Juggling the Stars (24 page)

‘I know,' she said. 'I'm just being stupid, I suppose,' and she giggled nervously in the warm air.

‘When we get to Sardinia,' Morris said, ‘there'll be a phone and you can call them from there.'

Morris was rather pleased with himself for not having rushed to Stazione Termini too early and got himself caught there for hours trying to explain to Massimina why they didn't take the first of the frequent trains out to Civitavecchia and the boat. No, he had timed it perfectly. Their local from the Lido pulled in at a quarter to one, leaving them barely fifteen minutes to book tickets to Civitavecchia and check out the ferry times before the espresso would arrive from Milan. Then ten more minutes before their own train, Morris even felt an unexpected tinge of gratitude towards the Italian railway system which as yet showed no sign of letting him down. In her excitement at the prospect of a long boat trip Massimina had now forgotten all ideas of going home, and, ordering their tickets in the great throbbing entrance hall of the station, they felt quite like a regular holiday couple, her with her straw hat on and him with a bit more colour to his cheeks after yesterday.

To waste a couple of minutes he took her to buy a pair of sunglasses. (Why on earth hadn't he thought of that before?) His choice was the biggest and roundest and darkest pair there were and after something of a squabble over the price (she was right, it was absurdly high, but they were designer frames as the shop attendant patiently explained) the glasses were bought. Stepping out of the shop and back into the station, the p.a. announced the imminent arrival of the Milan-Palermo espresso on platform six. Right on the nail. Morris looked at his watch and told Massimina he just wanted to phone his friend in Sardinia to let him know when they were arriving more or less. In the meanwhile she should wait on platform fifteen where the train for Civitavecchia would leave.

Sensing her eyes following him, he went towards the station S.I.P. as she would expect. And had a stroke of genius. He did have four or five minutes before the espresso actually pulled in. The idea was right. He slipped into a booth and phoned the Verona police directly. Inspector Marangoni was out for lunch, but his assistant Tolaini, was available.

‘No developments then?' An apparently very discouraged Morris.

‘No, Signor Duckworth. Nothing significant.'

‘You didn't find that man on the bus?'

‘Not a trace.'

‘But I don't understand it. Surely if someone has kidnapped her they'd ask for a ransom or something, I mean …'

‘Well,' the young detective was hesitant, but obviously happy to talk. He was there manning the phone through a lonely lunch break after all. ‘Obviously we're expecting some kind of ransom demand any moment, but there's been nothing so far. My own personal suspicion is that somebody may have managed to get in touch with the family behind our backs and be arranging a deal without telling us.'

‘Oh, I see. Is that normal?'

‘So far as any of these things are, yes. It's a pretty desperate situation for the mother of course and the family of the victim have a natural tendency to think that the police aren't really doing enough and don't care and so on. From a psychological point of view it's a fairly well documented phenomenon.'

‘I can imagine,' Morris said. He was positively itching to get at that train now. They didn't know a single damn thing. It would be rolling in any minute. Get on it and grab the cash. But he managed to go on talking to Tolaini with polite interest for a full two minutes more on his watch.

Platform six was in total confusion. All the better. On one side, to the right, the espresso was still hissing and clanking the last few yards down die oil-stained rails, while to the left a rapido to Venice was expected in at any moment. Soldiers, backpackers, old women, plus all the usual anonymous crowd buzzed about, jockeying for position laughing and smoking, wishing they'd booked a seat no doubts or hoping they'd be able to find the one they had booked. (How many hours in the corridor to Naples? The loos would be filthy.) Children whined and scampered and there was a group of toddlers all waving balloons in the care of a single ancient nun. Morris suddenly felt perfectly calm. It was a piece of cake.

The train was still. A slight final lurch and then every door was banging open and a great crowd of people tumbled out onto the platform into the equally eager crowd struggling to get in, each man and woman clutching his cumbersome bag and knocking it against the legs of all the others. Morris, without any baggage, pushed quickly through the mêlée glancing up at each compartment for the first-class stickers and found the first one in the third carriage. He walked on to the fourth carriage, waited his turn in the confusion, climbed up and pushed his way down the corridor back to his goal. As soon as he was in the third carriage and the first-class section, the crowd eased off, the compartments were half empty: there were just one or two people standing around in the corridor smoking quietly. Which meant less cover of course. But then Morris wasn't expecting trouble.

An older man was standing outside the first compartment in a light silver-grey suit with thinning hair slicked back, watching the crowd outside. Plain-clothes policeman? They'd been taking him for a ride perhaps. And of course if they did know everything then naturally they'd give him that shit on the phone (and he shouldn't have posted the letter in Rome if he was going to collect here).

Except they couldn't know. They mustn't.

The compartment door was closed and all the blinds drawn. He couldn't see in. A trap? Morris bit his lower lip and tensed his body ready to spring into action. But the muscles still felt terribly weak. He had lost weight through the illness. He wasn't well. And then a scuffle was no good. If they knew about it, they'd be armed. If they knew about it, it was already too late.

To open the compartment door he had to squeeze round the man in the suit. (A suit in this weather? He had to be fake.)

‘Permesso.' ‘Prego, prego.' Holding his breathy expecting the handcuffs at any moment, feeling them already on his wrist, Morris slid back the door. The compartment was in deep shade with only a pencil of light coming through from under the lowered blinds and just one middle-aged lady sat silent in a corner., head thrown back and mouth disturbingly open, breathing deeply. The air was stale with sleep.

His eyes went up to the luggage racks and two huge suitcases, hers and the man's outside presumably, matching Moroccan leather with bright buckles. They must be man and wife. And then above the woman's head a small brown holdall! Yes, as if he had dreamed it and there it was. As if he had willed it there.

Morris looked over his shoulder. The man by the window hadn't moved, appeared to be lighting a cigar. Morris took two steps to the far corner, lifted the holdall from the rack, stepped backwards careful not to brush the woman's legs, and without waking her was already outside the compartment.

‘Permesso
. ‘ He pulled the door to. The man in the grey suit glanced at him, curious, from over a cigar he was lighting.

‘My wife went and left her bag there back in Milan,' Morris smiled a sweet smile with just a hint of ‘you-know-what-women-are-like' about it. The man puffed, said nothing.

Morris hurried back up the corridor in the direction he had come and under his breath found himself muttering, 'Thank you God, thank you, thank you,' which was what he used to say after he read the exam results outside the headmaster's door. He laughed. Oh he had done it this time! He had really done it. If the money was in there, that is. But it must be, it …

Still in the corridor, feverish, Morris stopped a moment, balanced the holdall on one knee and pulled the zip. Clothes: T-shirts, blouses, skirts …? Yes, of course, he'd asked them to put the clothes on top. But underneath? A large man in overalls pushed out of a compartment thrust himself past Morris and sent the precariously balanced bag tumbling to the floor. The neatly folded clothes spilled out.

‘Asino!'
 Morris shouted involuntarily, desperately scrabbling after the thing. The corridor here in the second-class section was all a-bustle and people turned. Likewise the burly man in overalls. A wide aggressive face, low forehead, bulging eyes.

'Dillo di nuovo e ti spacco la testa
. I'll smash your face in,' The man seemed ready to spit.
‘Nessuno mi chiama asino!'

At the first hint of trouble a half-silence fell on the scene. Morris, trying to bundle back the clothes, saw the stacks of fifty thousand lire notes tied in elastic bands in the bottom of the case, visible to all. Oh God, get the clothes in quick.

‘Mi scusi, mi scusi, colpa mia,' Morris croaked. ‘My fault. You know how it is in the rush.'

He was on his feet now. Incredibly, nobody had noticed. Traffic began to flow again down the corridor. Only a little boy was watching him agape. The burly man grunted and pushed along ahead, Morris following timidly. And at the first door he was out. Free! And the air seemed so fresh after the stale sweat and nerves of the train. Free. Rich! He should have brought a suitcase though, so he could have switched over the money now and got rid of this garbage, because Massimina was going to wonder where …

‘Hey man, well would you fucking well believe it! Morris buddy!'

He looked up. Was it a nightmare or what? He was hearing voices now. The platform was throbbing with movement, a great wave of passengers pushing down from the train towards the station end of the platform and then the undercurrent thrusting up along the doors, trying to find a compartment that wasn't crowded. On the other side a steadily clanging bell indicated that the Venice rapido must already be approaching. Right in front of him somebody was heaving a cart, trying to sell ice-creams and cold drinks - and, as the cart moved away to the right, from behind it there appeared the bearded, grinning face of Stan.

‘Hey, one in a million, man, fancy meeting you here!'

And he had wanted this to be so organized, so cool, so professional You were wrestling with the stars was the truth. He had been bora to this.

‘Hello,' Morris said. His smile must have been wax and ashes. ‘Simonetta too. What a surprise!'

And now he saw that Stan, leaning heavily on the little girl's shoulder, had his left leg in plaster nearly up to the thigh.

‘Pretty, eh? Drove the microbus into a wall coming off the autostrada. Marion did. Thing was a write-off. I've been in hospital here for more than a week and now Netty's taking me home.'

The mousy girl smiled brightly at Morris. More brightly than he remembered seeing from her before. She'd nailed her wounded soldier obviously. Got him to herself.

‘What bad luck,' Morris said. You could say that again. His mind was whirling. Get out now and the thing still wasn't a disaster.

‘What are you up to though, fancy meeting you here, I mean …'

‘On my way to Sardinia,' Morris said. Tell the truth, why not? ‘In fact I've …'

‘Morrees! Morrees, Morreeeeees!!' The voice shrilled high above the crowd noise in the half-silence after the bell had ceased to clang. From across the space of two empty lines, where any moment now that rapido would come squealing in, Massimina was shouting and waving her arms.

‘They've moved the platform, Morrees. It's leaving from number ten. Come quick or we'll never get a seat.'

‘Okay,' he shouted. She'd think he was holding one of their bags. ‘Got to rush.'

‘Who's the chick?' Stan grinned. ‘Hey man, I wish I was coming with you. This accident's fucked up the whole summer, not to mention the money side. Same girl you were with at the bus stop that night, no?'

What an eye the bastard had! Massimina was at least twenty metres away and completely changed. Or perhaps he only looked at breasts.

'That's right.'

‘Whatever happened,' Simonetta asked, ‘to the other girl, the one they said was kidnapped?'

Morris shrugged his shoulders: ‘No idea. Still,' he added lamely, ‘I wasn't actually going out with her any more when it happened.' It sounded awful.

‘You men are all pigs,' Simonetta pouted from her little happy face. ‘See if Stan would lose any time worrying if I disappeared.' But she had turned to look at Massimina who was shouting again, ‘Morrees, come on, come on!'

‘Pretty girl,' Stan said, and to annoy Simonetta. 'Too bad you can't introduce us.'

Morris was desperately trying to weigh up how dangerous the situation was. His body, which had been so gloriously cool and relaxed just a few moments before, was now coursing with heat so that he could feel the sweat trickling down his back between tense buttocks. Would they recognize Massimina's face when it appeared again in the papers? It looked like they'd be spending the whole summer holed up in Verona now and with his leg in plaster Stan wouldn't have much else to do but read the papers. If only there was only one of them! If Stan was alone he could help him onto the train, bundle him into a loo, get the door closed and throttle him there. Beat the life out of the stupid hippy hypocrite. (Worried about the money indeed!) The same with Simonetta; she seemed so small and frail you could have choked her with one hand. But with the two of them …

‘Got to rush, sorry.'

‘Send us a card,' Stan laughed. ‘Hey and introduce me to that chick when you get back to VR!'

Morris was already moving away down the platform.

‘Arrivederci!'

He turned to shout something reassuring to Massimina, but the Venice rapido was already rumbling in, drowning all sound in squeals and clanks, blocking the view. In the middle of the crowd, now getting frantic with the imminent departure of one train and the arrival of the other, Morris stopped at a litter bin where he'd caught sight of a plastic bag. He lifted the thing out. Full of orange peel. He emptied the peel back into the bin and hunched down, hiding the money under the clothes while he switched it from holdall to plastic bag. There was so much that the thing was full to bursting. Morris laid just one yellow sweater over it, which he could always swear blind was his own, tucked it down around the sides, tied a knot in the handles and checked that you couldn't see from outside what was inside. No. Good. He left the holdall on the platform with the other clothes, then hurried back to Massimina. He'd met a couple of friends, miracle of miracles, he told her, and helped them with their bags down the platform seeing as one of them had broken his leg. They were off to Venice any minute. ‘Good job I saw you,' she said.