Il Napolitano
. I’ve never been
there, but they claim to serve southern Italian dishes." I mark it N."

"Would you be willing to join me, signorina?"

"Thank you, Fausto, for your invitation, but I already have another
dinner appointment tonight … with my father. And after midnight, I’ll be
busy hacking into the computers of our potential culprits."

He seems genuinely disappointed. But even if I were free and no
Silvio, I would want to keep my distance from this man.

"I guess I keep the camera."

"Yes, you still need it. And now, Fausto, I’ll have to run or else I’ll
keep my father waiting."

He accompanies me to the underground station where we shake hands.

Thursday, 7:25 p.m.

I beat my father by five minutes and wait at the bar, looking for Silvio.
He is suddenly behind me, warm breath, whispering into my ear "
Ciao,
amore
", and then kisses my cheek. Heat spreads from my solar plexus,
surprising me anew. I turn around, smiling. "
Ti voglio bene
," I murmur.
He has a half-full glass of red wine in each hand and passes one to me.

"
Cin’cin
," we say simultaneously, lightly touching the glasses together
and then take a sip.

"Your father not here yet?"

"No. He should be here any minute. Although he is thoroughly British,
he is punctual like Swiss trains."

Silvio responds with an amused smile. "I’ve reserved your table."

"Thanks, look, there he comes." I point to the entrance.

My father spots me too and joins us.

We exchange the usual brushing of cheek — my father resisted that
custom for a long time and I may still be the only person with whom he
does it.

"Dad, this is Silvio Bartoli, the chef cum manager. Silvio, this is my
father, Albert Walker," I say in English.

The two shake hands.

"Sir, nice to meet you. Would you like to share a glass of Barbaresco
with us or do you prefer to go to your table right away?"

"At the table, with a glass of Barbaresco, please. Is it the real thing?"

"Dad, Silvio only serves the real thing," I chip in while Silvio nods.

He signals the barista for another glass and, after showing us to the
little table at the back, excuses himself.

"He seems to be quite friendly toward you," my father remarks. "Have
you known him long?"

"Yes, almost from the beginning. This was the only restaurant I
indulged in while I studied for the MBA. My guess is that the Italian
connection helped."

"Do I discern more than simply an acquaintance? I saw him kiss you."

"Yes, dad, guilty as charged." I try to make it sound light-hearted. "He
is really special and has been very supportive, not to speak of the
excellent food he serves."

"Isn’t this a bit fast? You just broke with Gary."

"Yes, it happened too fast, but he has courted me for years."

My father shakes his head. "Young people of today, changing lovers
like changing clothes."

It feels like a reprimand, but right then Silvio brings the menu cards
and I refrain from answering. Silvio recommends the fish, and we quickly
settle on that, with only a selection of bread as a starter. After Silvio
withdraws, I come back to dad’s remark.

"That was unfair, dad. Gary was my first steady boyfriend and it lasted
two years. And even if it may be premature to say so, I don’t think Silvio
is just another fling. He’s not the type, nor am I. He is such a freeing
change. I’ve only realized now how stifling my relationship with Gary
had become."

"Oh, I would welcome it if you settled down. You are getting on a bit.
You don’t want to be in your thirties before you have your first child."

"That’s my thought too. I guess that’s what I hoped, why I stuck it out
with Gary for so long."

I suddenly have the urge to confide in him about Gary’s irate behavior.
He listens without interruptions. That leads to telling him about my recent
investigations and what I’ve learned from the
mafioso
. It’s obvious that
my father is highly concerned about me joining forces with that man.

Silvio sits with us for a while, sharing a plate of cheeses after the
mains. He shouts us to a velvety glass of late harvest Riesling.

When we leave, Silvio whispers in my ear: "Will I see you after
closing? I could come to you, around a quarter to twelve."

I nod. I want him to come. "Yes, I would like that," I murmur. He
responds with a pleased smile and another kiss on the cheek.

"That sounded like a ‘yes’ to an assignation," my father remarks,
grinning.

I can’t help blushing. "Yes, it was."

Thursday, 10.50 p.m.

I didn’t intend to be that early in the alley behind Lewis’ offices, but it is
either now or much later at three or four in the morning. The latter choice
doesn’t appeal. I want Silvio to stay with me till early morning. I want to
wake with him warm and soft next to me.

So, sitting in the dark in my van, I log in as Edward Long and send the
internal e-mail to Fred Garland. In less than two minutes I’m off again on
my way home. Tomorrow night I will be back, hopefully to take
possession of his password and then his files will be mine. I don’t yet
know what I will do in the unlikely case that I find something, whether
I should refer it to the police, admitting that I illegally entered the system,
or do something else. Would he confess if shaken up by the
mafioso
? A
decision on that can wait. It may never come to anything anyway. I might
find nothing, the same as I might find nothing in Long’s e-mail files.