by Gian Bordin
"But that is different. That’s warfare between gangs."
"Please, dad, don’t underestimate the danger. These people are cruel to the extreme."
"All right, Ceci, I’ll think about it. Maybe they could go to Lucy’s grandparents in Wales. The trouble is it’s in the middle of the school term. But what about you?"
"DI Willis restricted me to my apartment. But even if he hadn’t, investigating this matter forces me to remain in London."
"But don’t do anything foolish, Ceci, will you?"
"I promise, dad." A promise I will most likely have to break, I realize. Some of the ideas that are gradually firming up in my mind, he would consider foolish and dangerous.
Lucy offers me coffee and I stay with them till past ten.
Saturday, 10:45 p.m.
Back in my apartment I check for phone calls I might have missed while I was out. There are two. The first was from my mother, just wanting to connect. The second is from Gary. He sounds irate, shouting almost incoherently.
"Now you even got the Mafia on my back. I was threatened, tonight, in the street. This guy, he hardly spoke English. He said to tell you to pay up or else. He grabbed my jacket. I tried to tell him we had split up. He just shouted: ‘Tell her, or else. We’ll get her, and you. No police, got that?’ He threatened me. He said ‘you’. For god’s sake, do what he wants! Pay them whatever money you have and get them off my back."
I wonder what to do. Return the call? It would just degenerate into a shouting match. Would he even be in at this time? Most unlikely. In this case I could simply leave a message and not get again abused by him. I dial his home number. It rings six times and then his answering machine kicks in.
"Gary, I’m sorry that you were threatened, probably by the same guy who threatened me. I think you’re right. He is Mafia —"
A click and Gary’s voice suddenly interrupts me. "Don’t just be sorry. Do what he fucking says. Pay out. Hear me? … Why did I ever get involved with you, you bitch, dragging me into this mess —"
"Gary, I didn’t call to get into a fight with you or get insulted," I cut in in turn, "but to warn you that this guy is dangerous —"
"Then do what he says. Pay!"
"— so protect yourself by not going out alone at night. Be in a group. And I can’t pay, even if I wanted to. I don’t have two million. How many times do I have to repeat that I did nothing wrong?"
"I don’t care. Ask your old man. He is loaded. Just pay and get this guy off my back." He slams the phone down. It seems this has become his way to end our calls.
This interchange upsets me more than I want to admit. I can’t forgive him his irrational behavior. I wonder which scenario is more likely to fit: the one of the guilty accomplice who suddenly realizes that he is being dragged under and panics, or the selfish innocent who is frightened and sees his promotion chances float away. It’s hard to tell. If it’s the first, he sure turns out to be an outstanding actor, because he sounds genuine. But then he hid his true self from me for almost two years. And if it’s the second, I would have expected that our previous intimate relationship would induce him to show more empathy for my plight, at least let him believe in my innocence. He is though correct in one respect, I realize: things are definitely getting nastier.
I turn off all lights and go to the living room. The reflection of the close-to-full moon enters through the two windows, transforming the living room into a night scape of black shadows and stripes of bluish light. The scene lacks depth. It gives the illusion of two-dimensionality. I sit in my favorite stressless reclining chair, one of my conspicuous purchases after the commission income began to flourish. With this new threat, I can no longer afford to wait for the police to find the real culprits and clear me. It’s time to take decisive action on my own, starting with ranking the possible culprits, and then devising strategies for investigating each. Also, my plans need to be flexible and adapt to whatever I discover as I proceed.
There is no doubt in my mind that Edward Long ranks tops. Hacking into his files at Lewis should be the first avenue to pursue. The files may reveal something suspicious.
As all stockbrokers, Lewis is connected to the London Stock Exchange and the Reuters systems. The machines of all employees are served by the firm’s local network. Long tends to leave his machine on 24/7, although the system logs off any machine idle for more than two hours. Three months ago when he returned from one of his Club Méditerrané vacations, I happened to observe him in my mirror as he logged on to his machine, while I was checking my make-up. The password he used was easy to remember — Aussie19 — his nickname followed by a number. I immediately saw that 19 is a prime number. Judging him as lazy, both in terms of having to think up new passwords and then making sure to remember them, I guess that he doesn’t change it that often and will change it in a way that is easy to remember. The two obvious choices are either raising or lowering the number by one or go to the next prime number. The first method seems too obvious, I figure, even for a primitive fellow like Long. I’m pretty convinced that he uses the second option. Furthermore, it’s a good guess that Lewis’ local network is accessible from the narrow alley behind the building. So all I need is a sufficiently powerful laptop and a way to hide in the alley, and Long’s machine is mine.
I also remember the user codes of most other brokers, including Fred Garland’s, but not their passwords. To get around that obstacle I would need to gain access to the local network at the system administrator level. From the computer science courses I attended at university, I know there exists free software to spy on traffic in a network, so-called sniffer programs, which allow the capture of passwords. The alternative is to e-mail Fred a trojan horse in the form of a game or a spicy animation, with a hidden code embedded that will search his computer for his password and automatically e-mail it to me. All he needs to do is to play it, and from shoptalk I know he loves these things.
A good firewall is most likely to weed out a trojan horse delivered from outside. However, when I joined Lewis I was appalled by their poor computer security. Time and again, machines of my colleagues got infected with viruses. I even went as far as to install my own firewall, which protected my machine not only against incursions from outside our local network, but also from being infected via other machines within the network. So I reason that if I send the trojan horse from within the network by taking over Long’s machine, it will reach Garland’s mailbox.
Unfortunately, my personal high-powered laptop is in the hands of the police. I make up my mind that if I don’t get it back by Monday afternoon, I will hire a suitable machine. And the best way to hide in the alley behind the offices is to be in a delivery van with either no or obscured windows. Renting one for a week or so is one possibility, but would leave a record. Buying one seems the safer option, as long as I delay registering the ownership change or even fail to do so, but it will make a bad dent in my cash reserves — something I have to risk, I reason.
Before going to sleep, I remind myself to search tomorrow through the automotive section of Saturday’s Times for such a second-hand van.
Sunday, 26th October, 11.55 a.m.
The van is a dirty cream Toyota HiAce, with the lettering ‘call a plumber’ all in capitals and a somewhat faded, out-of-town phone number on its side panels. Its cargo section windows, except for the one of the back gate, are sprayed white, showing a few scratches. It has seen better days and so has its current owner, a scruffy man in his fifties. The vinyl of the driver’s seat is cracking. The rubber on the floor has a hole in front of the accelerator, while the one on the passenger side is missing. No left-hand side mirror. It must have been ripped off, probably by the same accident that slightly dented the left door panel. The back door opens with a loud squeak. It has to be slammed hard to close properly. The cargo hold has rubbish inside. Surprisingly, the tires still have over eight mills of tread left.
The man shows me the registration certificate. It has his name on it. So the vehi
cle isn’t stolen. He takes me on a short drive around a couple of blocks. The odometer registers 139,456, I assume kilometers. The motor sounds rough at low revs, but springs to life first try and responds nicely. The gears stick a bit. Never having driven a van, I feel insecure. I don’t know whether it is sitting in a vehicle so high above the pavement or the wet surface of the roads and the occasional strong wind gusts. When I let go of the steering wheel for a moment on a straight stretch of road, the van drifts noticeably to the left. It needs a wheel alignment. But for my purpose, it would do.
"So you want it?" he questions after I park the car. "It may not look good, but the motor’s in excellent shape. I’ve just come back from a trip to Newcastle with no problems."
Does that mean he expected trouble, crosses my mind?
"And the tires should last you another fifteen thousand." He eyes me critically from top to bottom. "What do you intend to use the van for?" he asks, tone and face revealing suspicion.
It isn’t a question I expected, but quickly invent a plausible answer. "I’m an artist and have just bought a cottage in Wales. So I’ll be slowly shifting all my things up there over the next few weeks and I need a van to carry them."
That seems to satisfy his curiosity.
"This van will do you fine. It has lots of cargo space. Even a double bed will fit in."
"I guess it might do, but you ask far too much for it." He advertised it for 1400. "I’ll give you 800." Even that is more than I hoped to spend.
"No deal, lady. I’m willing to let it go for 1200, but no lower. It’s a steal at that price."
"I don’t think so. I saw another van, in good order with no outside damage and the motor sounded OK; it just had 30,000 more on the odometer. Advertised for 1050. I’ll give you the same." This is a lie. His is the first vehicle I’ve looked at. The few others in my price range are either much older or way out in the outer suburbs.
"You see, the 30,000 more makes the difference. That’s when the electricals go wrong. 1200 it is."
"Sorry, 1050 in cash tomorrow morning."
He hesitates for a moment and then mutters: "All right, but I want fifty down to hold the van until tomorrow."
I give him the fifty. I’ve to write out the receipt myself, but he signs it. We agree to meet again at 10:30 next morning. By then I’ll be able to uplift the cash at my bank.
Sunday, 4:00 p.m.
I didn’t return my mother’s call late last night. My grandparents tend to go to bed early, and the ringing of the phone might wake them. Four o’clock in London means five o’clock in Switzerland, and late afternoon is a good time to catch them all, probably drinking tea. My mother answers. I remain silent about my trouble. It would only upset her unnecessarily. I ask about Carlo. No, he hasn’t shown up yet. So my doubts that he would actually go to Switzerland were right. I’m sorry to have asked about it and by that raised her hopes that he will visit soon. My grandfather wants to know whether the recent upheavals in the financial market have affected my job. I reply no, but that I’m thinking of looking for employment in a different branch, a less stressful one.
Silvio has been on my mind on and off the last two days. I ask myself again why I hadn’t invite him up to my apartment the other night. What was it that had held me back? Whatever it was, it now seems unimportant. All I know is that I want to see him again soon. Why not invite him for dinner? On the spur of the moment, I call him at the restaurant, the only phone number I have.
"Ciao bella. I would never have dreamed that you would call," he greets me. His voice reflects genuine pleasure.
I’m pleased that he recognized my voice. "Neither did I, to tell the truth. I want to thank you for that really wonderful evening."
"We should do that again; soon I hope."
"That’s why I call. Are you free tomorrow night?" I remembered that the restaurant is closed on Monday and Tuesday. "Because I would like to invite you to come to my place for dinner if you are willing to sample my simple cucina."
"You know, Cecilia, that I would come even if you were the worst cook in the world. I’ll bring a good bottle of wine. What should it be, red or white or rosé?"
"We’ll have veal osso buco."
"One of my favorite dishes, and I know just the right drop for that."
"Would seven suit? We can then chat a bit before eating."
"I’m all yours, bella."
You’ve done it, the child in me shouts, while another voice warns "Inviting a chef to a meal? Are you mad?" I have a queasy feeling in my stomach, but I can’t tell why.
Then suddenly I remember that on Monday night I have tentatively planned to hack into Lewis’ network and search Edward Long’s files. How silly of me to invite Silvio when I should focus all my energy on clearing my name! What is happening to me?
Monday, 27th October, 10:25 a.m.
I knock at the door of the van’s owner and wait for him to appear. It has turned out to be a glorious Indian summer day, pleasantly warm, little wind, the occasional white puff cloud slowly passing by in a blue sky, swept mostly clean by yesterday’s strong winds.
After handing over twenty fifty-pound notes, making him sign my prepared receipt, and receiving the vehicle registration certificate, I take the vehicle to a do-it-yourself car grooming place. I want to have it washed outside and its interior vacuum-cleaned and sponged off. I also apply grease to all doors. The squeaking vanishes.
Although I offered to do all the change-of-ownership formalities, I have no intention of doing it, at least for now. If any of the uses I planned for the vehicle will raise suspicions, they will reach a dead end with the previous owner since he never got to know any personal details about me. It is a simple safety measure. Once my quest has come to a successful conclusion, I will have no hesitation to dump the van somewhere or sell it on without my name ever having been registered. I also intend to park it several streets west from my apartment where street parking is unrestricted.
Monday, 2:35 p.m.
Returning home after shopping for dinner — I managed to buy four nice, thick veal shank pieces with pink marrow in the bone — I check for any messages on the answering service. Somes called just before noon, telling me that all the items they took away for checking are ready to be picked up. Just that, nothing else. No apology for having me unnecessarily inconvenienced. It is obvious that they didn’t find anything. I told them so.
I rush out again, take the Central Line to St. Paul’s and walk to the Snow Hill Station. When I announce the purpose of my visit to the receptionist, she says: "A moment, please," and makes a call, saying only: "Miss Walker is here." She asks me to take a seat.
A few minutes later, Somes appears. Why her? I wonder, as my apprehension rises. Is she going to return the material herself?
"Miss Walker, before I authorize for your things to be returned, you will have to answer a few further questions. Follow me," she orders and starts walking away.
Her message did not say anything about answering questions, nor would I answer any without the presence of my lawyer. I remain sitting. After a few steps, she turns around, visibly annoyed.
"Miss Walker, I ordered you to follow me."
"Miss Somes, your message did not specify that you intended to question me, or I would have brought my lawyer along. I came here only to take possession of my things."
"The questions are simple requests for clarification. There is no need for your lawyer to be present."
"I will be the judge of that. Go ahead. Ask."
For a moment her eyes betray hatred before the expressionless reptile-like curtain descends again. An internal struggle seems to take place before she asks: "The memory of your cellphone was empty. Why?"
"It was not empty. All my contacts were listed when I handed it in." I was not going to make it easy for her.
"But the registers for messages are all empty."
"Because out of principle I never store any messages, just in case I misplace or lose the phone and it falls into
the wrong hands."
"So you admit that you wiped the memories before you handed the phone to us?"
"No, I don’t admit that. If you had listened carefully, you would have heard that I never store any messages out of principle, neither those I receive nor those I send out."
"That’s the same thing."
"No, you imply that the purpose was to deprive the police of the record, whereas my action of deleting any messages is not directed at the police."
She remains standing in front of me for a few seconds, her reptile eyes on me. I wonder what she is going to do next.
To my surprise, she goes over to the receptionist and simply says: "Take Miss Walker to the bailee." She disappears up the staircase without giving me another look. It feels like I’ve just won a little victory.
I’m back in the apartment shortly after four with all my things. It’s time to start preparing for dinner and that includes taking a bath first. It has been more than a year that I indulged in the luxury of a bubble bath. I can’t tell why I have that sudden urge for long soaking.
Monday, 6:55 p.m.
I chide myself for being so nervous. I want everything to be perfect. But why? It feels like going out on a first date, and there I’m only having a man, a friend, for dinner with whom I’ve been on the familiar ‘tu’ basis for almost three years, in fact, before I met Gary, rather than the formal ‘Lei’ reserved for mere acquaintances or strangers. I rearrange the glasses for the bubbly, straighten the slices of ciabatta bread, shift the olive oil and the Dukkah, a spicy Lebanese dip of ground nuts, I’m going to serve prior to dinner. Italian pop songs are discretely playing on my stereo.
I return to the kitchen. The meat is simmering in a heavy ceramic pot. Coarse bramata is soaking in the salted liquid, a mixture of milk and water, seasoned with a pinch of nutmeg, and ready to go into the microwave. The ratatouille only needs reheating. Even the butterhead lettuce is washed and ready to be tossed. The kitchen table has been set; the plates are in the warming drawer; and a homemade chocolate mousse keeps cool in the refrigerator.