See Naples and Die

by Ray Cleveland

  “No chance,” said Chrissie. “As long as we have the info then we have a chance. We know Zico Scarpone has to be taken out of the picture. We’ve got that. But how it’s done will be down to us. We don’t trust you any more than we trust the Mafia, so for the time being the data stays hidden.”

  “Okay,” said Luigi. “We’ve all placed our cards on the table and we know what must be done, but to be successful we do need to work together … Why don’t you stay here? No one knows of my involvement so this is a safe place, and if there’s anything you need I can get it for you.” He could see they were considering it, and held out his arms as if welcoming them home. “Come on. You know it makes sense.”

  Brenda spoke for them, “Sorry, Luigi, but every time we let our guard down someone tries to shoot us. We already have a safe place, and for the time being that’s where we stay.”

  Brenda had made up her mind, and there was nothing more to say. She walked towards the front of the house, followed by Megan and Chrissie. At the door Luigi asked them to wait and hurried into the small room. He returned with a mobile phone and charger which he handed to Brenda.

  “You may need this. It’s Mama’s phone, so I can always get in touch – and if you need me my number is in the address book.”

  They opened the door and began to descend the steps. “Oh, one last thing,” shouted Luigi,” and he smiled. “Remove those ridiculous get-ups. You are standing out like-a the sore thumb.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Elliott Chan sat at his desk arranging paper clips in what looked like a star constellation very reminiscent of the Plough. He studied the positioning, and moved one of the clips a little to the right. An outsider could be forgiven for thinking that Chan was daydreaming, but his colleagues in CID knew him better. Elliott Chan never stopped thinking. Life to him was a game of chess, and once he was on a case he worked it from every angle until it was solved.

  Elliott was born and raised in Stoke Newington. His father was a naturalised Chinese immigrant who’d arrived in England via Zimbabwe, where he’d laid track on the colonial Rhodesia railway. After settling in North London he married Connie Barratt, who worked in the local Woolworths store, and they had three children – Elliott and his two sisters, Deborah and Pauline. They were a close-knit, hard-working family, who always tried to get together as much as possible.

  Deborah and Pauline were both married, but Elliott had never seemed to find the right girl. Maybe he wasn’t looking hard enough, or maybe it was the job that came first. He’d worked his way through the ranks and was now a detective chief inspector with an impressive list of convictions, but he was forty years old in a few weeks’ time and his parents were getting worried. He was the man and he had to perpetuate the family name. Finding the right girl should have been easy. He had a bachelor apartment in Pimlico and a wide circle of friends. Everyone liked Elliott, and although he’d had many casual girlfriends there wasn’t one he wanted to share his life with … and that was his choice.

  He focused on the paper clips again, and switched his analytical mind on to autopilot. Things had started to go awry a few months earlier, with several deaths that appeared as suicides. However, all had enough question marks over them to keep the cases open … for the time being. The latest fatality was a Conservative MP, and that was high-profile enough to warrant further investigation – and now there was the funeral of Harry Hastings and the Breckell brothers, who had supposedly been killed by falling scaffolding at a construction site. Even Elliott had to smile at the ridiculousness of that one.

  Were the suicides anything to do with the gangland deaths? Was it some sort of gang war? No one seemed to be talking, but sure as hell something was going on. And at the back of his mind Elliott couldn’t help but connect the sudden appearance of Roberto Vialli on the scene. Was this turbulence of the status quo anything to do with the Mafia? There was no evidence to suggest it.

  Vialli had only left his suite at the Ritz once, and that was to meet three young women – Megan Penhaligon and her two friends … How did they fit into this puzzle? They had to be an important part to entice a Mafia don to London, and now they were in hiding … What did they know that was so valuable?

  Elliott picked up a red pencil sharpener and placed it in the centre of his desk. This was the three girls, and everything else was in their orbit. He was convinced that all these recent events were linked. The gangland deaths, the suicides, Roberto Vialli … Somewhere a thread connected these incidents – and to find the end of a ball of twine you have to start at the beginning, hold it in your hands, and reel it in.

  Now and then it will snag or someone will deliberately put their foot on it, but these obstacles are why you are following the trail: to uncover the facts and to separate truth from lies piece by piece, until a picture emerges and you can finally see the end. He had a strong feeling that these girls may have a ball of string he could follow, and that they would be instrumental in providing answers and hard evidence.

  After the death of Walter Monreal Elliott had been called into a meeting with his superintendent, who wanted closure on the building caseload. He was giving Elliott seven days to come up with something tangible on the suicides, or they were to file them and move on. The superintendent wasn’t all bad and had offered help, suggesting the assistance of another detective called Dave Hyman.

  At first this hadn’t pleased Elliott. He knew Hyman, and didn’t particularly enjoy his company. Personality-wise they were polar opposites, but he did have to admit that Hyman was a good detective – his record was proof of that – and two heads are always better than one. So he agreed, and was waiting for his new partner to arrive.

  Elliott took hold of the pencil sharpener representing the three girls and lifted it away. As soon as it was raised the collection of paper clips took on a decidedly obscure pattern, yet each time he replaced it the shape once more had a defined construction. What made these three bring everything together? His thoughts went back to the drive to Wimbledon and his conversation with Megan Penhaligon. He tried to remember every word, every question, and every pause.

  Then his concentration was disturbed by the sound of Dave Hyman’s cockney tones as he swaggered across the duty room. “Awright, McMillan,” he said to big red-nosed officer leaning against a filing cabinet. “Isn’t it time you hit the streets …? Pub’s open in ten minutes … ha ha ha.”

  Then, as he passed two intense-looking officers checking lists on a computer screen, he dropped an envelope on to the desk. “There’s the tickets for Saturdays match, boys,” he said. “You can pay me later, or we can have a bet. Palace to win – and I’ll give you the draw – double or nothing … What do you say?”

  Suddenly lifted from their serious mood, they grinned. “Okay, Dave. You’re on.”

  Dave Hyman had that effect on people. He was the kind of guy you just had to smile with: the life and soul of the party, and everyone’s drinking buddy. Like Chan, he’d come up through the ranks but then stuck at detective inspector: his personality counted against him when it came to further promotion. That was okay. He wasn’t one for too much responsibility, anyway.

  He was an East End boy born within cheering distance of Upton Park, and to this day he was a fervent Hammers supporter. Now living only three miles further away in a new development on the Docklands complex, he’d held on to his roots. He was still a familiar sight on the terraces, and made a point of keeping in touch with old friends. This was good local knowledge, and could be a valuable asset in this particular investigation.

  “Hiya, Charlie,” said Dave, knowing this would infuriate Elliott. It was an obvious reference to the famed Chinese detective created by author Earl Derr Biggers, and it was a well-worn joke.

  “It’s ‘Chief’ to you, Hyman,” said Elliott.

  “That’s what I said,” laughed Hyman. “Chief …” He looked at the desk. “What’s with the paper clips?”

  Elliott ran his hand across the clips and pushed them into a pile. �
�Just messing.”

  Dave knew it was time to drop the stand-up routine. “What’s it all about, chief?”

  Elliott explained about the suicides, which ranged from poisoning to falling on a sword, and which all had the same pattern of allowing the authorities to take the easy way out and stick a suicide label on the deaths. Yet at the same time they were clearly sending out a message that someone had been taught a lesson.

  Elliott had tried to connect the deaths, but they were random individuals with no obvious link … until Walter Monreal. There was a link to Ian Spencer, the architect, and the government’s much-vaunted business development in Manchester … but why would that constitute murder? From initial enquiries it didn’t seem that anyone could gain from it … And as for the Breckell brothers – well, that was another mystery.

  “The one thing that is certain,” said Elliott, “is that all these deaths were for a reason, and they weren’t suicides. These people were murdered in cold blood, to frighten others. Whoever was responsible knows how understaffed and under pressure we are, and so they gave us a way out. They gave us open-and-shut cases, if that’s what we wanted … and if we don’t find anything concrete in the next seven days then that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

  Dave Hyman pulled at his earlobe, a lifelong habit whenever he was unsure of his next move. “So what do you reckon then, chief? Where do we start?”

  Elliott tapped the written notes on an A4 jotter pad. “We’ve already done the initial procedures on all these … checked out close friends and family, et cetera, and got nothing. No sign of a motive anywhere. We weren’t given the authority to dig deep into each person’s history, and now we haven’t got time for that. All we can do is scratch the surface again and hope we get lucky.”

  He was about to mention the girls and Roberto Vialli, but decided that theory was best kept to himself for the present time. No point confusing the issue, and Dave Hyman’s fresh approach could well turn up a new line of enquiry that he had missed.

  “We concentrate on the latest deaths and work backward. This crackpot story that the Breckell brothers and Chopper Hastings all died in a construction site accident is the biggest fairy tale yet, so we need to find out the truth.

  “You have contacts in East London, Dave. Go and talk to people. Get them to open up. That’s what you’re good at. I’m going to work this connection between the MP and the architect. We’ll compare notes in the morning.”

  “Sure thing, chief,” said Hyman. Then, moving the paper clips around with his index finger, he smiled. “Which one of these am I?” and before Elliott could answer he swivelled on his heels and marched from the room.

  Chan glanced around. Everyone was silently engrossed in one thing or another, and the room felt emptier now that Dave Hyman had left. Elliott mused how good it must be to have that sort of personality, but it can’t be taught. It’s definitely something you are born with, like being a gifted footballer. We can all work hard to improve our game, but to some it just comes easy.

  Elliott repositioned his paper clips, and his thoughts once more turned to Megan Penhaligon and her friends. He decided to pay them a visit, but it would have to wait until tomorrow. Today he had a lot of research to get through involving the government’s Manchester development and the exact role of Walter Monreal, and who would gain most from his death.

  He’d already spoken to the family, who showed no emotion at the news. The youngest son had disclosed how he had visited the house that evening, just for a chat, and that his father seemed in high spirits and was behaving completely normally. The boy didn’t elaborate and mention that normal to his father was being a vindictive arsehole. He was also sensible enough not to mention their argument and the fact he had produced a gun and threatened to kill him … Best to keep that one quiet.

  It was common knowledge that Walter Monreal was gay and had a boyfriend called Roman Vasalknis, who had also disappeared. Elliott desperately wanted to interview Roman, and uniformed officers were trying to locate him. Was he a prime suspect? Was he in hiding? Or had he also been murdered? These were yet more questions to ponder, and they required another paper clip on the table.

  Everyone else spoken to seemed united in their utter loathing of the MP. If dislike was a motive then the list of suspects was endless. Everything pointed to Roman being responsible. Find him and you find your killer, or at least the reason why Walter killed himself … but Elliott didn’t believe that. This was just the latest in a sequence of suicides. There had to be more to it and he was determined to uncover the real motives, which meant a day of ploughing through a mountain of documents relating to the Manchester development and unearthing anything with Walter Monreal’s name or signature. Elliott put on his coat, made sure he had his reading glasses, and set off for the department of business development.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Angelo Tardelli rushed down Ealing Broadway. He was incandescent. After the fracas in Hackney the victorious troupe had returned to Caesar’s house in Kennington to debrief, and it was at this point that Angelo queried the contents of the briefcase taken from the Breckells’ club. Tigran had shrugged. He truly didn’t know what it contained, but he had a feeling it could be interesting … and it was. The Breckell gang had been planning a gold bullion robbery – and not just any bullion job, but one of the biggest in history. This had been one year of painstaking, detailed research, and it was set to happen two days later … But now the leaders were all dead, and so was the robbery. Angelo had remarked that if they’d known about this plan then they could have let the East Enders complete the heist and then killed them – and taken the gold. However, as it was it was all too late. But Tigran had seemed interested in the scheme, and Angelo had to expressly forbid any attempt to be involved. There was too much to lose. The network of assassins was in place. The web of terror they were trying to produce was taking shape, and this was the grand scheme. Nothing was to interfere with the long-term plans. The gold would be nice, but paled into insignificance compared to Zico’s grandiose vision of European dominance. “Forget it,” Angelo had told Tigran. “You’ve been brought here to do a job, and to obey orders, so sit tight until I give you the next hit.” And that’s how it was left … but this morning’s news headlines had hit Angelo like an express train.

  On arriving at the six-bedroomed house facing the common Angelo pushed past the Armenian who opened the door and stormed into the lounge.

  “Tigran, you sonofabitch, what the fuck are you playing at?”

  Tigran Sadorian sat on a white leather armchair facing the door. The matching furniture throughout the lounge was expensive, and the whole room reasonably clean … Things were looking up for the Armenian leader.

  Angelo came within two feet of the armchair and raged, “I told you not to get involved in no robbery. I told you to burn those goddamn plans, and to sit on your ass until I gave further instructions. I said, ‘Don’t make any waves,’ and what do you do? You cause a fucking hurricane. You go and take sixty-two million pounds of gold bullion … and don’t say you don’t know what I’m fucking talking about, you dirty-faced Armenian maniac.”

  “I thought you’d be pleased,” said Tigran, knowing full well that this would infuriate the Italian even more.

  “Pleased …” Angelo’s face was as red as a glass-blower’s bubble straight from the furnace. “I repeat: you were supposed to keep a low profile. You were told to keep to the plan, which is scaring the shit out of our enemies by becoming invisible assassins … and it was all going perfectly … until now. Now you’re front-page news around the world, and the whole of Britain’s police force has been told to find that gold at all costs. How long do you think you can remain invisible now, you thick piece of shit?”

  “If they’re looking for the gold then they aren’t worried about a few dead gangsters turning up. This makes our operation safer. I thought I’d give them something else to worry about.”

  “Something else to worry about!” Angelo lo
oked like he was ready to have a seizure. “The first thing they’re going to do is round up all the known criminals – who, by the way, will all know that we did this – and they’re going to be asking lots and lots of questions, over and over, until somebody talks.”

  “No one will say anything … They are afraid of us,” said Tigran.

  Angelo started to pace the room. “If you put enough pressure on people, someone always talks.”

  “Then we make them even more afraid,” said Tigran.

  “And how do we do that? Go and shoot a few more?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s maybe what you do it in your part of the world, but you can’t start wiping people out in the middle of London. The police don’t really care about the ones we’ve taken out, and the suicides can all be interpreted as just that: suicides. Diversifying into robbery was never the plan. This is really bad.”

  “Mr Angelo,” said Tigran, “As you say, the entire police force will be looking for the gold – and anyone who was possibly involved in trying to piece together the list of suicides will be pulled off the case. We aren’t known criminals, so we are not on their radar. We have safe house all over the country, and we always move around. How would anyone find us? We don’t exist, remember.

  “For the same reason that we are invisible as assassins means we are also invisible as thieves. We don’t need to quickly dispose of the gold. We can quite happily sit on it for years. Mr Zico has funds, and this could be his pension. It was just too good an opportunity to miss. All the preparation had been done for us. Those people we killed had done a good job.”

  “But whichever way you look at it,” said Angelo, “We are now more high-profile, and that is exactly what we didn’t want. Plus these London gangsters won’t mind us culling a few of them now and then – that only provides an opportunity to have a fight for territory – but they won’t take kindly to us taking the bread from their mouths. We aren’t bandits. We are above all that, and I don’t want to be sidetracked by having to fight wars along the way.”