See Naples and Die

by Ray Cleveland

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Elliott Chan took the call in the early hours of the morning. Micky Fallon was dead.

  “Not another one”, he thought, as he hurriedly drove towards East London and the Bricklayers Arms. This new murder only confirmed that this was no turf war. This was Micky Fallon, and everybody left Micky Fallon alone – plus he didn’t owe allegiances to any gang, so his death wasn’t teaching a lesson to anyone in particular … but what if that was the point? What if his killing wasn’t a message to an individual group, but a warning to all? “If we can do this to Mad Micky Fallon, then everyone else had better toe the line,” and if that was what had happened then whoever was responsible had indeed made a very powerful statement.

  There was a lot for Elliott to consider as he drove through the dark city streets. These events were like a puppet show, with one man writing the script and pulling the strings. At this moment he felt like he was being controlled as much as anyone, and he didn’t like that feeling.

  The front of the pub was cordoned off with crime scene tape and several uniformed officers were mulling around, not really sure what to do next. On seeing Elliott they were obviously relieved that the DCI was about to assume command. He entered the bar to see two guys from forensics busy taking samples and dusting the entire area. Two police constables stood like sentries, one at either side of the slumped body of Micky Fallon. It was a gory sight. Micky was covered in blood, most of it from his mouth and from where his tongue had been severed. He was sitting on the floor, his back resting against the bar, with his head pushed back and his large, lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling.

  Elliott moved through the scene, and could see from the glasses of alcohol left on the tables and the amount of money in the till that this had been a busy Friday night. A lot of people had been present when all this took place, and in time they would find out who was there. A mountain of fingerprints would identify customers drinking that evening, and then they would begin their questioning. Everyone would say that they left before the murder took place, but eventually someone would crack. They always did. But it would all take time and, once again, this was a commodity they didn’t have. Elliott knew this was just another piece of some big situation that was building in strength and ferocity, and if it was to be stopped then it had to be stopped soon.

  It was an anonymous phone call that had alerted the police, but by the time the officers arrived the Bricklayers Arms was deserted. Even the landlord had done a runner, leaving money in the till and a hot water tap flooding the sink. Whatever had happened here had scared them, and no one wanted to be a witness.

  Elliott had spoken with the constables and forensics, and the picture seemed clear. It had been a knife fight, with Micky coming off worse, but they needed more than that. What had started the fight? And, most importantly, who was the assailant? Two knives had been found and the hope was that there would be plenty of blood, fingerprints, and DNA for a positive ID. The constables remarked how stupid the killer had been, but Elliott knew differently. The knife had been discarded deliberately – as a final gesture of blood-soaked terror – and all the identification in the world is only of use if it can be cross-checked against records. If that person is not known to the police then he is an invisible man, free to carry on a reign of fear, until one day they get lucky or he gets careless.

  Elliott was considering whether or not to call Dave Hyman when, to his surprise, the detective inspector appeared from a side room.

  “Hiya, boss,” quipped the DI.

  Elliott was momentarily lost for words, and Hyman answered the questions before they could be asked.

  “It was a thousand-to-one shot, boss. I was on my way home and turned the corner just as the crime scene van pulled up. There were already a few uniforms around and so I offered my services. Who would have thought it, eh …? Micky Fallon, of all people.”

  Elliott didn’t like his thoughts being interpreted before he’d even spoken, and his annoyance showed. “Pity you weren’t just passing by a little earlier. You might have caught sight of who did this.”

  “And that would have been a million-to-one shot,” replied Dave Hyman, equally annoyed.

  Elliott thought about rebuking his subordinate officer for his tone, but decided to count to ten and start again. In any case Hyman always rubbed him up the wrong way with his cheeky chappie routine, so it was best to put that to one side … and his being first on the scene was a good thing, wasn’t it?

  “So … you’ve had a good look around. What have you come up with?”

  Dave Hyman began with the obvious. “Well, it was a busy night and the place would have been full of ‘faces’. There’s a bullet hole in the ceiling and two bloodied knives, one with Micky’s tongue stuck on the end. We may get lucky with fingerprints, but somehow I don’t think so. There are lots of witnesses but we have to find one who’s willing to talk, and as all this is probably intended to make sure people keep silent that’s not going to be easy. It’s pretty clear what happened, and why, but we need to find out who did it. Who was confident enough to take on Micky Fallon hand to hand?”

  The DI paused and looked up, as if searching for a sign, and he tugged at his earlobe. “Do you still think there’s a Mafia connection, boss?”

  Elliott chose to ignore this question and started to walk towards the bar.

  Dave Hyman followed. “I think you’re well off the mark with that theory, sir. I mean … the Mafia … in London. No way. Although I do agree that this isn’t the work of other London gangs. Not even the South London mob would cross the water and do this, but what about the Scots? Or the Irish? Or even the Russians?”

  Without turning Elliott mumbled, “Could be.”

  He looked down on the shape of the deceased Micky Fallon and shuddered. He had seen it many times, but death still troubled him. Here was a man who had towered above his rivals but now, with the breath sucked from his body and the light extinguished from his eyes, he was nothing but a frail, ghostly apparition. His soul, already departed, had left behind an earthly carcass bereft of strength or substance that now appeared as nothing but a bag of bones. Dust to dust … ashes to ashes.

  Dave Hyman felt the need to break the melancholy mood. “Why don’t you get off, boss? I’ll stay around here until everything’s sorted, and if anything turns up I’ll let you know.”

  Elliott faced the detective. He wasn’t a bad guy, and just because he had a personality that Elliott envied that shouldn’t cause a rift between them. “Yes … thanks, Dave. We’ve still got a heap of research to do, and I need to be in the office first thing … By the way, has anything turned up on this Angelo Tardelli character?”

  Dave Hyman shook his head. “Not a thing.”

  “Okay,” said Elliott. “Well, keep trying on that one.”

  Then he left the Bricklayers Arms crime scene and once more switched his mind to the big picture and the threads that ran through all these recent events. There was a pattern being woven and each stitch triggered a new situation, which was bringing this work of art nearer to completion. It was beautiful in its complexity and terrifying in its execution, and it was consuming Elliott’s thoughts. What was the common denominator? And who was creating this tapestry of death?

  He drove leisurely through the city centre just as the capital’s nocturnal population were wearily tramping back to their hideaways: street cleaners, prostitutes, casino employees, and ravers, all rushing home to avoid the daylight. Elliott casually scanned them as he drove into the quiet streets of Pimlico and parked his car outside the white-painted five-storey terraced building. He walked smartly up the spiral staircase in the centre to the second floor and turned the key into his apartment. It always gave him a warm, secure feeling when he stepped inside the hallway and became surrounded by familiar walls and his own furnishings. The apartment was modern and clean – even clinical – and it drove his mother mad when she visited. She would often bring rubber plants and vases to add character to the place, bu
t Elliott didn’t like clutter and she always had to return them to the shop. However, this constant refusal never stopped her turning up with something new next time – and in a way it pleased them both to play this game.

  It was too late to go to bed so Elliott made a cup of strong black coffee and sat in his thinking chair, arching his head over the cup to feel the steam and aroma hit his face. He inhaled slowly and soaked it in. His head was numb from lack of sleep, and his eyes burnt with the effort of keeping them open. He sipped the coffee and felt the rush of caffeine as it passed through his body and alerted his senses. There was nothing to gain by keeping going over past events. Now was the time to be positive and look forward.

  Elliott was convinced there was a Mafia involvement, and his mind was made up that it was Roberto Vialli who was responsible, but how could he prove this connection? And, more to the point, how could he put an end to this Mafia invasion? He decided to take the bull by the horns and go and see Vialli. It would be safe enough to visit him at the Ritz, and although he may walk out of the meeting with a contract on his head he wanted to look the don in the eye and tell him that he knew what was happening and that he – Elliott Chan – was going to end it. This type of confrontation would be sure to provoke a reaction and more than likely this would mean he would be the next ‘suicide’, but time was running out and he needed to step up to the plate.

  Elliott closed his eyes and allowed thoughts of sleep into his subconscious. It was too early to be knocking on hotel doors, and he needed rest. He put down the cup of coffee and set a mental alarm clock in his head to ring in two hours. Then with that thought in mind his body relaxed, and he fell into a deep slumber where all the problems of the day disappeared. This was Elliott’s saving grace. He could sleep anywhere and shut out what troubled him during waking hours. He could even sleep when in pain, and would always wake up refreshed and ready for whatever the new day had in store. He didn’t feel he had many gifts, but the ability to sleep was a definite plus and something he was very grateful for.

  Elliott’s mental alarm had gone off right on time, and after a shower and a change of clothes he had ordered a taxi and was now on his way to the Ritz for a showdown with a dreaded Mafia boss. As they passed Hyde Park Corner Elliott suddenly realised that he should have told someone where he was going, just in case it all went wrong. He was about to dial Dave Hyman when something made him stop, and he put the phone back into his pocket. The taxi dropped him off at the door, and he nodded to the concierge as he entered the historic building. He showed his ID to the girl at the desk, and asked her to call Roberto Vialli and say he was here for a meeting and would be waiting in reception.

  The Mafia don’t hurry and it was fifteen minutes later when he was approached by Beppe, who simply pointed with his head to the outer hallway. Together they took lift number two. Once inside Beppe did the honours and frisked Elliott, who simply held out his arms in compliance. They exited the lift and walked down the corridor to where another man, who was in a crisp Italian tailored suit, stood with hands clasped together just above the crotch area. He was blocking the way to the door and stared intently at the detective, his eyes narrowing, with a look of menace. This piercing gaze was saying, “I will let you into this room because I choose to do so, and for no other reason. You may be British police, but if you disrespect my employer you will not leave this hotel alive.” Elliott nodded his understanding and the guard opened the door and let him enter.

  The suite took Elliott by surprise. It was bigger than his apartment … much bigger. Two separate couches and several chairs were spaced around the living area, and a man who Elliott recognised as Roberto Vialli was sitting in one of the high-backed armchairs.

  “Please, Detective Chief Inspector Chan, be seated,” said the Mafia don, and Elliott sat in an armchair facing him. “I assume you aren’t bringing me free tickets to a show, so what can I do for you?”

  “That’s very direct of you, Mr Vialli,” replied Elliott, trying to sound as if he hadn’t noticed the intended intimidation in the question.

  Roberto Vialli wasn’t used to passing pleasantries with policemen. In Naples they were usually on his payroll and grovelled around him like courtesans. “Get on with it, inspector,” he said.

  Elliott sat with a straight back and held his head high. “Firstly, Mr Vialli, I am here to have a conversation. I will tell you what I believe is happening, and we can then discuss what I have said.” Elliott tried to read the Mafia boss’s features, but they weren’t giving anything away. He wasn’t intrigued about what was about to be said. In fact he looked downright bored. “Over the past few months,” continued Elliott, “there have been several high-profile murders. These have comically been made to appear as suicides, and have included members of the London criminal fraternity. Someone is trying to take over, and that someone is from outside of the UK.”

  Roberto had one hand on his chin, which he held out. “So?”

  “So, Mr Vialli, who has that sort of power and influence?”

  “Don’t play games, inspector. If you mean the Mafia then say the Mafia.”

  “Okay,” said Elliott. “I believe this has Mafia written all over it. Why are you in London?”

  “For a vacation,” said Roberto. “I needed to get away from it all.”

  “Yet you haven’t left the hotel in three days … not much of a holiday.”

  Roberto leant forward. “What do you understand about the Mafia, inspector? There are Mafia families all around the world. The Albanian Mafia run the vice, as I’m sure you are aware, and the Russians like to own prime real estate. In Italy there are dozens of families, and in the United States even more. So you think that just because I happen to be in London that my family is committing murder?”

  “And robbery,” added Elliott.

  This time Roberto held out both hands in bewilderment.

  “The gold bullion robbery,” said Elliott.

  “So I am killing British gangsters and stealing their gold. That is very good. Actually, I wish I had thought of it.”

  This wasn’t the reaction Elliott had expected. It was all too light-hearted, and he felt foolish. He could feel his face flush and the anger burn in his belly.

  “You may be able to laugh at justice in Naples, Mr Vialli, but you are on English soil now and I will find a connection that links your family to these events. And, when I do, I promise that you will regret bringing your brand of violence to these shores.”

  Roberto settled back in his chair and rolled his shoulders to create a comfortable position. “Calm down, inspector. Would you like some coffee?” and without waiting for an answer he clapped his hands and Armando appeared from the bedroom. The Italian minder had his jacket off and a shoulder holster and gun were on full display. Elliott checked out the weapon, but decided not to make an issue of it.

  “Two coffees, please, Armando,” said Roberto. “How do you like yours, inspector?”

  “White; two sugars,” replied Elliott, and Armando in his slow Mafia gait swaggered off into the kitchen.

  “A cup of coffee isn’t going to make this go away,” said Elliott defiantly.

  Roberto laughed again. “Inspector, open your eyes. You are like a horse in the Derby. There is so much at stake, but you have taken the wrong course and are allowing the others a free run.”

  “So you are denying any involvement … but then you would say that, wouldn’t you?”

  Roberto rolled his eyes, but Elliott continued down the same blinkered path. “What do you know about three girls: Megan Penhaligon, Chrissie McGuire, and Brenda Smith?”

  “What do you know about them?” replied Roberto.

  “I’m asking the questions,” said the detective.

  Roberto’s eyes turned cold. “No, you are not. You said we were having a conversation and in any language that is where we both participate, so I can ask whatever I want. Up to now this meeting has been one-sided, so now it’s time for me to ask some questions of my own. How long h
ave these murders been going on?”

  There was a moment of silence before Elliott relented and decided that he wasn’t giving anything away by complying. If Vialli was responsible then he knew the answer, and if he wasn’t the culprit then it didn’t really matter what he was told.

  “Around five months.”

  “And have you found any pattern or connection to the victims?”

  Elliott thought it best to keep quiet about Walter Monreal, Angelo Tardelli, and the Manchester development.

  “No.”

  “I feel you are not being totally honest with that answer, and that is understandable,” said Roberto sternly. “But you must learn to widen your vision and see what is all around. Don’t be obsessed with what is directly ahead or you will miss the obvious, which is behind you. A theory doesn’t become wrong because there is no end product: it just becomes a theory that requires adjustment.”

  The Mafia don had a cryptic way with words and Elliott was trying to analyse what he had heard when he felt a sudden impulse to turn, and there standing behind was Armando with two cups of coffee.

  “See,” smiled Roberto. “You are learning already.”

  They both sat for a few minutes and drank their coffee in silence. It was surprising how having a drink together had altered the mood, and now a much more relaxed atmosphere prevailed.

  Roberto began the conversation again. “I have no need to say this to you, inspector, but I have no idea what you are talking about with these tales of murder and robbery. I know about the gold bullion – I read the papers – but I can tell you, and you can believe what you wish, that I had absolutely nothing to do with any of it. Yes, yes … I know what you are going to say, but I have no reason to lie. You have no proof, and even if you did what could you do about it? If this was my doing I would laugh in your face and throw you out.”