by Jan Toms
‘I think you are Vincenzo Verdi, a hitman.’
Giuseppi laughed a throaty sound and Charity struggled to keep her cool. She said, ‘Before we go any further I should tell you that I have left a full account of everything that I know with a complete description of you and the circumstances of what happened yesterday. If I don’t arrive home by this evening, the police will be informed.’
His eyebrows rose in response. ‘You think I kill you Miss Bird?’
For a second she had forgotten the name she had given him, but then she nodded.
He suddenly flung himself into another armchair, laughing. The towel opened dangerously and she found it impossible to look away. His legs were bronzed and muscular and shaded with silky black hair. She looked at his bare feet and longed to kiss his toes.
Giuseppi said, ‘I tell you, I promise on life of my mother, I never, ever kill lady or child.’
She believed him. It was a few moments before she realised that he had not included men in the list. Nevertheless she found herself relaxing into the chair, an actress on an exotic film set with a leading man to die for – although not, of course, literally.
He said, ‘Signora Bird, what is it that you want? You are wanting money?’
‘No!’ Again she felt indignant that he should impugn her motives in this way. She said, ‘My father is a policeman.’
‘Ah.’
‘No, it is not as you think. I simply wanted to get to the bottom of a series of killings in our neighbourhood. They have been carried out for two rival gangs but apart from yesterday’s they have all looked like accidents.’
‘And you, you think I am killer?’
‘Are you?’
He smiled. Such even, white teeth, such an erotic pink tip to his tongue. ‘Signora, I give you my honour, honour of my mother, I know nothing about deaths that look like accidents. I swear.’
Looking into his eyes his earnest gaze washed over her. She nodded, believing him.
It was his turn then. ‘Signora, have you any idea who gangs might have paid to do accidental killings?’
She shook her head. Suddenly she really did believe him. He had skirted around yesterday’s shooting but the others, she was now certain that he had nothing to do with them.
There was silence, then Vincenzo said, ‘Look, you give me one minute and I will put on clothes. You are hungry? You would like to eat?’
She glanced at her watch. It was mid-afternoon and she had had nothing since breakfast. ‘Yes, I would.’
‘Good. We go to dining room, we eat there or I can send for food? Whichever you like.’
She would have liked to stay here, in this room with this man forever, but commonsense prevailed and she said, ‘Perhaps we should eat downstairs.’
‘Then we will.’ He gave her such a beatific smile that she knew that for the first time she was in love.
TWENTY-ONE
Alan arrived home to find Victor alone.
‘Hello, where’s Charity?’ he asked, going to the fridge for a beer. He was aware that this little routine was becoming too much of a habit, but somehow the promise of a beer when he got home made more palatable the prospect of Charity’s cooking.
‘She’s in London,’ said Victor, pointing to the message on the table. ‘She rang up just now to say that she has bumped into a friend and is going to stay up until tomorrow. She said that there are some frozen meals ready-made in the fridge for us.’
Alan looked surprised at the news of Charity’s outing but, with a carefully disguised casualness, he said, ‘Tell you what, shall we go out for a bite to eat?’
Victor readily agreed. He was still feeling exhilarated at the prospect of taking Pamela to the cinema, only this time it wouldn’t be Last Tango in Paris or anything of that ilk. He was also relieved that Charity was not at home or he would have had to break to her the news that they were splitting up. The very words thrilled him. This was what other people did, have affairs, split up. It really made sense once you had got the hang of it.
Would Charity be upset? He really didn’t know, having so far found no clue as to how to judge her reactions to anything, but buoyed up by the prospect of a new life he was prepared to face that hurdle when he came to it.
Alan and Victor went to the Canned Heat in the High Street, a rather obscure word play on the Cantonese cooking served in the restaurant. It meant crossing the road at the very junction at which Frenchie had met his end, and, unbeknown to the other, neither man relished the memory. A large placard with details of the accident was at each side of the crossing, with a request for anyone with any information to come forward.
It was quite early in the evening and the Canned Heat was empty. Victor and Alan sat at a table for two, even though the tables were quite small and they would have preferred to spread out. For a long time they perused the menu until at last their choices were made; the waiter took their order, bowed, and retreated to the back of the restaurant.
Alan was mulling something over in his mind. Among the personal effects of Fingers Kilbride had been a camera. Alan had copies of the photographs in his wallet and he wondered whether to show them to Victor and watch his reaction. In truth, they were not very good. Apart from some taken in what looked like a nightclub with some semi-naked girls partly obscured by the effects of a flashlight, the others had been taken outdoors at dusk. A few blurred pictures of flowers were accompanied by some shots of a pair of shoes and somebody sitting on a bench accompanied by a white dog. Unfortunately, the man’s head had been cut off.
Alan wondered whether to spoil Victor’s dinner or wait until afterwards. He decided to strike now.
‘I got these today,’ he started. ‘They were with that chap who died the other day. I’m trying to work out where they were taken. Mind if I show them to you in case you have any ideas?’
Victor wiped his hands on his napkin to make sure that they were clean before accepting the pile with interest. He flicked quickly over the naked ladies, wondering if this might be a test and Alan was trying to discover what sort of man he was. Show too much interest and he might conclude that Victor was an unsuitable suitor for Charity – not that he intended to be her suitor for much longer. The next photos he came to were pretty vague – flowers, an expanse of grass, a wall – although the wall looked slightly familiar. He thought he recognised the quaint chalet at Rylstone and his hand faltered. The next picture was horribly familiar. There were his shoes, his work trousers, his clean shirt and his hand holding tightly on to Fluffy’s lead. That was before Fluffy had jumped onto his knee and he had let down his guard, so that the poodle had broken free and chased that poor man already poisoned with the peanut butter sandwich. Fluffy had swung round as the photo was being taken so that his head was a blur and he appeared to be wearing several red collars. Victor’s head was missing altogether. He had no idea what to say.
‘Any ideas?’ Alan was looking at him closely. He shook his head, guilt plastered across his face. Eventually he managed to blurt out, ‘I-I-it l-l-looks a b-b-bit like me.’
‘Yes, it does rather, that’s what I thought.’ After a pause, Alan asked, ‘I don’t suppose you were at Rylstone Gardens last Wednesday, were you?’
‘Er – no, I don’t think I was. At least, I did go there one day but I’m not sure when.’
‘Ah well, it doesn’t matter.’ Alan took the photos back and put them away.
To change the subject, although not much, Victor asked,
’I don’t suppose there is any news about when I can go home?’
‘Not for a day or two I’m afraid.’
He wanted to ask about Fluffy but in the circumstances it seemed best not to mention the dog.
They ate their meal in near silence, Victor professing not to be very hungry and, when they arrived home, he claimed to be very tired and so he went to bed.
At the Royal Cascade, Charity was also in bed. The huge four-poster was the size of a tennis court and she felt as if she was literally floating – al
though whether from the second bottle of champagne she had imbibed or whether from the amazing attentions of Giuseppi, she wasn’t sure. Giuseppi appeared to be asleep. She propped herself up on one elbow to study his face. He was just so handsome. In sleep there was an almost child-like quality about him, with his damp hair curling about his face like he was a dark angel. What would happen next she had no idea, and just at that moment she didn’t much care. Vincenzo had murmured something about it being time to move on but he wasn’t getting away that easily. Charity was prepared to move on too, and to go wherever he decided. Replete in every department, she gave a groan of pleasure but then fumbled under the sheet for just one more helping.
Victor went into work the next morning, his euphoria of the day before rather dented by the sight of those photos. Was Alan on to him? Was he still a suspect in Frenchie’s murder, and possibly that of Fingers and Mauler and Gruesome? The awful thing was, he couldn’t talk to anyone about it. He wondered what Pamela would think if he said, ‘Pamela, I think I should tell you that I may be accused of murder, not of one man but of four. What do you say to that?’
‘Good morning Victor.’ The object of his thoughts came into the office at that moment. She was wearing a dress he had never seen before, belted at the waist and with a button-through front that was unbuttoned rather further down than he would have expected. A flash of black lace revealed itself when she reached over to put her handbag under her desk.
‘G-g-good morning P-Pamela.’ To his chagrin, he blushed.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked. ‘Have you been able to go home yet?’
‘N-no, not yet. I-I’m staying with a friend – a policeman I know.’
‘Oh good. I – I was thinking, if you didn’t have anywhere else to go, then mother and I would be delighted to put you up, just until you are able to go back to your house.’
‘That’s very kind of you Pamela.’
Pamela sat on the edge of her desk, something he had never noticed her do before. She lifted her skirt a little, and further black lace showed at the hem. He felt distinctly warm.
‘I read in the paper,’ she said, ‘that you’ve got a little dog. Where is it now?’
‘I’m afraid he’s with the police. He might have bitten the man who tried to break into my house.’
‘Oh, that’s so unfair!’ Her tender heart touched him.
‘I expect I’ll get him back in a day or two,’ he said.
‘I hope so. Did you say that he’s a poodle?’
‘Yes, a toy poodle.’
‘How lovely, what is he called?’
‘Er, Fluffy.’
She wriggled her shoulders. ‘We’ve got a poodle too, a little girl, she’s called Fifi. Isn’t that amazing?’
Victor agreed that it was. Now in full flow, Pamela said, ‘Mother has always said that Fifi ought to have puppies. It would be nice for her, wouldn’t it?’
‘Er…’ Victor wasn’t sure whether it would be nice or not. He suspected that Pamela was planning a marriage between her own dog and his. Immediately, he had that nasty feeling that things were moving too fast.
‘They might not get on,’ he said. ‘These things take time.
It would be a mistake to rush into something like that.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.
Good, he’d got that settled, then he looked at Pamela’s little waist with her nice breasts hoisted into a bra and pointing in his direction and thought that perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad after all.
TWENTY-TWO
The date for the Rodriguez brothers’ appeal loomed, leaving Dodge feeling very apprehensive. If it were just a question of Randy coming home then everything would be wonderful, but at the thought of Reggie being around once more, that unwelcome edge of anxiety returned. This was one thing he hadn’t missed while they had been away, that feeling of walking on eggshells, and he didn’t want it back. Still, if they came back it would mean that he wouldn’t have to think any more about Vincenzo Verdi or the Pretty Boys and how to deal with them. From then on it would be up to his brothers. Dodge made himself a coffee and ate a doughnut for breakfast. Since his Mum had died he had lived alone and he’d never really mastered the art of cooking. Making toast was just about his highest culinary achievement.
As the jam oozed from the wound made in the doughnut by his teeth, he thought that in one way it would have been nice to have sorted out the problems himself. It would have been great to dispose of Vincenzo or wipe out the Pretty Boys, but even if he still had the time, he had no idea how to go about it. Just stop worrying, that was the best thing.
On Friday, the day of the hearing, he went along to the office at Something for Everyone. Hopefully a decision would be reached that day, and either Reggie or Randy’s barrister would phone up to tell him the good news. He should plan some sort of homecoming party, streamers and balloons, a huge sign saying ‘Welcome Home Boys!’ as if they had just come back from holiday.
He tried to tidy up some loose ends in the office but he couldn’t concentrate. The day was dragging. He would have liked to go out but he had said he would be here, waiting for the news, so here he must stay. For lunch he sent out for a pizza and one of those little salads in a plastic tub. His mum had always been going on about eating fresh vegetables. He supposed that salad counted as vegetables, as well as carrots and peas.
He frittered the afternoon away and finally it was coming up to closing time and the workforce in the store were packing away, emptying their tills, talking about their plans for the weekend.
‘You go on,’ he said to the manager. ‘I’ve still got a bit to do. I’ll check everything before I go.’
He sensed the man’s hesitation, reading in his actions that he wasn’t sure that he could trust Dodge to lock up properly. The manager’s thoughts annoyed him. ‘You don’t have to worry,’ he said, ‘I know perfectly well what I’m doing.’
‘Of course. Good night, Mr Roger – and I hope there is some good news about Mr Reggie and Mr Randy.’
So it was common knowledge. Dodge hadn’t said anything but clearly the news was out.
‘Thanks,’ he said, casually, speaking as if it was a foregone conclusion. Indeed, if the boys had fixed up some new alibis, bribed some new witnesses, then it would indeed be certain. He settled back to wait.
After a while, he found his way onto the shop floor. He hadn’t meant to leave the office. He had told himself he would keep well away from the merchandise but the lure was too great. There was a lift so he took it up to the next floor, feeling strangely effervescent at being alone in the entire store. For ages he wandered among the displays, pretending to himself that he was merely checking the layout. After a while he sidled into ladies’ fashions, suddenly wide-awake after the dullness of the day. The clothes here were of good quality, no market stall tat. In the eveningwear section he took a long sapphire satin gown off the stand and looked at the label. Size fourteen, just as he had guessed. The material felt delicious beneath his fingers. He held it up against himself, pressing it to him, twisting so that he could see the effect of the swirling skirt. Folding it over one arm, he went along to lingerie and picked out a strapless bra, some French knickers and a pair of silk stockings. He moved fast, like in one of those supermarket dashes where you could have everything you put into your trolley in five minutes. In the bridal department they had garters and he picked up two satiny, frivolous things with pink bows sewn onto them. The shoe department went up to size ten for women and he could just squeeze into that size. Hurrying along, he explored the shoe bar, ignoring the lace-ups and trainers, heading for the evening fashions. There was a pair in pearl satin, high heeled, strappy, a perfect contrast to the blue of the dress. Sweeping them up, he headed for the changing room.
For half an hour he flitted in and out, a quick trip to cosmetics, a sudden memory of seeing some new wigs, a vast array of jewellery, the most expensive perfume. Finally he allowed himself to turn round and face the mirror. There she was, a gorge
ous, glamorous, elegant woman with long blonde hair and dazzling earrings, her nails painted, her lips shimmering and her eyelashes impossibly long and alluring. ‘Hello,’ he said to himself. ‘You’re beautiful.’
Barry was expecting the flight from Barcelona to arrive at five. He had decided to go to the airport himself and collect his brothers, taking a taxi. If he sent one of their own cars with a chauffeur he had no idea what the driver might tell them, fill their heads with rumours and misinformation. No, he had better go himself.
He was still smarting from the message Sonia had passed on, telling him not to do anything because when they got back, Harry and Gary would sort everything out. It was ridiculous. If he had more time he’d sort it all right, permanently, dispose of Vincenzo Verdi, put a rocket up the Blues Brothers, turn the tables and take over their operations – except that he found it hard enough to cope with their existing scams without adding more.
Something had happened to the weather. The taxi driver opened the partition that separated him from his passenger. He was listening to the traffic news on the radio. ‘Sounds like there’s a vast bank of fog heading across Europe,’ he called through. ‘They say that some flights are delayed.’
‘Typical.’ Barry thanked the driver and they commiserated about the unreliability of the weather.
When he arrived at the airport there was indeed bad news.
The girl at the desk had an expression that looked as if it might be painted on, sympathetic, understanding. ‘I’m so sorry, Sir, but the flight from Barcelona hasn’t even left yet. Weather conditions there are making things very difficult.’
When Barry groaned, she added, ‘I would suggest that you go home and then phone later to see if there has been any change.’
‘Does that mean they might not arrive tonight?’ he asked, indignant in the face of having his plans disrupted.
‘I’m afraid it might well be like that.’
There didn’t seem to be any point in making a fuss. He might just as well go home.