Frame-Up (9 page)

"Yes, Silvio, alone. You may woo me now to your heart’s content."

He responds with a laugh. "Your boyfriend — or is it ex-boyfriend? —
he was here the other day … with a buxom blonde, or rather yellow-haired broad."

That didn’t take Gary long
. Still, it feels like a stab in the side, but
passes quickly. "Yes, he is a fast mover."

"What happened?" He adds quickly: "You don’t have to tell me if
you’d rather not talk about it."

"Oh, it’s a long story, Silvio. Let’s see … a story in five acts. I was
first accused of fraud, then fired, next questioned by the police, then
dumped by Gary because I refused to perjure myself, and finally today
the police searched my apartment and took away my laptop. That’s it in
very few words." My flippancy surprises me.

"That can’t be true! Fraud? You?"

"Not me, no, but I think I’ve been framed."

He puts his hand on mine. I don’t remove mine. His face tells me that
he feels for me.

"Look. Cecilia, you were wasted on Gary. He didn’t deserve you."

"Yes, I’ve come to that conclusion too."

"Good. That’s the spirit." A warm smile lights up his face. "And what
are you going to do now?"

"What can I do but wait? Wait for the police to drop the case for lack
of evidence."

"But right now, Cecilia, you need to celebrate with a good meal."

"Celebrate?"

"Yes, celebrate ‘good riddance’. Come, your usual table is free."

I take the glass and follow.

"The meal is on me,
bella
."

"Thank you, Silvio, but you don’t have to do this."

"But I want to. I think that you need right now is to be spoiled a bit,
and I want to be the one doing the spoiling. I may join you later. And I’ll
order for you. I know exactly what. You’ll love me for it … at least I
hope you will."

It is one of the best meals ever. He joins me whenever he can make
himself free, even shares some of the dishes and the selection of wines.
He wants to know details about the events.

By eleven thirty, we are the only two people left. He closes up and
offers to drive me home. When I protest, he says: "I want to make sure
you get home safely."

Near my building, he gets out of the car and accompanies me to the
entrance.
Does he hope for more
, I wonder? I’m usually not the type who
jumps into bed quickly. It has to feel right, and this seems rather fast, but
I say nothing. In fact, I don’t know what my answer would be if he asks
to come up.

He doesn’t. His lips briefly brush mine, and then he locks eyes with
me. His are almost black with a deep, mysterious smile. He kisses me a
second time with more fire and says: "
Ciao bella
, I enjoyed this evening."
Then he turns and goes back to his car. I watch. Confused? Disappointed?
I can’t tell which.

Saturday, 25
^th
October, 8:35 a.m.

Saturday, another weekend. I sleep in. When I wake, something feels
different. Something is missing, and then it comes to me. Gary isn’t in
bed next to me as on most Saturday mornings. He dumped you, a voice
in my head reminds me. Two years simply drained away like from a
ruptured flask, with nothing to show but empty feelings. I shake my head
as if this could banish the hurt. Ruminating on it won’t change a thing, the
voice admonishes.

 I force my mind on today. There is no housework, nor do I have any
plans for the weekend. That feels even stranger. I stretch my limbs and
moan with pleasure. My thoughts return to last night. I enjoyed myself
thoroughly. It wasn’t just the food, but also the company. There was a
complete absence of stress, of unspoken expectations. I could be myself.
I didn’t have to choose my words carefully, as it now seems to have been
the case with Gary lately. Maybe it is because we spoke Italian.

I wonder if Silvio will call me. It isn’t so much that I want to get into
a new relationship, not so quickly, not on the rebound. It’s just that last
night felt so good.

After a breakfast of coffee and a croissant, I wander over to the
Bayswater underground station to buy
The Times
Saturday edition.
Picking through that should keep me occupied for a while. I also want to
scan the notices for painting exhibitions and any interesting movies.

Back in my apartment, I call Lucy and ask if I may visit and spend the
afternoon with my two sisters. I hear her question Susan and Clara. Noise
of running feet and shouts of "yes, yes" by Susan, echoed by Clara, are
the answer. She invites me over for lunch to the Boltons, where my father
lives in a quaint Queen Anne style house in South Kensington.

Saturday, 5:50 p.m.

After a fun afternoon of games with the girls — I even enticed dad to
participate in one of them — I again don’t feel like cooking and decide
to have a dish at the cheep Bangladeshi restaurant near the Bayswater
underground station. While I’m waiting for my dishes, a swarthy man
enters and pauses at the door, scanning the patrons. I guess he is in his
early thirties. He wears a fashionably cut sports jacket over an indigo
open-neck silk shirt. His clothes emphasize his well-looked-after body.
His face doesn’t strike me as handsome but it shows character. It reveals
recognition when he spots me. Nobody I know, but I respond to his look
with a faint smile. There is something determined, bordering on
menacing, as he approaches my table. Without asking for permission, he
sits on the chair opposite me. I’m somewhat taken aback by this
forwardness, but at the same time he has me intrigued.

"Do I know you?" I ask.

He answers in Italian with a strong southern accent, keeping to the
formal polite ‘Lei’.

"No, signorina, you don’t. I won’t detain you long. I only have to give
you a message from Signor Carvaggio."

My view of him changes one hundred and eighty degrees. Instantly
I’m apprehensive and alert. This is not a would-be admirer, but somebody
come to threaten me, somebody who must have been waiting for me near
my apartment.

"Signor Carvaggio of Ventura?" I question, trying to gain time.

"Good. I see you know what this is all about."

"Yes, you have come to threaten me, but before you deliver your
message, I have a message for Signor Carvaggio —"

"He is not interested in your message," he interrupts. "You have two
million pounds of his. He wants that money, and he wants it promptly. He
gives you till Friday of next week to transfer the funds to his bank
account, and if you do not remember it anymore, here are the details." He
slides a business card of Ventura across the table. "He is a kind and
forgiving man. Since you have done well by him in the past, he will not
punish you for your misdeed, unless you fail to heed his command." He
locks eyes with me for a few seconds. They are dark and threatening.
"Signorina, do you fully understand the import of this message? Nobody
ignores our orders. Our reach is long."

It feels like an icy hand is gripping my heart. There is no doubt in my
mind that he is a
mafioso
, by his accent most likely from the notorious
Camorra clans of Naples. As Roberto Saviano in his book
Gomorra
describes so graphically, they do not shy away from killing relatives of
their victims. The thought that my two young stepsisters are in danger
paralyzes me for a moment. I swallow hard. I was going to tell him that
I too am the victim of a scam, but suddenly think better of it. If I tell him
I don’t have the funds, he might simply interpret this as unwillingness to
pay and give me a demonstration of their cruelty immediately. It might
be better to let them believe that I have the money. I might gain time and
string them along until I can find out who is behind the fraud and then
send them after the real quarry.

He rises smoothly, casting me a quick threatening glance, and leaves
the restaurant.

With his appearance, the Sanvino affair has not only changed
character, but has been ratcheted up to a level of real physical danger not
just for me but also for my relatives. I find myself between the hammer
and the anvil, the police and the Mafia. Should I let the police in on this
latest development? Would they believe me? Agree to protect my father’s
family? Wouldn’t Somes simply dismiss this as a subterfuge on my part?
How about Willis? He might take it more seriously. I ponder over this, as
I play with my food, my appetite gone. One thought keeps ringing in my
mind — prevent the girls from becoming a target, and that means
discovering the real culprits quickly. Carlo I’m less worried about. He is
more elusive to find and may be out of the country, as he told me.

The first thing I must do is to inform my father. I call him on my
iPhone, begging him to see me again, that it is urgent. He tells me to
come over. I quickly pay, leave the restaurant, and take the Circle Line to
the Gloucester Road underground station, a ten-minute walk to the
Boltons. It goes without saying that he is upset about the latest
development.

"Somebody has framed you, to make you take the rap for this thing.
Do you have any idea who?"

"It can be one or more of a number of people. Edward Long, the guy
who gave me the false rumor, is the most likely. A few months ago I
caught him doing an insider trading deal that netted him a few thousand.
He leads a rather extravagant life style — drives a Porsche, lives in a
penthouse in Chelsea near the Embankment and always brags about his
holidays in
Club Méditerrané
. But he might not have done it alone. Then
I cannot even rule out Gary Buxton, although he would have needed
somebody to advance the finance."

"But Gary Buxton, isn’t he your boyfriend?"

"Was, dad, was. He dumped me after the police questioned him about
the affair. But it was Gary who confirmed the rumor and Long who
suggested I check it with Goldsax, knowing damn well that I would ask
Gary."

"I’m sorry to hear that Gary broke with you. He was a nice chap."

"Yes, I thought so too until he dropped his mask and showed me his
real self when I refused to perjure myself for him."

"He wanted you to lie to the police?" Dad frowns, shaking his head

"Yes."

"But I hope you didn’t."

"No, I have nothing to hide."

His frown dissolves. "Good… So Long and Buxton could well be
accomplices."

"Yes, that possibility has occurred to me too. But there are several
other stockbrokers at Lewis who had it in for me. And then even my ex-boss, Fred Garland, could be behind it. What puzzles me most is how any
of them could have conjured up a ten-million-pound loan to acquire the
shares, even if just for two days. Somewhere, there must be a rich
backer."

"If offered a substantial share, I guess many a broker would be willing
to help out. So what do you plan to do?"

"I don’t know yet. Investigate these guys, see if there has been a
significant change in lifestyle —"

"Good, but whoever did it might lie low for a while. Still, it may pay
to check if Long has suddenly paid off his mortgage."

"I think he is only renting, but I’ll check on it, and yes, I’ll also check
on Fred Garland. Gary is only renting a small rather rundown studio. I’ll
search titles with the Land Registry. Their e-mail and computer files may
also contain some useful info."

"Don’t do anything illegal for which the police can charge you." Dad
sounds alarmed.

"I may have no choice. I may have to do some illegal things to get to
the bottom of it, but I don’t really want to worry you about that. I’ll be
careful it can’t be traced back to me. Remember, I have a degree in
computer science. As I said, my real reason for seeing you again tonight
is to warn you about this Mafia guy. They are known to go after relatives.
You have to get the girls and Lucy to safety, and I think you should do
this before Friday next week. You may be under surveillance after that.
I’m really sorry, dad."

"I have a hard time believing they would harm innocent girls."

"But they do. I read this book about the Camorra clans of Naples, you
know the one written by this journalist who is now under police
protection because of it? He writes about how they killed teenage
girlfriends of associates or of rival clan members, if these guys did
something that displeased the boss, just to teach them a lesson."