See Naples and Die

by Ray Cleveland

They had talked, only telling each other half-truths – but still, the bits that were true had created a connection, and they left on first-name terms. The detective had given Megan his card, including a direct mobile number – and impressed on her that she could ring at any time, day or night. She in turn had given him Mrs Grimshaw’s address and telephone number.

  She’d promised to speak to the others about their next move, and get back to him. He may not be their knight in shining armour but they needed a glimmer of hope, and right now he was the only hope they had,

  She ran across the road and into the coffee shop. They hugged … and they cried. It had been a tough day, and the relief of being safely together again was emotional. Chrissie and Brenda told how they had escaped from Armando, and Megan explained about the car ride and DCI Elliott Chan.

  They got a taxi back to Mrs Grimshaw’s and spent the following two days inside the house. They were scared and unsure what to do next, so stayed indoors and away from the windows. But now it was the third day of their exile and time to make some decisions. Do they go and live in the Shetland Islands? Do they call Elliott Chan? Or do they try and do another deal with Roberto Vialli? One thing was for sure: they had to do something. They couldn’t spend the next forty years in Mrs Grimshaw’s guest house.

  “I suppose this Elliott Chan really is a detective,” said Chrissie. “If not, we would have known about it by now.”

  “He was okay,” replied Megan. “But what can he do to sort it all out? The Mafia haven’t committed a crime until they’ve actually murdered us, and even if we survived that attempt and made it to a court case they’d be lining up to get their revenge afterwards. Elliott said he could send us on some sort of witness protection scheme, but I don’t want to end up as a red-haired typist in Croydon who can’t even pass an Italian restaurant without having a panic attack. Roberto was right: the only way to be completely free would be if this Zico Scarpone was out of the way. He’s the one who has everything to lose, and he won’t rest until he has his data stick back and our heads on a plate. Once he’s gone, it’s over. I don’t think Vialli particularly wants us dead – he just wants the USB. But, unfortunately, it seems to be in their nature to murder people along the way.”

  “So what are you saying?” asked Chrissie. “You think we should contact Roberto again?”

  “I think we should consider it,” said Megan.

  Brenda stood up. “When someone tries to kill me – twice – I’m not in a big hurry to let them try again.” She thought for a moment. “What about Luigi?”

  “What about the little bastard?” said Chrissie.

  “More than anyone he knows what this is all about,” said Brenda. “He knew this Fabio boy who stole the USB, and was more than likely part of the original plot. Why did they take it? Remember Armando being surprised that Luigi was sending us to blackmail a few no-marks? He said no Italian would do that. They know the repercussions of crossing the Mafia, and to do what Luigi did doesn’t make sense. To go through all that danger – and for that poor boy Fabio to die like he did, all for a few thousand euros … No. There must be more to it. I say we pay Luigi and Mama a visit.”

  “Why not?” said Chrissie. “If nothing else, I get the opportunity to practise taking free kicks with his balls.”

  Brenda had one last thought. “I know you’ve just said you don’t fancy being a redhead, Megan, but it’s not a bad idea. Hairstyles don’t half change the look of someone’s face … imagine Chrissie as a blonde.”

  Megan screwed up her eyes trying to picture Apache-black hair and ruby-red lips turning into honey blonde and pale pink. She had to admit it would be a hell of a transformation.

  “Luigi isn’t quite what he seems,” said Brenda. “He could be in league with Roberto, or even the Scarpones. Anything is possible. Too many people know what we look like. There’s the guy who tried to hijack us when we met Bruno, then the man with the scar, Armando and Beppe, and of course Roberto Vialli – and they’re all looking for three girls…Chrissie the dark-haired Oompa-Loompa, Megan the blonde-haired Miss Wales, and me … plain Jane.”

  Chrissie put up her hand as if asking permission to use the toilet. “The Oompa-Loompa thing is because of the spray tan … right?”

  “Of course,” said Brenda. “And the fact you like chocolate so much.” She went on, “We can buy some wigs on the way. That’s all it needs.”

  Chrissie still wasn’t happy with the Charlie and the Chocolate Factory connection, and wanted to get even. “That’s a brilliant idea, Bren … but, like you say, they’re looking for three girls – and, no matter how we change the colour of our hair, we’re still three girls – so I think one of us needs to dress like a man. Not with a moustache or anything – just a pair of jeans, a man’s jacket, and maybe a hat … or hoodie. Now there’s no way I could ever pass for a guy with this awesome figure and Megan is far too pretty, so who does that leave?”

  Brenda was fully aware that this was a Chrissie retaliation, but actually it made perfect sense. “Okay, I’ll do it. Let’s go shopping.”

  Then with heads held high and expressions of fierce determination they faced the outside world for the first time in over forty-eight hours. It was a long journey over to Tower Hamlets (the safety of Wimbledon being a disadvantage whenever they had to travel), and this time it had become especially laborious because they chose to avoid Central London. They went via a complicated route, and stopped off at the Elephant and Castle to buy the wigs.

  They went into the indoor market, and one of the stalls had a great selection. Chrissie quite fancied having a go at the Rastafarian look, and had to be coerced back on to the blonde wig. None of the red ones suited Megan, and she finished up with a straight black Cher-type one. Brenda didn’t bother with a hairpiece. Instead she bought a hat and jacket from a man’s outfitters at the entrance to the market, and brushed her hair back under the hat. They inspected their new identities, and were delighted with what had been achieved with so little effort.

  They boarded the Tube once more and, two train changes later, arrived at All Saints station on the Docklands Light Railway. Then it was a short walk to Tower Hamlets Town Hall. The journey from leaving Mrs Grimshaw’s had taken three hours and Chrissie was thinking how they could have flown to Malaga in two, and maybe that would have been a better option. But they were here, back in the East End, and now had to remember how to get to Luigi’s.

  They pictured the night they arrived with Salvatore, and retraced the route. It was only a short distance, and they easily found the alley that led to the rear of Luigi’s house. They walked towards the huge metal gates, counting the houses as they went, then stood outside trying to find a chink in this armoured fortification. Brenda even tried to balance on Chrissie’s shoulders to see over the gate but fell off, and was lucky to only graze her knee. They checked the yards at either side, but the dividing walls were just as high. There was no other choice. They would have to go around to the front and knock on the door in broad daylight.

  They’d worked out the number of the house, but were wary of who may be watching. This was where the disguises now seemed a brilliant idea and they separated, with Brenda and Chrissie walking together as a couple and Megan twenty paces behind. They had one eye on the door numbers and one eye on parked cars and pedestrians, paying particular attention to any black Mercedes or men in dark suits and sunglasses – but there was nothing out of the ordinary.

  The street was a 200-yard stretch of Victorian four-storey terraced houses, with postage stamp-sized front gardens and steps leading up to the front doors. Most of the gardens were unkept and every sixth house had various levels of scaffolding around it, where renovation work was progressing at a snail’s pace.

  Brenda and Chrissie stopped at number 47. They gazed absent-mindedly up at the door and – as Megan came alongside – Chrissie whispered without turning and told her to keep walking to the end of the road, wait a few minutes, and then come back. Once Megan was a safe distance away the
odd couple walked purposefully up the steps and rang the bell. They couldn’t hear any chime so, with clenched fist, Chrissie thumped the door. Brenda knelt and peered through the letterbox, only to see a long dark hallway with no signs of life.

  Chrissie went into the front garden and looked through the ground floor windows. The dark brown venetian blinds were almost closed, but through a gap in between the two sections she could make out a living room with table and chairs … but again, no indication of anyone being at home.

  Brenda had joined her and they stood surveying the house. They scanned each window in turn and for some strange reason went back on to the pavement and checked the roof, as if Luigi – like Count Dracula – would be perched there on one knee, with his cloak held together by a gold clasp in the shape of a gargoyle and his lips curled in anticipation. Their building inspection was interrupted by Megan, who had done one lap of the street and who now joined them.

  “Should I walk up and down again?” she asked.

  Chrissie looked around. “Did you see anything suspicious?”

  “No”.

  “Then sod it. I want to see what’s inside that house.”

  She went back into the garden and picked up a house brick from a row that had been placed at forty-five-degree angles around the flower beds. She took a step backward, raised her arm, and prepared to send the missile through the windows. She half turned her face to avoid the breaking glass when the front door opened and Luigi said,

  “There’s no need for that. Come in.”

  Chrissie thought about redirecting the brick at Luigi’s head but they needed answers, so now wasn’t the time to knock him senseless. She dropped the brick, and they followed him into the hallway. He closed the door by fastening three heavy bolts and locks then moved to a room at the back of the house, where soon they were sitting in the same chairs they had occupied during their two-day stay. The only thing missing was the smell of Mama’s cooking.

  Chrissie began the conversation. “Luigi, you bastard.”

  “Sorry,” said the little Italian.

  “Sorry?” said Brenda, with equal venom. “Counting the barmy bishop, we’ve had three attempts on our lives. Do you get that? We should all be dead now.” Then to make sure she hadn’t understated that last word, she repeated, “Dead.”

  “I know,” said Luigi. “It was never meant to go that far, or to happen so quickly. I thought we’d make a few waves and then you would step back and I would take over. You were to be paid very well, and I always intended to give you all the money.”

  “So if you’re quite happy to give the money away then what do you really want? People are being killed because of this stupid data stick. What could possibly be worth that?”

  Luigi went to the display cabinet against the far wall, and opened the cupboard doors below the collection of figurines and religious artefacts lining the upper shelves. He brought out a large scrapbook and several old newspapers, which he placed on the coffee table in front of them. He spread the newspapers out and handed Brenda the scrapbook.

  “Most of what you see is in Italian, but I’m sure from the headlines and pictures you’ll understand what happened here.”

  Megan and Brenda flicked through the pages of the scrapbook, and Chrissie looked at each newspaper in turn. It was pretty obvious that this was a Mafia killing spree. Some of the photos of the bodies were shocking, and they included women and children. One thing they did pick up on was that many of the victims had the same surname. They put everything back on to the table and waited for Luigi to explain.

  He reached over and pointed to a picture of a woman who had been shot in the side of the head. “That was my sister-in-law Sophia.” He spread his arm across the collection of articles. “Also … her four children, my brother, my mother, and two neighbours who just happened to be visiting.”

  Tears were in his eyes. “I keep these to make sure I never forget … never forget my love for them, and never forget the hatred I feel for the men who murdered them.”

  “Who did it, Luigi?” Chrissie asked the question but she already knew the answer.

  “The bastard Scarpones,” he spat. “My brother was a building contractor, and the Scarpones wanted the land he was developing. He wouldn’t sell and he refused their offer of a partnership, so to teach him and other construction companies a lesson they did this.”

  “But why his wife and children?” asked Megan.

  “Because this is how the Mafia now operate. Once upon a time a Mafia don was revered. They were an accepted part of the communities. They passed judgement on many things, and maintained order and stability in an otherwise chaotic social structure. If someone informed on them, then that person faced execution. That was unconditional … but it would only be that one person. Then, and I don’t know why or exactly when it was, everything changed. Now the threat is that they will burn your house to the ground and kill you and all your family, your friends, and acquaintances. There was always violence … but this is beyond what any man should be capable of. Some families still operate the old codes and govern with honour but others, like the Scarpones, live by the Devil’s rules.”

  “So what was your plan, Luigi?” asked Chrissie.

  Luigi stood firm. “I must have my revenge. I swore an oath to kill Zico and Luca Scarpone, and to make sure that the last thing they would hear in this life would be my name. I want them in hell, and I want them to know who put them there … and why.”

  This was a different Luigi to the one they were used to, and they weren’t sure whether to admire or frown upon his determination. He continued,

  “There is no way of ever getting near enough to Zico to assassinate him. In Naples he reigns supreme, and goes nowhere unless surrounded by guards. He never leaves the safety of the region he controls.

  “So the shark must be drawn into shallow water. He must leave the safety of the deep water where he normally swims and ignore his natural instincts, and then he will make a mistake. We took something that can destroy his empire, and we will only return it when we see him and his man-eating brother face to face. I will place the object he craves into the palm of his hand and then force a dagger through his heart, and Salvatore will do the same to his brother. As long as this scum of the earth exists people will suffer. He is the Antichrist, and must be sent hurtling into the void. My brother and his family, my mother – and my nephew, young Fabio – will all be avenged, and then they and the rest of the world can be at peace.”

  “And it doesn’t matter who else gets hurt along the way,” said Chrissie.

  Luigi was taken aback. He thought his tragic loss and deep-felt loathing would explain why he had placed them in such danger.

  “I understand why you want to kill the Scarpones,” Chrissie said, with hand on heart, “but they haven’t done anything to us – well, not until you placed us at the top of their hit list.

  We don’t have your ingrained hatred and, to be honest, we don’t want to die so that you can achieve your revenge. What you have done to us is no different from the Mafia. You have condemned us to death, and yet we are innocent … and that doesn’t make you any better than Zico Scarpone.”

  Luigi seemed to be struggling with the concept of what Chrissie had said, and so she confused him even more. “What do we do now?”

  The Italian moved over to the drinks cabinet and poured a bright green liqueur. He turned and threw the concoction down his throat. He closed his eyes and Chrissie pushed herself back into the chair, half expecting him to turn into the Incredible Hulk. Then he opened his eyes, and all they saw were clouded pools of pain and regret.

  “You’re right,” he said. “My life has become an existence of nothing but thoughts of vengeance, and I have lost all concept of natural feeling other than red-hot hate. But you must believe that I never intended you to be involved. It was a terrible misfortune that you acquired the information from Fabio – but from that moment on you became a target of the Mafia, and that only has one ending. I kno
w I used you, but only to achieve the ultimate conclusion of destroying Zico Scarpone and freeing us all from this nightmare. I want to stroll through the vineyards of Tuscany and feel and touch and smell the beauty of life, and I want nothing more than for you to experience the same.”

  “We keep coming back to the same crossroads,” said Brenda. “The problem is Zico Scarpone, and the solution is to eliminate Zico Scarpone.”

  “That is correct,” stressed Luigi.

  “And this is exactly what Vialli said,” added Chrissie.

  Luigi spun around. “Vialli … what Vialli?”

  “Roberto Vialli,” Chrissie answered.

  Luigi was in a state of excitement. “He is Mafia. How do you know him?”

  “To cut a long story short …” said Chrissie, “When you sent us to meet the priest he pulled a gun on us, and there was another guy with a gun outside the hotel – but Bruno, the bishop’s assistant, helped us come up with a plan to trade the data stick to Roberto Vialli in exchange for our lives. Vialli would somehow get the Scarpones off our backs. But it didn’t work out that way, because they tried to kill us as well.”

  “Mafia are all the same,” scoffed Luigi. “They cannot be trusted … Where did you meet him? Was it in London?”

  “Yes. He was going to fix us up with a suite at the Ritz. Pity it all went wrong,” said Chrissie.

  “But you didn’t give him the data … did you?”

  Brenda intervened. “No, we didn’t, and it’s in a safe place. We don’t carry it around any more.”

  Chrissie pointed at Luigi. “What does it matter where it is? You had it for two days, so you must have made copies.”

  Luigi had the look of a circus clown who’s just had a bucket of water emptied over his head.

  Chrissie was flabbergasted. “You would have to be a complete idiot not to have made copies.”

  Luigi put his hands behind his back like a naughty schoolboy.

  “You plonker,” they all said at once, and Chrissie burst out laughing.

  “But you must give it back to me,” pleaded the would-be Italian assassin.