by Hannah Howe
“We’re prospering,” Vanzetti said while gazing at the ice in his whisky glass.
“You’d prosper even more if I were part of the team.”
Vanzetti glared at his ex-wife. He craned his neck back, drank two fingers of whisky, then splashed more malt over the ice cubes. “You decided to place yourself on the sub’s bench, two years ago.”
“You expected me to hang around with that thing warming my bed?” Again, Catrin offered Sherri a condescending look. And, again, Sherri dropped her bottom lip and stared at the wall.
“That ‘thing’ is my wife, and I’d ask you to show her more respect,” Vanzetti said. “And she warms my bed; this is my house.”
“And who built this house?” Catrin asked, her face ugly with anger and indignation. “Whose business nous supplied you with the money?”
“You grabbed your share when you left,” Vanzetti said. He swirled his whisky over the ice cubes then took a soothing sip.
“And I’m supposed to be content with that?” Catrin stood. She stared at Vanzetti with daggers in her eyes, with her fingers curled into tight fists. Meanwhile, V.J. Parks continued to gaze at the floor while Sherri sipped her pina colada through a long glass straw, her face sullen as she stared at the wall. “You’ve let the family down badly, Vince. That tart of yours is young enough to be your daughter. No wonder Vittoria left.”
“She didn’t run to you though, did she?” Vanzetti yelled. Then he held himself in check as a question formed on his angry face. “Did she?”
“I haven’t seen her,” Catrin said. She returned to the sofa where she sat at right angles to V.J. Parks and Sherri, casting a sympathetic eye over the former while studiously avoiding the latter. “You think I’d keep silent if I had.”
“I wouldn’t put it past you,” Vanzetti said somewhat spitefully.
“Now who’s sounding bitter and twisted?” Catrin yelled. “You lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.”
Unable to hold her tongue any longer, Sherri swung her arms and flounced around the room, spilling her drink. She bumped into the long, low, glass table, but was so incensed she didn’t register any pain. “I’m not a dog, I’m an actress,” she insisted.
“You’re not an actress, dear,” Catrin scoffed, “you’re a porn star. In fact, you’re not even a star; you’re just a porn queen, a slut.”
“Vincent, are you just going to stand there and let her talk to me like that?”
Vanzetti glanced at his wife, then at Catrin. They were demanding his attention. However, his whisky spoke louder and he took another sip. “Put a sock in it, Catty,” he said while drawing his lips back into a Humphrey Bogart sneer.
“Socks and shoes and fake designer jackets, that’s all you were selling before you met me.”
Vanzetti loosened his tie, pulled it free from his collar. He was wearing a shirt and jacket, though the jacket hung open to reveal a shoulder holster and handgun. “You sound like an old gramophone that’s stuck,” he said to his ex-wife.
“You’re showing your age, darling,” Catrin scowled. “I bet she doesn’t even know what a gramophone is.”
“I do and all,” Sherri insisted. She stood beside the glass table and, slowly, mouthed the words ‘gram’ and ‘phone’. Then, with her innocent smile in place, illuminating her face, she turned to Vanzetti and said, “It’s a miniature phone, isn’t it, Vincent?”
Catrin shook her head, as though to clear it. She offered her ex-husband a painful, half-smile. “How do you manage to talk with her?”
“When I’m with Sherri, there’s not much time for talking,” Vanzetti leered.
“Don’t give me that,” Catrin glowered, throwing her half-smile on to the back burner, “I know you, Vince. You’re no Casanova. In fact...”
Before Catrin could utter another word, Vanzetti stepped forward. Like Sherri, he bumped his shin against the glass table, which deepened his scowl. “Don’t you think you’re embarrassing our guests?” he asked of Catrin.
I glanced at V.J. Parks, but he was still gazing down, brooding, lost in his own, troubled, world; the Vanzetti family and their bickering went straight over his head.
As my eyes flicked around the room, from one person to another, it occurred to me that, maybe, we should invite the TV cameras in. We could create our own Reality TV show, based on the Family Vanzetti; we’d make a fortune. It was a mildly amusing thought, tempered by Vittoria’s disappearance and possible plight.
“I think we should move the conversation on,” I said, “to Vittoria; assuming that she’s hiding out of her own free will, where could she be?”
“We’ve already offered you our suggestions,” Vanzetti said plaintively.
I nodded then asked, “Did Vittoria mention anything in a casual conversation that might suggest why she’s run away or where she’s run to?”
All shook their heads, except Sherri. She looked up and smiled brightly. “I have an idea.”
Vanzetti groaned in weary fashion. “Not now, dear.”
“Let her speak,” I insisted. “What is it, Sherri?”
The actress took centre stage. After discarding her empty glass, bowing and smiling at her audience, she went into a routine, touching her hair, her lips, her fingernails, underscoring her points with elaborate facial gestures. “Well, one day, me and Vittoria were talking. We started off about hair, then got on to our nails and pedicures, then...”
“Get on with it,” Vanzetti moaned. Then he caught sight of his wife’s pout and added, “Sugar pie.”
“He’s my little bunny rabbit, aren’t you, Vincent,” Sherri grinned while swinging playfully from side to side.
“Get on with it!” Catrin growled.
“Where was I?” Sherri asked, looking genuinely perplexed; in truth, this look did not stretch her acting ability.
“Talking with Vittoria,” I said.
“Oh, yes. Anyway, I says, ‘I’d love to spend a day on a dessert island’...”
“That’s desert, not dessert,” Catrin corrected somewhat unsympathetically.
“Desert island, then,” Sherri moped. She continued, “‘Alone, naked, just me and nature,’ and Vittoria says, ‘I have my own dessert, er, desert island, I go there when I want to relax. And I says, ‘where’s that?’ And she says, ‘no one knows about it, not even my father.’ And I says, ‘I bet it’s lovely there.’ And Vittoria says, ‘it is; it’s paradise; so peaceful and tranquil; like living in a dream.’ And I says, ‘you must take me there one day.’ And Vittoria says, ‘I will.’”
“And where’s this place?” I asked.
Sherri glanced down to the glass table. She clasped her hands in front of her midriff, pouted, hung her head then offered a solemn shrug. “Vittoria didn’t say.”
“Jeez,” Catrin sighed, placing her head in her hands.
“What’s paradise in Vittoria’s mind?” I asked, addressing my question to everybody.
After a moment’s thought, they replied in unison, “The beach.”
“We have a vast expanse of coastline,” I pointed out.
“My property business rents out beach houses,” Vanzetti said, his expression thoughtful, his fingers caressing the corners of his moustache.
“Could Vittoria have helped herself to a house without you knowing?” I asked.
He paused, then walked purposefully from the room. “I’ll find out.”
Vanzetti returned a minute later, carrying a laptop computer, wearing a pair of unadorned spectacles. He set the computer on the glass table, switched on the machine, then accessed his files. After close on five minutes of fiddling, of exasperated moaning, of removing his tie, Vanzetti sat back and massaged his temples. Meanwhile, Catrin stepped forward and assumed control.
Two minutes later, Catrin looked up at me and said, “A house near Newton has fallen into a black hole.”
I nodded then asked, “Vittoria’s done a little hacking?”
“It would seem so. We own the house, but it’s not listed anymo
re.”
Catrin used the royal ‘we’ I noted, which suggested that in her mind, at least, she hadn’t cut all her ties to the Vanzetti empire; but I let that pass, for now.
“Vince, you’ve really let things slip,” Catrin complained. “Your own daughter stealing a house from you.”
“She hasn’t stolen it,” Vanzetti said, somewhat sheepishly. “She’s borrowed it, apparently.”
“As a bolthole,” I said, “a place of sanctuary.” I turned to Parks and asked, “Have you ever been there, V.J.?”
He glanced up and shook his head. “First I’ve heard of it.”
I asked Catrin for the address then walked towards the door. “I’ll check it out now.”
“I’m going with you,” Vanzetti said. He straightened his jacket and shirt collar, knotted his tie, then ensured that his gun was in place.
“No,” I insisted. “If Vittoria’s gone there, she’s gone there for a reason. Best to establish that reason first. Trust me; I’m an old hand at this sort of thing.”
At first, Vanzetti hesitated. Then he nodded, decisively. “I trust you.”
I glanced at Catrin, at V.J. Parks and they nodded their assent. Then I thanked Sherri, for her initial suggestion.
“That’s okay,” Sherri replied with a girlish giggle. “You know me; anything to help.”
Chapter Eleven
I drove along the M4 at speed, twenty miles west to Newton.
Newton was a picture-postcard village – one of many in the region – that could trace its roots back to the Norman invasion of Glamorgan in the twelfth century. Situated on the coast, the village boasted a Norman church, a picturesque pool, a range of sand dunes and a village green. Furthermore, holidaymakers made use of an extensive caravan park, one of the largest in Europe. Newton also contained a ‘magic’ well that emptied when the tide rolled in and filled when the tide rolled out.
I remember staring at that well as a child when my mother warned me not to get too close or the bogeyman would drag me in. My mother used fear as a means of control, not ideal parenting but, as an alcoholic, the best she could manage.
Vittoria’s possible hideaway was a modern, red-bricked house with four bedrooms, which backed on to the sand dunes, a stone’s throw from the beach. I parked my Mini in front of the house, ignored the censorious gaze of a curious neighbour and wandered into the garden. I tapped on the front door and tried the handle – the door was locked. So I made my way to the rear of the house, which contained a path, but no garden. The path led on to the sand dunes while a sandy trail led on to the beach.
The rear of the house was secluded, so I tried the back door, which opened to my touch. With guilt sitting on one shoulder and justification on the other, I entered the building.
The house was empty; I didn’t need to search every room, every nook, every corner to know that; I just felt the emptiness; put it down to a sixth sense or years of experience. However, the rooms were untidy, lived in. Breakfast dishes in the kitchen sink told me that someone had feasted there, a few hours ago.
I wandered into the living room, a room illuminated by the afternoon sun as it shone through a large picture window, yet dark due to a black wall and black furniture. A television dominated the black wall, set at right angles to the window. Indoor plants provided a hint of freshness while a tall metal urn offered an industrial feel. It was not my type of room – it was too dark for that – but its contents spoke of affluence and style.
I was about to climb the stairs when the back door opened. I stood on the stairs, turned and gazed at a young woman. Dressed in faded jeans and a baggy jumper, she wore a shell necklace and a shell bracelet while a collection of colourful shells crowded her left hand. Her hair was dark and dishevelled, as though cropped with shears. Indeed, her hair was a mess, beyond a rebellious fashion statement; I sensed that she’d trimmed it herself, without the aid of a mirror. Her soft hazel eyes, Vanzetti eyes, and Roman nose told me that I’d found Vittoria.
“Who are you?” she asked, retreating, placing her shells on a small table, situated in the hall, near the door. As she dropped the shells, the sleeves on her jumper rode up, to reveal deep, ugly scars.
“My name’s Sam,” I said. “I’m an enquiry agent. I’ve been looking for you, hired by your father.”
Vittoria nodded. She gazed down, to her trainers. “How did you find me?” she asked, her tone wary, her body language defensive, her right hand reaching for the door handle.
“You took a chance,” I said, “stealing your father’s house.”
She shrugged. “I just deleted it from his list of properties.”
“He was bound to find out.”
“Not with Sherri around. His mind has turned to mush with Sherri around. He doesn’t pay attention to the little details anymore.”
I smiled then waved a hand above my head. “This house is a little detail?”
“It is when you own as many properties as my father.”
Although still wary, she managed to glance up, to meet my gaze. After a long pause for thought, her hand dropped away from the door handle. She took a step into the hall then into the living room. Supplying my own invitation, I followed.
In the living room, Vittoria slumped on to a sofa, opposite the wall-mounted TV. She stared at the screen, though it was blank.
Meanwhile, I eased myself on to a second sofa, leaned forward and asked, “Do you like Sherri?”
Vittoria shrugged. Already, I’d ascertained that she was big on shrugs. Nevertheless, she seemed to trust me, maybe because I was working for her father. I sensed that she feared something, someone, yet that fear wasn’t centred on me.
“Sherri’s not like my mother,” Vittoria said. “We get along okay.”
“What happened to your hair,” I asked, “your arms?”
Vittoria tugged at her jumper, hiding her scars. She gazed at me, then lowered her eyes and lapsed into silence.
We sat in silence. The minutes ticked by. Vittoria stared at nothing in particular while I tried to make sense of her situation.
Then she asked, “Are you going to take me back to my father?”
“That’s up to you. He knows where you are. But I can buy you a little time, some space, if you want to stay away from him.”
“I want to be on my own,” she said, her tone heavy, weary, loaded with melancholy.
“I respect that,” I said. “But your father, mother and V.J. are worried about you; do you mind if I phone them, tell them you’re safe?”
Vittoria thought about that. The seconds stretched into minutes. Then she said, “Okay. You can tell them I’m safe. But I need to be alone.”
I nodded, reached into my shoulder bag and cradled my phone. However, before I placed the call, I needed more answers. “Are you angry with your father?”
“No.”
“Why don’t you want to see him?”
“I can’t see him,” Vittoria said, turning her head, looking away.
“Why not?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” I said.
She lapsed into silence. She stared at the wall.
“Would you like to talk with your mother?” I asked.
“No.”
“After they divorced, you chose to live with your father, not your mother.”
“So?” She turned to face me, her features sharp, severe.
“Any reason for that?”
“I’ve always been closer to my father. He’s always been there to protect me. My mother used to scold me. She was the heavy; my dad was the soft touch.”
“So you feel closer to your father than your mother, but you don’t want to see him.”
Again, the heavy silence and the blank stare. Clearly, Vittoria was an articulate, intelligent woman, but something, or someone, had compelled her to run, and something, a negative emotion, held her tongue.
“What about V.J.; would you like to talk with him?” I asked.
“Later,” Vi
ttoria shrugged. “Maybe. But not now.”
“You really want to be alone.”
“Yes.”
“Are you planning to stay here?”
“I don’t know.” She glanced up and gave me an angry scowl. “I might have to move out now.”
“If you do, I’ll only find you again.”
Another shrug. “Then I guess I’ll stay.”
“For how long?” I asked.
“For as long as it takes.”
“To do what?”
Silence – heavy, protracted, intense.
“Mind if I call on you again?” I asked.
Vittoria frowned. She stared at me and, for the first time, offered genuine interest. “Why?”
“I want to help you.”
“You can’t.” She picked up a cushion and hugged it to her midriff. “No one can.”
I ignored that and said, “I’ll call back soon, okay. I might bring a friend.”
She looked up sharply. Fear clouded her eyes.
“Someone you know,” I said, my tone loaded with reassurance. “My friend will look after you; make sure no one bothers you. My friend will protect you, keep you safe.”
“It’s too late for that,” Vittoria said. She picked up the cushion and hurled it against the wall. Then she began to cry. “It’s too late for everything. No one can help me now.”
Chapter Twelve
I telephoned Vincent Vanzetti. I told him that Vittoria was safe. He wanted to see her, immediately, but I explained that she needed a little time on her own. Vanzetti groaned and grumbled at that. However, he acquiesced when I promised to explain everything once I returned to his home.
I stood on a sand dune, which offered a view of the front and back of the house, and telephoned Mac. I explained the situation and within half an hour, his Bugatti cruised into the close.
“Good of you to drop everything and come running,” I said as I approached Mac’s car.
“I said just whistle, didn’t I. You whistled, I’m here; I’m a man of my word.”
Mac climbed out of the Bugatti. I sensed the neighbours’ curtains twitch as he adjusted his greatcoat, ran a hand over his bald head then licked his huge ginger moustache. Mac would stand out in a crowd of thousands. In this exclusive street, he was as inconspicuous as an alien wearing a G-string.