by Timlin, Mark
‘I saw her burn,’ I said. ‘I saw her burn and I tried to help.’ I held up my hands in front of me. ‘But I was helpless. Could I have done more?’ I asked the older man.
‘You could never have met her,’ replied Frederick savagely.
‘What’s done is done,’ cut in Ferrara. ‘Now silence, Frederico. Mister Sharman was not to blame. It was fate, kismet. Come, Mister Sharman.’
I allowed myself to be led out of the office to a chauffeur-driven maroon Volvo parked on the corner. I left the office as it was. If anyone wanted to wreck the place again, they could just walk in.
The Volvo took a short, angry route towards the West End. I sat in the back next to Ferrara. Frederick sat in the front, sideways on, so that he could with little difficulty stare his hateful stare at me. Once it would have made me nervous or angry. But by then it only irritated me slightly, like a tooth that may or may not be ready to ache. I sat in my pain on the leather seat with my hands on my knees. The interior of the car smelt expensive. Quality cologne and old cigar smoke in equal quantities. The driver stabbed the car through the grey South London streets like an assassin.
‘Does he get paid by the victim?’ I asked mildly as he narrowly missed yet another pedestrian.
‘Be quiet,’ said Frederick.
‘Bollocks,’ I replied. ‘I don’t take orders from you.’
‘Mister Sharman,’ said Ferrara. ‘Are you determined to antagonize Frederick into killing you?’
‘I can’t handle this shit,’ I said. ‘Where the fuck do you two get off? I feel like I’ve got a grenade stuffed up my jacksie with the pin hanging out, waiting for one of you to pull it. I don’t need this crap, if you’re going to top me, get on with it, otherwise let me out.’
‘No chance, Sharman,’ said Frederick.
‘Want to bet?’ I said as I saw a traffic light turn red two cars in front of us, and prepared for a quick bail-out.
Ferrara touched my arm. He must have felt me stiffen in readiness for my escape. ‘Please Mister Sharman,’ he said.
‘Blimey,’ I replied. ‘You know the word please, I’m amazed.’
He went on. ‘As I explained, there is a lot of sadness in the family. Perhaps we are over-reacting.’
‘I’ll say you are.’ I felt tears prickle at my eyelids. ‘You knew her,’ I said. ‘Tell me about her.’
The younger man made a sound of disgust and turned to face the windscreen.
‘She was like my own,’ Ferrara said, now looking every day of his age. ‘I have no children. It is my sorrow.’ He touched his heart. ‘My wife is not able. A tragedy, but a tragedy we live with. When Josephina was born I was made her godfather.’ He noticed my look. ‘Not that kind, not like the stupid film. But in the church at her christening I was put in charge of her spiritual life. I upheld my responsibilities to the full. In doing so I fell under her spell, as all who met her did.’ He gestured with his head at Frederick sitting in the front seat. ‘As he did. As you did, Mister Sharman.’ I nodded. ‘She was a jewel,’ he went on. ‘But as she told you, she hated the business of her family. She wanted only peace. Not that she was always peaceful. She could be a hurricane. Her tempers.’ He smacked the side of his brow. ‘Did you see her tempers?’
‘Yes.’ I laughed for one of the few times since she died. ‘She stamped around me once or twice.’ I changed the subject. ‘What did she write? You said you read her letters. Was she happy here?’
I saw the young man stiffen.
‘She was happy with you, if that is what you mean,’ Ferrara said. ‘Contented – but do you need me to tell you?’
‘No, I saw her every day. She was happy,’ I replied.
Whilst we’d been talking the car had crossed the river and circumnavigated the Victoria one-way system. Now we were heading towards the park. The chauffeur expertly cut through the traffic into Park Lane, and then doubled back to stop in front of the Intercontinental Hotel. The three of us disembarked and the driver burnt rubber to park the Volvo.
We entered the lobby of the hotel and the two men led me over to the lifts. We expressed to the penthouse. The suite door was opened by a besuited bruiser. He didn’t speak, but vanished through a connecting door and left us in the sitting-room.
Ferrara invited me to sit. I did so. He asked me if I wanted a drink. I accepted a bourbon over ice from the trolley. Frederick stood, still in his coat in the over-heated air, and glared at me. Ferrara shucked out of his coat and sat down close by me. I sipped the liquor. The connecting door opened and another man entered. I guessed it was Antony, Jo’s brother. He had similar features. Ferrara jumped to his feet. I stayed where I was. Ferrara introduced us politely. It was indeed Antony Cassini. He was tall, taller than I’d expected. The more I saw of him the more his face reminded me of Jo’s, although his face was masculine and hard and full of sorrow. He was dressed in an expensive dark blue flannel suit that gleamed slightly in the indirect light of the suite. A black armband was pulled over his right sleeve. His eyes were shielded by wraparound black-lensed glasses. Looking at him was like staring at the carapace of a beetle. During the introduction Antony didn’t move to shake my hand. Whether it was in deference to my bandages, or that he couldn’t bring himself to touch me, I’ll never know.
He sat in the armchair opposite me. There was a coffee table between us. It might just as well have been a brick wall. He snapped his fingers and Ferrara dipped his hand under his suit coat and came up holding a snub-nosed automatic with an Italian look to it, just like everything else in the room. Antony took the pistol from Ferrara, worked the action to slide a bullet into the breech and placed it on his side of the table with the barrel pointing towards me.
‘Thank you for coming, Mister Sharman,’ he said.
‘I had little choice,’ I replied.
‘That is true.’
I nodded at the pistol. ‘I’m not impressed,’ I said.
‘I’m not really surprised,’ replied Antony. ‘I’ve been doing a little preliminary checking up on you. You are apparently a dangerous man.’
Frederick snorted. I looked over at him then back to Antony and said, ‘I’ve been lucky.’
‘And modest.’
‘You were lucky that Josephina took your car,’ interrupted Frederick.
Antony silenced him with a look, then continued. ‘Mister Sharman,’ he said.
I couldn’t get over how polite these mobsters were. I wondered if they asked permission to nail your feet to the floor. I switched my attention back to Antony as he went on. It was hard to pay attention, the last of the coke was wearing off and I felt tired and drained of all life. I dragged myself back to what Antony was saying.
‘I want to know exactly what happened. I’ve read the newspaper accounts of my sister’s death. You were there. Please tell me the whole story.’
So, in the air-conditioned hush of the thousand-pound-a-night penthouse suite, in one of the most expensive hotels in London, fortified by booze at forty notes a bottle, I told a Mafia chieftain’s son the story of how his sister, running from a lifestyle that disgusted her, was chewed apart by a car bomb planted by men of similar ilk to her own family.
When I’d finished my story, Antony sat for a while in silence. There was a discreet knock at the door. Frederick answered it. A waiter wheeled in a large cloth-covered trolley.
‘I ordered some lunch,’ said Antony. ‘Will you join us?’
‘Not for me thanks,’ I replied.
The waiter whipped off the cloth like someone from the magic circle. I caught sight of piles of roast beef, chicken legs, cheese and seafood. Although I hadn’t eaten since God knows when the smell disgusted me. But The Blackhand Gang dived in as if eating was being criminalized at midnight. I stuck to the bourbon. With the arrival of the food Antony became the perfect host. He flitted around like a butler trying to tempt me with tasty treats. I felt like a ghoul, but finally accepted a cup of black coffee to shut him up.
When the Italian/Americans had de
stroyed the buffet they settled back to business. Antony and Ferrara dipped into a box of cigars the size of ground-to-air missiles. Through a pungent fog that swirled around us before being sucked into the ceiling vents, Antony began to speak again.
‘I have spoken to the undertaker who will take care of the body of my sister after the authorities have finished with it.’ His mouth was twisted in disgust at the thought. ‘She will be shipped to our family burial plot in New Jersey. She will be incarcerated when I return to the States. Now, Mister Sharman, I want to know who was responsible for this outrage.’ His demeanour changed. He removed his dark glasses. His eyes were red-rimmed, but the pupils flashed with anger. ‘Do you have any enemies?’ he asked.
‘More than I could easily shake a stick at. I’ve had rather a colourful past.’
‘I’ll make it simple for you. Do you know who killed my sister?’
‘I think so.’
‘The name.’
‘First of all,’ I said, ‘let me tell you about some possibles.’ He leant forward and Ferrara took notes in a small leather-bound notebook.
I told them briefly about the trouble I’d had the previous summer with George Bright and the Arab and John Reid the rogue policeman and their convoluted drug and pornography business. I touched on the documents and photographs I’d found that were now safely hidden where no one would ever find them except for Danny Fox and me. I named some names that perhaps I shouldn’t have, but I was past caring. I dredged up names from the past that I had long forgotten. Antony and Ferrara glanced at each other from time to time but didn’t interrupt.
When I’d finished the tale Antony said, ‘We knew something of this, but thank you for being so frank. You say that these are possibles and we will have them checked out. Now the name of the probable.’
‘Names, actually,’ I explained. ‘Charlie Diva and his son Steven, in collusion with a person or persons unknown. I don’t actually see them placing a bomb themselves.’
‘What leads you to this conclusion?’
‘I’m involved in an investigation at the moment; well, not an investigation as such, an enquiry into the whereabouts of rather a large sum of money. It dates back nearly twenty years.’
I outlined the facts regarding Mark McBain and Mogul Inc. Ferrara took more notes in his cute little book. I finished by telling them how the Divas had rolled over after my visit and how I hadn’t believed it could be that easy.
‘Is there any proof?’ Antony demanded.
‘None yet,’ I replied.
‘Make a report on all these people, especially the Divas,’ Antony ordered. Ferrara nearly tripped over his feet heading for the door.
‘So what happens now?’ I enquired.
‘We find out who murdered my sister and we kill them,’ replied Antony coldly.
‘And then?’
He looked at me with his icy eyes, then stood and walked through the inner door of the suite. Frederick and I waited in silence. Antony returned almost immediately. In his hand was a slim packet of envelopes held together by a scarlet ribbon. He placed the letters carefully on the table in front of me. I recognised the colour of the paper and Jo’s handwriting. The top envelope was addressed to her father.
‘For good or evil she loved you,’ said Antony. ‘When her murderers are dead, I think we all go home.’
32
‘Just like that huh?’ I asked. ‘I roll over, kill a few faces, get my tummy tickled and we all go home? You to bury Jo, and me to what? Keep one step in front of the Old Bill for the rest of my life? No thanks, pal. I’ll pass on this one if you don’t mind.’
‘Sharman, I reprieved you,’ said Antony, as if surprised by my reaction.
‘Reprieved,’ I said. ‘You’re not the fucking beak. You’re not judge, jury and executioner. Don’t you understand that’s what killed your sister? People like you thinking you’re the law.’
Frederick was looking daggers at me but I was too cocaine-anxious and jittery to pay any attention to his problems.
‘You will do as I say,’ said Antony, ‘or you’ll be sorry.’
‘Let me show him,’ begged Frederick.
‘Not yet,’ said Antony. ‘Mister Sharman is no fool. He will soon see he has no choice.’
I shook my head. ‘I’ll do it in my way, in my time,’ I said.
‘Mister Antony,’ pleaded Frederick.
‘Can’t you shut that prick up?’ I demanded. ‘He’s about as interesting as dental floss.’
Frederick was beginning to twitch again. He stood about ten yards from where I was sitting, on the other side of the massive sitting-room of the suite. He made a step towards me but Antony waved him back.
‘Wait, Frederick,’ he said. Then, to me: ‘Sharman, be sensible. It would give Frederick great pleasure to kill you, here and now.’
‘Who, him?’ I asked. ‘He’s nothing, I’ve seen sixteen year-old steamers with a better chance.’ I don’t expect Frederick knew what a steamer was, but he knew it was nothing good. He dropped into a fighting crouch and came at me.
I rolled out of my seat, picked up a weighty glass ashtray from the table in front of me and flicked it left-handed like a heavy frisbee at Frederick. It caught him high on the right temple. He ploughed into the carpet but kept coming. Antony was frozen in surprise. I scooped the pistol off the coffee table where it had lain during lunch and covered the pair of them.
‘Stay,’ I shouted to Frederick. He slid to a halt on his hands and knees and looked up at me in a bewildered way. There was a crescent-shaped cut on his forehead that was already puffing and turning blue around the edges. Blood was seeping down to his eyebrow.
‘And you,’ I said to Antony. ‘I really didn’t want this to happen, but you forced the issue.’
‘Put it down, Sharman,’ said Ferrara behind me, and I heard the click of a pistol being cocked. ‘Put it down,’ he repeated. He was smart, no jamming the gun into my back like an amateur. He kept his distance. I placed the automatic gently back onto the table amidst the dirty plates. I did it very carefully as if it was made of eggshell.
Ferrara moved round so I could see the gun, as if I needed convincing. It was a nice chubby .38 with almost no barrel at all.
Frederick pulled himself to his feet and made straight for me.
‘No,’ said Antony. ‘Stay where you are Frederick, or I promise you’ll be sorry.’
Frederick reacted as if he’d been slapped. The blood drained from his face and he stood almost to attention. Obviously he’d seen Antony make someone sorry before.
‘Never,’ Antony went on, ‘never do that again Frederick. We’re all distraught, but that’s no excuse. You are a soldier and you should exercise discipline. If you cannot control yourself you are of no use to me.’
Frederick didn’t reply. He stood perfectly still and took the rebuke, although I saw sweat break out on his top lip. Antony kept out of Ferrara’s line of fire and rescued the automatic.
‘Bad move,’ I remarked. ‘Amateurs forget about the hardware.’
‘And amateurs leave their backs uncovered,’ said Ferrara.
Touché, you old bastard, I thought. ‘I’ve been awake too long,’ I said. ‘I’m getting sloppy.’
Ferrara holstered his pistol. Antony told me to sit down again and Frederick to get lost. We both did as we were told. Ferrara loaded the room-service trolley and pushed it into the corridor. Antony obviously didn’t want anyone earwigging our little chat.
Ferrara prepared some more drinks and when we were all seated comfortably Antony spoke again.
‘Now you see why I can use you, Sharman.’ He gestured with his head towards the door that Frederick had used to leave the room. ‘Damn kids, no good to anyone. He gets upset and he’s out of the game.’
‘Maybe that’s the best place to be.’
‘How so?’
‘The game, as you call it,’ I said, ‘could get pretty dangerous, and bloody.’
‘You didn’t strike me as a coward.
Mister Sharman,’ said Antony.
‘Cowardice is not the issue,’ I replied. ‘You’re crazy if you think you can just come into London and shoot the fuck out of it and then catch the first Concorde back to JFK.’
‘London is no different from anywhere else.’
‘You want to bet?’ I asked in exasperation. ‘You’d know,’ said Ferrara. ‘That’s why we want you. Aren’t you interested in justice?’
‘Of course,’ I said.
‘What’s justice in this goddam country? Fifteen years in the slammer, out in ten. Is that what you want for the men who killed Josephina?’
‘No.’
‘Then help us get the bastards and give them a taste of Italian justice.’
He pulled two fingers lovingly along the line of his jawbone and smiled an evil smile.
I felt the rush of vengeance, like the rush from a line of cocaine and enjoyed the feeling. ‘What about Frederick if I join you?’ I asked. ‘I can’t walk around the whole time covering my back.’
‘You might get sloppy again,’ grinned Ferrara.
‘I might at that,’ I said.
‘He’ll do as he’s told,’ said Antony. ‘Take my word for it. He’s not usually so headstrong.’
Ferrara nodded in agreement.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘You’re on.’ And that was that.
We didn’t bother to talk much more that day. They were as fucked up in the head in their own way as I was in mine. Antony told me they’d be making their enquiries and be in touch as soon as anything came up. I declined the offer of a ride home in the kamikaze Volvo, and Antony saw me down to the foyer. Before we parted he said, ‘You took a chance with Frederick, he might have killed you.’
‘He was too angry to win,’ I replied.
‘But you had no weapon and only one hand to fight with.’
‘I managed.’
‘But you might have missed and then he would have hurt you badly.’
‘There is that, of course.’