by Gian Bordin
It’s Fausto. He wants to see me. We agree to meet in half an hour at the café on the south side of Oxford Street, next by the Bond Street underground station. It seems that Long’s e-mail folders will have to wait another day.
Thursday, 6:20 p.m.
Not knowing whether I’ll have enough time to change into an outfit suitable to go to dinner with my father, I changed before taking the Circle line to Bond Street. So I’m five minutes late. Fausto is waiting outside the café. We enter and find a screened-off table. I order a double macchiato.
"They serve that here? A real macchiato?"
"Yes," I reply, bemused by his surprise. He orders the same.
"And what did Signor Carvaggio say to your request to work with me rather than against me?"
"How do you know I even talked to him, signorina?"
"Because that is in your best interest."
He nods. "He agreed to give you ten days, and also said that I should keep a close eye on you."
"Good," I reply smiling. I know who is going to keep a close eye on whom. "So what have you found out so far?"
"Last night, I staked out the building where this guy Long lives. I saw him drive away in a Maserati."
"A Maserati?"
"Yes, worth at least two hundred thousand euros."
"You are sure it was him?"
"Yes, no doubt. He stopped as he drove out of the underground garage to light a cigarette. I saw him clearly. You think he is our man?"
"Could be. He just recently bought the penthouse studio he lives in and now owns a car that costs twice what he had before. I will investigate where the money came from. That will tell us more."
"I could shake him up a bit."
"Not yet. You see, he could have inherited recently. He sometimes bragged about his rich Australian uncle. So, give me till next week. By then I should know."
The waitress brings our order. Fausto takes a sip and grins. "That’s the genuine article. I didn’t know one could get a decent coffee in this god-forsaken country."
"What else do you have for me?"
He hands me the camera. "There are six or seven pictures of Long with people he met."
I scan through the photos. One is with two colleagues, Grant one of them, just as they come out of the building of Lewis’ offices. Another shot has him with Fred Garland, two blocks away from the office. A third and fourth show him sitting in a bar with other people. One of them looks familiar. Where have I seen this face before? Then it comes to me. Gary introduced me to him some weeks ago, I think just outside Goldsax, when I met him there after work: Bob Gough, the stockbroker who found me a buyer for the Sanvino shares. Is this a coincidence or something more?" I try to recognize the bar. It doesn’t seem to be one of the usual haunts for stockbrokers.
"You remember where this bar is located?"
"Yes, it’s near Trafalgar Square. The … sorry, it slipped my mind."
"The Governor?"
"Yes, that’s it. You know it?"
"I was once in there."
So Bob Gough could be the link between Long and Gary, if these two worked in concert. A somewhat big ‘if’. Could Gary really have done that to me at the same time as he had sex with me? Something inside me revolts against that conjecture. I push these thoughts to the side for the moment, and look at the other four shots. They show Long with various other stockbrokers, either eating lunch or standing near the bar in one of the usual lunch places.
"Fausto, you have done well. Tomorrow night and over the weekend, I want you to observe this man." I take a picture of Gary from my handbag. "His name is Gary Buxton."
"I know him. He is your ex-boyfriend."
"Right, he told me you had a friendly conversation with him."
He grins.
"He works for Goldsax. Do you have a London map?"
He nods and retrieves a British Tourist Authority mini map of London. I show him the location of Goldsax. "This is where he works."
"Yes, I caught him just outside the office."
"How did you know about him?"
"I saw you with him last Thursday at lunch. It looked like you two were having a lovers’ tiff. I followed him after you walked out on him."
That’s when Gary told me that it was over between us and that he had told Somes I was a compulsive liar. I take two deep breaths to calm my rising anger.
"He is the one who confirmed the false rumor. The guy you saw with Long at the Governor also works for Goldsax. So all three could be accomplices." As I say that I’m not sure whether it is wise to speculate like this to Fausto. What if he goes after them on his own? But it’s too late. I just have to make sure he only does what I want him to. "So, over the weekend, shadow this man. See with whom he meets and where. As far as I know, he has no car. So find out if he has one now. Give me a call by tomorrow morning. I may have new directions for you then."
"And what about tonight?"
"I think you may take the evening off."
"Can you recommend a decent Italian restaurant, signorina?"
"In the vicinity? Yes, there is the Dolce Vita. Show me the map again."
He does.
"It’s here." I mark it with the letters DV. "It’s very classy, expensive, genuine cucina romana. If you like fish, Il Pescatore, here, is excellent." I mark it P. "And over here in Soho is Il Napolitano. I’ve never been there, but they claim to serve southern Italian dishes." I mark it N."
"Would you be willing to join me, signorina?"
"Thank you, Fausto, for your invitation, but I already have another dinner appointment tonight … with my father. And after midnight, I’ll be busy hacking into the computers of our potential culprits."
He seems genuinely disappointed. But even if I were free and no Silvio, I would want to keep my distance from this man.
"I guess I keep the camera."
"Yes, you still need it. And now, Fausto, I’ll have to run or else I’ll keep my father waiting."
He accompanies me to the underground station where we shake hands.
Thursday, 7:25 p.m.
I beat my father by five minutes and wait at the bar, looking for Silvio. He is suddenly behind me, warm breath, whispering into my ear "Ciao, amore", and then kisses my cheek. Heat spreads from my solar plexus, surprising me anew. I turn around, smiling. "Ti voglio bene," I murmur. He has a half-full glass of red wine in each hand and passes one to me.
"Cin’cin," we say simultaneously, lightly touching the glasses together and then take a sip.
"Your father not here yet?"
"No. He should be here any minute. Although he is thoroughly British, he is punctual like Swiss trains."
Silvio responds with an amused smile. "I’ve reserved your table."
"Thanks, look, there he comes." I point to the entrance.
My father spots me too and joins us.
We exchange the usual brushing of cheek — my father resisted that custom for a long time and I may still be the only person with whom he does it.
"Dad, this is Silvio Bartoli, the chef cum manager. Silvio, this is my father, Albert Walker," I say in English.
The two shake hands.
"Sir, nice to meet you. Would you like to share a glass of Barbaresco with us or do you prefer to go to your table right away?"
"At the table, with a glass of Barbaresco, please. Is it the real thing?"
"Dad, Silvio only serves the real thing," I chip in while Silvio nods.
He signals the barista for another glass and, after showing us to the little table at the back, excuses himself.
"He seems to be quite friendly toward you," my father remarks. "Have you known him long?"
"Yes, almost from the beginning. This was the only restaurant I indulged in while I studied for the MBA. My guess is that the Italian connection helped."
"Do I discern more than simply an acquaintance? I saw him kiss you."
"Yes, dad, guilty as charged." I try to make it sound light-hearted. "He is really special and has b
een very supportive, not to speak of the excellent food he serves."
"Isn’t this a bit fast? You just broke with Gary."
"Yes, it happened too fast, but he has courted me for years."
My father shakes his head. "Young people of today, changing lovers like changing clothes."
It feels like a reprimand, but right then Silvio brings the menu cards and I refrain from answering. Silvio recommends the fish, and we quickly settle on that, with only a selection of bread as a starter. After Silvio withdraws, I come back to dad’s remark.
"That was unfair, dad. Gary was my first steady boyfriend and it lasted two years. And even if it may be premature to say so, I don’t think Silvio is just another fling. He’s not the type, nor am I. He is such a freeing change. I’ve only realized now how stifling my relationship with Gary had become."
"Oh, I would welcome it if you settled down. You are getting on a bit. You don’t want to be in your thirties before you have your first child."
"That’s my thought too. I guess that’s what I hoped, why I stuck it out with Gary for so long."
I suddenly have the urge to confide in him about Gary’s irate behavior. He listens without interruptions. That leads to telling him about my recent investigations and what I’ve learned from the mafioso. It’s obvious that my father is highly concerned about me joining forces with that man.
Silvio sits with us for a while, sharing a plate of cheeses after the mains. He shouts us to a velvety glass of late harvest Riesling.
When we leave, Silvio whispers in my ear: "Will I see you after closing? I could come to you, around a quarter to twelve."
I nod. I want him to come. "Yes, I would like that," I murmur. He responds with a pleased smile and another kiss on the cheek.
"That sounded like a ‘yes’ to an assignation," my father remarks, grinning.
I can’t help blushing. "Yes, it was."
Thursday, 10.50 p.m.
I didn’t intend to be that early in the alley behind Lewis’ offices, but it is either now or much later at three or four in the morning. The latter choice doesn’t appeal. I want Silvio to stay with me till early morning. I want to wake with him warm and soft next to me.
So, sitting in the dark in my van, I log in as Edward Long and send the internal e-mail to Fred Garland. In less than two minutes I’m off again on my way home. Tomorrow night I will be back, hopefully to take possession of his password and then his files will be mine. I don’t yet know what I will do in the unlikely case that I find something, whether I should refer it to the police, admitting that I illegally entered the system, or do something else. Would he confess if shaken up by the mafioso? A decision on that can wait. It may never come to anything anyway. I might find nothing, the same as I might find nothing in Long’s e-mail files.
Friday, 31st October, 7.05 a.m.
I become aware of the warm body next to me. Without opening my eyes I snuggle up to him, matching his shape, folding an arm around his torso, savoring the sensation of his skin on mine, inhaling the lingering scent of sex on his. It makes me reach down to his penis. It feels soft and pliable, but after a moment it swells. Silvio stirs and turns on his back. I let go.
"I love you," I whisper in his ear, my breasts pressing into his arm and chest.
His eyes open slowly, a sleepy smile greeting me. "I love you too, Ceci. I never dared hoping that you would be mine one day."
"But I am. I want to be yours, all yours … now." My right hand reaches again for his penis. It is stiff. His smile grows bigger. Suddenly, he turns me on my back and starts kissing me. I usually avoided kissing Gary in the morning before he brushed his teeth. His breath and saliva tended to taste stale. But Silvio’s breath feels good. I banish Gary from my mind and respond eagerly. He plays with my breasts, fingers feather-light circling my nipples, while his eyes are locked on mine. The urge to have him inside becomes insistent. I open my legs, murmuring: "Come."
He continues teasing me.
"Please, Silvio, now."
I rush to a climax, cresting before he comes. Blissfully spaced out, I relish his pulsations inside me. He remains lying on me, light. I’ve my eyes closed, smiling, as his nose nuzzles mine.
Later we shower together. Over coffee — he makes it on my Lavazza espresso machine, extra strong — he says: "I like your father, but he is so English. Even his looks and his flaming red hair. You don’t resemble him at all."
"No, not in looks, but thankfully quite a bit in character."
"Really? You strike me as a full-blooded Italian."
"Swiss Italian, remember I spent six years in Lugano."
"Italian, Swiss Italian, it’s all the same."
"I doubt many Swiss Italians would agree with that. They consider that the mountains have made them a tougher breed."
"I’ll take you even if you are only a poor cousin from across the border. We should never have allowed those burly Swiss cowherds to hold on to you." A mischievous smile makes his face even more handsome.
"Don’t knock them. They were the ones who fought all the battles for your soft seignory. I also bet they sowed quite a few Swiss genes throughout northern Italy."
"That explains why there are so many ugly people there."
"So, you see me ugly." I punch him lightly.
He takes me in his arms, studying my face. "No, as a matter of fact, your face is quite pretty."
I feign disappointment. "Pretty? That’s the best you can say? And the rest of me?"
"That, my beautiful woman, that is a most exquisite treasure trove. Although the temptation is great to explore it some more right now, I’m afraid, duty calls. I must go. Will I see you tonight, please?"
I assent but tell him that later at night another task of spying in other people’s computer files awaits me.
After Silvio has left, I change into my tracksuit and go for a run. The air is nippy and smells of rain. The first chilling drops splash me as I return to the street of my apartment building. Then I shower, drink another coffee with a croissant, and just barely make it to the Snow Hill Police Station before ten for my first reporting — a condition under the release on bail.
Back home I finally buckle down to search Long’s e-mail folders. I work backward in time, starting with his private ‘old mail’ and ‘sent mail’ folders. There are a couple of messages he sent out gloating over my dismissal. The second one to a friend in Sydney even hints that he fed the bum rumor to me on purpose to goad me. I dismiss it as boasting.
It is a long and tedious business. Long’s spelling mistakes offer the only amusement. Although I mainly scan through the files, I’m flabbergasted by some of the inane and puerile messages he received and sent out. Why am I amazed? They perfectly reflect his shallow character. The other aspect I find troubling is that the majority of the outgoing mail is sent out during work hours. As expected, I find a number of e-mails with pornographic attachments, some showing prepubescent girls. That makes me think that maybe I should check for pornographic material in other folders stored on his computer, rather than the network server. If I find similar files, I can maybe pay him back for some of his harassment by giving the police an anonymous tip.
I only downloaded messages as far back as July, reasoning that I will hardly find anything relevant to the Sanvino affair earlier on. Deflated, I give up. I didn’t find a shred of evidence. Not that this necessarily exonerates him. If I had planned and undertaken such a scam, I would have made sure to leave nothing incriminating on my computer. So I should expect the same precautions from him, except that the previous discovery of insider trading evidence had raised my hopes. But I knew from the start that this search was only a shot in the dark, and I still have to discover where the money for the penthouse studio and the new car came from.
Friday, 10:05 p.m.
Coming home from seeing Silvio over a drink — I purposely ate a light dinner prior to going to Il Corno d’Oro so as not to get another free meal — I check for phone messages left while I was ou
t. There is only one. I almost don’t listen to it when I see that it is from Gary and after hearing it I’m angry with myself for not following my instinct. He sounds deranged, calls me a bitch, a cunt, an ice maiden — did he get that last label from Long I wonder? He accuses me of being the cause why he lost out on the promotion; whether I’m happy now; that he will pay me back by testifying against me at my trial, and that he hopes I will rot in jail for a few years. It leaves me shaken for a moment. How can anybody behave in such a depraved manner? I delete the message and that act feels like wiping the last bit of regard for him off my mind.
Friday, 11.55 p.m.
I’m back in the alley, logged on under Long’s username. He hasn’t changed his password since the first time I did. I open his e-mail program. There are about a dozen new e-mails Long hasn’t read yet, the return e-mail from Garland is not one of them. There are though another two that catch my eye, the October statements for his two ANZ accounts. I open the first, which happens to be the foreign currency account. There was a deposit of over eight hundred thousand Australian dollars on the 22nd of September; the payer looks like a law firm. I immediately see the implications of this and it hits me hard. He did inherit, inherit big, in fact. The account is zeroed out on the 1st of October. The check account lists a credit of 362,418 pounds for the same date — the pound equivalent of the transfer from his foreign currency account, followed next day by a 220,000-pound transfer to his HSBC account, the equity portion for the purchase of the penthouse studio. I’m puzzled why he didn’t pay the real estate firm directly, rather than first transfer the funds to his HSBC account. Three weeks later the ANZ account is almost emptied by another payment to a car dealer — the Maserati.
This discovery leaves me deflated. Long has been my prime suspect, but these transactions reveal how his recent spending spree was financed. It almost eliminates him from my list, but not quite. He could still have been involved as an accomplice and just been circumspect and have hidden any gains carefully, waiting for the smoke to dissipate before spending it.