See Naples and Die

by Ray Cleveland

  Tigran always seemed to be only half listening, and most of the time Angelo felt he was talking to a halfwit. “Are you fucking listening to me?” he said.

  Tigran lifted his eyes. “Fear is a powerful weapon.”

  Exasperated, Angelo said, “Yes, but only if it’s controlled. Total fear makes people unpredictable. This isn’t Nazi Germany, and we aren’t marching through the streets terrifying the population. We live in a criminal underworld, and there is an order of things.”

  “Mr Angelo, you are deluding yourself,” said Tigran. “The Mafia have a hierarchy completely dependent on fear. Once people fully realise the terrible consequences of provoking our displeasure then they will not talk about who we are, or what we do … The greater the retribution the greater the silence.”

  Angelo felt the need to change the subject. “Where’s the gold?”

  “It’s in Lincolnshire,” answered Tigran. “I have friends there who are legal … They have papers and work for farmers. They live out in the fields in old railway carriages, and now they have tables and chairs made of gold.”

  “You are joking … aren’t you?” said Angelo.

  “It’s perfect. No one ever visits them. They are a community in the middle of nowhere who pick fruit for a living, and Lincolnshire is full of them.”

  “And what if they’re not picking fruit any more but melting down gold bars and working out how to spend sixty-two million British pounds?”

  Tigran smiled. “They would never do that.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I’m sure because they are afraid. People from Armenia have heard of me, and they know what I would do to them. Fear, Mr Angelo …”

  Angelo sat in the other leather chair, his face not so red any more. “Tigran, you’re a fucking anomaly. You look like you’d struggle to open a packet of biscuits, and yet you’ve just pulled off one of the biggest bullion robberies in history … and you simplify the problems this has created by wanting to go out and shoot a few people. You are a murderous individual but there’s no denying you can organise your own people, and crime is your forte.” Angelo rubbed his chin. “I haven’t told the don about this yet, but I know his first instinct will be to tell me to kill you and take the gold.”

  “Which is why it’s in Lincolnshire,” said Tigran.

  “Zico will want to know exactly where,” said Angelo.

  “And I will tell him,” said Tigran, “when our plans are more developed, and I have my role in the organisation.”

  “You don’t call the shots, Tigran. We all do what we’re told. That includes me, and it certainly includes you. If Don Scarpone wants the gold then Don Scarpone gets the gold.”

  Tigran stood up and towered over the Italian. “Mr Zico is a businessman. The gold is safe, and it is his as long as I’m around. I’m not like the others – you can see that – and I control my people. They are used to living with the threat of death and are hard to intimidate, but they know there is no escape from my vengeance. I will follow them into the afterlife, and they will suffer for all eternity.”

  “Nice speech, Rasputin, but it’s not my call. I’ll tell the don what’s been discussed, and whatever he decides goes. He might put a price on your head of sixty-two million and then it really is ‘Your money or your life’. And if it’s the latter, without hesitation, I’ll be the one to do it … and you can chase me around all you want in the afterlife.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The duty room at Charing Cross police station was chaotic. Every uniformed officer and detective had been called in, and everyone was talking at the same time. It was like a school playground at lunchtime with no order and a crescendo of noise. They all knew why they were there, and the whole country was talking of nothing else but the audacious gold bullion robbery. Names and accusations were being thrown about like confetti, and everyone had a favourite villain to accuse.

  Above the melee the superintendent was trying to make an announcement. Short of firing a shotgun into the ceiling he was struggling to get everyone’s attention and was losing patience rapidly. Then Dave Hyman stood on a desk and started banging two tea trays together. One by one everyone in the assembled masses turned. “I do believe the super is here,” he said.

  Without thanking his saviour the chief began to address them. His ears still burnt from the rocket he’d received from the chief inspector who, in turn, had also had to endure a roasting. Pressure from the top is like a comet entering the atmosphere that builds in intensity until a white-hot ball of flame hurtles to the ground, eventually crashing on to the poor detective at the bottom.

  “Whatever you are working on, forget it,” said the superintendent. “Everyone is to go on the bullion job. This has to be solved quickly, and the perpetrators caught and paraded before the media. An example has to be made. The Home Secretary wants her photo taken sitting on top of sixty-two million quid’s worth of retrieved bullion, and the press already have their Goldfinger headlines written to describe the Mr Big behind it all.

  “We can’t look foolish on this, so it’s all hands on deck. Put everything you’ve been working on in a box and stick it in a filing cabinet until this is over. I want each uniformed sergeant in my office now, and then the CID detectives one by one. We’re going to round up all the faces in the manor.”

  Elliott’s heart sank. He hadn’t had time to touch base with Dave Hyman, and he’d uncovered some very interesting facts about the Manchester development … and now this. The last thing he wanted was to be running around like a headless chicken, bumping into every copper in London trying to find Xanadu.

  The assembled throng tried to form some sort of queue to await instructions. Most seemed excited by the prospect of hunting down these celebrity criminals and being given the authority to do so. Search and detain measures would be agreed, and they could throw their weight about with the full force of the Establishment behind them. To those who still remembered it was like the miners’ strike all over again. They could knock a few heads together and get double time to boot … Happy days.

  But to Elliott it was a penance. He’d signalled to Dave Hyman to get down from the table, and together they’d retired to the staff canteen. Their interview with the superintendent wouldn’t be for ages yet, so it was time to catch up and to come up with a strategy to get out of this bullion fever.

  To Elliott’s surprise, Dave Hyman was just as worried at being taken off the case. He seemed to have sunk his teeth into something, and didn’t want to let go. He’d spent the previous day and evening visiting all his sources in the East End, and had spoken to gang leaders and to Joe Public. Most seemed pleased that the Breckell brothers weren’t running the show any more and felt it was time for a change, and there was universal delight about Harry Hastings. A select few of the old mob had made it obvious that there had been an altercation, but no one would admit to witnessing anything. Whoever was involved had put the frighteners on even the most hardened villain.

  But Dave was desperate to carry on. He got it now … if the Breckells had been killed in a gangland hit then that’s how it would have gone down, not been wrapped up as an accident. A war would have started, and there would be reprisals. A shooting here, a hit-and-run there … lots of noise about who was going to do what to whom. The manor would be thick with whispers – you wouldn’t be able to put a lid on it. But this whole thing was out of sync … and Dave was intrigued.

  Elliott was lifted by his colleague’s enthusiasm, and keen to share his own findings from the department of business development. He’d arranged the visit in advance and when he arrived was shown to the records office, where he was given free access to any documents he required. It would have taken him the best part of twelve months to read all the minutes of meetings and proposals, so he concentrated on highlighting companies involved in any part of the negotiations from day one. Including the businesses now being given subcontractor status – and which ranged from pipe-laying to catering – this gave a list of o
ver 500 individual companies with some sort of involvement. He then cross-checked these names at Companies House, and made notes of all the directors and company secretaries. Even without taking a break Elliott could only expect to get through perhaps fifty or sixty, so he had to get lucky.

  It had been a ball-breaking exercise, and at nine thirty in the evening he was seeing double and had decided to call it a day. In front of him were details of sixty-eight companies with their registered addresses and directors, and for the past hour he’d been trying to make a connection – but it just wasn’t there. He put the lists into his briefcase and went for his coat. As he was about to hit the light switch the nightwatchman came around the corner.

  “Hello, sir,” he said. “Had enough for today?”

  Elliott nodded.

  The watchman moved to one side to allow Elliott to pass and, as a throwaway final remark, said, “I know it must have been a boring day but I can tell you the atmosphere around here is much better now that the Big Bear has gone.”

  Elliott swung around. “What did you say?”

  The nightwatchman panicked. “Sorry, sir … I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “No … don’t worry. You haven’t said anything wrong, but what is the Big Bear?”

  The man relaxed. “That’s what Walter Monreal liked to be known as. He would often bellow, ‘Watch out: the Big Bear is here’, as he came down the corridor. He liked to put a bit of fear into the place … and he did.”

  Elliott went back inside and switched the light on. He opened his briefcase and placed the lists on the table. Among this myriad of directors and companies Walter’s nickname had rung a bell. The nightwatchman didn’t ask what was going on. He felt a little implicated, so hurried away to another part of the building. One by one Elliott went through everything again, and then there it was: Big Bear Xcel.

  He quickly looked at the directors and there was the name of Ian Spencer, the architect … but Monreal was the only director. Then on looking further Elliott found that Big Bear Xcel was a subsidiary of Main Beam Holdings, a company based in Geneva. This required a phone call to check it out but then, ten minutes later, it was confirmed that the directors of Main Beam Holdings were Walter Monreal and Angelo Tardelli.

  There was the connection. The MP and the architect weren’t only business acquaintances: they were business partners, and linked in such a way as to be deliberately secretive. Now why would two business associates both commit suicide on the same evening? Well, of course they wouldn’t – and who was Angelo Tardelli?

  This new information only served to further fire up Dave Hyman. “Boss, we’ve got to get out of being taken off this case.”

  “What do you suggest?” Elliott asked.

  Dave pulled at his earlobe and shrugged.

  Elliott studied his partner before speaking. “I have a theory that the suicides and the Breckell brothers’ deaths have a common denominator and, although it’s stretching it a bit, the gold bullion robbery could also be connected.”

  “And what connects them?”

  Again, Elliott waited before speaking, as if he didn’t really want to divulge his private thoughts. “The Mafia,” he said finally.

  Dave Hyman was visibly shocked. “Th-th-the Mafia? How could you know—? I mean, what makes you suspect that?”

  “It doesn’t matter why, and we can discuss the merits of it later, but if we tell the guv’nor that our current investigations could easily shed light on the bullion robbery then we get to carry on.”

  “That’s brilliant, boss … but you don’t really believe the Mafia are anything to do with it, do you?”

  “Maybe,” said Elliott. And then their names were shouted as next to see the superintendent.

  Roberto Vialli paced the floor of his suite at the Ritz: it had been four days since his meeting with the girls in the Soho bar, and he still couldn’t understand what had gone wrong. He thought they were under his spell, so why did they escape? And where did they run?

  When viewing the sample information they had brought he had found it hard not to punch the air in delight. It was more than he ever dared expect. Zico had obviously thought it was the safest option to store details of all the Scarpone dealings in one place – on a tiny USB stick. It was safe in his villa, protected by his guards. It was the Scarpone Crown jewels, and better than paper files or information on a computer that could easily be discovered.

  It was perfect. Zico always thought it would take a genius to get to it … and yet he had been outdone by a simpleton. Roberto smiled at the irony. Zico was from a generation who found it difficult to fully embrace technology. He was fascinated by how much information could be placed on to something he could hold in his fist, and yet he chose to hide it in a wall safe behind a picture. Roberto ground his teeth. “The man is a fool,” he said to the wall, “and deserves everything that is coming to him.”

  Two knocks rattled his door and Armando put his head in. “You okay, boss?”

  “Yes,” said Roberto.

  “I thought I heard voices,” said the bodyguard and looked around the room.

  “No, you were mistaken … but come in and have a drink with me. It’s enough that we have Beppe on guard.”

  It was a peculiar feeling to be a great Mafia don and yet be afraid to walk the streets, or even sit in the hotel restaurant. In Naples he was relatively safe, but in London he did not have the protection he enjoyed on home territory. The Albanians ran most of this part of London, and although he had no quarrel with them they were notoriously unpredictable and violent. They may suspect he had ulterior motives in strolling around Soho – as would the police – who, no doubt, would have had him under surveillance from the moment he had stepped off the plane. And there was Zico … If the madman found out that he was in London then he would be certain to connect that to the girls and the missing memory stick, and he would soon have assassins on every corner.

  Roberto asked Armando to make coffee and sat on the chaise longue with his fingers spread across his cheek and lips, like Noël Coward deliberating on the title of his next play. He was still deep in thought when Armando brought the coffees over.

  “Thanks,” said Roberto, the smell of coffee awakening him.

  “What are we going to do, boss? We can’t stay cooped up in here much longer,” said a clearly bored Armando.

  Roberto was firm. “We have to find those girls, and we have to have that data stick. Scarpone is ready for another war, and we have to be one step ahead of him. We need to know his plans – both against our family and whatever else he is involved in. We have to know who our enemies are before we can fight against them … and I don’t care if I have to live in this hotel for the rest of the year. I must have that data.”

  “But how, boss? These girls could be anywhere. They could have left London … left England, even.”

  “No, I feel they are still near. I feel it very strongly,” said Roberto.

  “Yes, boss, but where? London is a big place. Eventually we will find them, but it will take time – perhaps many months – and we cannot leave our business interests for so long. If only we had some kind of trail to follow or some piece of intelligence.”

  Roberto was about to answer when two more knocks sounded on the door. Both he and Armando drew their revolvers.

  “Enter,” shouted Roberto and in walked Beppe, alongside a small bald man with a snow-white moustache.

  Beppe pushed the man forward. “Boss, this man’s name is Luigi … and he says he has some information for you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Megan, Chrissie, and Brenda sat in Mrs Grimshaw’s front room drinking tea and feeling like The Prisoner of Zenda – trapped and isolated. Chrissie was again talking about doing a runner, and this time Alaska was mentioned. They had gone through the options over and over, and the only one that was a possibility was a bad one. They were contemplating contacting Zico Scarpone to try and arrange a meeting, where they would return his data stick but tell him t
hat they had made a copy and someone would mail it to the Naples Chief Prosecutor if they went missing. Therefore he would never be able to kill them … However, as Brenda remarked, he could torture them until they told him who had the copy – and that, of course, would be exactly what he would do.

  There were no options. Bereft of friends or allies, they were lost at sea with no help on the horizon. Then Megan looked out of the window and saw Elliott Chan walking up the driveway. “It’s the detective,” she said.

  Chrissie and Brenda jumped up for a better view. They stood transfixed, as if they’d just seen Johnny Depp in the local Tesco. Then the sound of the doorbell snapped them out of it and Megan rushed to the front door.

  “It’s okay, Mrs Grimshaw,” she shouted upstairs. “It’s only someone come to see us. We’ll go in the front room, if that’s all right.”

  Elliott sat in the armchair by the window and could feel the warmth of the sun on one side of his face and the frosty glare from the girls on the other side. It was a weird sensation. Megan introduced him, and now they were all waiting for him to speak.

  “Hi,” he said, trying to break the ice.

  No one replied, and the girl’s expressions remained the same. The situation was becoming awkward, so Elliott decided to go for it. “I know you have something that both Roberto Vialli and another Naples Mafia family want very badly. You are hiding out in Wimbledon and you don’t know how to cope. You look around and there’s no one who can help you, and it’s scary … Am I right so far?”

  “Go on,” said Megan.

  Elliott remained serious. Now wasn’t the time to smile. “Something is going on in the criminal underworld. There have been several murders, including leading gang members, and even you must have heard about the gold bullion robbery. People are acting out of character, and there’s an unusual pattern about it all.”