Elliott smiled. This casual openness was more to his liking. “You say you have no involvement, but you don’t deny that it could be Mafia?”
“Ah … at last you are looking left and right,” said Roberto.
“But, as you said earlier,” sighed Elliott, “there are dozens of families who could be behind this. I need a connection.”
Roberto finished his coffee and put the cup down on a nest of tables at the side of his armchair. “I can help you find the man you seek.”
“And why would you do that?” asked Elliott.
“Because we have a common enemy, and it could be to my advantage to have the English police on my side. I want to move my family into legitimate businesses and wrestle free from the confines of crime, but as long as I have enemies I can never let go. You can help me become a better man.”
“So you will be my informant?” asked Elliott.
“And you will become my police puppet,” spat Roberto. “Do not cheapen this arrangement. We will become partners, you and I. We will work and plan together to achieve the total destruction of our foe.”
Roberto stood up and walked to the bureau. He wrote on a pad and tore off the sheet of paper, which he handed to Elliott. “This is my mobile phone number. Do not share it with anyone … How many people are involved in this case?”
Elliott felt embarrassed to admit it but said, “There’re only two of us working on the murder file: everyone else has been shunted on to the bullion robbery.”
“That’s good,” said Roberto. “You must not speak of our arrangement or your Mafia theories to anyone. There will be people within your department who will be taking our enemies’ money … They could be your friends, or your superiors. They could be people you have known all your life. Do you trust your partner?”
Elliott thought about Dave Hyman. He was annoying but he was a good copper. “Yes, he’s okay.”
“Okay isn’t good enough,” said Roberto. “Tell him only what you must and no more.”
He handed Elliott the pen and writing pad. “Give me your personal phone number. We must never communicate through a shared line. Mobile to mobile still isn’t safe, but it’s the best we can do. Now I am going to ask you to leave, and I will be in touch very soon.”
Elliott realised that this was the end of the conversation, so he stood and shook the Mafia man’s hand. He was shown out of the hotel by Beppe, who then unceremoniously turned away and walked back towards the lifts.
Elliott strolled down Piccadilly, trying to decipher what had just happened. This could be a momentous turning point in the investigation: to have information and the backing of a major Mafia family was more than he could ever have hoped for. Then again, he had seen with his own eyes Armando and Beppe pursuing Megan Penhaligon and her friends. They had something Roberto Vialli wanted and he seemed quite prepared to kill them to get it, so he wasn’t all sweetness and light and Elliott knew he was not to be trusted.
Chapter Twenty-two
Elliott Chan walked the half mile to Charing Cross police station. It had been an eventful morning, and not at all what he had expected. He wasn’t sure how far he could trust Roberto Vialli, but even if the Mafia boss was using him in some way he had no other choice but to run with it. At least now it wasn’t just his pet theory that the Mafia were involved in the murders: Vialli had confirmed that it was more than likely … but he had to find a tangible link to prove it, and Angelo Tardelli was that link. He needed Dave Hyman to uncover some details on Tardelli – anything to prove he existed. Perhaps he should have mentioned the name to Roberto, but it was still too early to be sharing such important information – and although the Mafia don had talked of cooperation he hadn’t exactly given anything away.
“Let’s see what he comes up with,” thought Elliott. “It’s down to him to make the next move.”
The duty room at Charing Cross had calmed down since the first news of the gold bullion heist. The combined might of the metropolitan law enforcement agencies were getting nowhere and, although it was early days, people were panicking. Enthusiastic individuals who had lots to say were now keeping their heads down and working quietly behind the scenes.
Elliott sat at his desk, and was handed a message from Dave Hyman. He’d spent all night at the Bricklayers Arms, and would be in the office around noon. The note didn’t mention any startling revelations so Elliott assumed it was now a matter of waiting for forensics, and so he put all thoughts of Micky Fallon to the back of his mind. It would be a couple of days before reports would be available, and there were more important things to be getting on with. This afternoon he would be going back to the department of business development. There were other companies he hadn’t had time to scrutinise, and he had a strong feeling that a key was waiting to be discovered among those files. It would be a painstaking exercise, but it had to be done.
Elliott checked the time. It was 11.25, and he decided to wait for Dave Hyman to arrive before leaving for Whitehall and the mountain of documents. “Coffee time,” he said to himself, and walked across the duty room towards the canteen. Then he paused, changed direction, and headed for the street. He fancied a cappuccino and a Danish pastry from the coffee shop on the Strand. His mind was picturing the patisseries on display as he passed a rotund gentleman talking to the desk sergeant, and he was almost at the door when he faintly heard the man mention a name that stopped him in his tracks. Without turning he listened intently to the conversation – and then he heard it again, distinctly this time: Angelo Tardelli.
Elliott hurried to the desk, and could see a bored desk sergeant beginning to take notes from a fast-talking Italian.
“Hiya, John,” said Elliott.
“Hello, chief,” grunted the uniformed officer.
“I’ll take care of this, if it’s all right with you.”
“Sure,” said the sergeant, screwing up the form in his hand. He’d only got as far as writing the date, and so considered Elliott’s intervention a good result.
Elliott shook hands with the Italian and introduced himself. “Hello, sir. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Chan, and you are …?”
“Vincenzo Grappello of the restaurant Vincenzo’s of St John’s Wood … Steak night on Mondays and two for one every Wednesday … Here is my card.”
The man handed Elliott a business card then, as if having a flash of inspiration, peeled off another half-dozen. “Please, take these for your friends.”
“Thank you,” said Elliott and put one of the cards on to the desk for the sergeant, who gave a surly look that said, “I’m not your friend.”
“Mr Grappello,” said Elliott, “if you can follow me, please.” And together they went back across the duty room to Elliott’s desk. He wanted to charge in and ask the restaurateur outright about Angelo Tardelli, but he bit his tongue and let the man begin at the beginning.
Vincenzo cleared his throat. “Last night Mr Angelo dined with us. He is a regular customer and a friend. He arrived for his reservation at 9.30 and left at around 11.30. On leaving I walked with him to the door. He complimented me on the food and then stepped outside. I saw him standing on the pavement, and when I look again he is on the floor. I rushed to see what was wrong and saw a man running away and a long screwdriver on the floor. I don’t want to touch anything but there is an envelope by his side. So I take the envelope and go and dial 999.
“When I go back outside a man is bending over Mr Angelo. He says he is a policeman … a detective … and he shows me a badge. I am not sure about this man. He is looking through Mr Angelo’s pockets as if searching for something, and asks me if I have seen an envelope. I decide to say no. He doesn’t check for a pulse or if any first aid can be administered … he just looks once again through the pockets. Then we hear the sirens of a police car and he says he will leave the situation to these officers and walks away. This was a strange way to behave, I think.”
“I think so too,” said Elliott. “What happened when the officers arrived?”
>
“They did the correct things. They checked for a pulse and said that Mr Angelo was still breathing. Then they waited for the ambulance and let the paramedics take over. They took a statement from me and then left to follow the ambulance.”
“Do you know which hospital they went to?”
“No.”
“Did you mention the envelope to these officers?”
“No. I had put it under the counter in the restaurant and I still had an uneasy feeling about who to give it to, but all night it has troubled me and so I have brought it to the police station.”
“So you have it with you. May I see it, please?”
Vincenzo handed over an A5 envelope. Elliott split the seal with his paper knife and emptied the contents on to the desk. A selection of photographs spilled out, and the first one he saw was a close-up of Megan Penhaligon. As he moved the photos apart he could also see her friends and typewritten descriptions. He carefully put everything back in the envelope, and put it into the top drawer in between two document folders.
Elliott folded his arms and put his serious head on. “Tell me about Angelo Tardelli.”
Vincenzo shuffled uneasily in his chair. “Mr Angelo was just someone who came into the restaurant. He was a customer … that is all.”
Elliott frowned. “He was a friend a minute ago.”
“All my customers are my friends. It is a friendly restaurant.”
Elliott began to throw questions like rice at a wedding. “Do you know where he lives?”
“No.”
“Did he ever dine with anyone else?”
“Sometimes he would be with a man called Caesar.”
“What is Caesar’s second name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“No.”
“How often did Angelo Tardelli visit your restaurant?”
“Once a week … maybe more.”
“How did he pay?”
“In cash: always in cash.”
“What did he do for a living?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know much, do you?”
Vincenzo snapped out of his ‘ever so humble’ character. “I know you are trying to intimidate me, and that you have no right to do that. I came in here voluntarily to hand over what may be evidence, and it could assist you in the search for a vicious attacker. I have also alerted you to the suspicious nature of one of your detectives.”
Elliott knew he’d blown it. He should have trodden softly-softly, but his impatience had got the better of him. Time was precious and he’d wanted a swift result, but it was a bad move. Vincenzo could see where he wanted to go with these questions, and he was having none of it. Elliott tried to mend the broken fences.
“I have to know as much as possible about Angelo Tardelli before I can try and find out who his attacker was.”
“Then why don’t you start by asking Mr Angelo? You haven’t even enquired whether he is dead or alive. Shouldn’t you be finding out which hospital he was taken to and if he is recovering? And shouldn’t you be trying to discover who this detective was who was searching a dying man’s pockets?” Vincenzo stood up. “If Mr Angelo is deceased you can come and ask me all the questions you want, but until that becomes a fact I am leaving to attend my business.”
“Of course, Mr Grappello. Thank you,” said Elliott, knowing that he had lost this war of words.
The Italian restaurateur marched out of Charing Cross police station and walked quickly away, while from the opposite direction Dave Hyman approached and entered through the high, chapel-style brown doors. Dave nodded at the desk sergeant, who smiled a genuine smile of affection. “Hiya, Dave. How’s it going?”
“Bloody awful,” replied the detective, and they both laughed.
Elliott was on the phone as his partner strolled across the room. He dragged a nearby chair up to the desk, sat down, and waited.
Elliott finished the call. “Angelo Tardelli has turned up.”
“What …? Where?” said an open-mouthed Dave Hyman.
“In intensive care … He was stabbed last night … He’s in a bad way, but he’s still breathing. He’s in Chadsworth Green hospital.”
“Are we going to see him?”
“No, you are,” replied Elliott. “There have been other developments,” and he took the envelope from his drawer and emptied out the pictures of Megan, Chrissie, and Brenda.
Dave Hyman looked blank. “Who are they?”
“It’s a long story and I’ll explain when you get back, but I believe these three are crucial to our entire investigation. Tardelli had these photographs with him when he was attacked, and all these girls were already known to me.”
“Known to you which way, boss?”
“Known to me because they have a Mafia connection,” said Elliott.
Dave Hyman pulled at his earlobe.
“I’m sending a squad car to bring them in. These photos place them in the centre of an attempted murder, not to mention a hundred and one other implications. You find out what state Tardelli is in and then get back here.”
“Okay, boss,” said Dave Hyman, as he took one more look at each of the pictures. “See you later.”
Elliott sat back. He had at least an hour to wait before the girls would be brought in for questioning, and so he set about trying to gather as much information on Angelo Tardelli as he could. He’d already run the name through records and come up with nothing, so called a good friend and second cousin who worked for the force as an IT consultant and software architect. Oliver was a guy who knew more about the police computer system than the system itself, and if Angelo Tardelli was known to the police then he was the man to uncover the details.
Elliott smiled as he rang the number. He always enjoyed talking to Oliver. It was easy conversation, and he was looking forward to speaking with a friend. He had precious few in Charing Cross, and was in need of some light-hearted banter without the worry of repercussions. Oliver was equally pleased to hear his second cousin’s voice, and for a few precious moments they passed pleasantries and giggled like the two college kids they used to be. Then Elliott got to the point: find out everything you can about Angelo Tardelli, by the end of today if possible. And then, as if every second counted, he ended the call.
An interview room had been booked and Elliott made his way with a fresh notepad, his lucky pen, and a head full of questions. He entered the room and viewed the traditional table and three chairs and then, after consideration, brought in another chair and arranged the seating to his advantage. Normally only one person would be interviewed at a time, but in this instance he wanted all three girls together. However, it was important that he made them feel like individuals. He didn’t want all the girls in a line so he set the three chairs four feet apart, with the one on the end set slightly further back. This way they wouldn’t be able to see each other out of the corner of their eyes and would have to turn their heads to make eye contact, which would create uneasiness and isolation – whereas he could speak to them singly with the advantage of viewing all three faces in detail and comparing each expression for signs of truth and lies. He moved his chair a few inches to the left until it was directly opposite the centre chair of the three, which is where he’d decided Megan Penhaligon would sit … and he waited.
Dave Hyman strode through the corridors of Chadsworth Green hospital, flashing his credentials at every passing nurse. Never one to miss an opportunity, the cocky cockney was in his element among this vast female workforce. His smile and head grew bigger by the minute and then, like a wonderful dream, it all came to an abrupt end just at the best bit and he was awoken by the gruff Scottish tones of Mr McBride, the consultant in charge of the Tardelli admission.
“Are you the detective?” barked the surgeon. “You look more like a second-hand car salesman.”
“And you look more like a beer-bellied darts player,” Dave wanted to say, but bit his tongue, and simply nodded
.
“Get your notebook out, then. I’m only saying this once. My name is Mr McBride and I’m the consultant who performed emergency surgery at 1.45 last night. The patient had suffered a single puncture through the chest. The trajectory of the implement unfortunately caused severe damage to the airways, and there was internal bleeding and haemorrhaging of a major pulmonary vessel. We also have a traumatic pneumothorax due to the trauma to the chest wall.”
Dave looked blank. “Please, doc,” he said. “I’m only a second-hand car salesman.”
The surgeon sighed. “My name isn’t ‘doc’. It’s Mr McBride – and, to simplify, the patient suffered a single stab wound through the chest. The weapon was long and round – a sharpened screwdriver would be my guess. There was severe internal damage to the airways and to the heart itself, so we had to operate quickly. There’s also a collapsed lung, but that’s the least of our problems. The patient is still critical, and we won’t know for sure how things have gone until tomorrow at the earliest.”
“So I can’t talk to him?” asked Dave.
The surgeon looked to the ceiling. “Yes, you can talk to him. You can also talk to that wall, and the response will be the same. My advice to you is to telephone in tomorrow, and if he’s not dead then chances are he’ll make a full recovery. But, as for interviewing him, that’s not going to happen for at least another two days.”
“Do you have his clothes and belongings?”
“They will be in A & E. Ask the receptionist on your way out.”
Dave took the less than subtle hint and turned to leave, but didn’t shake the surgeon’s hand or thank him. He just muttered “Arsehole” under his breath. Then he spun back round.
“Oh, one more thing … Has he had any visitors?”
See Naples and Die Page 17