See Naples and Die

by Ray Cleveland

  “Yes, just the one. Another Italian.” The surgeon shuddered, his bold exterior not looking so formidable. “He was a huge fierce-looking man with a decidedly evil presence. He only stayed a few minutes – just long enough to ascertain the damage – and then he left.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “He said, ‘Mio caro amico, ti prometto’, which is ‘My dear friend, I promise you’. And then he said, ‘Per questo atto il Sadorian morira’.”

  “And what the hell is that?”

  “Ah, well, I had to google that one,” said the surgeon, “and in English it means, ‘For this deed the Sadorian will die’.”

  “And what is the Sadorian?”

  “That I must leave for you to discover, inspector,” said Mr McBride, who then turned and hurried to his next meeting.

  Dave Hyman stood deep in thought and tugged at his earlobe.

  At precisely high noon the girls were shown into the interview room and faced Elliott Chan.

  “Hello,” he smiled. “Please sit,” and pointed for Megan to take the middle chair.

  Chrissie sat on the end and immediately moved her chair closer to Megan. Brenda did the same.

  “You are not supposed to move the chairs,” said the annoyed DCI.

  “Oh, sorry. How many years do we get for that?” said an equally annoyed Brenda.

  “He’s pissed off because we’ve spoiled his seating plan,” said Chrissie. “He didn’t want us too close together. Isn’t that right, inspector?”

  Elliott was angry at their impudence, and a little embarrassed that Chrissie could see through him so easily. “You can sit how you wish,” he said, hiding his frustration.

  “And shouldn’t you be questioning us individually? Having three people in here is surely against protocol,” Chrissie persisted.

  “I could do that if you like. Is that what you want? I’m trying to be nice here.”

  Megan intervened. Being confrontational wasn’t going to get them anywhere. “Why have we been brought here, Mr Chan?”

  Elliott took the olive branch and relaxed. “Do you know a man called Angelo Tardelli?”

  They all shook their heads.

  “Well, he knows you.”

  “Then ask him how he knows us,” said Brenda.

  “I can’t do that because he’s in intensive care,” said Elliott, scanning their faces for signs of panic or concern.

  “We’ve never heard of this Angelo guy,” said Megan. “But we have come across quite a few Italians recently, and he could easily be a friend of a friend.”

  “Or an enemy of an enemy,” said Elliott. “Last night, as he left his favourite restaurant, someone stuck an eight-inch screwdriver through his chest. He had these with him at the time,” and he emptied the envelope of photos and details on to the table.

  “That’s us,” said Megan.

  “It most certainly is,” agreed Elliott.

  “Look, inspector,” said Chrissie. “You know the Mafia have a contract out on us. This Angelo must be one of their hit men, and I’m sure there are plenty other gunmen roaming around London with our photos in their pockets.”

  “And it’s only a matter of time before they find you.”

  “Thanks for that,” sighed Chrissie.

  “There is another hypothesis,” said Elliott. “And that is that you aren’t the innocent-looking threesome you like to portray. It could be that you have a vendetta against Roberto Vialli – he did try to kidnap you. It could be that you screwdrivered Tardelli. It could be that you are the assassins responsible for a spate of deaths …”

  The girls were visibly shocked.

  “Do you really believe that?” asked Megan.

  Elliott looked as serious as he could, and let them sweat. “Not really,” he eventually said. “But it is another way of looking at it, and at the end of the day somebody did try to kill Tardelli.”

  “If he’s Mafia then he must have loads of enemies,” said Chrissie. “Other Mafia, for a start. Let’s face it: they’re not big on working as a team, are they?”

  “No, they’re not,” agreed Elliott. “And that’s where we can beat them, if we work as a team … Don’t you think it’s time you told me everything?”

  Elliott knew he had them. They were scared and exhausted, and they wanted to unburden.

  Megan was first to speak, and the others didn’t try to stop her. She told him the whole story without any exclusions or embellishments … Fabio and the data stick, crazy Luigi and their extortion racket, and Bruno and Roberto Vialli … and the fact the USB was in a locker at Victoria station. When she’d finished Elliott sat deep in thought. He knew all the answers and evidence he needed were on that memory stick.

  “Do you have the locker key with you?” he asked.

  Megan and Chrissie looked at Brenda. “No, sorry. Your officers took us by surprise. It’s in my bedside cabinet at Mrs Grimshaw’s.”

  “Okay,” said Elliott. “Then we need to go and get it. You stay here while I organise a car and leave a few messages. I promise this all ends for you today.”

  Elliott rushed from the room, and Chrissie turned to Brenda. “You have the key around your neck, so why the lie?”

  Brenda leant closer. “I think we made a terrible mistake in confiding in him. We were vulnerable, and we’ve broken the rules. Once he has that USB we have nothing to protect us.”

  “He’ll protect us,” said Megan.

  “Will he?” asked Brenda. “I’m not so sure. And I didn’t like the way he said, ‘This all ends for you today’.”

  Chrissie was on the same wavelength as Brenda. “God, she’s right.”

  They looked at the open door. “Let’s get out of here,” said Megan.

  This time they didn’t run. They walked casually along the corridor and down the stairs. They smiled at two uniformed officers at the front door and stepped out on to the Strand. They fell into step with the crowds crossing the road towards Covent Garden, and only when they turned the corner did they look back … and then ran like the wind.

  Trouble was, this time they couldn’t run back to Wimbledon. This time there was no safe house. The ran until they couldn’t run any more and then, concluding that anywhere was better than being out on the streets, they slipped into a small pub on a relatively quiet side street. They only had a few pounds between them, and so bought three halves of lager and sat in the corner to catch their breath and contemplate how bad this current situation was. They needed help, but who could they call on? They couldn’t involve family or friends – that would be placing them in the same danger as they were. They had money at Mrs Grimshaw’s: maybe they could telephone her before the police arrived and ask her to hide it somewhere until it was safe to go back, but even as they said it they knew it would never be safe to return there.

  Chrissie reached into the inside pocket of her biker jacket and pulled out the mobile phone Luigi had given them. She held it out like it was a ticket for the last bus home. “We have no other choice,” she said.

  “Okay. Call him.”

  “We don’t need to call him. We know where he lives,” said Chrissie. “And I prefer not to prewarn anyone of our movements. We’ll surprise him.”

  They glanced around the pub and noticed a side door that led into a service yard.

  “Let’s go out that way,” said Brenda.

  They pushed the door and stepped out into a dark, smelly alleyway. The street was twenty yards ahead and no one was passing by, so they slowly edged towards the opening. After only a few paces they heard the slamming of the side door behind them and turned to see a face that sent their hearts into free fall. It was the man from the Barbican – the man Bruno had saved them from, and who they always knew they would have to confront again. He walked towards them, and they could see a gun by his side.

  He smiled. “New rules. I don’t need the data stick any more, so the game is much easier to play.” He raised the gun. “All I have to do is kill you.”

  Three
small thuds sounded as bullets passed through a silencer and they stood rigid, waiting for the sky to part and arms to embrace them as they ascended towards the light. Chrissie was thinking there should be music – a golden choir, or Elvis Presley: something to welcome them into the kingdom of heaven. Then she lowered her head and saw the man with the gun lying on the floor.

  “What’s he doing?” she thought, and was then startled out of shock by another man’s voice speaking quietly but with great authority. They all turned, and were facing the man with the jagged scar.

  Megan and Chrissie dropped their heads and Brenda looked again at the sky and pleaded, “Will this nightmare never end?”

  The man with the scar was deliberately blocking any escape to the street. “Please do not try to run,” he said. But they couldn’t run any more. They were done. They had no more fight; no more desire other than the wish for it all to end.

  “I know you are afraid of me,” he said, “but I am your protector. The man on the floor is a Scarpone assassin, and he is dead because I am here.”

  “But what about in the hotel?” asked Megan half-heartedly.

  “Another assassin. He was waiting for you in the corridor, and I took care of him.”

  He gave them time to collate this information. Their minds went back to Earls Court. The man in the corridor appeared from the shadows, and he was walking towards them when out of nowhere the man with the scar was firing his gun. They hadn’t hung around to see what actually happened, but it did seem they were extremely fortunate that at such close range a professional hit man had missed … unless he hadn’t missed at all. They looked again at the assassin on the floor.

  “We must go,” said their saviour, and beckoned to a car that had pulled up on the street. He opened the rear door and they leapt in. The car sped away from the scene, and the driver spoke to them in good English but with a hint of a Neapolitan accent.

  “Nice to see you again,” he said.

  In the driver’s rear-view mirror they could see the smouldering eyes of a man they knew well.

  “Hello, Armando,” they said.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  It was a beautiful day in Naples. The gardener had just finished his morning watering routine, and the flower beds around the Scarpone villa were a kaleidoscope of colour. Zico was taking coffee in the grounds and he walked, cup in hand, among the tiled pathways and smelt the sweet perfume of honeysuckle.

  Zico was a happy man. His last reports from England had gone well. Tigran had subdued the London gangsters, the gold was safe, and best of all he’d heard from his police informer that the elusive girls were being taken to a police station. He knew they wouldn’t be held in custody – they hadn’t committed any crimes. It was simply a matter of waiting, and his man was doing just that. Once they left the safety of the authorities’ building they would be followed and, when the time was right, eliminated.

  To hell with finding the data. He just wanted them dead. Zico had made up his mind that it didn’t matter about searching for the memory stick. If the girls die the data dies with them: that was his decision. Also his sources told him that Roberto Vialli hadn’t left his hotel in four days, so whatever he was up to it wasn’t going to plan.

  The Scarpone villa was on a hill with views of the Bay of Naples ahead, and the sprawling city to the right. Although the sight of the bay and Vesuvius were spectacular – almost beyond belief – Zico favoured overlooking the city. He held out his hand as if emphasising the grip he held over the buildings and their inhabitants, and as he brought the hand closer to his face it covered the entire city like a malevolent cloud. Along with Vialli and the Capecchis Zico controlled Naples, and soon he would have it all. The massacre of the families would be a famous day, and he couldn’t wait.

  The stillness of the scented air was shaken by the piercing tones of the telephone, and Zico’s manservant carried the handset out to him. It was Caesar Capriani, and he was spitting venom. Angelo was at death’s door, and Caesar was convinced it was the doing of Tigran Sadorian and his Armenians. He wanted the don to grant a vendetta, and then to leave the rest to him. He would kill them all. Zico liked Angelo and it would be a massive inconvenience if he died, but no point cutting off a Roman nose to spite your face. Two years had gone into setting up the Armenians, and now they were established it would be folly to destroy them. Caesar was ordered to sit tight: wait until Angelo recovers, and then find out the truth. If retribution is called for then Zico promised him his vendetta.

  Caesar grunted his acceptance, but Zico knew he would brood and needed to be watched. He had never been to England, but maybe it was time to inspect the troops and personally take whatever action was required – and perhaps pick up a little gold bullion on the way back.

  He was balancing the pros and cons when the phone rang again. The manservant returned with the handset and Zico took the call. He listened in silence as he was informed of the girls’ escape and that Roberto Vialli had left his hotel – and that all of them had now disappeared. He clenched his fist as if about to strike the servant, but then calmly asked him to fetch his brother Luca. Zico could be a volatile maniac, capable of the most reckless acts, but this time he was cold and calculated. Luca appeared, and without turning to look at him Zico said, “We need to make arrangements to go to England.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The girls sat in the back of the black Mercedes and let Armando drive in peace. It didn’t matter where they were going. They’d reached the point where one place was as good as another, with every venue spelling disaster. They wished they could be back in Naples enjoying the day with Gino – only this time they would give the street market a miss, and Chrissie would make sure her bag was zipped tight at all times. And yet can these things really be avoided? Or is fate a determined sonofabitch, who’s gonna get you come what may?

  They hadn’t been taking notice of the journey. Buildings were passing by like boxes on a production line, and visions of the murder in the alley still tormented them. Only when the car ground to a halt did they focus on their surroundings, and even Chrissie was lost for words. They were staring at tall metal gates that were pulling apart, and from behind them came a beaming Luigi.

  Armando drove the car into the yard and the metal gates sealed them in. Luigi opened the door, and at least his silly face was a familiar one – and in a strange way it felt like coming home. On the way into the house they passed Beppe in the hallway, and when they entered the living room it was no surprise to see a smiling Roberto Vialli sitting nonchalantly in Luigi’s best armchair. The girls didn’t know what to think. Was this the end for them? Or was the man with the scar telling the truth and had indeed been trying to protect them all along?

  The Mafia don extended an admonishing finger. “You are very good at making life difficult,” he said. Chrissie wasn’t intimidated.

  “Who for? You or us?”

  “For everyone,” said Roberto.

  “Well … now we are your prisoners it’s all nice and easy, isn’t it? You can line us up against the wall and shoot us at your leisure,” said Chrissie, who then closed her eyes like a deserter about to be blindfolded before execution.

  “There you go again,” said an exasperated Roberto. “My man has just saved your lives and you talk of being prisoners.” He turned to Armando. “Have you not explained to them?”

  Armando shrugged, “It would be futile. They don’t listen.”

  “Chrissie,” said Roberto in a voice coated in sincerity, “I thought we had an understanding. I told you when we met in the bar of a thousand stars that you were already under my protection. My man saved you in the hotel. He had followed you after the meeting in the park and he would have been your personal bodyguard, but you ran too fast from that place and he lost you. Then I place Armando and Beppe to guard you and you run again … I don’t understand.”

  Chrissie was going to blame Megan for panicking them about the man with the scar, but they would all have done the same
in her shoes so she kept it simple. “It was just a mix-up. We got confused about who we could trust.”

  “I can understand that,” said Roberto, “but now you must be clear. We are all together in this,” and he spread his arm around the room to include Armando, Beppe, and a smiling Luigi.

  Roberto noticed the girls’ annoyance at Luigi’s pleasure, and he felt the need to step in. “We could not have saved you a second time if it wasn’t for your friend here. He informed us of your whereabouts in that small hostel, and we could then follow your movements and watch over you.”

  “How did you know we were in Wimbledon?” asked Brenda. “And what do you mean by ‘Follow our movements’?”

  Luigi spoke up. “The phone I gave you … it had a GPS homing signal, so we knew your position exactly … and, before you ask, you told me Don Vialli was staying at the Ritz – so I went to him with this information. We knew you had been taken to the police station and Claudio – I think you refer to him as ‘the man with the scar’ – waited for you to leave.”

  “So you see,” said Roberto, “we are all trying our best to protect you. However, you do have one friend who isn’t what he seems.”

  “And who’s that?” asked Megan.

  “Detective Inspector Chan,” said Roberto grimly.

  “You know him?”

  “Yes. He came to me, seeking an alliance. But then he brought you to his police station.”

  “He was only trying to be helpful,” said Megan defensively.

  “He was very helpful, but not to you.”

  “What are you saying? asked Megan

  “When you left the building a Scarpone hit man was waiting outside to follow you. Now how did he know you were there? Because someone must have told him.”

  “No,” said Megan. “I can’t believe that of Mr Chan.”

  “We know the Scarpones have informers in the metropolitan police, but in this instance the only person who knew you were being brought in was the detective … and the constables who came for you, but they were only uniformed police – far too insignificant to be Scarpone spies. It had to be Chan.”