Frame-Up (21 page)

The search through the last three months of e-mails, both received and
sent out, doesn’t get me any further. There is nothing, except a terse e-mail to all employees that my employment has been terminated. Even the
bank statements reveals no more than high monthly mortgage payments
and regular private investment activity in shares. I’m basically back to
ground zero. I still have three, possibly four suspects, but no evidence to
pin on any of them.

Saturday, 10:10
a.m.

Fausto calls while I search through Garland’s files. He wants to report on
his investigation. So we agree to meet again in the same café on Bond
Street. He is there first. I query how he is, more out of politeness than
interest. Although it is useful to have him do some of the shadowing, I
wouldn’t mind if he disappeared for good, never to be seen again.

"
Bene
, signorina. I took your advice and ate at
Il Napolitano
. The food
was excellent, real fare from down south. The best meal since I came
here. I’ll be back there, but I now understand why a respectable signorina
like you would stay away from there. It wouldn’t be decent for you to
enter this seedy area, at least at night."

"Yes, it is not a pleasant place, even in day time," I reply, bemused by
his concern over my propriety. It probably reflects the conservative
behavior he would see proper for his sisters, all part of the paternalistic
Mafia culture toward their female relatives. "So what do you have for
me?"

"Several interesting things. First, your ex-boyfriend has shifted
residence." He spreads out the London mini map. "He doesn’t live here
any longer … is it Brompton? Yes. He has shifted to here." He takes two
seconds the read the name. "Camden Town."

"An apartment or a house?"

"An apartment on the third floor of a new building. Quite nice." He
shows me the second to the last shot on the camera. It looks like a fairly
expensive place.

"It’s probably the place where his new girlfriend lives. Did you check
the name on the bell?"

"Yes, I did. The name shown is G. Buxton."

So he has shifted up-market. What surprises me is the speed with
which he did it. The Gary I knew was more of a procrastinator. This
tendency led to several arguments between us. And he never hinted that
he considered moving. "Do you have his exact address?"

He takes a post-it sticker from his pocket. The address is on it,
including the rental agency.

"Impressive, Fausto. This is excellent work. You show initiative."

"That’s why
il capo
sent me here." He grins, clearly proud of being
praised so lavishly. "Your ex-boyfriend now also has a car, a black
Porsche Carrera. Quite an impressive machine. That’s what it looks like."
He shows me the next photo, showing the car drive away.

A black Carrera. Long’s Porsche was black. Did he sell it to Gary? …
Or is this the payoff for a service provided, such as confirming the bum
rumor?

"Unfortunately, I could not read the license plate?"

I take the camera and say: "Maybe I can read it from the shot."

"No hope. It’s too small."

I zoom in on the license plate. At the largest magnification the letters
and numbers, although fuzzy, are readable. The number looks familiar,
but I can’t be sure that it is Long’s old one. I would have to check it out
with the Vehicle Registration Service. While I quickly note the number
down, Fausto exclaims: "
Per dio
, signorina, how did you do this?"

"This is a very fancy little gadget. See, with the zoom button I can also
magnify any part of the photo."

He scratches his head in wonder. "I should buy myself one like this
too. It sure is handy. By the way, how many pictures can I still take with
it?"

"Another four or five hundred."

"What?"

"Yes, it has a one gigabyte card in it."

"
Madonna
, I will buy one for sure," he exclaims, taking the camera
back. "Here is another shot that might interest you." It’s Gary with a girl.
"That’s his new girlfriend. You want to see her enlarged." He grins and
quickly magnifies the center of the picture, clearly enjoying teasing me.
Silvio’s description of her is spot on. She is a platinum blonde, and her
laugh looks vulgar, but then I admit that I may be somewhat biased.

The next shot shows Gary with two other men, sitting at a table behind
a window. One of them is Long. I have to look twice before I believe my
eyes that the third man is indeed Garland. It doesn’t look like a casual
meeting at a bar, not with them sitting formally at a table. I check the time
the shot was taken. One ten. So it was a lunch meeting. What would those
three have to talk about? I have no answer, only wild speculations —
reminiscing about how they did me in? Bargaining about how to split the
profits? Planning the next scam? Or could it be something innocent, such
as Garland trying to recruit Gary as my replacement? Having missed out
on the promotion, Gary might be open to competitive offers.

"The third man here is Fred Garland, my ex-boss. He is one of my
suspects. By the way, I couldn’t find anything suspicious on Long’s
computer. He recently inherited big and could easily finance his new car.
Not that this rules him out completely, especially after seeing him
together with these two."

"Do you want me to continue shadowing Buxton?"

"Not now; maybe later again. Over this weekend I would like you to
check out my ex-boss, Fred Garland." I hand Fausto the picture I’ve cut
out from the employee list and on which I wrote Garland’s address. "He
lives way out here in Hampstead Heath." I point to the suburb on the
greater London map, which is on the reverse of the mini map, and then
hand him the copies of the sky view and street view I printed out a few
days ago. "Here, you see it’s a mansion in a large setting, about an acre,
with a fence around it."

"How much is an acre?"

"Two fifth of a hectare." His expression tells me that this has little
meaning for him. "An area about eighty yards long and fifty wide."

"That is quite large. But how come you have these pictures? Where did
you get them from?"

"I printed them from the Google maps."

"Google maps? What are those?"

"Google maps … have you never looked them up on the Internet?"

"No."

"With broadband you can access street views of most cities, as if you
were driving through the streets. You can even rotate the view 360
degrees. There are also views taken from a plane, like this one."

"That’s very useful. I wish you would teach me how to do this."

"Maybe, I can demonstrate it to you another time," I answer, hoping
that it may never come to that. The idea of teaching a
mafioso
tools to
sharpen his dubious activities doesn’t appeal. "You should also be aware
that he might have security to keep intruders out, such as a remote control
gate, possibly even closed circuit cameras near the gate and by the house.
They have a dog, but I don’t think it’s a guard dog." The very thought that
this big, lovable, long-haired creature won’t greet any stranger with
wagging tail makes me smile. My ex-boss occasionally brought him to
the office and the dog took a special liking for me, each time lying at my
feet. If I remember correctly, it is a Bernese Mountain dog. They got him
because these dogs are particularly good with children, and the Garlands
have two girls, eight and ten.

"What’s the purpose of doing this?"

The man has more brains than I’ve given him credit for. "We may
sooner or later have to break in and search for incriminating documents
in his house. So you need to find out the best way to get in without raising
the alarm or getting caught."

His eyes light up. The prospect of such action seems to have appeal.

"And while we are talking about that, we may have to do the same for
Long’s penthouse studio." I’m tempted to add, "but don’t get caught" and
then decide against it. He may feel insulted.

"But not Buxton."

"Too early to say."

Shortly after that, we each go our separate ways. Rather than return
home directly, I stroll toward Oxford Circus, window-shopping, although
there is nothing I need. I remind myself that I’m still in the cut-expense
mode. In the four years I’ve lived in London, I’ve hardly ever indulged
in such leisure activity. Now there is time. The football game is only
scheduled for three o’clock and I agreed to meet the Harpers half an hour
earlier at the entrance to the Chelsea stadium.

At Oxford Circus, I turn right into Regent Street. I pass by a shop
displaying stuffed toy animals. I owned a genuine Stein bear — my
steady companion as long as I can remember, sharing my bed well into
my teens. It’s probably still in a cupboard with other things of mine in my
grandparents’ house in Montagnola. It reminds me that Silvio is going to
visit his four-year-old daughter. I spot a cute Koala bear. On the spur of
the moment I enter and ask to see one. They have several. Although made
in China, they are well made and soft. I select one with a lovable face and
ask the shop assistant to gift-wrap it. Happy with my purchase I take the
underground home.

Saturday, 2:30 p.m.

I vacillated between wearing a skirt or slacks for the match. In the end, I
opted for a stylishly cut combination of a light blue, flowing, knee-length
skirt, a white top and a darker blue jacket, under the assumption that Mrs.
Harper will most likely be in a skirt. I was right. She wears an elegant
blue dress, enhanced by a flowery silk scarf. Sally also wears a short skirt,
a white blouse and a blue cardigan. Her eyes are shining, full of excited
anticipation. Mr. Harper greets me with a pleased smile: "I see, you’re
wearing the Chelsea colors."

"You urged me to, Mr. Harper," I respond and then turn to his wife:
"You look smashing in this dress, Mrs. Harper."

She smiles bashfully, while Sally whispers into my ear: "Dad bought
it for her yesterday. He even took her to the pub last night." In fact, my
compliment seems to please him too.

He guides us through the milling throng in front of the entrance and
then into the sea of blue in a central section facing the middle of the field,
about a third up. Large bright red patches color the opposite side of the
stand. He exchanges greetings and backslaps with several people and
relishes in the appraising looks his company of three women elicits.
Being the tallest of the four, I’m the object of a lot of curious glances. I
can see his pride as he introduces me as a friend of Sally. He buys soft
drinks and nibbles for all of us from a vendor.

When the players jog into the field, the hum around us swells to a
rising chorus, breaking into the Chelsea supporters’ song.

The game starts slowly, the ball rarely leaving the center half of the
field, no side dominating. Mr. Harper explains to Sally what is going on
and the rulings of the umpire. Twenty minutes into game, a Chelsea
player breaks through the Arsenal defense. The constant waves of roar
turn ear shattering. Mr. Harper and Sally both jump up, Sally shouting in
excitement. I’m sure the player is going to score, but just as the ball flies
to the right of the goalie, an Arsenal defender deflects it past the goal
post. The roar on our side drops suddenly, replaced by the jeers of relief
of the opposition. Five minutes later Chelsea scores, but the goal is
disallowed to the prolonged and outraged booing of the Chelsea
supporters.

"Why, dad?" Sally cries, almost in tears.

When he doesn’t answer right away, I say: "The player was offside
when he received the ball."

Mr. Harper looks at me in surprise: "Yes, that’s right, Miss Walker.
You know about football?"

"A bit. I played it at highschool."

"You did? Really? What position?"

"Oh, it wasn’t that formal, usually as striker."

He raises his eyebrows. Sally cuts in, almost pleading, wanting to
know why the player has been offside, and he explains the offside rules.

At half time, the game is still scoreless, although in my opinion
Chelsea did assert its dominance. Mr. Harper goes off to talk to friends,
while Mrs. Harper chats with the person sitting next to her.

"And how are things at home, Sally," I ask.