See Naples and Die (11 page)

She forgot about the scarf and ran back
to the other girls … but how could she tell them what she had just witnessed
while Armando and Beppe were supposedly guarding them? And how were they going
to get free from the two probable hit men? She realised now that this was more
than likely the plan: wait until they retrieved the data and then push them all
under a train … that Beppe, especially. She thought, “He’s a nasty piece of
work.”

She caught up with them as they waited
outside one of the theatres. “Didn’t you get it?” Brenda asked, noticing the
absence of the scarf.

“Um, no … I didn’t. I must have dropped
it somewhere else.”

“Never mind, Megan. It was a bit rubbish,
anyway,” said Chrissie, and started to walk on.

“Wait,” shouted Megan. “I really need to
use the loo.”

“Why didn’t you go in the bar?” said
Chrissie impatiently.

“I didn’t want to go then. You know how
quickly these things happen to us girls. You start to believe things are okay
but then they’re not.”

“What’s she talking about?” thought
Chrissie.

Megan pointed inside the theatre doors.
“They’ll have toilets in there. Come on … we may as well all go.”

“I’m not wandering around the theatre
when it’s closed,” said Brenda.

Megan was becoming agitated. “It’s not
closed. See, there’s a matinee on. No one’s around the box office now, and the
toilets will be nearby … Come on.”

“I don’t need to go,” said Brenda
defiantly.

Megan gripped her arm. “Yes, you do.”

Now they were both on Megan’s wavelength,
and Chrissie turned to Armando. “We need to use the facilities … women’s
problems …”

“Then I’ll come with you,” he replied.

“That’s not necessary,” said Megan.

“No, I will come with you,” he insisted.

They had no choice, so went inside and
looked around. The theatre bar area was sure to have toilets, and so they
followed the signs around a couple of bends until the bar was directly ahead – its
doors wedged open, awaiting the interval rush. The ladies’ toilets were along
the corridor on the left and they went in, leaving Armando patrolling outside.

“So, what’s this all about?” asked
Chrissie. Megan told them what she had seen.

“Are you sure it was the same man?”

Megan put her finger and thumb three
inches apart. “I was that far away from him in Earls Court, and I’ll never
forget his face or the shape of that scar.”

Chrissie was most affected by this
development. Not only did it crush all hope of a solution to their plight, but
she was actually starting to have feelings for Roberto. Normally she was an
excellent judge of character, and she truly believed he wanted to help. It hurt
that she could be so wrong. She shook herself to regain a focus.

“How are we going to lose the ‘Chuckle Brothers’?”

Brenda had been checking around the cramped
room, and there was no other exit.

“This is what we do,” said Megan. “I’ll
go out and say I need to buy something from the bar and I’ll walk that way. If
he comes with me then you leg it down the corridor. For a moment or two he’ll
wonder why you’re running, and then he’ll try and decide whether to go after
you or stay with me.

“I’m betting he won’t be able to help
himself and he’ll start after you … and then I run the other way. All theatres
have a back entrance, so try and find it and make your way back to Wimbledon.
They don’t know about Mrs Grimshaw’s so, for the time being, we’re safe there.
We’ll meet in that coffee shop we went to with Bruno.”

It wasn’t a great plan, but it was the
only one they had. Megan left the toilets, and they heard her talking to the Mafia
man. Brenda peeped through the crack in the door and saw them both crossing the
floor. She waited until they reached the bar and then, grabbing hold of
Chrissie’s hand, she burst out of the ladies’ room and ran down the corridor.
Sure enough, Armando saw them as they rushed past the open doors on the
opposite side of the lounge and – just like Megan had predicted – he paused,
looked at her, then back to the corridor, and then said, “You’ll stay here if
you know what’s good for you,” and sprinted after them.

As he disappeared Megan ran towards the
box office. She was making for the stairs to the circle and the darkness of the
crowded theatre when Beppe decided to look in from outside. Their eyes met, and
he rushed towards the entrance door. Megan bounded up the stairs, knowing he
would only be seconds behind her.

After two flights she came into the
foyer and kept on running. She swept past two sets of double doors, which led
into the seated circle area and beyond – then she found herself rapidly
approaching one more set of doors and, at the very end, a fire escape. She made
her mind up to go for the fire door. Her eyes fixed on the chrome emergency bar,
and her hands were already raised to push it down when the double doors on her
left opened and a dozen people sprang out – all of them trying to be first to
the bar for the interval drink.

Megan crashed shoulder to shoulder into
a large man with a handlebar moustache, and the impact spun her around. As she
did two complete turns she caught sight of Beppe, who was having the same
problem with more groups pouring through the other exit doors. She had been
forced to one side and, with her momentum gone, the fire escape wasn’t an
option any more. So she pushed against the crowd towards the inner circle.

She got to the edge and looked over to
the stall seating below. It was far too high to jump. She looked back, and an
ice cream girl was making her way down the steps towards her … and behind the
girl was Beppe. More from instinct than anything else Megan ran to the edge of
the circle, which was as far as she could go, and looked down again. If she
jumped she would break a leg – at least – or, more than likely, her neck. Beppe
had pushed past the ice cream seller and was now simply walking towards her.

Megan looked around for inspiration and
saw the thirty-foot length of curtain that ran down this side of the theatre.
Without hesitation she sat on the edge of the circle barrier, gripped the
curtain, and threw her legs over. A woman nearby screamed, and everyone sitting
below looked up. Megan held the curtain as tightly as she could and tried to
climb down, but her grip loosened almost immediately. She was about to fall
when her hand felt the pleated rope of the large tie-back holding the curtain
in place. As her fingers lost their strength on the heavy velvet material she
grabbed the tie-back, which pulled apart and unravelled. Megan went into free
fall but she held on to the rope which, when she was halfway down, suddenly
stopped. It had unravelled its full length, and pulled tight. Her arms felt
like they had been ripped from their sockets, but she was safe … Then her
weight dragged the screws holding the tie-back from out of the plaster wall and
she crashed the remaining eight feet to the ground, narrowly missing the last
row of seating.

Like an animal that’s been hit by a car
her instinct was to get up and run and she made for the stage, throwing herself
up and charging into the wings, then away down a corridor towards the dressing
rooms and rear exit. The remaining theatre audience applauded wildly and Beppe
cursed and smashed the ice cream seller’s tray into the air, sending free choc ices
and tubs down to the spectators below.

The theatre exit was easy to find, and
Megan was soon exploding out into the street. She caught her breath and checked
for broken bones. Her left wrist hurt but didn’t feel broken, and there was a
large lump on the side of her forehead. She surveyed the street and there,
perhaps fifty yards away and standing at the T-junction, was Armando. He was
looking right and left and not towards her, so she quickly turned and hurried
away in the direction of Shaftesbury Avenue. She ran across the road, forcing
the traffic to stop and the drivers to blast their horns in wild annoyance. Then
she walked briskly through the streets of Chinatown and made her way to
Leicester Square and the first train away from there.

Her resolve had been strengthened by
seeing Armando. If he was still searching then chances were that Chrissie and
Brenda had also escaped. Now she even allowed herself a contented smile, and
her heart began to beat with the rhythm of an easy-listening band rather than of
AC/DC. She could see where the Chinese restaurants ended and the throngs of
people travelling through Leicester Square began, and she felt safety was just
around the corner.

She hadn’t noticed the car drive slowly
past and stop a few yards ahead, nor an average-looking man with short brown
hair and a Marks & Spencer suit step from it. The man deliberately stood in
front of her and held out his hand palm up, as if directing traffic. Startled,
Megan stopped dead six inches away from the hand. Then she noticed he was
holding something … something shiny, like a badge of some sort.

“Metropolitan police,” the man said. “Get
in the car, please.”

He put his arm across Megan’s back and
guided her to the car – where another man had opened the rear door – and,
without putting up any resistance, she sat inside. The men got back into the
car and they drove towards Centre Point and Tottenham Court Road. Then just
before the junction with Euston Road they pulled into a quiet side street and
stopped.

The drive had given Megan time to regain
composure and she was now fully alert.

“What do you want?” she asked.

The brown-haired man turned to her. “I’m
Detective Chief Inspector Elliott Chan, and this is Detective Inspector Nigel
Walkden. We are part of the Metropolitan Police Specialist Crime &
Operations Unit. Two days ago a known international criminal named Roberto
Vialli arrived at Heathrow Airport, and it was our brief to keep an eye on him.
See what he’s up to, why he’s here … that sort of thing. Then we see you and
your two friends meet for a drink with him, and when you leave he sends a
couple of his boys with you. Now I’m guessing you didn’t really want that
because you go into the theatre, and not long after you’re running across
Shaftesbury Avenue like you’ve seen the Ghost of Christmas Past. You’re
obviously trying to get away from them. So what’s going on?”

Megan’s jaw clenched. “Is Mr Vialli
wanted for any crimes in this country?”

“No.”

“And am I under suspicion of being
involved in anything illegal?”

“No.”

“Then I’m getting out of this car.”

The detective put his arm across the
door. “Wait a minute. What’s your name?”

“Megan.”

“Okay, Megan. First things first. We
aren’t here to give you any kind of hassle. Vialli isn’t someone you want to
mess with, and if you’re on the run from him then you’re going to need all the
friends you can get. And we are your friends. No one is accusing you of
anything. We only want to help … You do know who Roberto Vialli is?”

“He’s the Mafia.”

“Yes, he’s the Mafia all right. And if
you’re going on the run from them it won’t work because they will find you.
What you need to do is tell me how you know him. What was discussed and why he
sent his goons with you … Do you have something he wants?”

“He’s good,” thought Megan, and felt
like crying and telling him all about Naples, about Luigi, Bruno the priest,
the Scarpones, and Roberto Vialli’s treachery … but these past few days had
changed her, and now she was playing by a new set of rules: be suspicious of
everyone, and make sure you’re as cunning as they are.

“Tell you what,” she said. “Give me a
ride to Wimbledon and I’ll tell you everything.”

Tigran Sadorian and Angelo Tardelli sat
in the back seat of the silver Mercedes, which was driven by Angelo’s trusted
colleague and friend Caesar Magri.

Caesar was a big man – 224 pounds of
solid muscle sculptured into a six foot four frame – and even though he was only
thirty-six years old he was a veteran Mafia enforcer. He had reached this
height and size at the age of fifteen, and had been a boy prodigy in the arena
of intimidation and violence. He’d been shot four times, stabbed twice, hit
with broken bottles – and slashed with a samurai sword, which had taken a piece
of his arm and the little finger from his left hand. Yet none of these events
had slowed him down and he still favoured close-quarter combat, where he was
equally skilled with his hands or with a knife.

Angelo and Tigran had met the day after
the Walter Monreal hit, and although it had annoyed Angelo that Walter’s
boyfriend had not been present to meet the same fate as his partner it had
still been a good night. Almost simultaneously two other Armenians had taken
care of Ian Spencer, the architect involved in the Manchester development. The
assassins had entered Ian’s London apartment and injected him with an overdose
of crack cocaine, which completed the suicide theme.

The two central characters instrumental
in the project had been removed, and Angelo Tardelli was ready to take their
place. The land was owned by two legitimate companies. They were the ones who
would make the money, which was then to be washed and paid to Walter’s hidden
offshore accounts … only Walter wasn’t there any more, so who was going to
complain if the money never arrived?

The manipulative MP had been too clever
for his own good. He had made it virtually impossible to unravel the web of companies
and accounts and, also unbeknown to Walter, the financial genius setting it all
up was on the Mafia’s payroll … and this was always going to be how it would
end. The upfront company shares were equally divided between Walter and the Mafia
accountant. They would buy the rest of the shares from the widow Monreal, who
would be more than happy to take the cash and live a stress-free life away from
the public eye – and if she proved difficult they would simply make her an
offer she couldn’t refuse.

Everything was falling into place nicely,
and only one other obstacle had to be removed. Walter had made it clear to
Angelo that he had thrown in with a consortium that was made up of East End
gangsters and, in his words, they were well equipped to take care of anybody.
Angelo had been doing his homework on the gang, its leaders, and its reputation.
The head was a notorious London criminal by the name of George Breckell who,
along with his brothers and a group of other cronies from various violent
backgrounds, controlled most of North and East London. George was an old school
upfront aggressor who had been top dog for over two decades – and, although
quite a few had tried, no one had even come close to getting the better of him.

Angelo had contacted George as soon as
the MP and the architect’s deaths had been made public. Both were reported as
suicides but anyone involved in the Manchester project knew differently,
including George. Angelo had explained the Mafia connection and offered a new
working relationship and a bright future for all. He’d asked for a get-together
to decide how to progress, with the Breckells suggesting a rendezvous at a gentlemen’s
club in Hackney. This was on their patch and an ideal location for a trap, a
possibility Angelo and Tigran were fully aware of. Nevertheless, they were on
their way to the meeting.

Angelo and Caesar were laughing and
joking, speaking in Italian, with a total disregard for Tigran. This didn’t
bother the Armenian. He was a man of few words, and had his own thoughts to
consider as the cars made their way through the streets of Shoreditch – which
was now a mixture of trendy converted warehouses set among the seedy back
alleys of Victorian vice, and which was still well frequented by ladies of the
night.

It was a miserable grey day. The early
morning mist had been followed by sheets of fine rain that fell without a break,
and through the rapid chatter of the Italians Tigran listened to the repetitive
swish of the windscreen wipers. He tried to stop images of his youth flashing
across his mind. Once he had been young, but he had never been a child. His
life had been a constant struggle against adversity, and he had always lived
with the threat of death never far away. The Armenian people had been through
many massacres and if anyone had a right to want revenge on the world, it was
them … and Tigran Sadorian wanted revenge.

He was suddenly aware that the Italians
had ceased their jabbering, and that the car had stopped. Angelo gave him a
slap on the back. “Are you ready, my friend?”

Tigran grunted, and they stepped on to
the cracked pavement and pressed the doorbell of the club. Rain was trickling
from the yellow awning over the brown hardwood door and falling in several
little waterfalls, so there was no way to avoid it. Tigran watched the thin
lines of water as they danced in front of his eyes and thought,

“Why would anyone choose to have the door
to a club painted in monkey-shit brown? It would be far better if it was a
bright colour: far more welcoming.” He shook his head and said, “Some people
have no idea how to run a business.”

Angelo turned to him and quizzically
asked, “What?”

Tigran smiled. “Nothing.”

Then the door opened and they were waved
in by a thin, shifty-looking guy in a crumpled suit. They walked past a
reception desk, then down three steps and into the club area. Tigran Sadorian walked
alongside Caesar Magri, and they looked a terrifying pair. They were followed
closely by Angelo and the other eight Armenians.

It was an open-plan room with a bar on
the left and a stage on the right. The stage had a silver pole in the centre
which ran from floor to ceiling and a solitary chair at the side. At the edge
of the stage was an opening covered by a beaded curtain, which led the way to
two small rooms used for private dances.

The rest of the area was a dance floor
which normally housed a selection of seats scattered randomly around, but for
today’s meeting these seats had been moved apart. A space had been made in the
centre, and the tables and chairs faced each other across this no-man’s-land.
The chairs at the far side were full of the East End’s most wanted … thirty-two
serious-looking gangsters with arms folded: an array of villainy meant to
unnerve any foe – but Angelo and Caesar had been in this situation many times,
from Miami to Milan, and it didn’t faze them in the slightest.

The man sitting most forward of the East
End group motioned for Angelo to sit. The Italian picked the widest chair
available to cram his stocky frame into, while Caesar and the Armenians
remained standing.

“I’m George Breckell and these are my
brothers, Gary and Stan,” said the gangster, in a voice that sounded like
gravel being turned in a concrete mixer. “The rest of these boys, like us, all
have interests in this part of London. Now you mugs are stepping on our toes – and
if you want a fucking war, you’ve got it.”

Angelo smiled benignly. “Yes, George, we
are prepared for war.”

Several of the men around the East End
group put their hands inside their jackets and felt the handles of their guns.
Jack the badger Sullivan put his finger on the trigger of the shotgun by his
side and Harry ‘Chopper’ Hastings gripped the shaft of the axe on his lap.

Angelo raised his left hand in a sign of
peace. “Let me continue. We don’t want a slice of London, but we do want all of
the Manchester development. The politician lied to you. He never owned anything.
All the contracts are in our name, and it just so happens that Walter Monreal’s
position at the department of business development will be offered to another
fine English gentleman … who just so happens to be a good friend of mine. So
everything proceeds as before, but you are no longer part of the deal.”

The way his face was beaming with rage
George Breckell looked like he’d fallen asleep under a sunlamp. “Is this what
you’ve come to fucking tell us? Is this your idea of fucking working together? You
fucking ignorant Eyetie.”

Angelo smiled benignly, “George, we will
work together … just not on this deal. London is a big place. You must have
enemies …?” And he waited for a reply.

Eventually George responded. “There’re
plenty of ’em. So what? We all have friends, and we all have fucking enemies.
That’s how it fucking goes.”

“Well, George,” said Angelo. “We would
like to help you dispose of those enemies, and live a life that only contains
friends. We can work together to take over the whole of London – and even
beyond – carving it up equally as we go.”

“Why us?” asked Gary Breckell.

“Because we can’t do it alone, and
neither could you, but together – and with your local knowledge – we can
destroy anyone who stands in our way.”

“But I’ll ask again,” said Gary. “Why
us?”

“We’ve done our homework,” said Angelo.
“Your part of London is well controlled, and you have a reputation. We feel
your organisation is the one that we would like to work with.”

“And what if we say fucking no?” said
George.

Angelo hunched up his shoulders. “I hope
that doesn’t happen and you can see, as I do, the fantastic opportunities
ahead.”

“And if it does happen?” George
persisted.

Angelo stood up. “Then you will have
another enemy. One like you have never seen before.”

“We’ve seen it all before,” said George,
and glanced at the beaded curtains by the stage. He was about to nod his head,
but before the muscles could move one of the Armenians had lifted a Uzi fanpop
semi-automatic and was firing through the curtains. Broken beads flew like
shrapnel and the body of a man, still holding an M14 rifle, tumbled to the
floor.

The Breckell brothers leapt to their
feet and went for their guns. Angelo dropped on one knee and shot George
Breckell four times: twice in the chest, once in the shoulder, and once in the
face. Caesar had shot Gary before he could even get his gun out, and two of the
Armenians had both opened fire on Stan Breckell with their Uzis, spinning him
around like a crazed puppet desperately trying to free itself from entangled
strings.

This had all happened in seconds and now
the smoke was rising and the East End gangland fraternity were staring at a row
of guns, none of them sure what to do next.

Harry Hastings was a nutter. He’d spent
three-quarters of his entire life in prison, and had only been released two
weeks earlier after completing eight years of a twelve-year sentence for
manslaughter. Unbelievably, he’d been cleared by the parole board as being
completely rehabilitated with a new-found sense of restraint.

Chopper didn’t think twice. With raised
axe, and screaming like a Viking warrior, he ran at Angelo. He was quickly only
seven feet away, and his axe was coming down, when Tigran stepped in between
them and stuck his hunting knife into Harry’s heart. The axe fell to the floor
and Tigran twisted the knife. There was no need to do that: Harry was already
dead. Now it was only the knife that was holding him up, and in one movement
Tigran withdrew the blade and pushed the dead man away. Harry Hastings fell backward
like a toppled tree, straight and true, and his head smashed into the floor
with a loud bang. The sickening noise of his head splitting apart rooted the
gangsters where they sat, and one by one they pulled their hands away from
their jackets.

Angelo looked at Tigran. “Thanks for
that, but I could have just shot him.”

Tigran shrugged, as if to say, “But that
had more impact,” and he was right. They had emphatically made their point.
With the Breckells lying dead there were no natural leaders left, and Angelo
reiterated why they were here.

“You all understand what has happened.
The development in question is now out of bounds. I imagine it was the
Breckells’ idea anyway, and I can’t see any of you being that concerned with
something happening in Manchester. In any case you will have your hands full
hanging on to your existing territories when other gangs learn that your bosses
are dead. You concentrate on that and forget we were ever here.

“You will dispose of these bodies
quickly. The death certificates will say, ‘Accident … it happened at a
construction site … a section of scaffolding fell on them’. That is what you
will tell the police, or anyone else who asks. If anyone speaks our name we
will hear about it, and we will find you, and from that moment on nothing or no
one will be able to save you.”

Angelo turned his back on the seated
men. They were no threat now, and he walked out towards the reception desk.
Then he realised Tigran wasn’t at his side. He looked around and saw him appear
from a side door. Angelo held out his arms and shrugged, which is Italian for, “Where
were you?”

“Just looking around,” said Tigran.

Angelo noticed that Tigran was holding a
briefcase, and made a mental note to question him later. But for now he just shook
his head at Caesar … and then they and the Armenians climbed back into their limos
and sped away to their respective safe houses to once again disappear, exactly
as Zico Scarpone had planned it.