Roberto let his eyes take them in, one by one. “It’s time to put your trust in me. We need the information to destroy the Scarpones … We need that data stick.”
Chrissie looked at Brenda, who took the key from around her neck and handed it over.
“Take it,” she said. It’s in the left luggage room at Victoria station: box C47.”
Roberto took the key and gave it to Armando.
“Wait a minute,” said Chrissie. “DCI Chan knows we have important information that the Mafia badly want back – and he knows it’s at Victoria station, so he’s sure to be watching the lockers. He can’t stop everyone, but if he sees Armando in his Mafia suit he’s definitely going to nab him.”
Roberto looked puzzled. “I don’t know what this ‘nab him’ means, but I see the problem. Luigi can go.”
“That isn’t any better,” said Chrissie shaking her head. “He may look like everybody’s favourite uncle, but he’s still Italian. It can’t be one of us and it can’t be one of you. It needs to be some white kid with acne and a snotty nose and a T-shirt with ‘Metallica Rules’ written on the front.”
“I know who that is,” pronounced Luigi. “He works for me, delivering pizzas. He is just how you described.”
“What, even with the Metallica thing? asked Chrissie.
“Yes … yes. Exactly that,” said an excited Luigi.
“Wow.”
“Then it’s decided,” said Roberto. “Send the boy.”
Luigi clapped his hands as if applauding his own ingenuity. “I will go for him, and he can speed there on his Suzuki. He will bring the data to the pizza shop and I will return here with it.” Then he hurried away, his body quivering with anticipation and his little legs marching in quick time.
They heard the slamming of the front door, and then a silence descended. The girls closed their eyes, and only the ticking of the clock interrupted the peace. It was as if a great burden had been lifted and sleep was approaching like the incoming tide, and there was no stopping it. Roberto put his finger across his lips, and Armando and Beppe slipped from the room. As they were leaving Megan forced one eye open and quietly asked, “Do you really think that Inspector Chan is a Scarpone informer?”
Don Roberto Vialli shrugged. “It would appear so.”
A yellow moon like a huge Victorian gas lamp cast a dismal gloom over the East End of London as Luigi returned with the coveted data stick. Earlier the girls had woken from their nap and made it up to the bedroom. This was their second home, and they knew the way with their eyes closed. The mattresses welcomed them like old friends, caressing their bodies and soothing away the stress, and as their heads sank into the extra-large pillows they slipped easily into the safety of sleep.
Roberto, Armando, and Luigi spent the next four hours examining every file on the memory stick, which was pure gold. A catalogue of crimes and assassinations, bank accounts, transaction details, names and addresses of informers, telephone numbers … it went on and on. One file which was of particular interest was a list of properties that had been purchased over the past two years. It was an extensive list of over 200 houses throughout Europe. This wasn’t a tax avoidance scheme. This was a network … but for what purpose? Included in the same file was a group of names – over a hundred. The names had a South European slant: Chechen, Georgian, or perhaps Armenian.
The key to this puzzle was the continual reference to Angelo Tardelli. He was the one buying the properties. He was the front man, and he was well known to the Viallis. Roberto respected Angelo. He was efficient, and came with a formidable reputation. His only fault was that he had picked the wrong employer and worked for the Scarpones – so unfortunately that made him an enemy.
Armando was taking notes, and when Luigi saw Angelo’s name he grasped Roberto by the arm. “I know that name,” he said. Roberto glared, and Luigi quickly released his grip.
“I have a friend …” he explained, “a fellow restaurateur. The Italian community stick together – you know how it is? We meet and discuss menus and prices, and talk of the old days. Two days ago my friend Vincenzo tells me of a stabbing outside his place. A regular customer by the name of Angelo Tardelli was attacked as he left the restaurant. He didn’t die, but was seriously injured. And yet the strange thing was that as he lay bleeding a detective appeared from nowhere and began to search his pockets.”
“What was he looking for?”
“Whatever it was he didn’t find anything, and left quickly as other police were approaching. But there was an envelope which Vincenzo took to the police. He was there when the detective emptied the contents. It contained photographs of three girls. I never thought about it before … but could it have been our three girls?”
This time Roberto took Luigi’s arm. “Tardelli works for Zico Scarpone, so he would have been passing on these photos to a police informer – and yes, they would be our three girls.”
Armando looked at his boss. “Chan?”
Robert looked thoughtful. “Could be.” He rocked his head and felt the crunching of cartilage. “We must get some rest. First thing in the morning we find out which hospital Angelo is in, and I will pay him a visit.”
“But he is a Scarpone man,” said Armando.
“He needs to be aware that the Scarpones are finished, and then I will make him an offer he can’t refuse,” said Roberto.
Chapter Twenty-five
DCI Chan had sent two detectives to the locker room at Victoria station with instructions to stop the girls or any Italians on sight. Finding the key was paramount. He had to have that data stick and the information it contained. He was nibbling the end of a pencil and absent-mindedly drumming the intro to Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture with the other hand when the phone rang. It was second cousin Oliver and Elliott listened intently, without saying a word, other than “Thanks” at the end of the call. He replaced the phone in its cradle and stroked his chin with finger and thumb. Finally he called Dave Hyman over.
He was writing an address on a jotter pad as Dave sat down, then he tapped the lines with his index finger. “I’ve just had a call informing me of the whereabouts of our missing girls. They’re at 42a, Cyprus Avenue.”
“Great,” said Dave, without any real enthusiasm.
“They know things,” stressed Elliott.
“If you say so, boss.”
“It’s important, Dave. I’m going to bring them in, and this time they’ll be cautioned and we won’t let them walk away.”
“I was thinking,” said Dave Hyman. “Maybe I should go see how Tardelli is doing. There’s got to be a lot of mileage in whatever he has to say, and we don’t want him waking up and disappearing as well … do we?”
Elliott realised this was a direct reference to the fact it was his fault, and his fault alone, that the girls had simply walked out of custody. He had to accept this rebuke and take it on the chin. “Good idea. You go over there and stick around until Tardelli wakes up. I’ll get a couple of the boys and we’ll bring the girls in.”
“Sounds like a plan, chief,” said the crafty cockney and, after performing a sarcastic salute, got up and walked away.
Elliott’s blood should have been at boiling point, but he was calm and collected. He picked up a few bits and pieces, took his jacket from the back of the chair, and quietly left to apprehend his suspects.
An hour later the rear door of 42a, Cyprus Avenue was forced open. It was jemmied professionally, with the minimum of fuss, and a size nine black police issue shoe stepped over the threshold. This was the kitchen area and immaculate. A row of recently washed dishes were neatly stacked in the red draining rack. The worktops had all been wiped clean, and the tiled floor was shining bright. In every corner of the room a woman’s touch was apparent.
The inner door was slightly open and the noise of a television could be heard. It was a Jeremy Kyle repeat and he was shouting the odds about ‘It’s the kids that matter’, and not about the idle benefit-scrounging and pot-smoking lowlife scumba
g in front of him. The scumbag didn’t mind the abuse. He was on TV, and an appearance on the Jeremy Kyle show was brilliant. His mates would be jealous, and the girls would be all over him now he was a celebrity scumbag.
The man moved like a cat, and peered through the crack in the door. He could see three girls sitting together on a long settee watching Jeremy strut his stuff. All that was visible were the backs of their heads. He inched the door open and took three steps inside the room. He felt the metropolitan police badge in his pocket and instinctively turned it face down, as if ashamed at what he was about to do. He pulled a gun from a shoulder holster and, holding it with both hands, shot each girl in quick succession. Heads exploded and disappeared, and he caught a glimpse of Jeremy staring out of the TV with a look of horror.
He lowered the gun and took a few deep breaths. Through the nose … hold it … then out through the mouth. He could feel his heart banging. He had killed before, but this was different. The others had all sort of deserved it, but this was cold-blooded murder: an execution. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, and replaced the gun in its holster. He would have to check the bodies, and was steeling himself for the task when the door to his left sprang open and armed police officers rushed in. Before he had time to assimilate the incursion other officers entered through the kitchen, and his arms were grabbed and thrust behind his back. He felt the handcuffs lock and saw a hand remove his gun. Then he was roughly forced, face first, to the floor.
The officers had entered in a wall of sound, shouting orders and instructions:
“Don’t move …”, “Hands on your head …”, “On the floor …”, and, “Get on the floor now.”
As his forehead touched the cold hard wood the commands stopped, and he could hear footsteps approaching. He smelt the sweet odour of shoe polish as a man stood above him, and his eyes closed as he was read his rights. It was a set-up. They had been waiting for him and, like the cocky fool he was, he’d walked straight into it. The man standing over him finished the official caution and then kicked him in the ribs. “Get up, Hyman,” he said.
Dave Hyman was hauled to his feet and faced Detective Inspector Elliott Chan. He thought back to when he first joined the force. It had always been the only thing he wanted to do, and he’d coasted into the position of detective inspector. At first he really strived to be a superhero and catch all the bad guys. He had visions of making a reputation in the manor as a tough but fair copper. He couldn’t quite remember when it all went wrong and he took his first bribe, but he did know that from that moment on everything changed and there was never going to be any way back.
“When did you know?” he asked.
“There were always doubts,” said Elliott. “Jimmy the weasel – you were there before me, and I just didn’t buy that you went to the wrong warehouse first. Then all the empty reports about Angelo Tardelli … You weren’t trying to find him: you were too busy deleting all references about him. And the way you just happened to be passing the Bricklayers Arms that night … Too many unexplained events. So I fed you this address and you confirmed all my suspicions … and completely ruined three mannequins from my sister’s shop.”
Dave Hyman grinned. He wasn’t done for yet. “So what, Charlie? I don’t know what you’re getting at regarding Jimmy, and it’s not a crime to be incompetent … or to shoot at some shop window dolls.”
“Oh, we have a lot more than that,” said the DCI, as he returned the grin. “My cousin in IT has traced the file deletion attempts to your computer, and the knife that probably killed Jimmy the weasel has been discovered in a drawer at the side of your bed along with other sensitive evidence. Oh, and best of all, Vincenzo Grappello – the Italian restaurateur who went to Angelo Tardelli’s assistance – has positively identified you as the detective who searched through Tardelli’s pockets as he lay bleeding. This should be enough to send you down but, either way, you’re finished.”
Dave Hyman was still grinning. “We’ll see. I have friends in high places, Chan.”
“You think so?” said Elliott. “Do you really believe your Mafia friends are going to look after you? You’re a liability, and by tomorrow morning a price will be on your head.”
The grin disappeared as the truth of Elliott’s words sank in. “What if I cooperate?”
“That’s always good, Dave. You know how it works. You’re done for in the force but if you cop a plea there may be a witness protection programme for you. It all depends on what you’ve got … You need to think about it.”
Elliott motioned to the officers. “Take him in. I’ll meet you back at the nick.”
Ex-Detective Inspector Hyman was dragged unceremoniously into the back of a police van, and Elliott sat in his Jag. He watched the van disappear with mixed feelings. He had never liked Dave Hyman and hated bent coppers but he had been a colleague, and not everything he’d done was bad – or for gain. He’d solved some difficult cases, and put his life on the line more than once. Not many on the team would feel satisfaction in this arrest. He was popular, and Elliott knew a lot of others would have turned a blind eye or warned him off. Maybe when this was all over it would be best if he asked for a transfer. The south coast would be good … Bournemouth, or somewhere down that way. It was something to consider.
Chapter Twenty-six
Megan Penhaligon was the first to wake. Her eyes opened slowly, as if lifting a huge weight, and then closed. The warm touch of the duvet consumed her and for those few brief moments of half sleep she believed that this was her own bed in her own room, and that the craziest of dreams had taken up a part of the night. Then as her eyes opened again and the surroundings began to spell out the truth she had a wave of panic, and a burning desire to sit up and scream … But it passed, and instead she looked around for Chrissie and Brenda.
They were in a bedroom at the back of the house with one small window that was covered by a rolled blackout blind, which was hiding the morning. Megan got up and lifted the blind, which allowed a supernova of sunlight to engulf them. The other two girls were shocked into alertness, and almost leapt out of bed.
“What time is it, Meg?” asked Chrissie.
Megan looked at her watch. “God, it’s ten thirty.”
“Oh, no,” said Chrissie. “We’re late for work,” and ran to the bathroom.
“She’s done it again,” said Brenda. “Always gets in there first, and we fall for it every time …” and then added, “Come on, Chrissie. We all need to go, you know.”
Forty-five minutes later, having all had their turn in the bathroom, they trotted downstairs to Luigi’s hostel for wayward girls and fugitive Mafiosi. They breezed into the living room, and were met by a stony silence. Mafia men don’t laugh much in the mornings – or any other time – but no one was around. Claudio stood by the door in his usual ‘Border collie at the farmyard gate’ way, always ready to snap at the legs of any intruder. But other than this guardian of Asgard the room was empty.
“Where’re Roberto and the boys?” asked Chrissie.
Claudio appeared not to hear.
Chrissie was about to ask again when Luigi entered with a plate of hot buttered fruit loaf.
“They’ve gone to see Angelo Tardelli,” he said.
Sunday mornings in hospitals – like Sunday mornings anywhere else – are quiet times. No routine admissions, and depleted weekend staff, create empty corridors and minimal activity.
In a private ward on the fourth floor of Chadsworth Green Royal Infirmary Angelo Tardelli sat in bed, with grapes and olives by his side. He had no appetite but these were gifts, and he did his best to suck on a grape so as not to be disrespectful to his visitor.
The past two days had been a bag of surprises for Angelo. Firstly he’d felt a painless paralysis when the shaft of cold steel penetrated his body … and then the weightlessness as a floating sensation took his inner soul high into the air and then released its grip, sending him spiralling to the floor … and the sight of his assailant’s face, twisted and
triumphant in the murky glow of the night … and his own disbelief as he recognised the assassin. He had fragmented flashbacks of doctors barking orders and bright lights, and himself as a boy running through never-ending fields of wheat. But the greatest surprise of all was the visitor who now sat by his bedside. Roberto Vialli … What the hell was he doing here?
Angelo didn’t fear Roberto – in the order of things they were almost equals – but he was suspicious of the motives that brought him here. It was a long way from Naples, and whatever Vialli wanted it certainly wasn’t to enquire about his health … and how did he know about the stabbing? Angelo’s body was weak, but he was on full alert. Although his mind was dealing with the effects of controlled medication he was still able to rationalise, and he was wary of the presence of a rival Mafia don.
For ten minutes Roberto talked of the weather and other hospital visitor chit-chat, and then he got down to the real business in hand. He told Angelo that he knew about the Manchester development and all the other controlling companies the Scarpones had set up. He stopped short of explaining how he knew these things, but made it abundantly clear that Zico Scarpone was finished.
It was all going to come crashing down, and Angelo could be crushed in the debris and die a broken man … or he could switch allegiances. First and foremost Roberto was a businessman, and he valued Angelo. These deals were happening, and the infrastructure was in place. Roberto made his offer, and it was tempting.
They asked each other some pertinent questions, and both men were frank with their answers. Then Roberto rose and, with hand on heart, offered his best wishes. Angelo watched the head of the Vialli family leave the ward, and as the door closed he stared at the ceiling. He’d always been a loyal employee – he was well known for it – but he wasn’t a fool, and business is business.
See Naples and Die Page 19