See Naples and Die (20 page)

The girls sat in the back of the black
Mercedes and let Armando drive in peace. It didn’t matter where they were going.
They’d reached the point where one place was as good as another, with every
venue spelling disaster. They wished they could be back in Naples enjoying the
day with Gino – only this time they would give the street market a miss, and
Chrissie would make sure her bag was zipped tight at all times. And yet can
these things really be avoided? Or is fate a determined sonofabitch, who’s
gonna get you come what may?

They hadn’t been taking notice of the
journey. Buildings were passing by like boxes on a production line, and visions
of the murder in the alley still tormented them. Only when the car ground to a
halt did they focus on their surroundings, and even Chrissie was lost for
words. They were staring at tall metal gates that were pulling apart, and from
behind them came a beaming Luigi.

Armando drove the car into the yard and
the metal gates sealed them in. Luigi opened the door, and at least his silly
face was a familiar one – and in a strange way it felt like coming home. On the
way into the house they passed Beppe in the hallway, and when they entered the
living room it was no surprise to see a smiling Roberto Vialli sitting
nonchalantly in Luigi’s best armchair. The girls didn’t know what to think. Was
this the end for them? Or was the man with the scar telling the truth and had
indeed been trying to protect them all along?

The Mafia don extended an admonishing
finger. “You are very good at making life difficult,” he said. Chrissie wasn’t
intimidated.

“Who for? You or us?”

“For everyone,” said Roberto.

“Well … now we are your prisoners it’s
all nice and easy, isn’t it? You can line us up against the wall and shoot us
at your leisure,” said Chrissie, who then closed her eyes like a deserter about
to be blindfolded before execution.

“There you go again,” said an
exasperated Roberto. “My man has just saved your lives and you talk of being
prisoners.” He turned to Armando. “Have you not explained to them?”

Armando shrugged, “It would be futile.
They don’t listen.”

“Chrissie,” said Roberto in a voice
coated in sincerity, “I thought we had an understanding. I told you when we met
in the bar of a thousand stars that you were already under my protection. My
man saved you in the hotel. He had followed you after the meeting in the park
and he would have been your personal bodyguard, but you ran too fast from that
place and he lost you. Then I place Armando and Beppe to guard you and you run
again … I don’t understand.”

Chrissie was going to blame Megan for
panicking them about the man with the scar, but they would all have done the
same in her shoes so she kept it simple. “It was just a mix-up. We got confused
about who we could trust.”

“I can understand that,” said Roberto,
“but now you must be clear. We are all together in this,” and he spread his arm
around the room to include Armando, Beppe, and a smiling Luigi.

Roberto noticed the girls’ annoyance at
Luigi’s pleasure, and he felt the need to step in. “We could not have saved you
a second time if it wasn’t for your friend here. He informed us of your
whereabouts in that small hostel, and we could then follow your movements and
watch over you.”

“How did you know we were in Wimbledon?”
asked Brenda. “And what do you mean by ‘Follow our movements’?”

Luigi spoke up. “The phone I gave you …
it had a GPS homing signal, so we knew your position exactly … and, before you
ask, you told me Don Vialli was staying at the Ritz – so I went to him with
this information. We knew you had been taken to the police station and Claudio
– I think you refer to him as ‘the man with the scar’ – waited for you to
leave.”

“So you see,” said Roberto, “we are all
trying our best to protect you. However, you do have one friend who isn’t what
he seems.”

“And who’s that?” asked Megan.

“Detective Inspector Chan,” said Roberto
grimly.

“You know him?”

“Yes. He came to me, seeking an
alliance. But then he brought you to his police station.”

“He was only trying to be helpful,” said
Megan defensively.

“He was very helpful, but not to you.”

“What are you saying? asked Megan

“When you left the building a Scarpone
hit man was waiting outside to follow you. Now how did he know you were there?
Because someone must have told him.”

“No,” said Megan. “I can’t believe that
of Mr Chan.”

“We know the Scarpones have informers in
the metropolitan police, but in this instance the only person who knew you were
being brought in was the detective … and the constables who came for you, but
they were only uniformed police – far too insignificant to be Scarpone spies.
It had to be Chan.”

Roberto let his eyes take them in, one
by one. “It’s time to put your trust in me. We need the information to destroy
the Scarpones … We need that data stick.”

Chrissie looked at Brenda, who took the
key from around her neck and handed it over.

“Take it,” she said. It’s in the left
luggage room at Victoria station: box C47.”

Roberto took the key and gave it to
Armando.

“Wait a minute,” said Chrissie. “DCI
Chan knows we have important information that the Mafia badly want back – and
he knows it’s at Victoria station, so he’s sure to be watching the lockers. He
can’t stop everyone, but if he sees Armando in his Mafia suit he’s definitely
going to nab him.”

Roberto looked puzzled. “I don’t know
what this ‘nab him’ means, but I see the problem. Luigi can go.”

“That isn’t any better,” said Chrissie
shaking her head. “He may look like everybody’s favourite uncle, but he’s still
Italian. It can’t be one of us and it can’t be one of you. It needs to be some
white kid with acne and a snotty nose and a T-shirt with ‘Metallica Rules’
written on the front.”

“I know who that is,” pronounced Luigi.
“He works for me, delivering pizzas. He is just how you described.”

“What, even with the Metallica thing?
asked Chrissie.

“Yes … yes. Exactly that,” said an
excited Luigi.

“Wow.”

“Then it’s decided,” said Roberto. “Send
the boy.”

Luigi clapped his hands as if applauding
his own ingenuity. “I will go for him, and he can speed there on his Suzuki. He
will bring the data to the pizza shop and I will return here with it.” Then he
hurried away, his body quivering with anticipation and his little legs marching
in quick time.

They heard the slamming of the front
door, and then a silence descended. The girls closed their eyes, and only the
ticking of the clock interrupted the peace. It was as if a great burden had
been lifted and sleep was approaching like the incoming tide, and there was no
stopping it. Roberto put his finger across his lips, and Armando and Beppe
slipped from the room. As they were leaving Megan forced one eye open and
quietly asked, “Do you really think that Inspector Chan is a Scarpone
informer?”

Don Roberto Vialli shrugged. “It would
appear so.”

A yellow moon like a huge Victorian gas
lamp cast a dismal gloom over the East End of London as Luigi returned with the
coveted data stick. Earlier the girls had woken from their nap and made it up
to the bedroom. This was their second home, and they knew the way with their
eyes closed. The mattresses welcomed them like old friends, caressing their
bodies and soothing away the stress, and as their heads sank into the
extra-large pillows they slipped easily into the safety of sleep.

Roberto, Armando, and Luigi spent the
next four hours examining every file on the memory stick, which was pure gold.
A catalogue of crimes and assassinations, bank accounts, transaction details,
names and addresses of informers, telephone numbers … it went on and on. One
file which was of particular interest was a list of properties that had been
purchased over the past two years. It was an extensive list of over 200 houses
throughout Europe. This wasn’t a tax avoidance scheme. This was a network … but
for what purpose? Included in the same file was a group of names – over a
hundred. The names had a South European slant: Chechen, Georgian, or perhaps
Armenian.

The key to this puzzle was the continual
reference to Angelo Tardelli. He was the one buying the properties. He was the
front man, and he was well known to the Viallis. Roberto respected Angelo. He
was efficient, and came with a formidable reputation. His only fault was that he
had picked the wrong employer and worked for the Scarpones – so unfortunately
that made him an enemy.

Armando was taking notes, and when Luigi
saw Angelo’s name he grasped Roberto by the arm. “I know that name,” he said.
Roberto glared, and Luigi quickly released his grip.

“I have a friend …” he explained, “a
fellow restaurateur. The Italian community stick together – you know how it is?
We meet and discuss menus and prices, and talk of the old days. Two days ago my
friend Vincenzo tells me of a stabbing outside his place. A regular customer by
the name of Angelo Tardelli was attacked as he left the restaurant. He didn’t
die, but was seriously injured. And yet the strange thing was that as he lay bleeding
a detective appeared from nowhere and began to search his pockets.”

“What was he looking for?”

“Whatever it was he didn’t find anything,
and left quickly as other police were approaching. But there was an envelope
which Vincenzo took to the police. He was there when the detective emptied the
contents. It contained photographs of three girls. I never thought about it
before … but could it have been our three girls?”

This time Roberto took Luigi’s arm.
“Tardelli works for Zico Scarpone, so he would have been passing on these
photos to a police informer – and yes, they would be our three girls.”

Armando looked at his boss. “Chan?”

Robert looked thoughtful. “Could be.” He
rocked his head and felt the crunching of cartilage. “We must get some rest.
First thing in the morning we find out which hospital Angelo is in, and I will
pay him a visit.”

“But he is a Scarpone man,” said
Armando.

“He needs to be aware that the Scarpones
are finished, and then I will make him an offer he can’t refuse,” said Roberto.

DCI Chan had sent two detectives to the
locker room at Victoria station with instructions to stop the girls or any
Italians on sight. Finding the key was paramount. He had to have that data
stick and the information it contained. He was nibbling the end of a pencil and
absent-mindedly drumming the intro to Tchaikovsky’s
1812 Overture
with
the other hand when the phone rang. It was second cousin Oliver and Elliott
listened intently, without saying a word, other than “Thanks” at the end of the
call. He replaced the phone in its cradle and stroked his chin with finger and
thumb. Finally he called Dave Hyman over.

He was writing an address on a jotter
pad as Dave sat down, then he tapped the lines with his index finger. “I’ve
just had a call informing me of the whereabouts of our missing girls. They’re
at 42a, Cyprus Avenue.”

“Great,” said Dave, without any real
enthusiasm.

“They know things,” stressed Elliott.

“If you say so, boss.”

“It’s important, Dave. I’m going to
bring them in, and this time they’ll be cautioned and we won’t let them walk
away.”

“I was thinking,” said Dave Hyman.
“Maybe I should go see how Tardelli is doing. There’s got to be a lot of
mileage in whatever he has to say, and we don’t want him waking up and
disappearing as well … do we?”

Elliott realised this was a direct
reference to the fact it was his fault, and his fault alone, that the girls had
simply walked out of custody. He had to accept this rebuke and take it on the
chin. “Good idea. You go over there and stick around until Tardelli wakes up.
I’ll get a couple of the boys and we’ll bring the girls in.”

“Sounds like a plan, chief,” said the
crafty cockney and, after performing a sarcastic salute, got up and walked
away.

Elliott’s blood should have been at
boiling point, but he was calm and collected. He picked up a few bits and
pieces, took his jacket from the back of the chair, and quietly left to
apprehend his suspects.

An hour later the rear door of 42a,
Cyprus Avenue was forced open. It was jemmied professionally, with the minimum
of fuss, and a size nine black police issue shoe stepped over the threshold.
This was the kitchen area and immaculate. A row of recently washed dishes were
neatly stacked in the red draining rack. The worktops had all been wiped clean,
and the tiled floor was shining bright. In every corner of the room a woman’s
touch was apparent.

The inner door was slightly open and the
noise of a television could be heard. It was a Jeremy Kyle repeat and he was
shouting the odds about ‘It’s the kids that matter’, and not about the idle
benefit-scrounging and pot-smoking lowlife scumbag in front of him. The scumbag
didn’t mind the abuse. He was on TV, and an appearance on the Jeremy Kyle show
was brilliant. His mates would be jealous, and the girls would be all over him
now he was a celebrity scumbag.

The man moved like a cat, and peered
through the crack in the door. He could see three girls sitting together on a
long settee watching Jeremy strut his stuff. All that was visible were the
backs of their heads. He inched the door open and took three steps inside the
room. He felt the metropolitan police badge in his pocket and instinctively
turned it face down, as if ashamed at what he was about to do. He pulled a gun
from a shoulder holster and, holding it with both hands, shot each girl in
quick succession. Heads exploded and disappeared, and he caught a glimpse of
Jeremy staring out of the TV with a look of horror.

He lowered the gun and took a few deep
breaths. Through the nose … hold it … then out through the mouth. He could feel
his heart banging. He had killed before, but this was different. The others had
all sort of deserved it, but this was cold-blooded murder: an execution. He
wiped the sweat from his forehead, and replaced the gun in its holster. He
would have to check the bodies, and was steeling himself for the task when the
door to his left sprang open and armed police officers rushed in. Before he had
time to assimilate the incursion other officers entered through the kitchen,
and his arms were grabbed and thrust behind his back. He felt the handcuffs
lock and saw a hand remove his gun. Then he was roughly forced, face first, to
the floor.

The officers had entered in a wall of
sound, shouting orders and instructions:

“Don’t move …”, “Hands on your head …”,
“On the floor …”, and, “Get on the floor now.”

As his forehead touched the cold hard
wood the commands stopped, and he could hear footsteps approaching. He smelt
the sweet odour of shoe polish as a man stood above him, and his eyes closed as
he was read his rights. It was a set-up. They had been waiting for him and,
like the cocky fool he was, he’d walked straight into it. The man standing over
him finished the official caution and then kicked him in the ribs. “Get up,
Hyman,” he said.

Dave Hyman was hauled to his feet and
faced Detective Inspector Elliott Chan. He thought back to when he first joined
the force. It had always been the only thing he wanted to do, and he’d coasted
into the position of detective inspector. At first he really strived to be a
superhero and catch all the bad guys. He had visions of making a reputation in
the manor as a tough but fair copper. He couldn’t quite remember when it all
went wrong and he took his first bribe, but he did know that from that moment
on everything changed and there was never going to be any way back.

“When did you know?” he asked.

“There were always doubts,” said Elliott.
“Jimmy the weasel – you were there before me, and I just didn’t buy that you
went to the wrong warehouse first. Then all the empty reports about Angelo
Tardelli … You weren’t trying to find him: you were too busy deleting all
references about him. And the way you just happened to be passing the
Bricklayers Arms that night … Too many unexplained events. So I fed you this
address and you confirmed all my suspicions … and completely ruined three
mannequins from my sister’s shop.”

Dave Hyman grinned. He wasn’t done for
yet. “So what, Charlie? I don’t know what you’re getting at regarding Jimmy,
and it’s not a crime to be incompetent … or to shoot at some shop window
dolls.”

“Oh, we have a lot more than that,” said
the DCI, as he returned the grin. “My cousin in IT has traced the file deletion
attempts to your computer, and the knife that probably killed Jimmy the weasel
has been discovered in a drawer at the side of your bed along with other
sensitive evidence. Oh, and best of all, Vincenzo Grappello – the Italian restaurateur
who went to Angelo Tardelli’s assistance – has positively identified you as the
detective who searched through Tardelli’s pockets as he lay bleeding. This
should be enough to send you down but, either way, you’re finished.”

Dave Hyman was still grinning. “We’ll
see. I have friends in high places, Chan.”

“You think so?” said Elliott. “Do you
really believe your Mafia friends are going to look after you? You’re a
liability, and by tomorrow morning a price will be on your head.”

The grin disappeared as the truth of
Elliott’s words sank in. “What if I cooperate?”

“That’s always good, Dave. You know how
it works. You’re done for in the force but if you cop a plea there may be a
witness protection programme for you. It all depends on what you’ve got … You
need to think about it.”

Elliott motioned to the officers. “Take
him in. I’ll meet you back at the nick.”

Ex-Detective Inspector Hyman was dragged
unceremoniously into the back of a police van, and Elliott sat in his Jag. He
watched the van disappear with mixed feelings. He had never liked Dave Hyman
and hated bent coppers but he had been a colleague, and not everything he’d done
was bad – or for gain. He’d solved some difficult cases, and put his life on
the line more than once. Not many on the team would feel satisfaction in this
arrest. He was popular, and Elliott knew a lot of others would have turned a
blind eye or warned him off. Maybe when this was all over it would be best if
he asked for a transfer. The south coast would be good … Bournemouth, or
somewhere down that way. It was something to consider.