by Hannah Howe
Sitting forward on my leather chair, I explained about the ‘joke’ and my escapade in the mud. When I’d finished, Professor Chancellor merely nodded and exuded an ambiguous grunt.
Although it was rubbing salt into his wound, I reasoned that I should regale him with the full facts so continued, “Your wife and Boris St John are engaged in an affair. I have evidence on my phone.”
The professor looked up sharply. He stared at me from over the rims of his half-moon spectacles, his eyes suddenly bright and alive. “What sort of evidence?”
“A twelve second film.”
“You caught them, in flagrante delicto?”
I nodded.
He turned away, to hide the look of revulsion that was creeping across his face. “Put your evidence in writing, give me a full report. Meanwhile, destroy the film.”
“But,” I protested, “this is the only evidence we have. If I destroy it, it will be my word against theirs and of course they will deny the affair.”
“Destroy it!” he replied firmly, the Victorian schoolmaster within him asserting himself. “I do not want anyone else to see that...filth...and frankly, Miss Smith, I am surprised that you should stoop so low.”
His reprimand made me blush. Nevertheless, I removed my phone from my shoulder bag and deleted the film. “The evidence has been destroyed; if you want to take this further, to court, for example, it will be my word against theirs.”
“This will not go to court,” he mumbled, his gaze still lost in the middle-distance.
Riled by the slight on my integrity, I felt a need to defend myself, so continued, “I think you hired me to uncover the affair, didn’t you. That’s why I stooped so low, to use your words. You suspected the affair and wanted proof. And I’m willing to bet that Dr Carey has had other affairs in the past and that one of those affairs is linked to her abduction.”
Slowly, Henry Chancellor turned his head and, with some reluctance, he met my gaze. “She was faithful during the early years of our marriage. But lately she has turned to beauty treatments, artificial aids, lovers...maybe she is trying to prove something to herself, that she is still attractive to other men, maybe she is going through a crisis of confidence, maybe...” he smiled through thin lips “...maybe she should consult a psychiatrist. All I can say categorically and without fear of contradiction is that she is not the woman I married. It was my hope that my support for her Foundation would curtail her...extramarital behaviour, but it appears that that was a false hope.”
“Do you want Dr Carey back?” I asked.
He frowned as though genuinely puzzled by my query. “What sort of question is that?”
“Do you still love her?” I probed.
“I loved her many years ago. But when someone betrays your trust...”
I nodded. Dan, my ex, had betrayed me, and his betrayal had prompted me to end our marriage. I could understand where Henry Chancellor was coming from and, as much as I disliked his wife, I sympathised with him. “Do you want her back?” I repeated.
“I want you to find her.”
“I’ll need access to her personal files and papers, all of them.”
He nodded while climbing somewhat wearily to his feet. “The police removed many of Ruth’s files...”
“But she must have copies, back-up files?”
Again, he nodded, this time walking out of the study. “Follow me.”
I followed Henry Chancellor down a long corridor, a corridor lined with portraits stretching back to the seventeenth century, until we arrived at Ruth Carey’s study. Chunky, mahogany furniture dominated the study. Only a few items in the room spoke of femininity – a wall mirror, perhaps, a hairbrush and a small vase of flowers. In truth, it was a spartan room, a room Oliver Cromwell and the Puritans would have been proud of.
I sat at Ruth’s desk and searched through her drawers. Her drawers were a mess, littered with papers, pens, paperclips, etcetera. I read through the papers, mainly letters referring to the Eugenics Research Foundation or her psychiatric practice. The letters were business documents, dry in the extreme and mangled with technical jargon. I found no clue there that would lead me to the abductor.
In the bottom drawer of Ruth’s desk, I unearthed a small laptop computer. I opened the computer and discovered that it was password protected. Most people use passwords that are closely related to themselves, for convenience and to aid the memory. Ruth had no children so that ruled out a child’s name. Ruth was fanatical, I think it was fair to say, about eugenics, so I tried ‘eugenics’ and variations on that word as the password, to no avail. She was a psychiatrist, so I tried words relating to psychiatry, again with no success. Then I typed in a list of famous psychiatrists, starting with Freud. Nothing. I searched the cobwebbed recesses of my mind for the founder of modern psychiatry and the name Philippe Pinel popped into my befuddled brain. I read a lot, have done since childhood, and I make a habit of reading books that will stretch my mind, a legacy of a fractured education when many school days were lost as I tended to my sick mother. I recalled that Philippe Pinel published a textbook on psychiatry in 1801, so typed philippepinel1801 into Ruth’s computer. No joy. Damn. So I modified the entry to philippepinel. Still no luck. Then I tried pinel1801. Eureka! The computer opened and I had access to Ruth’s files.
Thankfully, Ruth’s email account was open so I did not have to exhaust myself further in the search for a password. I scanned the files, many relating to the Eugenics Research Foundation and Ruth’s job as a psychiatrist, until I arrived at the largest file, bearing the name ‘Peter Vanzetti’.
I opened the Vanzetti file and discovered a cache of love letters. The letters started off very tender and loving, then they became more intimate and erotic before moving on to the pornographic. Towards the close of the correspondence, Peter displayed his anger as Ruth insisted that their affair must end. The final email talked of revenge and retribution; this email was graphic and explicit and made for uncomfortable reading; it suggested that Peter Vanzetti had a troubled mind. With that thought in my mind, I examined Ruth’s work files and discovered that Peter Vanzetti was one of her patients and that his problems had been exacerbated by drug misuse. This was circumstantial evidence, but it did support my theory that Ruth knew her abductor and that she’d entered into an affair with that man. By embarking on the affair, Ruth had crossed the line, both professionally and personally and I could understand why she sought to keep it a secret. The professional and personal aspects were complex enough; however, there was another fly in the ointment – I knew the name ‘Vanzetti’, not through Peter, but through his brother, Vincent. Vincent Vanzetti was a villain from the top drawer, a local ‘Godfather’, a man with a ruthless reputation and, allegedly, several murders to his name.
Well done, Samantha, all you have to do now is meet Vincent Vanzetti and inform him that you suspect Peter of being a kidnapper. Is your will up to date? Is it possible to leave all your possessions to Marlowe? Or maybe you could leave the world of organised crime behind and open an agency that searches for missing cats...
I closed Ruth’s computer with a sigh. I’m sure you must get the same feeling, but I sensed that today was not my day.
Chapter Thirteen
My next step was clear – I had to find and talk with Peter Vanzetti. The shortest route to Peter was via his brother, Vincent. And the shortest route to Vincent was via a colleague in the private eye game, Mickey Anthony.
In his early forties, Mickey Anthony was good at his job and over a twelve-year career, he had established a number of useful contacts. I was hoping that Mickey could put me in touch with Vincent Vanzetti. However, as much as I needed the information I wasn’t looking forward to meeting Mickey – he was a womaniser who made Casanova look like a monk. He was attracted to me in that he wanted to have sex with me, but I knew that his feelings ran no deeper than that. To be fair to Mickey he was a handsome man and I could understand why women were attracted to him. He had propositioned me on a number of
occasions and I had rebuffed him every time. I sensed that my rebuffs had become something of a challenge to him and that he wanted to bed me just to prove something to himself. I have feelings and needs like everyone else. But for me, sex was tied up with love and my love life was tied up in knots. It all added to the layers of frustration and that frustration was becoming too much. Despite my professional veneer, I was becoming angrier and angrier with myself.
Mickey Anthony rented an office in a prime location – on the fourth floor of a modern, red-bricked development overlooking Queen Street railway station in the centre of Cardiff. After walking into a lift, I made my way up to Anthony and Associates where I knocked on Mickey’s door.
“Come in,” he said somewhat breathlessly. I entered to find him stripped to the waist and punching the living daylights out of a punchbag. “Be with you in a minute,” he added while delivering a right cross.
I flinched as the punchbag absorbed Mickey’s punches. I endured a few flashbacks to my time with Dan, when I had been the recipient of his blows. The images turned my stomach and I looked away, allowing my eyes to wander around Mickey’s office.
The office was neat and modern with a variety of tall indoor plants to soften the edges. I spied a series of classic racing car prints on the walls, a picture of Mickey’s wife on his desk and a laptop computer. The computer was on and I managed to steal a peek at Mickey’s social networking contacts. He had thousands of contacts, mostly women, I noted. I was about to examine his social list further when a sweaty hand reached over and closed the computer lid firmly.
“Tut-tut, Sam,” Mickey smiled, “curiosity killed the cat, I thought you’d know that.”
“Just sharpening my snooping skills,” I replied defensively. I returned his smile, “You can’t blame me for that.”
Mickey returned to the punchbag. After a series of left hooks and right crosses, he steadied the bag then threw a towel around his perspiring shoulders.
“Just off for a quick shower,” he informed me while glancing towards his en suite bathroom. He leered, “Care to join me?”
I turned my back on Mickey and stared out of the window, not dignifying his question with an answer.
From Mickey’s window, I watched the trains arrive and depart the station, the commuters as they mingled on the platforms, the people as they dispersed into the city to shop, conduct business or seek entertainment. The day was grey, heavily overcast, though the rain had stopped. I wondered if the weather would hold for the fireworks display this evening. I wondered if I’d find the courage to step on Alan’s ‘bridge’ and discover within me the trust to love him completely.
I was still thinking about Alan when Mickey emerged from the shower. He was drying his dark, tousled hair while eyeing me through his dark, smiling eyes. Mickey’s right eye always looked as if it was about to offer you a suggestive wink, a look that seduced many women, a look that left me cold.
“You’re looking good, Sam, have you been working out?”
I shrugged. “Just a bit of jogging when time allows.”
“I guess you must be pressed for time these days, what with all the clamour over the Lady Diamond case, your services must be in great demand. Congratulations, by the way, that was an excellent piece of work. You deserve all the credit that comes your way. I always knew that you had it in you, that you’d make the big time.”
Mickey draped his damp towel over a radiator. He turned to face me, offering a full view of his naked, muscular torso, his pugilist’s face, with a kink at the bottom of his nose, his square jaw and his designer stubble. He’d wrapped a second towel around his midriff, though it left little to the imagination, revealing his powerful thighs and his sizeable manhood.
“What are you working on at the moment?” Mickey asked as he pulled a black roll-neck sweater over his head.
I explained my involvement with Ruth Carey and her abduction.
“How can I help?” he asked.
“I’d like to talk with Vincent Vanzetti. Maybe he can point me towards Peter. I’m concerned about Peter; he has a number of psychiatric issues. I was hoping that you could act as a go-between and arrange a meeting between yours truly and Vincent Vanzetti.”
“Sure,” Mickey shrugged. “But it’ll cost you.”
“How much?” I asked tentatively.
Mickey picked up a leather jacket and draped it over the back of his leather chair. He sat in his chair and, with his modesty barely hidden, he pulled on a pair of tight-fitting underpants and a pair of navy blue jeans. “How about dinner at my place?” he winked salaciously.
“What about your wife?” I asked.
“She’s away for the week, on business. Anyway, we have a mutual understanding.”
“Do you love her?” I frowned at my own question, unable to see how he could truthfully answer ‘yes’.
“Of course.”
“Does she love you?”
Mickey laughed. “She’s crazy about me.”
“And you’re so modest about yourself.”
“Well...” He rolled his shoulders then offered up an affable grin. “...when you have film star looks, charm, charisma...” Maybe he read my thoughts, which were not complimentary, because he added, “Love comes in all shapes and sizes, Sam. What we have works for us. We’re devoted to each other, but we understand that we need some freedom too. So what about it, dinner at my place, tomorrow night.”
“Sorry,” I turned on my heel and walked towards the exit, “your rates are too expensive.”
“Wait.” In an easy, lithe movement, Mickey jumped up and joined me by the door. There, he raised his right hand then ran his fingers along the smooth curve of my cheek. “I fancy you, Sam,” he said in a seductive whisper. “You’re a beautiful woman. You set my pulse racing. You can’t blame me for trying it on.”
I pushed his hand away before placing my fingers on the doorknob. With icicles in my eyes and rime on my lips I said, “You won’t get anything from me, Mickey, so leave it there.”
“I won’t get anything from you,” he sighed, “except maybe frostbite.”
I frowned, my cheeks colouring with anger. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” he grinned, “it’s well known, you’re an iceberg aren’t you; cold and aloof.”
I felt my shoulders sag, my spirits plummet to the floor. “Do you really believe that about me?”
“That’s the talk in the business.” Mickey caressed my cheek again. He moved his lips towards my lips. “Maybe you’d like to prove them wrong...”
I pushed him away and took refuge behind the punchbag. “Leave it there, Mickey! Just because I won’t go to bed with you, you regard me as an iceberg?”
He shrugged a casual shoulder, then returned to his seat behind his large pine desk. After opening and switching on his computer, he said, “That’s people talking, Sam, not me. Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“But I’m not like that,” I insisted. Am I?
“I tell you what,” Mickey sighed, “we’ll put this one on the slate.” He placed his hands behind his head and his feet on the edge of the desk, his eyes eyeing the computer screen, casually. “I’ll contact Vincent Vanzetti and see what we can arrange. When I have something for you, I’ll be in touch.” His gaze wandered over to me and he grinned suggestively. “No need to look like that, Sam; I was only speaking figuratively.”
Chapter Fourteen
While I waited for Mickey Anthony to arrange a meeting with Vincent Vanzetti, I pondered the image people have of me, of someone who is cold and violent. Is that how I portray myself? Is that my true self? In my heart, I believe that I’m a warm, loving, peaceable person, but I suppose we see what we want to see and that everyone views us differently, through the filter of their own experience.
It was a dark, chilly evening, but dry, ideal conditions for a fireworks display. With the stench of sulphur already in the air and colourful fireworks blazing a trail across the sky, I drove to Cooper’s Field, in the shadow of
Cardiff Castle, to view the city’s fireworks display.
I found Alan, as arranged, standing near the remains of the old priory. He was talking with a woman, an attractive woman, petite, around forty with short dark hair and sensual eyes. Alan and the woman were laughing and joking and, for some reason, I felt a pang of jealousy and resentment. Then, when she stood on tiptoe and kissed Alan on the cheek, I felt the urge to run across the field and scratch out her eyes. Instead, as she turned away, to mingle with the crowd, I took a deep breath, composed myself and marched towards Alan.
“Who’s she?” I asked, my tone suggesting that Alan had betrayed me, that he was embarking on an affair.
“Just a friend,” he replied casually. “Her name is Dr Felicity Barr.”
“Oh.” Suddenly I felt embarrassed at my outburst, at my jealousy and sensitivity. The abduction of Ruth Carey was bothering me more than I cared to admit and my nerves felt raw, on a razor’s edge.
Alan put an arm around my shoulders. He gave me a hug. “You look great, Sam; so pleased you could make it.”
I looked up, into his eyes, and smiled. Then my smile dimmed as I told him about Ruth Carey.
As I finished my story, Alan gave my shoulders another squeeze. “It’s not your fault, Sam. She’s the architect of her own downfall.”
“I know, but I feel so guilty. I have to find her, to redeem myself, to restore some self-belief and pride.”
He nodded, displaying his understanding. Indeed, and not for the first time, I reflected that he understood me better than I understood myself. “You will find her, Sam. I have total belief in you.”
A firework lit up the sky, its crimson glow illuminating the smiles on the children’s faces. As the crowd went ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’ Alan glanced across the field, to Alis, who was chatting with her friends. Alis caught sight of me and waved, though her wave was hesitant, polite rather than an endorsement. I waved back with the thought that, deep down, Alis would prefer to see another woman at her father’s side.