by Hannah Howe
Catrin sipped her whisky. She sucked on her cigarette. Through a plume of acrid smoke, she said, “We spent twenty-five years together, raised a family, built a solid business. Make no mistake, I put Vince where he is today. He’d still be selling fake designer jackets if it wasn’t for me.” She stubbed out her cigarette in a glass ashtray. The scowl on her face suggested that she was annoyed with herself, exasperated at succumbing to the lure of the nicotine. “It’s hard to reflect on all that and not feel something.”
“Do you get on well with Vittoria?” I asked.
“She’s my daughter. I love her, she loves me.”
“But after the divorce, she decided to stay with her father.”
“That’s because I’m the disciplinarian and Vince is the soft touch. In business, Vince is ruthless, but at home he’s a pussy cat.”
I thought back to our meeting, and Vanzetti’s reaction to Marlowe. “He has a fear of cats.”
Catrin drained her whisky glass, grimacing as the malt hit the back of her throat. “It’s the only thing Vince is afraid of, believe me.”
“Do you have any idea where Vittoria might be?”
Catrin stared at her empty glass. Her pause for thought and her pained expression revealed that she was battling with herself; battling an inner demon, the need for more medicinal whisky. “None,” she said; “I’ve no idea where Vittoria might be; we’ve tried all the obvious places.”
“Sometimes, it’s a matter of timing, of luck.”
She placed her empty glass on the coffee table then turned her back on the cocktail cabinet and the whisky. She was under great stress, tense and anxious. However, she was strong; she’d fight her own fight and not rely on alcoholic aids. “You mean, we might have looked when Vittoria wasn’t there and she could be there now?”
“Something like that,” I nodded. “Can I have a list of the obvious places?”
“Sure,” Catrin said. “Hang on a sec, I’ll write you one.”
She walked over to her drawing board where she scribbled a list before handing that list to me. I studied her large, loopy handwriting, recalled familiar names and places, recorded in Vanzetti’s original notes. I would check them out, more in hope than expectation.
After folding the paper and placing it in my shoulder bag, I asked, “Do you have any idea why Vittoria ran away?”
“I can’t think of one,” Catrin replied with a sad shake of her head.
“When she has a problem, who does she talk with?”
Catrin stared at the ornate sculptures; they were black and very tall, like two surreal bodies with arms outstretched, reaching up to the ceiling. “Vittoria tends to work things out for herself. She’s studying to be a child psychologist, through the Open University.” I raised an inquisitive eyebrow and Catrin shook her head. “I know,” she said. “I don’t know where she gets that from; neither Vince nor myself are into any kind of psychobabble.”
“Vittoria’s a deep thinker,” I said.
“She can be.”
“Is she a sensitive person?”
“She’s a Vanzetti,” Catrin scowled, revealing a family trait. “I brought Vittoria up the right way; she’s no soft touch.”
I stood and gathered up my shoulder bag. Then I collected my trench coat from the mannequin and draped it over my arm. It was a bright, warm, spring day; the gentle breeze had eased the rain clouds away. There’d be no call for my coat this afternoon.
“Thank you, Mrs Vanzetti. I’ll be in touch.”
Catrin Vanzetti accompanied me to her front door. At the door, she paused then said, “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, I’m a hard bitch, as hard as nails. But I’m a mother, first, last and everything. Find Vittoria for me. Find her soon. I can’t put up with this. It’s doing my head in.”
Chapter Three
From Catrin’s apartment, I strolled along the waterfront, enjoyed the view, gathered my thoughts. Even though Vanzetti’s henchmen had drawn a blank, I would visit the places, those listed in the mobster’s notes. First, I made a phone call, to Vanzetti’s main rival, Rudy Valentine. I requested a meeting and, graciously, Valentine agreed. I had no idea why Vanzetti and Valentine were so hospitable towards me. Apparently, they liked and trusted me, and they respected the way I conducted my business. Ideally, we’d all like friends in high places, but if you can’t have them, the people who control the sewers of life are probably your next best bet.
Meanwhile, I toured the city, calling on three of Vittoria’s girlfriends, a health club she frequented, a nightclub she and V.J. Parks were partial to, a garage band in rehearsals – she was a fan, apparently – a favourite jewellery store and a beach she strolled along when seeking moments of refuge. No one had seen Vittoria for five days; no one had any idea where she might be; no one offered a definitive insight into her current mood.
The following day, a Saturday, I drove into the centre of Cardiff, to Pontcanna Fields, a pleasant oasis of green nestling beside the River Taff. There, I would meet Rudy Valentine.
Pontcanna Fields contained a number of cricket pitches, tightly mown squares within a broad circle of grass. From the air, those squares and circles looked like scars inflicted by a visiting alien spacecraft. However, upon my arrival just after noon, I saw no aliens, only ‘flannelled fools’; men in white shirts and cream trousers, preparing for a cricket match.
For a while, I watched the cricketers at practice, observed as they hit the cork and leather balls with their straight, willow bats; took – and dropped – catches in the outfield, wrapped their fingers around the prominent seam of the cricket ball, imparted a degree of mesmerising spin. Cricket, a game made for the summer and sunshine, for those with hour upon hour to kill; cricket, arguably, the most interesting waste of time yet devised by man.
The cricketers were placing the stumps in the cricket square – if the aliens saw this, they’d swear that it was a religious ritual – when Rudy Valentine strolled into view. One of his henchmen, Slick Stephens, the manager of The Stag nightclub, accompanied Valentine.
Valentine and Slick made for an incongruous pair. The former was a tall, lean man, bedecked in gold jewellery – a neck chain, a bracelet and several finger rings. In his mid-sixties, he walked with a slight stoop. Valentine had a handsome ebony face, noble features, a bald head and a strong jaw. His rheumy eyes appeared weary at times, though nature had blessed them with a hint of compassion.
In contrast, Slick Stephens was in his early fifties. A short man at around five foot eight, Stephens had dark, thin hair, combed back, greased down, dark eyes and a pallid complexion. Prominent upper teeth, nicotine stained, and a lantern jaw distinguished his thin, skeletal face. A suit bearing a wide white pinstripe hung from his emaciated body while a pork pie hat dangled from a crooked finger on his right hand.
Stephens stood in front of me, placed his hat on his head and said, “Jeez, look who it is, motor mouth herself...questions, questions, questions...ten minutes with her and your ears start to burn. And when ya come back with answers, she has more questions. I reckon she talks in her sleep, she does, I reckon she never had a dummy as a kid. I reckon she gives her boyfriend earache and not much else; thin ones are like that, don’t you find; it’s the plump ones that like to give it a go, ya know what I mean. She can talk the hind leg off a donkey, she can, she can gob for Wales; she’s got one helluva mouth on her. I tell ya, once she starts, she never shuts up. Gobs on and on and on, she does. I tell ya...”
Patiently, slowly, Valentine held up his left hand, begged for silence. Looking a trifle miffed, Stephens turned his back on me. With skeletal fingers, he adjusted his crotch then gazed at the cricketers as they took to the field.
As the cricketers applauded the incoming batsmen, I said to Valentine, “Thank you for meeting up with me.”
Valentine bowed graciously. He smiled, “My pleasure, my lady.”
“I’m working for Vincent Vanzetti.”
Valentine nodded, slowly. It was a mark of the
man that he performed every action without haste, in his own languid time. “That is Mr Vanzetti’s good fortune,” he said.
“Only, it’s not – his daughter is missing.”
“Uh-huh. I heard a whisper.”
“Any idea where she might be?”
Valentine’s eyes wandered to the cricket field. There, the bowler ran in to bowl, arms and legs pumping. He whirled over his arm, sent the cricket ball hurtling towards the batsman who watched it go by, into the wicketkeeper’s gloves. Some of the fielders applauded while the bowler scratched at the footholds with his studded boots. Meanwhile, the batsman tapped down an imagined blemish using the toe of his bat. Then the bowler returned to his mark and the ritual began again.
“I am sorry, my lady,” Valentine said, placing his hands into his overcoat pockets, “I know nothing about Vittoria Vanzetti’s disappearance. You think I had a hand in her kidnapping?”
“Who said she was kidnapped?” I asked sharply.
“I assumed,” Valentine shrugged. “The daughter of a rich man who has many enemies...the daughter of a rich man who has an aversion to the police...ripe for a reward, a rich ransom.”
“There’s been no ransom demand.”
“Then maybe she ran away from Vanzetti. I’d respect her if she did.”
From the cricket field, someone cried out ‘howzat?’ and I turned instinctively. I gazed at the umpire and his right hand. However, the umpire did not move his hand; he did not raise the finger of doom; the batsman had won a reprieve.
“If Vittoria is on the run,” I asked, “any idea where she might be?”
Valentine shook his head, slowly. “I don’t know the girl.”
“But your nightclubs are a hotbed of gossip.”
We paused while the bowler ran in again, while the batsman swung his bat, while the cricket ball hurtled towards the boundary. The batsman held his pose, left knee slightly bent, as though pleased with himself, while the bowler kicked at the ground in fury.
“Slick,” Rudy Valentine commanded and the greasy nightclub manager turned to offer me his full attention.
“I heard a whisper,” Slick said. “Someone said Vittoria was hanging out with Grant Osborne. No idea if that’s the truth or a lie. Ya know how it is in our business, Mr Valentine; people will offer ya info on the hope of earning a quick quid; no saying if they’re peddling truth or lies.” He paused to run a lecherous eye over me. “Maybe you’d like to call in at the nightclub; give us an audition. Ya must be in your mid-thirties, so you’re a bit long in the tooth, but ya got the looks, the figure; you’d appeal to the teenagers, looking for a mother type.”
For good measure, Slick offered me a skeletal smile, a Halloween special, and I was left to reflect that maybe I should have worn my trench coat after all.
Ignoring Slick, I turned to Valentine and asked, “Who’s Osborne?”
Valentine removed a hand from his pocket. He studied his fingernails. His fingers were long and slender, with a prominent callus on the middle finger of his right hand. “Grant Osborne is not a very pleasant man. I’d prefer to leave it at that.”
“Where might I find Grant Osborne?”
“He lives on an old farm, Green Meadow, in the Vale of Glamorgan, outside Llancarfan.”
“I know of it,” I said.
“And he has an office on Lloyd George Place, near the Liberal club.”
I filed the addresses in my memory and thanked Rudy Valentine, “I’m grateful for your time. And I appreciate the info.”
“Told ya she could gob, didn’t I,” Slick said, as he followed his master away from the cricket field. “I tell ya...”
While Slick chortled on, I turned to gaze at the cricketers. The bowler ran in to bowl, the batsman swung his bat, missed, and the cricket ball shattered his stumps. The batsman walked off, bat tucked under his arm. He ripped off his gloves in a state of high dudgeon. Meanwhile, the bowler pumped his arms and yelled with glee. Then the fielders rushed in. Some hugged the bowler while others offered a series of high-fives. Success or failure, glory or obscurity, luck or misfortune; who knows how the dice will roll.
Chapter Four
The Gwentian Chronicle of Caradoc of Llancarfan states that in 893 A.D. the Vikings burned and raided Llancarfan. However, some historians dismiss the Chronicle as a series of fanciful ramblings. That’s the wonderful thing about history – you can select the bits that fit your theory and discard the rest.
The Vikings were conspicuous by their absence when, later that afternoon, I drove to Green Meadow Farm on the outskirts of Llancarfan. I travelled through a patchwork of green fields to an isolated farmhouse situated ‘in the middle of nowhere’. The farmhouse was large and sturdy with grey stone walls, a grey tiled roof and two chimneys of red brick. Two storeys tall, the facade contained five large windows and a prominent porch. Ivy crept up one side of the building while a number of trees offered shade. The trees were colourful, abundant with white and pink mayflowers.
A long, straight drive led to the porch. However, a number of fields also surrounded the house and in one of those fields, I spied a woman and a horse. The woman was in her early forties. Of medium height, she had long, dark, silky hair – almost as long as mine – dark, almond-shaped eyes, olive skin and a full oval face. Her figure was voluptuous, oozing sensuality. Meanwhile, the horse was brown with long, spindly legs. As you might have gathered, I know next to nothing about horses. I blame Black Beauty. I read that book as a child and it saddened me, put me right off horses. Nevertheless, they are graceful animals to look at, noble beasts. On reflection, I did ride a donkey, once, on a beach at Porthcawl. To this day, I can picture the sun shimmering on the sea, hear the squawk of seagulls and taste the sand in the soggy tomato sandwiches. But I digress.
I wandered over to a five bar gate and watched as the woman rode the horse around the field, her silky hair streaming, the pleasure on her face evident and abundant.
Horse and rider completed another circuit of the field. Then the woman caught sight of me. She dismounted, led her horse to the stables and glanced in my direction again. Whether annoyed or curious, I couldn’t tell, but she walked towards me.
“I’m looking for Grant Osborne,” I said as the woman approached the five bar gate.
“Who are you?” she frowned. She was dressed in jeans and a simple woollen top. Her jeans were tight fitting and mud splattered, caked from the horse’s hooves as he kicked up the soft ground.
“My name is Sam, Sam Smith. I’m an enquiry agent. I’ve been hired to find a missing person.”
She frowned then pursed her generous lips. “My husband is not missing.”
“You’re Mrs Osborne?”
“Maya,” she said, flashing an automatic smile.
“And that’s your horse?” I glanced towards the stables.
“Folio; handsome isn’t he?”
“He is,” I conceded.
“Do you ride?” she asked, her question keen, loaded with interest. I sensed that Maya Osborne did not receive many visitors, and that she was grateful for my company.
“A bicycle, yes,” I smiled; “horses, no.”
“I love horses,” Maya said with childish enthusiasm. “I love to ride.”
I glanced towards the house and spied a Range Rover, covered in dry mud. Clearly, the vehicle had seen plenty of action in the local lanes and fields. However, the absence of any fresh mud suggested that neither Maya nor Osborne had driven it recently.
“Is your husband at home?” I asked.
“He is away,” Maya replied, her eyes following my gaze to the Range Rover, “on business.”
“Your husband is a businessman?”
“Finance,” she smiled.
“Is he away often?”
“Yes.”
“On business?”
Maya paused. She frowned at me. After a thoughtful silence, she replied, “Yes.”
“And pleasure?”
A longer pause. A deeper frown. Then, “He ta
kes holidays, yes.”
“With you?”
“Sometimes.” Suspicion replaced her tentative smile. She gave me a guarded look, turned away, offered her profile. “What are you implying?” she asked, her tone now cautious, wary.
“Nothing,” I insisted. “Only, I’m keen to trace a young woman; I believe she might be in danger.” While Maya pondered that point, a raindrop fell on my head, followed by another. The rogue shower would doubtless drive the cricketers from the field; the shower also offered an opportunity to learn more about Maya.
I said, “I’m very keen to trace this woman. Can we talk inside? I don’t want you to get wet.”
A person with something to hide would have told me to skedaddle. However, I sensed that Maya was lonely, and grateful to find someone to talk with.
“Okay,” she said cautiously. “We can talk inside.”
I followed Maya across the field, to the rear of the house. There, we entered the building through the French windows, a recent alteration, to judge from the fresh plasterwork.
Inside the farmhouse, I spied a picture of Maya as a bride standing alongside Grant Osborne. At least, I assumed that the groom was Osborne. Another picture revealed a younger Maya, along with a burly man in a rugby kit. The man, maybe her father, offered a sunny smile, a smile imported from a South Sea island.
My prying eyes also noticed a small bookcase crammed with romances, along with DVDs for meditation. A sculpture sat on top of the bookcase, crafted from vine.
“You made this?” I asked, referring to the sculpture.
“Yes. I cut sections of vine from the trees, remove the bark, varnish them then mount them.”
“They are very effective.”
Maya bowed and offered a polite smile.
I nodded towards the wedding picture. “Your husband?”
“Yes.”
“How did you meet him?”