See Naples and Die (13 page)

Luigi went to the display cabinet
against the far wall, and opened the cupboard doors below the collection of
figurines and religious artefacts lining the upper shelves. He brought out a
large scrapbook and several old newspapers, which he placed on the coffee table
in front of them. He spread the newspapers out and handed Brenda the scrapbook.

“Most of what you see is in Italian, but
I’m sure from the headlines and pictures you’ll understand what happened here.”

Megan and Brenda flicked through the
pages of the scrapbook, and Chrissie looked at each newspaper in turn. It was
pretty obvious that this was a Mafia killing spree. Some of the photos of the
bodies were shocking, and they included women and children. One thing they did
pick up on was that many of the victims had the same surname. They put
everything back on to the table and waited for Luigi to explain.

He reached over and pointed to a picture
of a woman who had been shot in the side of the head. “That was my
sister-in-law Sophia.” He spread his arm across the collection of articles.
“Also … her four children, my brother, my mother, and two neighbours who just
happened to be visiting.”

Tears were in his eyes. “I keep these to
make sure I never forget … never forget my love for them, and never forget the
hatred I feel for the men who murdered them.”

“Who did it, Luigi?” Chrissie asked the
question but she already knew the answer.

“The bastard Scarpones,” he spat. “My
brother was a building contractor, and the Scarpones wanted the land he was
developing. He wouldn’t sell and he refused their offer of a partnership, so to
teach him and other construction companies a lesson they did this.”

“But why his wife and children?” asked
Megan.

“Because this is how the Mafia now
operate. Once upon a time a Mafia don was revered. They were an accepted part
of the communities. They passed judgement on many things, and maintained order
and stability in an otherwise chaotic social structure. If someone informed on
them, then that person faced execution. That was unconditional … but it would
only be that one person. Then, and I don’t know why or exactly when it was,
everything changed. Now the threat is that they will burn your house to the
ground and kill you and all your family, your friends, and acquaintances. There
was always violence … but this is beyond what any man should be capable of.
Some families still operate the old codes and govern with honour but others,
like the Scarpones, live by the Devil’s rules.”

“So what was your plan, Luigi?” asked
Chrissie.

Luigi stood firm. “I must have my
revenge. I swore an oath to kill Zico and Luca Scarpone, and to make sure that
the last thing they would hear in this life would be my name. I want them in
hell, and I want them to know who put them there … and why.”

This was a different Luigi to the one
they were used to, and they weren’t sure whether to admire or frown upon his
determination. He continued,

“There is no way of ever getting near
enough to Zico to assassinate him. In Naples he reigns supreme, and goes
nowhere unless surrounded by guards. He never leaves the safety of the region
he controls.

“So the shark must be drawn into shallow
water. He must leave the safety of the deep water where he normally swims and
ignore his natural instincts, and then he will make a mistake. We took
something that can destroy his empire, and we will only return it when we see
him and his man-eating brother face to face. I will place the object he craves
into the palm of his hand and then force a dagger through his heart, and
Salvatore will do the same to his brother. As long as this scum of the earth
exists people will suffer. He is the Antichrist, and must be sent hurtling into
the void. My brother and his family, my mother – and my nephew, young Fabio –
will all be avenged, and then they and the rest of the world can be at peace.”

“And it doesn’t matter who else gets
hurt along the way,” said Chrissie.

Luigi was taken aback. He thought his
tragic loss and deep-felt loathing would explain why he had placed them in such
danger.

“I understand why you want to kill the
Scarpones,” Chrissie said, with hand on heart, “but they haven’t done anything
to us – well, not until you placed us at the top of their hit list.

We don’t have your ingrained hatred and,
to be honest, we don’t want to die so that you can achieve your revenge. What
you have done to us is no different from the Mafia. You have condemned us to
death, and yet we are innocent … and that doesn’t make you any better than Zico
Scarpone.”

Luigi seemed to be struggling with the
concept of what Chrissie had said, and so she confused him even more. “What do
we do now?”

The Italian moved over to the drinks
cabinet and poured a bright green liqueur. He turned and threw the concoction
down his throat. He closed his eyes and Chrissie pushed herself back into the
chair, half expecting him to turn into the Incredible Hulk. Then he opened his
eyes, and all they saw were clouded pools of pain and regret.

“You’re right,” he said. “My life has
become an existence of nothing but thoughts of vengeance, and I have lost all concept
of natural feeling other than red-hot hate. But you must believe that I never
intended you to be involved. It was a terrible misfortune that you acquired the
information from Fabio – but from that moment on you became a target of the Mafia,
and that only has one ending. I know I used you, but only to achieve the
ultimate conclusion of destroying Zico Scarpone and freeing us all from this
nightmare. I want to stroll through the vineyards of Tuscany and feel and touch
and smell the beauty of life, and I want nothing more than for you to
experience the same.”

“We keep coming back to the same
crossroads,” said Brenda. “The problem is Zico Scarpone, and the solution is to
eliminate Zico Scarpone.”

“That is correct,” stressed Luigi.

“And this is exactly what Vialli said,”
added Chrissie.

Luigi spun around. “Vialli … what
Vialli?”

“Roberto Vialli,” Chrissie answered.

Luigi was in a state of excitement. “He
is Mafia. How do you know him?”

“To cut a long story short …” said
Chrissie, “When you sent us to meet the priest he pulled a gun on us, and there
was another guy with a gun outside the hotel –  but Bruno, the bishop’s
assistant, helped us come up with a plan to trade the data stick to Roberto
Vialli in exchange for our lives. Vialli would somehow get the Scarpones off
our backs. But it didn’t work out that way, because they tried to kill us as
well.”

“Mafia are all the same,” scoffed Luigi.
“They cannot be trusted … Where did you meet him? Was it in London?”

“Yes. He was going to fix us up with a
suite at the Ritz. Pity it all went wrong,” said Chrissie.

“But you didn’t give him the data … did
you?”

Brenda intervened. “No, we didn’t, and
it’s in a safe place. We don’t carry it around any more.”

Chrissie pointed at Luigi. “What does it
matter where it is? You had it for two days, so you must have made copies.”

Luigi had the look of a circus clown
who’s just had a bucket of water emptied over his head.

Chrissie was flabbergasted. “You would
have to be a complete idiot not to have made copies.”

Luigi put his hands behind his back like
a naughty schoolboy.

“You plonker,” they all said at once,
and Chrissie burst out laughing.

“But you must give it back to me,”
pleaded the would-be Italian assassin.

“No chance,” said Chrissie. “As long as
we have the info then we have a chance. We know Zico Scarpone has to be taken
out of the picture. We’ve got that. But how it’s done will be down to us. We
don’t trust you any more than we trust the Mafia, so for the time being the
data stays hidden.”

“Okay,” said Luigi. “We’ve all placed
our cards on the table and we know what must be done, but to be successful we
do need to work together … Why don’t you stay here? No one knows of my
involvement so this is a safe place, and if there’s anything you need I can get
it for you.” He could see they were considering it, and held out his arms as if
welcoming them home. “Come on. You know it makes sense.”

Brenda spoke for them, “Sorry, Luigi,
but every time we let our guard down someone tries to shoot us. We already have
a safe place, and for the time being that’s where we stay.”

Brenda had made up her mind, and there
was nothing more to say. She walked towards the front of the house, followed by
Megan and Chrissie. At the door Luigi asked them to wait and hurried into the
small room. He returned with a mobile phone and charger which he handed to
Brenda.

“You may need this. It’s Mama’s phone,
so I can always get in touch – and if you need me my number is in the address
book.”

They opened the door and began to
descend the steps. “Oh, one last thing,” shouted Luigi,” and he smiled. “Remove
those ridiculous get-ups. You are standing out like-a the sore thumb.”

Elliott Chan sat at his desk arranging
paper clips in what looked like a star constellation very reminiscent of the Plough.
He studied the positioning, and moved one of the clips a little to the right.
An outsider could be forgiven for thinking that Chan was daydreaming, but his
colleagues in CID knew him better. Elliott Chan never stopped thinking. Life to
him was a game of chess, and once he was on a case he worked it from every
angle until it was solved.

Elliott was born and raised in Stoke
Newington. His father was a naturalised Chinese immigrant who’d arrived in
England via Zimbabwe, where he’d laid track on the colonial Rhodesia railway. After
settling in North London he married Connie Barratt, who worked in the local Woolworths
store, and they had three children – Elliott and his two sisters, Deborah and
Pauline. They were a close-knit, hard-working family, who always tried to get
together as much as possible.

Deborah and Pauline were both married,
but Elliott had never seemed to find the right girl. Maybe he wasn’t looking
hard enough, or maybe it was the job that came first. He’d worked his way
through the ranks and was now a detective chief inspector with an impressive
list of convictions, but he was forty years old in a few weeks’ time and his
parents were getting worried. He was the man and he had to perpetuate the
family name. Finding the right girl should have been easy. He had a bachelor
apartment in Pimlico and a wide circle of friends. Everyone liked Elliott, and
although he’d had many casual girlfriends there wasn’t one he wanted to share
his life with … and that was his choice.

He focused on the paper clips again, and
switched his analytical mind on to autopilot. Things had started to go awry a
few months earlier, with several deaths that appeared as suicides. However, all
had enough question marks over them to keep the cases open … for the time
being. The latest fatality was a Conservative MP, and that was high-profile
enough to warrant further investigation – and now there was the funeral of
Harry Hastings and the Breckell brothers, who had supposedly been killed by
falling scaffolding at a construction site. Even Elliott had to smile at the
ridiculousness of that one.

Were the suicides anything to do with
the gangland deaths? Was it some sort of gang war? No one seemed to be talking,
but sure as hell something was going on. And at the back of his mind Elliott
couldn’t help but connect the sudden appearance of Roberto Vialli on the scene.
Was this turbulence of the status quo anything to do with the Mafia? There was
no evidence to suggest it.

Vialli had only left his suite at the
Ritz once, and that was to meet three young women – Megan Penhaligon and her
two friends … How did they fit into this puzzle? They had to be an important
part to entice a Mafia don to London, and now they were in hiding … What did
they know that was so valuable?

Elliott picked up a red pencil sharpener
and placed it in the centre of his desk. This was the three girls, and
everything else was in their orbit. He was convinced that all these recent
events were linked. The gangland deaths, the suicides, Roberto Vialli … Somewhere
a thread connected these incidents – and to find the end of a ball of twine you
have to start at the beginning, hold it in your hands, and reel it in.

Now and then it will snag or someone
will deliberately put their foot on it, but these obstacles are why you are
following the trail: to uncover the facts and to separate truth from lies piece
by piece, until a picture emerges and you can finally see the end. He had a
strong feeling that these girls may have a ball of string he could follow, and that
they would be instrumental in providing answers and hard evidence.

After the death of Walter Monreal
Elliott had been called into a meeting with his superintendent, who wanted
closure on the building caseload. He was giving Elliott seven days to come up
with something tangible on the suicides, or they were to file them and move on.
The superintendent wasn’t all bad and had offered help, suggesting the
assistance of another detective called Dave Hyman.

At first this hadn’t pleased Elliott. He
knew Hyman, and didn’t particularly enjoy his company. Personality-wise they
were polar opposites, but he did have to admit that Hyman was a good detective –
his record was proof of that – and two heads are always better than one. So he
agreed, and was waiting for his new partner to arrive.

Elliott took hold of the pencil
sharpener representing the three girls and lifted it away. As soon as it was
raised the collection of paper clips took on a decidedly obscure pattern, yet
each time he replaced it the shape once more had a defined construction. What
made these three bring everything together? His thoughts went back to the drive
to Wimbledon and his conversation with Megan Penhaligon. He tried to remember
every word, every question, and every pause.

Then his concentration was disturbed by
the sound of Dave Hyman’s cockney tones as he swaggered across the duty room. “Awright,
McMillan,” he said to big red-nosed officer leaning against a filing cabinet. “Isn’t
it time you hit the streets …? Pub’s open in ten minutes … ha ha ha.”

Then, as he passed two intense-looking
officers checking lists on a computer screen, he dropped an envelope on to the
desk. “There’s the tickets for Saturdays match, boys,” he said. “You can pay me
later, or we can have a bet. Palace to win – and I’ll give you the draw –
double or nothing … What do you say?”

Suddenly lifted from their serious mood,
they grinned. “Okay, Dave. You’re on.”

Dave Hyman had that effect on people. He
was the kind of guy you just had to smile with: the life and soul of the party,
and everyone’s drinking buddy. Like Chan, he’d come up through the ranks but
then stuck at detective inspector: his personality counted against him when it
came to further promotion. That was okay. He wasn’t one for too much
responsibility, anyway.

He was an East End boy born within
cheering distance of Upton Park, and to this day he was a fervent Hammers
supporter. Now living only three miles further away in a new development on the
Docklands complex, he’d held on to his roots. He was still a familiar sight on
the terraces, and made a point of keeping in touch with old friends. This was
good local knowledge, and could be a valuable asset in this particular
investigation.

“Hiya, Charlie,” said Dave, knowing this
would infuriate Elliott. It was an obvious reference to the famed Chinese
detective created by author Earl Derr Biggers, and it was a well-worn joke.

“It’s ‘Chief’ to you, Hyman,” said
Elliott.

“That’s what I said,” laughed Hyman.
“Chief …” He looked at the desk. “What’s with the paper clips?”

Elliott ran his hand across the clips
and pushed them into a pile. “Just messing.”

Dave knew it was time to drop the stand-up
routine. “What’s it all about, chief?”

Elliott explained about the suicides,
which ranged from poisoning to falling on a sword, and which all had the same
pattern of allowing the authorities to take the easy way out and stick a
suicide label on the deaths. Yet at the same time they were clearly sending out
a message that someone had been taught a lesson.

Elliott had tried to connect the deaths,
but they were random individuals with no obvious link … until Walter Monreal.
There was a link to Ian Spencer, the architect, and the government’s much-vaunted
business development in Manchester … but why would that constitute murder? From
initial enquiries it didn’t seem that anyone could gain from it … And as for
the Breckell brothers – well, that was another mystery.

“The one thing that is certain,” said
Elliott, “is that all these deaths were for a reason, and they weren’t
suicides. These people were murdered in cold blood, to frighten others. Whoever
was responsible knows how understaffed and under pressure we are, and so they
gave us a way out. They gave us open-and-shut cases, if that’s what we wanted …
and if we don’t find anything concrete in the next seven days then that’s
exactly what’s going to happen.”

Dave Hyman pulled at his earlobe, a
lifelong habit whenever he was unsure of his next move. “So what do you reckon
then, chief? Where do we start?”

Elliott tapped the written notes on an
A4 jotter pad. “We’ve already done the initial procedures on all these … checked
out close friends and family, et cetera, and got nothing. No sign of a motive
anywhere. We weren’t given the authority to dig deep into each person’s history,
and now we haven’t got time for that. All we can do is scratch the surface
again and hope we get lucky.”

He was about to mention the girls and
Roberto Vialli, but decided that theory was best kept to himself for the present
time. No point confusing the issue, and Dave Hyman’s fresh approach could well
turn up a new line of enquiry that he had missed.

“We concentrate on the latest deaths and
work backward. This crackpot story that the Breckell brothers and Chopper
Hastings all died in a construction site accident is the biggest fairy tale
yet, so we need to find out the truth.

“You have contacts in East London, Dave.
Go and talk to people. Get them to open up. That’s what you’re good at. I’m
going to work this connection between the MP and the architect. We’ll compare
notes in the morning.”

“Sure thing, chief,” said Hyman. Then,
moving the paper clips around with his index finger, he smiled. “Which one of
these am I?” and before Elliott could answer he swivelled on his heels and
marched from the room.

Chan glanced around. Everyone was
silently engrossed in one thing or another, and the room felt emptier now that
Dave Hyman had left. Elliott mused how good it must be to have that sort of
personality, but it can’t be taught. It’s definitely something you are born
with, like being a gifted footballer. We can all work hard to improve our game,
but to some it just comes easy.

Elliott repositioned his paper clips,
and his thoughts once more turned to Megan Penhaligon and her friends. He
decided to pay them a visit, but it would have to wait until tomorrow. Today he
had a lot of research to get through involving the government’s Manchester
development and the exact role of Walter Monreal, and who would gain most from
his death.

He’d already spoken to the family, who
showed no emotion at the news. The youngest son had disclosed how he had
visited the house that evening, just for a chat, and that his father seemed in
high spirits and was behaving completely normally. The boy didn’t elaborate and
mention that normal to his father was being a vindictive arsehole. He was also
sensible enough not to mention their argument and the fact he had produced a gun
and threatened to kill him … Best to keep that one quiet.

It was common knowledge that Walter
Monreal was gay and had a boyfriend called Roman Vasalknis, who had also
disappeared. Elliott desperately wanted to interview Roman, and uniformed
officers were trying to locate him. Was he a prime suspect? Was he in hiding?
Or had he also been murdered? These were yet more questions to ponder, and they
required another paper clip on the table.

Everyone else spoken to seemed united in
their utter loathing of the MP. If dislike was a motive then the list of
suspects was endless. Everything pointed to Roman being responsible. Find him
and you find your killer, or at least the reason why Walter killed himself … but
Elliott didn’t believe that. This was just the latest in a sequence of
suicides. There had to be more to it and he was determined to uncover the real
motives, which meant a day of ploughing through a mountain of documents
relating to the Manchester development and unearthing anything with Walter
Monreal’s name or signature. Elliott put on his coat, made sure he had his
reading glasses, and set off for the department of business development.