by Hannah Howe
I swallowed, licked my dry lips then said, “You must have plenty.”
Now, Vanzetti’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the Man Mountain’s gun as it glinted in the fading sunlight. “Are you blaming me for Peter’s death?” Vanzetti ground out through clenched teeth.
“I’m not blaming you. All I’m saying is, we should keep an open mind and examine all the possibilities.”
I glanced at Vanzetti. I glanced at the Man Mountain and his gun. Weedy was still in the car. In a moment of panic, I thought about running to the car and overpowering him. However, common sense prevailed and I decided to hold my ground and rely on my silver tongue.
“A man confronted me, just before Peter was murdered.” I described George and the offer of £10,000. “I believe this man murdered your brother.”
Vanzetti scoffed. He turned his back on me and gazed down the hillside, towards the ruins of a medieval castle. “That description means nothing to me. You could have pulled the description and the name out of thin air.”
“It’s the truth, Mr Vanzetti. I swear to you, I did not kill your brother.”
Vanzetti stared at the Man Mountain. He nodded, imperceptibly and the Man Mountain levelled his gun, a Magnum .44, at me. Slowly and deliberately, Vanzetti said, “Someone’s got to pay for Peter’s death, and right now that someone is you.”
“If you murder me, Peter’s killer will walk free; do you really want that?”
“Someone is going to take the drop for Peter’s death. And, right now, I’d be happy if that someone was you. Right now, I figure you for the murder, and that’s how I’ll look at it until proved otherwise. You have forty-eight hours to prove your innocence and deliver the guilty party.”
Vanzetti walked away from me, towards his car, a sleek, slightly menacing Maserati Bora. He nodded at the Man Mountain and the gunman slipped his gun into its holster, under his left armpit. Meanwhile, I let out a long slow breath. Despite the chill of the afternoon, my blouse was clinging to my back and my forehead was moist with sweat. Every muscle in my body ached through tension and I found it difficult to gather my thoughts together. The metallic taste of fear lined my mouth; I realised that I was playing with the big boys and that these boys took no prisoners.
“Forty-eight hours,” Vanzetti called out over his shoulder, “then my boys will call on you again.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Vincent Vanzetti and his minders drove off, leaving me alone with the buddleia and the Himalayan balsam. I took a moment to wander along a track, then found my way to the quarry where I sat on a large boulder of limestone. I gazed along the tree-lined hillside and pondered – I could not leave Peter’s murder to Sweets and the police, I had to get myself out of this. But first, I had to get myself off this hillside, so I phoned Alan for assistance.
Alan was working at his psychology practice in Cyncoed. Nevertheless, he promised to be with me within the hour.
It was dark when Alan arrived and, lost in my thoughts, I was quiet as I climbed into his car. Like the brilliant psychologist he is, Alan recognised that I needed to be alone with my thoughts; I needed the silence. So, without questions or fuss, he drove me to his house in St Fagans where he offered me a glass of white wine and a seat beside his living room fire.
The fire warmed my muscles and eased my tension while the wine loosened my tongue. While sipping a second glass of Chablis, I told Alan about Peter’s murder and Vincent Vanzetti’s ultimatum.
“Maybe you should retire to the holiday cottage until this blows over,” he suggested. “Step out of the limelight for a while, leave it to the police.”
“No.” I shook my head decisively. “I got myself into this; I’ll get myself out of it.”
While perched on the edge of a leather armchair, Alan sipped his wine. He glanced at me, offering a wan smile. “You have many admirable qualities, Sam, many qualities I love; but I’m not sure where I stand on stubborn.”
Alan placed his wine glass on a nest of tables. He walked over to me. Then he gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze before disappearing into the kitchen to prepare dinner.
I was nursing my wine glass, staring at the artificial coals of the gas fire, when Alis walked into the room, her computer in her right hand. She glanced at the computer screen then made her elegant way over to a leather sofa. As she walked it occurred to me that Alis could be a model; indeed, she was so naturally gifted she could be anything she set her mind to.
I took a sip of wine, then said, “You heard what I said to your dad about the murder.”
Alis tapped a message into her computer. She glanced up and nodded. Then she pulled a face. “Aren’t you scared?”
“Terrified,” I admitted.
“Then why do you do this?”
While gazing into the depths of my wine glass I thought about that question and, eventually, came up with an answer. “Maybe because I’ve always been drawn to the cliff edge, metaphorically and literally. You know the cliffs at Southerndown?”
Alis nodded, her silky, wavy hair, piled high on her head, bobbing as she did so. “We used to go there for picnics with mum.”
“When I was a youngster, I used to go there with my mum, in the summer. We would sit on the grass and then I would terrify my mum by toddling off towards the cliff edge. I guess a part of me is drawn to danger. Sometimes it frightens me, sometimes my mind goes numb with terror, but when I confront this fear and emerge through the other side I get a great sense of...being...it’s as if I need to challenge myself, prove things to myself. And I suppose I’m hoping that I’ll prove something to my dad, whoever he may be.”
Alis frowned. Her computer was clamouring for her attention, but she set it to one side. She tucked her long, elegant legs under her thighs, then stared at me. “You do these dangerous things because you want to win your father’s approval.”
“Partly.”
“Even though you don’t know who he is?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Even though you don’t know if he’s alive?”
“Uh-huh.”
Alis shook her head, bemusement troubling her beautiful face. “That sounds crazy to me.”
“I am a little crazy at times,” I conceded, “I don’t deny that.”
Alis leaned back, her slinky body melting into the polished leather of the sofa. Her toes, wrapped in the fine gossamer of her tights, eased her computer to the end of the sofa while her eyes, large and intense, continued to stare at me. Eventually, she said, “Me and dad have been talking.”
“Uh-huh.”
“About you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He explained to me why you find it difficult to love him.”
I swallowed, my throat feeling tight, tense. “Uh-huh.”
“You think my dad will hit you.”
“Not really...” My thoughts slipped into a morass of self-doubt and uncertainty, “...sort of...” My cheeks flushed with embarrassment and shame, “...can we talk about this another time?”
“My dad has never hit me. We argue sometimes, more so as I get older, but he never hits me. My dad is not a violent man. He hardly ever raises his voice. He’s the calmest, most unruffled person I’ve met.”
“Your dad is a lovely man and I’m sure that every word you say about him is true, but this is about me and the problems I’ve had in my past, not about your dad and our hopes for the future.”
Alis continued to glare at me and I could tell from the unyielding look in her large brown eyes that she was far from convinced. “Do you know what?”
“What?”
“I resent you for thinking that my dad is violent.”
A wave of guilt washed over me. In my mind’s eye, I saw Samantha Smith and I didn’t like that person. “I hate myself for thinking that your dad might harm me.”
“You are mixed up with all these violent people doing violent things, yet you think my dad will hurt you. You are the one bringing violence to our do
or, not the other way around. I think dad is wrong to care about you. I think he should find someone else.”
And with her true feelings finally out in the open, Alis picked up her computer and walked haughtily from the room.
It would have been easy to blame her, easy to see her as a stuck-up, spoiled, arrogant minx, but deep down I knew that she was telling the truth.
Carefully, I set my wine glass down on the nest of tables. Quietly, I made my way to the front door. However, Alan sensed that something was amiss because he caught up with me before I could escape from the house.
“Sam...” He frowned, his forehead creasing with concern. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve upset Alis. I’m upsetting you. It’s time to stop this. We’re not getting any closer. I love you, but I’m flawed, damaged beyond repair; I can’t do it. I’ll go.”
“No.” He placed a hand, firmly on my arm. “Stay. We’ll work it out.”
“I’ve got to go.”
His fingers tightened on my arm, to the point where he was hurting me. Love hurts. I gave him a reproachful look, followed by a sad scowl.
“I love you, Sam.” Alan released my arm. The look on his face, a look of shame, told me that he regretted his action, but throughout my life, love and hurt had gone hand in glove. There was something about me that brought out the worst in men, something about me that exposed their darker side; although it was painful, it was time to leave this house, leave Alan, and any notion of finding love, behind.
“I’m not right for you, Alan. I’m not right for Alis. Apologise to her for me, please.”
“Sam...”
“Please, let me go...” I opened the door and stepped away from Alan, “...before I change my mind.”
I was walking into the darkness with no car to climb into, with no one to turn to, with no sense of where I was going. Tears stung my eyes, but I refused to let them flow. After walking for fifteen minutes, I called a taxi. Then I sat in silence as the taxi driver chauffeured me to my office.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I sat in my office, in the darkness, experiencing a strange combination of sadness and relief, sadness because I’d walked out on Alan, but relief because I’d made the inevitable decision. At one point, I even felt elated. That was a false emotion, but it sustained me into the late hours and it enabled me to focus on the matter in hand – discovering who’d murdered Peter Vanzetti and why.
I turned my mind to George and the gym label on his sports bag. After thumbing through the telephone directory – my nerves would not stand another troublesome encounter with my computer this evening – I discovered that there was only one Riverside Sports and Leisure Club in the city, appropriately enough situated in Riverside. In the morning, I would stakeout the club in the hope of locating George. Meanwhile, it was time for bed.
I slept badly. Very badly. In fact, I was in the shower at 5 a.m. and ready for the sports club at 6 a.m., even though its doors did not open for another hour.
The Riverside Sports and Leisure Club offered a day pass for would-be members, so I joined for the day and, suitably attired in a black tracksuit with silver piping on my arms and legs, I eased myself on to an exercise bike and cycled away.
I cycled slowly, aware that I might be in the gym all day. As I cycled, I looked around, at the fitness fanatics, all lean and trim, at the weightwatchers, their blubber bouncing as they sweated off the unwanted pounds and at the genuine athletes who moved with such ease and grace it put me to shame. I cycled for mile after mile after mile; however, there was no sign of George.
I am not a swimmer, but in need of a rest, I decided to splash in the pool for an hour. A young girl befriended me and we spent some time playing with an inflated beach ball. And while she giggled incessantly and splashed joyfully, I scanned the pool for George, to no avail.
It was time for lunch, so I helped myself to a salad, coffee and crusty rolls in the sports club’s restaurant. While I didn’t see clouds in my coffee, the meal was a melancholy one so I decided to increase my endorphin levels, stepped on to the treadmill and ran as if my life depended on it. Exhausted, I showered then settled down for a tension-relieving massage, all the while looking out for, but not catching sight of, George.
As I eyed the weights and dumbbells it occurred to me that George might only use the club once a week, and that today might not be his day. Too bad – the sports club was my only lead, so I had to stick with it until the end of the day.
I baulked at the weights and dumbbells – I have no wish to turn into Ms Atlas – and settled instead for another round of cycling, splashing in the pool and running. I lost count of the miles, but guessed that I was well into my second marathon when I decided to break for dinner.
As I munched my way through a passable vegetable lasagne, I thought about Alan and Alis, but pushed his pained expression and her painful words to one side. Thoughts and memories of him would fade, with time. Then it was into the evening session and some gentle Pilates.
I was bending and stretching, feeling as drained as a drought-stricken reservoir when, to my great relief, George appeared. He was wearing a dark blue tracksuit with gold piping and, like his tailored suit, his sports clothes were at least one size too small for him. With a gold medallion resting on his bare chest, George walked over to the dumbbells. And, from my sheltered position behind a bulky Nautilus machine, I watched him pump iron.
George lifted the weights with exaggerated care, as though they were heavier than their actual mass. He paused between each lift to indulge in some breathing exercises, creating a ritual and performance out of the workout. His eccentricities attracted a number of onlookers and he was too absorbed with them to give me a casual glance. Patently, George was a dangerous man, but I thought him strange in many ways. Throughout his exercise routine, he kept a straight, solemn face, a face that said assassinations are a serious business.
After an hour, George disappeared into the shower. I took that opportunity to decamp to my Mini where I waited in anticipation.
Suitably attired in his skin-tight suit and with his hair slicked back, George emerged from the sports club. He made a call on his mobile phone then, without glancing along the road, he jumped into his Triumph Spitfire and raced through the streets of Cardiff.
I followed George through Cathays heading east into Adamsdown. He parked his Triumph in a dilapidated street, looked around, then knocked on the door of a crumbling Victorian tenement. A lady, in her early forties with peroxide-blonde hair, excessive make-up and few clothes, opened the door and George disappeared into the building. Meanwhile in my Mini I paused and considered my options.
A light went on in the house, in an upstairs window, presumably a bedroom. Maybe she was a chess fan and George was showing her the intricacies of his Sicilian Dragon...Something told me that they were contemplating a different type of mate and that it was time to make my move.
I eyed the house and its facade, spying four bay windows, a vast spread of ivy and a stout-looking tree. The tree would get me close to the house, on to a drainpipe and from there I could clamber on to a small balcony above the first floor bedroom. A window was partially open on the second floor and I reckoned that that window would offer me access to the building. As if I hadn’t had enough exercise today...
After a sigh and a cautious glance along the street, I strapped a belt around my waist. The belt contained a pouch and in the pouch, I placed my gun, my mobile phone and a fake identity card.
The street was deserted, so I shinned my way up the tree. Halfway up I paused for breath. You’re getting too old for this lark, Samantha. Then I struggled on, until I was within touching distance of the drainpipe.
Climbing the tree was the easy bit, snaking along a branch then scrambling up the drainpipe would offer more of a challenge.
First, I tested a branch. It felt secure and I was confident that it would accommodate my slight frame. Then I wriggled along the branch until it started to bend and the last of the autumn
leaves started to flutter on to the ground. It was now or never. I eyed the drainpipe. It looked sound, but there was only one way to test it. Springing from the branch, I clattered against the wall, grazing my cheek. My hands locked around the drainpipe while my legs swung in the air, seeking the purchase of a flanged joint. For a moment, I had a vision of myself sliding down the drainpipe like a character in a vintage cartoon, but fortunately my toes located a flange, my grip held secure and the drainpipe remained fixed to the wall. With sweat oozing out of every pore in my body, I started to climb.
Despite slipping several times and cursing the moisture that covered the drainpipe, I was within touching distance of the balcony. I looked up and received a face full of ivy. Great. I could feel myself coming out in a rash. I would look like something from a horror movie, come the morning. I reached for the balcony, but could only grip ivy. I heard a crack and the drainpipe moved inexorably away from the wall. Come on, Samantha, don’t just hang there like a limp sheet on a windless day, get your keister into gear and climb this damned drainpipe...
I inched my way up the drainpipe. Then I hooked an arm over the latticework in front of the balcony. Then I gripped the latticework with two hands. Now for the big finale...With an unlady-like grunt I swung my hips up and over the latticework. I landed with a roll on top of potted plants and garden gnomes. As I straightened, a gnome grinned at me rather manically. If you don’t wipe that smile off your face, sunshine, I’ll drop you over the edge...
I paused, to recover from my strenuous efforts and to gain my bearings. A light was on in the bedroom to my right. After climbing through the partially open window, I would have to walk through the room, presumably a second bedroom, then turn right, then interrupt George and his mating game...
The window opened with ease and I stepped into the room. I gave myself a moment so my eyes could adjust to the darkness, then I tiptoed across the threadbare carpet. At the door, I paused and listened to the moans and the groans, emanating from the bedroom, next door. In fact, the groans, male groans, were more like cries of agony.