See Naples and Die (12 page)

Detective Chief Inspector Elliott Chan
had dropped Megan off in Wimbledon opposite the coffee shop where she was to
meet Chrissie and Brenda, and as soon as the car stopped her spirits were
lifted when she saw their faces at the cafe window.

During the journey she’d talked
incessantly, seeming to be telling a lot but actually not disclosing too much.
The detective had grown on her and did seem a genuine guy, but what could the
police do to help them? This was the Mafia they were dealing with, and once
they put a contract out on your life you are beyond protection.

She told him they had some information
regarding one of the families, but didn’t mention it was stored on a USB stick that
was now in a safety deposit box at Victoria station. There were enough people
trying to get their hands on that damn thing, and she didn’t want to add to the
list. The USB was like the ring in Tolkien’s
The
Lord of the Rings
:
it changed everyone who came across it. Even Luigi and Roberto – people they
had trusted – had turned into scheming deceivers who were quite happy to put
the girls’ lives at risk as long as they got what they wanted.

She told the inspector that there had
been an attempt on their lives, and that both the Scarpones and Viallis seemed
to want them dead. He had offered to take them into protective custody if they
would give evidence against the man with the scar, but that didn’t seem a good
deal. There was no way they could make a conviction stick, and even if they did
the Mafia would have a hundred men with scars ready to take his place.

She didn’t mention Luigi or their
gullible forays into blackmail, only that they knew something about one of the
families – something they wished they could simply erase and it would all be
forgotten. They were trapped in a snakepit and couldn’t see any way out.

The detective recognised she was just a
normal girl caught up in a nightmare. He seemed to want to help – but Megan
knew his plan would probably be to entice Vialli out into the open, using the
girls as bait. He wanted a conviction, and attempted murder would be a good one
… or actual murder better still.

They had talked, only telling each other
half-truths – but still, the bits that were true had created a connection, and
they left on first-name terms. The detective had given Megan his card,
including a direct mobile number – and impressed on her that she could ring at
any time, day or night. She in turn had given him Mrs Grimshaw’s address and
telephone number.

She’d promised to speak to the others
about their next move, and get back to him. He may not be their knight in
shining armour but they needed a glimmer of hope, and right now he was the only
hope they had,

She ran across the road and into the
coffee shop. They hugged … and they cried. It had been a tough day, and the
relief of being safely together again was emotional. Chrissie and Brenda told
how they had escaped from Armando, and Megan explained about the car ride and
DCI Elliott Chan.

They got a taxi back to Mrs Grimshaw’s
and spent the following two days inside the house. They were scared and unsure
what to do next, so stayed indoors and away from the windows. But now it was
the third day of their exile and time to make some decisions. Do they go and
live in the Shetland Islands? Do they call Elliott Chan? Or do they try and do
another deal with Roberto Vialli? One thing was for sure: they had to do
something. They couldn’t spend the next forty years in Mrs Grimshaw’s guest
house.

“I suppose this Elliott Chan really is a
detective,” said Chrissie. “If not, we would have known about it by now.”

“He was okay,” replied Megan. “But what
can he do to sort it all out? The Mafia haven’t committed a crime until they’ve
actually murdered us, and even if we survived that attempt and made it to a
court case they’d be lining up to get their revenge afterwards. Elliott said he
could send us on some sort of witness protection scheme, but I don’t want to
end up as a red-haired typist in Croydon who can’t even pass an Italian
restaurant without having a panic attack. Roberto was right: the only way to be
completely free would be if this Zico Scarpone was out of the way. He’s the one
who has everything to lose, and he won’t rest until he has his data stick back
and our heads on a plate. Once he’s gone, it’s over. I don’t think Vialli
particularly wants us dead – he just wants the USB. But, unfortunately, it
seems to be in their nature to murder people along the way.”

“So what are you saying?” asked
Chrissie. “You think we should contact Roberto again?”

“I think we should consider it,” said
Megan.

Brenda stood up. “When someone tries to
kill me – twice – I’m not in a big hurry to let them try again.” She thought
for a moment. “What about Luigi?”

“What about the little bastard?” said
Chrissie.

“More than anyone he knows what this is
all about,” said Brenda. “He knew this Fabio boy who stole the USB, and was
more than likely part of the original plot. Why did they take it? Remember
Armando being surprised that Luigi was sending us to blackmail a few no-marks? He
said no Italian would do that. They know the repercussions of crossing the Mafia,
and to do what Luigi did doesn’t make sense. To go through all that danger – and
for that poor boy Fabio to die like he did, all for a few thousand euros … No.
There must be more to it. I say we pay Luigi and Mama a visit.”

“Why not?” said Chrissie. “If nothing
else, I get the opportunity to practise taking free kicks with his balls.”

Brenda had one last thought. “I know
you’ve just said you don’t fancy being a redhead, Megan, but it’s not a bad
idea. Hairstyles don’t half change the look of someone’s face … imagine
Chrissie as a blonde.”

Megan screwed up her eyes trying to
picture Apache-black hair and ruby-red lips turning into honey blonde and pale
pink. She had to admit it would be a hell of a transformation.

“Luigi isn’t quite what he seems,” said
Brenda. “He could be in league with Roberto, or even the Scarpones. Anything is
possible. Too many people know what we look like. There’s the guy who tried to
hijack us when we met Bruno, then the man with the scar, Armando and Beppe, and
of course Roberto Vialli – and they’re all looking for three girls…Chrissie the
dark-haired Oompa-Loompa, Megan the blonde-haired Miss Wales, and me … plain
Jane.”

Chrissie put up her hand as if asking permission
to use the toilet. “The
Oompa-Loompa
thing
is because of the spray tan … right?”

“Of course,” said Brenda. “And the fact
you like chocolate so much.” She went on, “We can buy some wigs on the way. That’s
all it needs.”

Chrissie still wasn’t happy with the
Charlie
and the Chocolate Factory
connection, and wanted to get even. “That’s a
brilliant idea, Bren … but, like you say, they’re looking for three girls – and,
no matter how we change the colour of our hair, we’re still three girls – so I
think one of us needs to dress like a man. Not with a moustache or anything – just
a pair of jeans, a man’s jacket, and maybe a hat … or hoodie. Now there’s no
way I could ever pass for a guy with this awesome figure and Megan is far too
pretty, so who does that leave?”

Brenda was fully aware that this was a
Chrissie retaliation, but actually it made perfect sense. “Okay, I’ll do it.
Let’s go shopping.”

Then with heads held high and
expressions of fierce determination they faced the outside world for the first
time in over forty-eight hours. It was a long journey over to Tower Hamlets (the
safety of Wimbledon being a disadvantage whenever they had to travel), and this
time it had become especially laborious because they chose to avoid Central
London. They went via a complicated route, and stopped off at the Elephant and
Castle to buy the wigs.

They went into the indoor market, and
one of the stalls had a great selection. Chrissie quite fancied having a go at
the Rastafarian look, and had to be coerced back on to the blonde wig. None of
the red ones suited Megan, and she finished up with a straight black Cher-type
one. Brenda didn’t bother with a hairpiece. Instead she bought a hat and jacket
from a man’s outfitters at the entrance to the market, and brushed her hair
back under the hat. They inspected their new identities, and were delighted
with what had been achieved with so little effort.

They boarded the Tube once more and, two
train changes later, arrived at All Saints station on the Docklands Light
Railway. Then it was a short walk to Tower Hamlets Town Hall. The journey from
leaving Mrs Grimshaw’s had taken three hours and Chrissie was thinking how they
could have flown to Malaga in two, and maybe that would have been a better
option. But they were here, back in the East End, and now had to remember how
to get to Luigi’s.

They pictured the night they arrived
with Salvatore, and retraced the route. It was only a short distance, and they
easily found the alley that led to the rear of Luigi’s house. They walked towards
the huge metal gates, counting the houses as they went, then stood outside
trying to find a chink in this armoured fortification. Brenda even tried to
balance on Chrissie’s shoulders to see over the gate but fell off, and was
lucky to only graze her knee. They checked the yards at either side, but the
dividing walls were just as high. There was no other choice. They would have to
go around to the front and knock on the door in broad daylight.

They’d worked out the number of the
house, but were wary of who may be watching. This was where the disguises now
seemed a brilliant idea and they separated, with Brenda and Chrissie walking
together as a couple and Megan twenty paces behind. They had one eye on the
door numbers and one eye on parked cars and pedestrians, paying particular
attention to any black Mercedes or men in dark suits and sunglasses – but there
was nothing out of the ordinary.

The street was a 200-yard stretch of
Victorian four-storey terraced houses, with postage stamp-sized front gardens and
steps leading up to the front doors. Most of the gardens were unkept and every
sixth house had various levels of scaffolding around it, where renovation work
was progressing at a snail’s pace.

Brenda and Chrissie stopped at number
47. They gazed absent-mindedly up at the door and – as Megan came alongside – Chrissie
whispered without turning and told her to keep walking to the end of the road,
wait a few minutes, and then come back. Once Megan was a safe distance away the
odd couple walked purposefully up the steps and rang the bell. They couldn’t
hear any chime so, with clenched fist, Chrissie thumped the door. Brenda knelt
and peered through the letterbox, only to see a long dark hallway with no signs
of life.

Chrissie went into the front garden and
looked through the ground floor windows. The dark brown venetian blinds were
almost closed, but through a gap in between the two sections she could make out
a living room with table and chairs … but again, no indication of anyone being
at home.

Brenda had joined her and they stood
surveying the house. They scanned each window in turn and for some strange
reason went back on to the pavement and checked the roof, as if Luigi – like
Count Dracula – would be perched there on one knee, with his cloak held
together by a gold clasp in the shape of a gargoyle and his lips curled in
anticipation. Their building inspection was interrupted by Megan, who had done
one lap of the street and who now joined them.

“Should I walk up and down again?” she
asked.

Chrissie looked around. “Did you see
anything suspicious?”

“No”.

“Then sod it. I want to see what’s
inside that house.”

She went back into the garden and picked
up a house brick from a row that had been placed at forty-five-degree angles
around the flower beds. She took a step backward, raised her arm, and prepared
to send the missile through the windows. She half turned her face to avoid the
breaking glass when the front door opened and Luigi said,

“There’s no need for that. Come in.”

Chrissie thought about redirecting the brick
at Luigi’s head but they needed answers, so now wasn’t the time to knock him
senseless. She dropped the brick, and they followed him into the hallway. He
closed the door by fastening three heavy bolts and locks then moved to a room
at the back of the house, where soon they were sitting in the same chairs they
had occupied during their two-day stay. The only thing missing was the smell of
Mama’s cooking.

Chrissie began the conversation. “Luigi,
you bastard.”

“Sorry,” said the little Italian.

“Sorry?” said Brenda, with equal venom.
“Counting the barmy bishop, we’ve had three attempts on our lives. Do you get
that? We should all be dead now.” Then to make sure she hadn’t understated that
last word, she repeated, “Dead.”

“I know,” said Luigi. “It was never
meant to go that far, or to happen so quickly. I thought we’d make a few waves
and then you would step back and I would take over. You were to be paid very
well, and I always intended to give you all the money.”

“So if you’re quite happy to give the
money away then what do you really want? People are being killed because of
this stupid data stick. What could possibly be worth that?”