by Gordon Kerr
Ronconi stood up spreading his arms wide in disbelief that this was happening.
‘Mister Keats! Are you here to kill me, now?’ he said calmly.
‘No, of course not. I’m not here to kill anybody … I haven’t killed anybody … yet, that is.’ He motioned to Ronconi to sit down behind the large desk. ‘And keep your hands on top where I can see them, please.’.
‘So, why then do the police think you are responsible for all these deaths? They have sufficient evidence, of course. And by the way, walking in here with a gun, well, it doesn’t immediately suggest to me innocence of these crimes.’
‘Ah, yes, the gun,’ said Michael, regaining his composure. ‘Well,’ pulling himself together now, ‘the gun actually belongs to a friend of yours … was borrowed from this friend – well, stolen actually.’
‘A friend of mine?’ Ronconi leaned back in his large chair, putting his hands behind his head and stretching. ‘I’m not sure I have any friends who would possess such a weapon.’ And then, leaning forward again, ‘You know, I am quite worried about you, about your health.’
‘Pedrini? Vito Pedrini? He’s the friend I’m talking about. You mean you don’t know him?’
Just for a beat, Ronconi was knocked off his stride. Michael sensed it. It was a mere flicker of an eyelid, an irregularity of his breathing, but Michael knew he had unnerved him. Ronconi shifted in his seat, visibly discomfited, smiling no longer, but still saying nothing.
‘Wait. I have something here that might just jog your memory.’ He pulled the folded contact sheet containing Rosa’s photographs from his inside pocket and opened it out. He threw it down on the desktop.
Ronconi, still with his hands behind his head, looked down at the photographs. He saw black and white pictures of a house in the mountains, in front of which stood a group of people, laughing. Those people were clearly visible as Vito Pedrini, Teresa Ronconi and her brother, Antonio. The house was the one in front of which Michael and Helen had seen Teresa Ronconi with Pedrini the night before.
‘Look, Antonio; two men are dead and, believe me, no matter what the police think, I didn’t kill them. But somebody did and I think it was your friend, Pedrini. Is that what you want to be associated with? Why don’t you tell me what’s going on? Why are you pretending your sister was kidnapped?’
Slowly, Antonio took his hands from behind his head and placed them very deliberately on the table in front of him.
‘Mr Keats, I would suggest that you leave this house immediately. If you don’t’ – he reached out a hand to the telephone sitting on a corner of the desk – ‘I will call for help. I wonder who the police will believe – you, a man wanted for two murders, or me. As for the photographs, well, they could have been taken any time. Oh and …’ he smiled, ‘… I don’t think you are going to use that gun.’ He picked up the telephone receiver and held it in front of him.
‘Okay, Antonio, I’m going, but I’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise you, if it kills me.’
‘Be careful, Mr Keats. It may just do that.’ He placed a finger on the push-buttons of the telephone.
Michael stared at Ronconi for a long few seconds. His bluff had been well and truly called, as he had half-expected it would be – there was, of course, no way that he was going to use the gun. He picked up the contact sheet from the desk, folded it over, stuffed it quickly into his pocket and left the room, walking down the short corridor and exiting by the front door. At the bottom of the drive the gate was open when he arrived there. As he walked away from the house, he heard a car engine start up behind him. A few minutes later the Porsche he had seen with Helen the other night, drove past him and into the night. At least by signalling that he knew something was going on, he might have flushed him out, forcing his hand in some way that would be of benefit.
He walked on, watching the Boxster’s tail lights blaze red as it slowed down for a corner before fading into the blackness ahead.
When he returned to the hotel, he was relieved to find the foyer deserted. He climbed the stairs on tiptoe.
‘Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick!’ Helen had jumped up and run to the door on hearing his quiet knock.
‘I’ve been to see our friend, Antonio Ronconi.’
‘Really? Why would you do that?’ she asked.
‘Because of these. We forgot about the envelope you lifted from Pedrini’s place that night.’ He stopped for breath. He had taken the second flight of stairs two at a time. ‘It contained Rosa’s photos.’ He handed her the sheet and she saw the two pictures of the group of figures standing outside the house in the mountains.
‘That’s the guy you said was Pedrini and Teresa Ronconi and … that’s Antonio Ronconi.’
He looked up, surprised.
‘How do you know it’s Antonio Ronconi? You’ve never met him.’ he said, a puzzled look on his face.
‘That’s where you’re wrong, Michael. I have met him.’ She took his hands in hers. ‘I waited on him at the Lighthouse. That’s how I know him. And the jacket was made for him – the tailor in Rome checked his records. Antonio Ronconi was Rosa’s lover.’
20
18 November 1999
Valtellina
North Italy
There was no moon and the switchbacks came upon them without warning in the short stab of light that the headlights threw out. Once again, they followed the road as it cut deep into the high mountain valleys and no longer looked down on the floor of the Valtellina, where the lights of towns and villages blinked like stars in a cloudy sky.
They came upon the road leading off to the right that led to the house and, driving past it, they again abandoned the car in the trees about thirty metres further on.
Arriving at the start of the track, Michael took out his mobile phone and dialled.
‘Bruno!’ And then to Helen, ‘Thank God, it works! I’ve got a signal! Yes, Bruno, it’s Michael. Yes, yes I’m fine. Look Bruno, it’s a very long story and I still don’t really know what the real truth is, but I am up in the mountains above the Valtellina and I’m very close to the house in which Teresa Ronconi is being held. Yes! That’s right. Look, if I give you instructions how to get here, I need you to pass them on to the police in Morbegno. Yes. Thanks … Yes, I’m alright. No, I don’t have time … Look, you’ll get the story. Just pass it on to the police.’ He proceeded to give as exact directions as he could. ‘Tell them I’m here. That’ll make them come, but tell them to get here quick!’ He closed down the call and put the phone back in his pocket. ‘Come on then, let’s see if we can find out exactly what’s going on.’
They walked on, shivering at first from the cold, the wind having died down from earlier in the evening, but still leaving chill air in its wake. As they came closer to the house, they stiffened and walked carefully so as not to make any noise. This time, however, instead of hiding in the undergrowth, they walked on, climbing the wooden gate that led into the property.
‘What are we going to do?’ whispered Helen.
‘I have no idea, which makes it the second time tonight that I’ve arrived somewhere with big intentions and then bottled it at the last moment. I really don’t know. Maybe this is crazy. Pedrini’s a gangster after all. I’m really not sure …’
Just as he said that, the door at the side of the house opened and the man who, with Pedrini, had kidnapped Michael, came out and walked towards them.
‘Michael!’ hissed Helen.
‘Quick, in here!’ He grabbed her arm and pulled her through a half-open door into the large barn-like construction that stood to the side of the house.
He quickly pulled her down behind the shape of a car covered by a dark, heavy tarpaulin. The man walked into the barn, throwing a switch that turned on a single, bare light dangling on a long wire from the roof. Michael and Helen crouched down even further. The man was collecting logs, presumably for the fire whose seductive wood-scent they had smelled as they approached the house. He threw the logs into a wooden b
ox and picked it up, walking back towards the door. Just before he put the box down to switch off the light, Michael looked down and suddenly felt himself going cold. The back of the car, right in front of them, was uncovered. It was a blue car and he realized immediately that he had seen it before. He knew this because its blue was quite extraordinary; not the kind of blue you see very often. It had a metallic glint to it and was almost as if it had little slivers of silver mixed in with the paint.
The light flickered before going out and they heard the man grunt as he lifted the box before the door creaked shut.
‘Michael!’
He did not move.
‘Michael!’ She elbowed him in the ribs.
But he was elsewhere. He was running out of a shop, change scattering in every direction, his heart pounding and his mind screaming, seeing his wife’s broken body crumpled at the side of the road, blood pooling around her head, and beyond her the rear end of a blue car, engine racing as it rounded the corner on the road to Sondrio. The blue of the car glinted in the afternoon sun.
He stood up, pulling desperately at the tarpaulin.
‘Michael, what are you doing? Stop it, he’ll hear you!’ She grabbed his hands, but he pushed her away. At last the tarpaulin was off and a blue Audi TT stood in front of them. Its beauty was flawed, however. Its front bumper and bonnet had been crumpled by an impact of some kind.
He ran round to the back of the car and there it was. He had got it wrong, however. The design on the back of the vehicle was not, as he had told the police, a bird. Rather, it was a butterfly, the silver outline of a tiny butterfly.
‘This is it!’ he cried, scanning the length of the vehicle.
‘This is what, Michael? What are you talking about?’ she sounded almost afraid of him.
‘Helen, this is the car that hit her … that killed Rosa! This is it!’ It was those bastards who did it.’
‘It can’t be! How do you know?’
It’s the colour, exactly the same colour. Look at the damage to the front. And it’s got the picture on the back. I thought it was a bird … I only saw it from a distance … and it’s quite small … but it was a bloody butterfly. That means it must be Teresa Ronconi’s car.’
‘But why, Michael? Why, if Antonio Ronconi was having an affair with her would he kill her, or have her killed?’
‘I … I don’t know …’ He tried to work it out. ‘Perhaps the photographs. Perhaps they found out that she knew what was going on … that Teresa and Antonio were complicit in this whole kidnap business.’
‘Hmm, in fact that’s not a bad piece of deduction, Michael.’ The voice came from the door, emerging out of the darkness just before the light was switched on. There stood Vito Pedrini, holding a revolver and beside him, as always, his henchman. ‘Before we go any further, perhaps you would do me the great favour of throwing down the gun I believe you are now in the habit of carrying.’
Michael took the gun from his pocket and dropped it to the ground. Helen moved towards him and held him tightly round the waist. He could feel her tremble.
‘You bastard, it was you who killed Rosa,’ Michael said quietly, but with a venom of which he would never have believed himself capable.
‘Oh, you flatter me, Michael. I am not quite as clever or as devious as you imagine. What you find in my line of work is that no matter how much you calculate, no matter how far ahead you plan, everything can be undone by an act of passion, an act of the heart. People’s fucking emotions. They just can’t be trusted.’ Pedrini stood to one side of the door, directing with his gun. ‘Now, let’s go into the house where we can discuss this properly. And where we can think about what we’re going to do with you. We’ve got a bit of a dilemma, you see.’
Michael and Helen came out from behind the car and walked uncomfortably into the night, negotiating the short gap between the barn and the house.
As he left the barn, Michael stole a glance back to the tortured front bumper of the Audi.
They entered the house by the back door, Pedrini pushing the barrel of the revolver into Michael’s back to hurry him along. From the kitchen they entered a hallway and were directed in through a door that lay open to their left.
‘Michael! What the hell are you doing here?’ Renzo stood up and seemed unconsciously to be retreating from the sight of Michael at the door. Michael and Helen stopped, but the imprint of a gun barrel in the back soon pushed them on into the room.
Antonio Ronconi sat on one side of a log fire, slim, black-jeaned legs nonchalantly crossed, hands folded in his lap. He did not make a move when he caught sight of Michael and Helen – as if they were neighbours dropping in for a drink. Teresa Ronconi, however, standing at the rough timber table in the middle of the room, immediately signalled her alarm at the name ‘Michael’ by knocking over a glass into which she had been pouring wine. It rolled across the table and smashed on the floor, its sound shattering the silence that was interrupted only by the crackling of the logs on the fire.
‘I could ask you the same thing, Renzo, but then I did see Ronconi there with you at your front door last night. So, I had a feeling you were somehow involved in this nonsense.’ Renzo looked confused. He then turned to Pedrini.
‘Put that gun away. Do you think we’re in New York? This is my late sister’s husband!’
‘Shut the fuck up, Renzo.’ Pedrini replied angrily, waving the gun in Renzo’s direction. After all, Gianni and I haven’t been paid yet. And there’s the other guys that also have to be taken into consideration.’ He leaned against the wall at the door and his silent partner added to the firepower by raising another gun to cover the assembled group.
‘What the hell are you playing at, Vito?’ Now Antonio sat up straight, his eyes blazing.
‘Quite simply, I think this is all going to go to hell, Antonio, this entire fucking venture. I always felt it wasn’t right. When it was explained it to me, I thought Di Livio had finally gone mad. And as it has progressed, I’ve become even more convinced of it. Never work with amateurs, my old boss in Sicily used to tell me, but, Christ, when you move north, my friend, that is just what you end up doing. The pickings can be easier, I have to admit, but you have to work with fucking idiots.’
‘What’s he saying, Michael?’ Helen whispered, only to feel the side of Gianni’s hand silence her question as it swiped across her face. She slammed against Michael’s side.
‘Shit!’ screamed Michael moving towards Gianni. ‘You can’t …’ He fell backwards as Gianni’s fist slammed into his face for the second time in just a few days.
The whole place became a cauldron of sound to Michael. He could see shapes moving over him and came round with Helen and Renzo leaning over him. Beyond her he saw Pedrini and Gianni still holding their guns, Gianni by the door, Pedrini at the opposite side of the room.
‘He knocked you out for a moment, Michael. You’re alright.’ Helen looked down at him imploringly, the side of her own face red. ‘For God’s sake, don’t antagonise them. These guys aren’t messing about here.’
He sat up, his head spinning, feeling his face swelling under his left eye.
‘Now, people, let’s get a few things straight here, eh,’ said Pedrini.
‘What I want to get straight is who the fuck killed my wife,’ said Michael, heaving himself up onto his knees. ‘You might be interested in this, Antonio, as I know you were having an affair with her.’
‘Please speak in Italian, signor Keats, so that everyone can understand.’ Pedrini then translated what Michael had said into Italian.
‘Che cosa?’ exclaimed Renzo, who was standing in front of the fire. ‘What are you talking about, Michael?’
‘He and Rosa, they were having a bloody affair, Renzo. Helen here served them breakfast in their love-nest in the Scottish borders. Rosa bought him a diamond tie-pin worth hundreds of pounds. I was a fool, Renzo. Your sister, my wife, was screwing this fucker!’
Renzo looked at Antonio who was staring into the dying embers o
f the fire, unable to look Renzo in the eye.
‘But I tell you what’s even more interesting, Renzo,’ He raised himself to his knees as he said this, ‘is the fact that the car that hit Rosa – you know the one that killed your sister and then drove on as if nothing had happened? – it’s sitting out there in the barn.’
It suddenly felt as if there was no oxygen, as if everyone had breathed in at once and sucked all the air out of the room.
Renzo stiffened.
‘What are you talking about? What do you mean the car is out in the barn?’
Pedrini smiled and spoke, looking at Teresa. ‘Be sure your sins will find you out, huh?’
From the other side of the room, Teresa began to cry softly, her sobs muffled by her hands covering her face.
‘Let me take you back,’ said Pedrini. ‘Oh what would it be; it seems like months, but it’s only weeks. Her car had been driven up here by Antonio because his was in the garage. He left it outside with the keys still in the ignition. Teresa was free to walk outside, naturally, and we were not here to guard her, after all because, as you now know, she was here completely of her own free will. We kidnapped her and made it look as real as we could. She was even manhandled a little bit which made her scream because she wasn’t expecting it. But it all added to the reality of it if there were any witnesses. We even gave her the same chloroform treatment we gave you.’ He nodded at Michael, recalling that night. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, we were at the back of the house with Antonio and didn’t hear her start the car. By the time we realized, she was long gone. We thought the whole thing had fucked up, but about an hour later she was back. We found her sprawled across the front seat of the Audi, dead drunk. The front of the car was fucked and, I fear, as we found out later, so was your sister, Renzo. Shame. She was a pretty girl, judging by the pictures in the papers. Naturally, after you described the car to the police, we had to have some papers forged so that when the police came enquiring Antonio could prove she had sold it just before she was, as it were, kidnapped, and that it had been taken abroad. It helped that you were adamant that there was a bird on the back of the car that killed her, Michael.’