See Naples and Die

by Ray Cleveland

  “Well, none of that’s anything to do with us,” snapped Chrissie.

  “No, of course I don’t imagine you are involved – but indirectly I believe there is a link. Why is Vialli here?”

  “He’s here because we asked him to come,” said Megan. “We know things about the Scarpone family, who are his enemies, and he would like this information to use against them and at the same time get them to leave us alone. Well … that was the idea, anyway.”

  “And he double-crossed you?” asked Elliott.

  “Yes,” said Megan.

  Chrissie wasn’t bonding with the detective, and it showed in her voice. “How can there be a connection between these British crimes and a Mafia guy from Naples who wouldn’t even be here if we hadn’t contacted him? It’s a stupid theory.”

  “You may be right, Chrissie,” said Elliott, and he smiled. Now was the time to be their friend. “But my experience tells me that when several events are all happening at once then there is often a link. We have the murders, the gold robbery, the Naples Mafia, and you … and I believe that whatever you have is the key to unlocking all these crimes. Why don’t you tell me what you know about the Scarpones, and I’ll take action against them? Believe me, I can protect you – either officially or unofficially – and I promise no harm will come to you.”

  Chrissie scoffed. “It seems to me that life could get even more complicated, if that’s possible. On top of the Mafia we could end up with a load of English villains hunting us as well.”

  “You only die once,” said Elliott.

  This phrase caused a tense silence until Chrissie mellowed. “You smooth-talker, you.”

  “So, are we going to work together?” asked Elliott.

  He could see they were considering it when his mobile rang. He went to switch the phone off but recognised the number and decided to take the call.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but this could be important.”

  The caller was Jimmy the weasel, and he was one of Elliott’s informers.

  “Hello,” said Elliott, and he waited.

  “Meet me at the usual place in one hour. This is big … very big,” said the weasel, and ended the call.

  The usual place was a deserted warehouse in Rotherhithe, and Elliott would have to hurry to make the meeting in time. He cursed inwardly but still managed a smile.

  “What do you say?” he asked, as if the phone call had never happened. But the moment had gone. They’d had time to think, and caution was in control again. Trust no one until they prove their worth was the way to survive, and this detective was nothing to them.

  “I’ve got your card,” said Megan, holding up the business card Elliott had given her during their first meeting. “We’ll ring you.”

  Elliott knew it would take time to win them over, and right now he didn’t have that time. Better to try again another day than ruin things by being hurried.

  “Okay,” he said “I’ll let you consider your options, but the only good guy in all this is me … I hope you will begin to see that. Call me later, and together we will come up with a solution.” Then he let himself out and drove quickly away.

  Once on the move he called Dave Hyman on the hands-free and gave him the address of the rendezvous with Jimmy the weasel. He told Dave to get there as soon as possible, and keep an eye on Jimmy until he arrived.

  The drive from Wimbledon to Rotherhithe was the usual painful crawl, and even with his blue light and siren trying to pave the way it still took over an hour. Elliott switched off the siren when half a mile away, and finally cruised silently to a halt behind Dave Hyman’s parked Audi 4 coupé. Dave was nowhere to be seen, so Elliott quietly edged into the warehouse.

  Jimmy would always wait in a small office on the right-hand side of the building, and Elliott picked his way through the debris of old piping and nuts and bolts that littered the floor. His heart was pumping in anticipation. Jimmy never called unless he had first-class information, and the two main cases at the moment were the bullion robbery and who had killed the Breckell brothers. It had to be news on one of them.

  He reached the office door and turned the wooden knob. “Jimmy,” he whispered, but there was no reply.

  Elliott stood to one side and pushed the door open. As it swung inwards the door hit something and stopped. Elliott – still standing to the side – pushed again, but the door wouldn’t move. With pistol drawn he glanced inside the opening but could only see an old metal filing cabinet, like a Japanese warrior in full armour. Probably too heavy to move, it was the only piece of furniture left in the building. He could see most of the room now, his only blind spot being whatever was behind the door.

  Elliott considered the pros and cons, and then went totally against all his training. He held his gun with both hands and leapt into the room. He ran across the floor and pointed his pistol in every direction. His first reaction was one of relief that no one was there, and then his eyes moved to the floor to discover that the obstruction behind the door was Jimmy the weasel lying in a pool of blood.

  Elliott checked around, inside, and outside the office and then knelt and felt for a pulse – but Jimmy was as still and as cold as the filing cabinet facing him. Elliott stood up and called for an ambulance. Then from across the warehouse he heard the sound of footsteps, and Dave Hyman was running towards him.

  “Sorry, boss,” said Hyman. “The traffic was a nightmare. Is he here?”

  “Yes, he’s here,” said a disappointed Elliott, “but he isn’t talking.” And he nodded his head towards the office.

  Dave had a look inside, then came back looking equally glum. “Bugger. Any idea what he had to say?”

  “No.”

  “So it’s back to square one.”

  “Yes, looks like,” said Elliott. “Have you managed to come up with anything?”

  Dave had spent the morning trying to find out who Angelo Tardelli was. Along with Walter Monreal he was down as a director of the Geneva-based company that Elliott had uncovered.

  “Nothing,” said Dave. “They both used the same registered address as the company, which is an empty flat on the Edgware Road. I did a property search, and the flat is owned by some Greek guy who lives in Katerini.”

  Elliott held out his hands.

  “Katerini, boss. It’s in Macedonia.”

  Elliott walked slowly out of the warehouse and stood by his car. Dave Hyman had followed.

  “I ran this Tardelli’s name against our system, and we have no record of him. Neither is he on any electoral role, and nor does he have any medical history. I was checking through immigration records when I got your call.”

  Elliott was about to disclose his conversation with the girls but decided he’d told his partner enough about his Mafia theory. Besides, Dave Hyman wouldn’t let it go when he first mentioned it. He seemed captivated with the connection, and wanted to know everything. It was a pain to get him off the subject, and he didn’t want to start it up again.

  “You go back to the office, Dave, and keep trying. I’m going to wait for the ambulance, and I’ve also called forensics. Maybe we can get lucky and turn up some clues on who did this. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  Then as an afterthought Elliott asked, “Just one thing … you said the traffic was a nightmare, but your car was already here when I arrived. So where were you?”

  Dave Hyman shrugged. “I misunderstood your directions and went to the other warehouse down the towpath. When I got back you were already here and Jimmy was dead … Sorry, boss, but the traffic really was chocka.”

  “I know,” said Elliott. “I was stuck in it as well.”

  Then he motioned for his partner to go, and he slowly strolled back into the warehouse and sat on an old wooden crate. He heard a noise in the distance and saw a black rat scratching around for scraps, but other than the dead body there was nothing in here for him. He’d probably soon scurry back to the river, and richer pickings. Elliott wondered if the rat witnessed the murder of J
immy the weasel, and if he’d be willing to testify.

  He smiled at the thought of the rat in the witness box before the wise old owl judge and the badger policeman. Then he forced himself to be serious, and went through the facts. Who would have known Jimmy was coming here to meet him? If Jimmy’s information was regarding the gold bullion heist then it would have been one of the robbers, or if the info was regarding the Breckells then it would have been one of the killers … but what if they were one and the same?

  He couldn’t get away from this suspicion that all these things were connected, and there was one man behind it all … But who was that man? Number one in his mind was Roberto Vialli. These weren’t tinpot events. The suicides, the gangland bosses, and the biggest robbery in history meant this had to be an organisation with plenty of clout … and that spelled Mafia. But how could he break into their world? He needed a key, and Megan Penhaligon and her friends had that key in whatever secrets they knew. He was convinced that the only way to solving these crimes was to gain the trust of the girls, and then use them to trap Vialli. This action had a large element of risk attached – but using people was a necessary part of the job, and taking risks was sometimes the only way to get things done.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Zico Scarpone was sipping his first cup of coffee of the day when he took the phone call from Angelo, and he hit the roof. His immediate reaction – just as Angelo thought – was to order Tigran killed and take the gold, and then kill a few more Armenians just for the hell of it.

  Angelo was good at dealing with his boss. He knew not to take too much notice of the first few minutes of rage and to simply wait for Zico to calm down. Then he explained the position more clearly. Only Tigran knew where the gold was being kept and he was the type of man who wouldn’t talk, no matter what they did to him. Also, the Armenian was a powerful figure and central to their expansion plans in England, but he understood that he was a loose cannon and something had to be done to rein him in. Both his own people and the London criminals were afraid of him, and in that respect he was a valuable asset … for the time being.

  Sixty-two million pounds was a good haul and definitely a plus, but now they had to control the aftermath. The schizophrenic Zico put his business head on.

  “I’ll tell you what we do, Angelo,” he said. “Forget the gold for now. It seems like it’s in a safe place, and in time we’ll discover the exact whereabouts. The immediate problem is someone informing on our London operations. There will be local people who want to get even with us, and they will see this as an opportunity. We must make them understand the consequences of talking to the police … so let the madman loose. He can take whatever steps he feels necessary, but we don’t get involved. If this goes wrong then we hang him out to dry, and he can take the rap for everything except the gold. We keep that.

  “The Colombians are impatient to begin the narcotics trading, so I need you to confirm the airfields we can use. We also need control of some of the smaller ports around the country. You put all our people on to this and leave the Armenian to do his worst— Oh … and when it’s done, teach him a lesson. Kill six of his best men.”

  Angelo wasn’t happy with this last request. He was an assassin by trade, but felt this could only lead to further complications. He knew Tigran had to be reprimanded and that without doubt sometime in the future he would have to go, but now wasn’t the time to be kicking him in the teeth.

  “You got that?” said Zico.

  “Yes … sure, boss.”

  “Right. You call me each morning with news,” and with that he hung up.

  He rang a bell on his desk and the cook appeared with another cup of coffee and a piece of freshly baked bread. This was a routine they had each morning. When Zico rang the bell it was a signal to bring in the second cup of coffee and the bread, which had to have been taken from the oven five minutes earlier – not too hot, but still warm – and these instructions had to be adhered to in every detail or there would be big trouble. He would drink the coffee but never touch the bread. Maybe it was a power thing … or maybe he really was crazy.

  Now it was time for the daily briefing with his two senior generals – his brother Luca Scarpone and the most loyal of all his enforcers, Carlito Chiellini. Zico was keen to hear how the proposed massacre of the Viallis and Capecchis was progressing. He had learnt that both his rivals had arranged a secret meeting between their two families to discuss what the Scarpones may be up to. Well, they would discover everything that evening because they would all be eliminated.

  Things couldn’t have worked out better and Zico wished it had been his cunning that was bringing all his enemies together, but he couldn’t take the credit for it. They had thought of it all by themselves. Now he just needed to know where and when and his men would be lying in wait to murder every last one of them, especially that Roberto Vialli. He was going to take more hits than a video gone viral.

  Zico was waiting, but neither Luca nor Carlito seemed willing to begin. The don raised his left hand in a quizzical gesture and Luca reluctantly spoke. “There is a problem.”

  Zico frowned. “What kind of problem?”

  “The meeting of the families has been postponed … Roberto Vialli is in London,” replied Luca, who then closed his eyes to withstand the forthcoming tsunami of rage.

  “What’s he doing in London?” and, without waiting for a reply, “We should have been told as soon as he left Naples. Who is responsible? Have them shot— no, tortured. Why are we paying these airport people? They must be punished severely. When is he coming back? Has the meeting been rescheduled? Maybe we’ll kill them all anyway, and then Vialli has nothing to come home to.”

  Zico paused for breath, and Luca intervened. “We know he is staying at the Ritz and his personal bodyguards are with him, but we don’t know why he is there.”

  “From today he is to be followed everywhere,” said Zico. “I want reports. I want to know about everything he does, where he goes, and who he speaks with – and if anything unusual occurs I want to know straight away.”

  Luca nodded. “He will have a shadow wherever he goes. We can’t do any more.”

  “We could assassinate him in London,” said Carlito.

  Zico considered this, then shook his head. “No. It’s much easier to do it here. Besides … I want him back, and then the family meeting will go ahead and we can have our bloodbath. This will go down in Mafia history as the biggest massacre ever known, and I will be the one responsible. People will talk about Zico Scarpone as one of the most ruthless men of all time.”

  Zico pushed out his chest à la Mussolini – and Carlito, without any trace of sarcasm, said, “And it will be a title well deserved, my don.”

  Zico was almost serene for a moment, and then he ran two fingers down the groove that ran along his skull and slipped back into angry mode. “This is all very well, but the most important issue is still unresolved. Why don’t we have the USB data stick? You told me three days ago that this would be taken care of, so why do I not have it?”

  Luca had to try and explain. “We know who has the data. We picked up the trail when these three females met with the bishop, and our man would have had them but for the treachery of the young priest. Twice they have escaped from our clutches, but I promise there will not be a third time.”

  “Do we know where they are now?” asked Zico.

  “No, we do not,” Luca answered.

  Zico smashed his fist on the table and the uneaten piece of bread was launched into the air, where it did three somersaults and then fell like manna from heaven on to Carlito’s lap. The grizzled old gangster slapped his hand quickly on top of the bread, as if preventing it from taking off again. “Thank you, Don,” he said.

  Zico gave a look of dismay and went on. “We know one of these girls by name, do we not? And that she lives in Liverpool and that she recently visited Naples.”

  “Yes,” confirmed Luca.

  “Then get our people in the English p
olice force to trace her. I want to know her address, and I want to know who her friends are. Find out everything about her … and I want a photo. I want to see her face and look into her eyes. Get back in touch with Angelo, and tell him we will be sending visual identification. We will also put pressure on our contacts to find these three. Make sure he understands that there are to be no mistakes next time. I want my data stick … and I want three dead bodies.”

  Then Zico leant across the table and eyeballed them both. “Now give me some good news … or fuck off.” And he flicked his head towards the door.

  Luca and Carlito looked vacantly at each other and then got up, bowed to the don, and left.

  Chapter Nineteen

  From Canvey Island to Carlisle the newsagents were sold out. All the dailies – even The Times – had gone. Every headline and most of the inside pages were concentrating on the gold bullion robbery, and the world and his wife wanted to read about it. The Daily Mail articles were diligent in outlining how the robbery was planned to military precision – and showed a clock face at the beginning of each paragraph that stated the unfolding time schedule of events, which added drama and brought the story to life. The Independent had similar descriptions but with more emphasis on the social background of violent criminals and their reasons for committing the crime in the first place, saying it was more about making a statement than about the money … and The Sun had a girl in a gold bikini sitting on top of dozens of gold-sprayed house bricks, which showed exactly how many gold bars had been stolen.

  The opinions differed tremendously, depending on which part of the newspaper was being read. The first pages were very much for finding the bastards and stringing them up. However, as the readers went further and arrived at the celebrity columnists it became more varied and ranged from calling the gang Robin Hood and his Merry Men to comparing them to fat-cat bankers and asking, ‘Who are the biggest robbers?’ And Jeremy Clarkson’s views were too ludicrous to repeat.