The realisation of their predicament had shaken Chrissie, but now her natural instincts were kicking in and she was ready to fight back.
“Not so fast, Armando. You can stand there being the tough guy and threatening us, as if our ball had gone into your garden, but we aren’t the ones with nothing. We’re the ones who have something that your boss – and let’s say his name, Roberto Vialli – craves. It’s something he would normally have to pay a fortune for. So, as I see it, you’re getting a good deal from us. Now start treating us as equals and not some scared-shitless Neapolitan teenagers. We will hand over the data stick, but it will be on our terms and at a place that we choose.”
Chrissie threw back her shoulders, which automatically thrust out her breasts, and looked hard into Armando’s eyes while waiting for a response.
The Mafia negotiator looked first at her breasts, then raised his eyes and said, “Okay. Where and when?”
Chrissie was familiar with Central London, and thought quickly. “There’s a bar called El Dorado’s on Old Compton Street in Soho. We will meet you there at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”
Then she motioned for the others to follow and they set off back to Bayswater Road, with the bemused Italians watching them go. After a few steps Chrissie turned and spoke directly to Armando. “And there will be no exchange unless we speak, in person, to Roberto Vialli.” She didn’t wait for an answer, and strode defiantly away.
Once they had put a little distance between themselves and the two men they took a separate path towards Kensington. They were staying in a hotel in Earls Court, and thought the walk back would clear their heads and encourage some positive thinking. On the way down Kensington High Street Chrissie spotted a pub sign down a side street, and suggested sharing a bottle of wine. It was a typical West London pub – scruffy, with absolutely no atmosphere – but with an extensive wine list. They sat around a funny-shaped table and poured the wine. Even Bruno was drinking so the bottle only managed one glass each, but that was enough for now.
This wasn’t the time to go over their situation again, so they drank and talked about this and that. They listened to some more of Chrissie’s tales of the unexpected and Megan’s time in East London. Bruno was more or less back to his old self, and told some surprisingly good anecdotes about life as a novice priest. Another bottle of Pinot Grigio made the conversation even more light-hearted, and when they stepped back out into daylight it was as if they hadn’t a care in the world.
They ambled towards Earls Court like lost tourists, with London surrounding them for miles on every side, and Chrissie finally understood Brenda’s illogical remark when they first arrived. She had said that London is so big it makes you feel claustrophobic.
They arrived at the hotel and walked through the lobby. It was only a small hotel and the reception area was unmanned, with a bell to ring for assistance. Their room was only on the first floor, but they still took the lift. The walk and the wine had sapped their strength, and their feet hurt.
There were only eight bedrooms on each floor, and they had taken two of them. Halfway down the corridor they saw the shape of a man coming towards them. Brenda thought it strange that she hadn’t noticed him before, but they were so weary.
Then everything seemed to happen at once. They heard footsteps behind them and turned to see, only a few feet away, a man with a raised gun. There was a small thud as the gun was fired, and they scattered to either side of the corridor. A moment ago their legs couldn’t walk another ten yards, but now they ran like the wind. As they rushed past the man with the gun Megan was, for a brief second, face to face with him. She saw his dark eyes, and the scar that ran in a jagged line from temple to chin.
They reached the end of the corridor, and crashed into each other like skittles in a bowling alley. Then they all tried to fit through the door to the stairs at the same time and almost became jammed. It was farcical – but panic does that, and they were panicking. They ran down the stairs, across the lobby, and into the street. This was the second time they’d done this in the past two days, and they were learning. This time they didn’t stop outside. They just kept running. They ran on to Earls Court Road and into the Tube station. They had daily travel tickets they’d used earlier to go to the meeting with Roberto’s men, so they went straight down to the platforms. Destination didn’t matter: it was whichever train came first. It was the District line to Wimbledon, and they leapt on.
The train was busy and they had to stand in the door area, but they huddled together and felt stronger as a group.
“Where shall we get off?” asked Megan.
“The end of the line,” proposed Brenda.
Chrissie laughed. “Bad choice of words, Bren.”
Brenda and Megan smiled too. Whether it was nervous tension, adrenalin, or dead brain cells it was a side of their character that set them apart. Bruno didn’t smile. Whatever it was he just didn’t have it.
Eventually the train arrived at Wimbledon, and they got off with the rest of the passengers. They were looking everywhere for possible assassins – but paid killers don’t have signs around their necks, so what’s the point? There is no point, but you do it anyway.
Outside the station exit was a coffee shop, and it was as good a place as any to assess the precarious position they were in – and their dwindling options of not just getting out of it, but even surviving the next few days.
“First things first,” said Chrissie. “We didn’t even get back to the room, so all we have are the clothes we are standing in and whatever money we’ve got on us … How much have we got?”
Megan and Brenda had dropped their bags when fleeing from the hotel and Chrissie wasn’t carrying one to begin with, so they emptied their pockets out on to the table. Chrissie counted the bits and pieces. “Forty-five pounds,” she said.
This was bad. Chrissie’s face was a picture of despair. “How much have you got, Bruno?” she whispered, her words tumbling out like a line of weary coal miners ending their shift.
Bruno always wore a man satchel, which he lifted over his head and placed on the table. He unzipped it and showed the contents. It was crammed full of bundles of £20 notes.
“Bloody hell, Bruno,” said Chrissie. “Zip it up, quick.” Surprises like this can instantly lift a person’s spirits, and now they all felt as if they had been plucked from the abyss and placed on top of the world.
This time Bruno did smile. “I wasn’t leaving this for some chambermaid to find,” and then his smile withered. “If only we still had the data stick.”
“Ah, but we have,” said Brenda, and she put one hand inside her bra, gave a slight tug, and produced the magic red USB data stick.
“That’s brilliant,” shouted Chrissie. “Then we aren’t in any worse position than before. We can book into another hotel, we can buy whatever we need, and we can still do the meeting with Roberto tomorrow.”
They got up to leave, and as they walked across the room Chrissie mumbled to herself, “I didn’t like that hotel in Earls Court, anyway.”
Chapter Ten
On a one-mile gradual incline near the Surrey/Hampshire border a single-track road wound its way through the wooded slopes. With only a handful of passing places it was inhospitable to any form of motorised transport, but then very few people ever came this way. It wasn’t a short cut to anywhere, and only three houses were spaced along its entire length. The last property was the most secluded, and couldn’t even be seen from the road. Only a shabby green-painted ranch-style gate gave any indication that something may lie beyond.
After the gate a gravel path disappeared around a wide curve of huge rhododendron bushes and then widened out into a courtyard, with a converted barn dwelling to the right and a stunning six-bedroomed art deco property to the left. With flat roof and white-painted facade the house looked decidedly out of place in rural Surrey. It should have been a stone-built, ivy-covered, Victorian masterpiece with large chimneys, but was in fact built circa 1944 to the sp
ecifications of a well-known English actor of the time.
The actor had co-starred in several Hollywood movies and, although never destined to be a leading man, had carved a niche for his charming English characters. But then, with the growing unrest in Europe and the imminent threat of war, he felt it only right to return home and do his bit for king and country. So he bade a fond farewell to Tinseltown and flew back to the rolling hills of the South Downs where he had this house built in a style that reminded him of Los Angeles, and for the rest of the war he spent his working hours at a South London film studio playing various military parts in low-budget war films. Now that’s patriotism for you.
For the past eight years the house had been owned by Walter Monreal, a Conservative member of parliament. Walter was a humourless individual who seemed to take pleasure in berating defenceless waiters in restaurants or other unfortunates who crossed his path, and he had one of those mouths that had a permanent upside-down smile. He was smug and crass with an overinflated ego matched only by his ruthless ambition, and he stepped over people without remorse or regret. He was a human being who truly believed he was the centre of the universe with the rest of the population in his orbit and at his beck and call.
As an MP he had moved up the greasy pole of politics with ease. Walter was an expert at choosing the right alliances, and even better at gaining sensitive information on individuals who he could then control. The FBI would be proud to have produced such dossiers. It had taken only a short time for Walter to manoeuvre himself into a permanent role at the department of business development, which was as far as he wanted to go. He had no desire to become a senior cabinet minister. Those positions came with a mountain of responsibility and offered little in return … and Walter was in it for the money.
His grand project was the development of a large area on the outskirts of Manchester. The government was making lots of noise about plans to relocate some of its departments out to the provinces, and was putting pressure on the financial institutions to do the same. This was never going to happen, of course – the capital would always be the centre of commerce – but the prime minister had given instructions to make a gesture, and Manchester had been chosen as the Canary Wharf of the north.
Walter had been instrumental at deciding on the exact location. Land was cheap in the north, and through a maze of companies he had been buying up great chunks of the area. But, as with any commodity, buying and selling are two entirely different animals. He had bought low but would sell high, and the government wouldn’t question the price because it was his decision. He would be signing his own cheque. The development would go ahead and he would continue to profit from leases on the buildings, where he held well-hidden percentages. The construction company, the architects, the financiers: they were all under his thumb – well, most of them.
There was a potential problem. A square peg was trying to force itself into a round hole. A Mafia family was involved. This had happened in the early stages … just to get it moving. He had made that quite clear. They were never a long-term proposition, but now they wanted to change the goalposts. Well, he wasn’t having it. Nobody, not even the Mafia, told Walter Monreal what to do. He had returned their initial investment plus interest, and that was the end of it. And as additional insurance he had done a deal with a new consortium, which included London gangsters – who had promised muscle, whenever and wherever necessary. He felt utterly protected and safe. In any case, no one is going to get rough with a member of the British government. It would cause too much of an uproar, and create pressure even the Mafia could do without. Walter grinned inwardly, making his face contort into a vicious sneer and his eyes glare with an insane intensity – then he heard the sound of a drink being poured in the kitchen, and his mind once more was on the matter of the moment.
Walter had a wife, two sons, and a long-term boyfriend. The wife and family were a necessity for public life, and the boyfriend was reality. It had all been agreed years before … a marriage of convenience, where the lady in question would live an envious lifestyle and – as long as they remained a secret – could even take lovers to satisfy her needs. In return she would provide a family and stability but, from day one, they were to lead separate lives.
And then – to his annoyance – his second son, Nigel, had knocked on his door and asked to stay for the evening. The boy hadn’t seen his father for over a year and, at the age of seventeen, was going through a difficult time in understanding this family arrangement. He wanted a heart-to-heart with his father. He needed to know if there were any genuine feelings – perhaps even love – between father and son. Like any child, he needed it.
Walter watched his son approaching with a feeling of deep regret. Times had certainly changed from the days when he’d first entered public office. Then he had no choice but to hide his sexuality in a web of lies – but now no one gave a damn. Being openly gay isn’t an obstacle, and in the hands of a decent PR company can even be an advantage … so here was a son he didn’t need, and it was a source of constant irritation to him.
Nigel handed a drink over and sat in the armchair facing his father. The boy had poured himself a dark rum and Coke, thinking it would appear alcohol-free. But it didn’t matter: his father couldn’t care less.
“Well, Father,” said Nigel. “This is pleasant, isn’t it?”
“Mmm,” grunted Walter. “What do you want …? Is it money?”
The boy closed his eyes. Never once in his life had his father ever shown affection for him, and he craved so much for an arm around his shoulder or just a sign of interest in his well-being. But he simply replied, “No, Father. I only wanted to spend some time with you.”
Now it was Walter’s turn to reflect. If the boy only wanted money, that would be fine. But time … That was something he didn’t want to give – and this evening was supposed to have been quality time spent with his partner, Roman Vasalknis.
Over the past five years Roman had become much more than just a lover: he had become a confidante in Walter’s scheming. They attended talks together, and it had been Roman who had suggested severing the links with the Mafia. Walter recalled a particular meeting with their representative, Angelo Tardelli, when Roman had been vociferous in his condemnation of the Italians. Angelo hadn’t liked it one little bit. His eyes had seethed, but he had done nothing. Roman had said as much: these so-called gangsters rely totally on their reputation. Stand up to them and they are nothing … and Roman had been proved right. He felt his blood flow faster and his cheeks flush at the thought of his lover. Then his thoughts were broken by the sound of his son’s embarrassed cough.
“For God’s sake, at least appear to be listening,” said the boy.
“And what am I about to hear?” asked his father. “You obviously want something … so go on. Spit it out.”
Nigel tilted his head backward in exasperation. “Mother has always made it clear regarding the arrangements, and who you really are. Joseph and I know we are supposed to keep away … but I can’t. I don’t know why – and I must be an idiot – but you are my father, and I love you.”
Walter pondered on this for a moment and then, reverting to type, said in words of ice,
“Well, I don’t love you.”
Casually his son put down his drink, and from his jacket pocket produced a small revolver. “I wanted you to open up. I hoped Mother was wrong, and that somewhere you could produce an ounce of decency. If you had said the right words I would have embraced you … but now I have to end it.”
Nigel pointed the gun at his father, but his hand was shaking and he felt fragile. Walter was a master at picking up on weakness and he walked towards the boy, smacked the gun from his grip, and then swiped him across the face with the back of his hand. “You are no son of mine,” he said. “Now run back to your mother.”
The boy was defeated, and tears burnt his cheeks. He moved towards the door and was about to leave when he heard his father call to him. He turned, even now half expecting
a change of heart, but Walter simply threw the gun to him. “Take that with you,” he said. “When you get older you can always try again.”
Nigel Monreal caught the gun and walked out of the house and out of his father’s life, at least knowing for sure what the man was truly like.
Walter heard the sound of his son’s car against the gravel path and then the hum of the engine fading into the distance, and he laughed. He picked up his phone and rang Roman, and in a delighted voice told him to drive immediately down to the house. They could spend the weekend together after all. He went into the kitchen and opened a bottle of Chianti. Then – taking the bottle and a glass with him – he went and sat back in his armchair, ready to sip wine and bask in his immortality.
An hour passed, and the bottle of wine was emptied, when he was suddenly startled by the sound of the phone ringing. It was Roman. There had been a disaster en route. Walter’s heart skipped a beat, but he let Roman explain. The car had lost power on the A3 near Guildford and he’d had to call the rescue service. The mechanic had confirmed earlier suspicions: it was the cam belt. The car was useless: it required a complete engine overhaul. There was no other option: it had to be loaded on to a recovery vehicle and, along with the sobbing Roman, would be taken back to London. The crestfallen lover would have to hire a car in the morning and travel down then. Walter didn’t like to be let down, not for any reason, and without any words of comfort he hung up.
He glared at the floor, and then strode into the kitchen for a second bottle of Chianti. When he came back to the living room, full glass of red in hand, he felt much calmer. He sat and gulped the wine, almost wishing his son would return – and then he could humiliate him some more. A picture appeared in his mind of the poor boy giving it one more go, and then being ruthlessly ripped to shreds by his barbed replies. Then he heard footsteps coming up the hall, and he smiled. The boy was actually here. He put a hand to his forehead and felt the power he commanded. He only had to visualise whatever he wanted and it would come to pass. He was indeed a supreme being. He felt strong and untouchable. The alcohol and the prospect of inflicting further pain on his son had topped up his ego and testosterone levels, and he was king of the world. No one could harm him now.
See Naples and Die Page 7