See Naples and Die (16 page)

From Canvey Island to Carlisle the
newsagents were sold out. All the dailies – even
The Times
– had gone.
Every headline and most of the inside pages were concentrating on the gold
bullion robbery, and the world and his wife wanted to read about it. The
Daily
Mail
articles were diligent in outlining how the robbery was planned to
military precision – and showed a clock face at the beginning of each paragraph
that stated the unfolding time schedule of events, which added drama and brought
the story to life.
The Independent
had similar descriptions but with
more emphasis on the social background of violent criminals and their reasons
for committing the crime in the first place, saying it was more about making a
statement than about the money … and
The Sun
had a girl in a gold bikini
sitting on top of dozens of gold-sprayed house bricks, which showed exactly how
many gold bars had been stolen.

The opinions differed tremendously,
depending on which part of the newspaper was being read. The first pages were
very much for finding the bastards and stringing them up. However, as the
readers went further and arrived at the celebrity columnists it became more
varied and ranged from calling the gang Robin Hood and his Merry Men to
comparing them to fat-cat bankers and asking, ‘Who are the biggest robbers?’ And
Jeremy Clarkson’s views were too ludicrous to repeat.

Even the sports pages had references,
with football result headlines such as
Wenger’s Boys Strike Gold
and
Sturridge
Has the Midas Touch
and other articles suggesting the robbers should have
kidnapped Sergio Agüero, because he’s worth more than a trainload of gold and
easier to move.

The television programmes were no
better, and had ex-police officers explaining how the robbery could have been
prevented and what needed to be done to ensure it could never happen again. The
suggestions being put forward on the identities of the villains ranged from a
crack team of renegade special force operatives to al-Qaeda. One so-called
serious programme even suggested it could be a gang of pensioners trying to
show that you are not over the hill after the age of sixty-five.

Camera crews were everywhere,
interviewing any type of railway employee or passing members of the public – and
financial experts were like Nostradamus, with their predictions on how this
would affect future economic growth and confidence in the pound. The nation had
gone gold crazy, with amateur sleuths and weird guys with metal detectors
combing the country – and every police officer making sure they showed their
best profile to the cameras.

In Ipswich a dog walker had spotted a
patch of freshly dug earth in a clearing in the woods and he alerted the
authorities, who came rushing out with picks and shovels. The chief constable
and local television crew turned up and waited in breathless anticipation, but
were disappointed when after only five minutes of digging a time capsule was
unearthed. It had been put together and buried the previous day by the local
primary school, who hoped it would lie undiscovered for a thousand years and
then be found by some superintelligent future humans. Unfortunately for them it
had lasted less than twenty-four hours and was lifted by a burly police
sergeant with the IQ of your average gorilla and who, after opening it, left
the contents on the surface to be scattered by the wind.

Angelo Tardelli was reading the newspapers
while eating his poached egg and toast, still in his dressing gown and slippers.
It was a routine he enjoyed most mornings. Angelo lived in a five-bedroomed
house in Hampstead, North London, which was immaculately and expensively
furnished. He had a Mercedes in the drive, a Range Rover Evoque for the
weekends, and VIP cards for most of the top clubs and restaurants in London.
Life was good for the Mafia executive.

This particular morning he wasn’t sure
whether to laugh or cry. It sort of felt good to be part of the robbery that
everyone was talking about – but then again, this diversion into gold bullion
could jeopardise the master plan he had been assembling for the past three
years. Did he wish it had never happened? He wasn’t sure. A big part of him
wanted to pat Tigran Sadorian on the back and say, “Well done.” But another
part of him wanted to put a knife into the Armenian’s heart. He prodded the
poached egg with a slice of toast … Eeny, meeny, miny, moe …

Angelo finished his breakfast, washed
the crockery, and then went for a shower. Caesar Magri would be here soon to go
through the day’s duties and discuss what must be done to the Armenians.
Unfortunately Zico had not deviated from his original instructions: he still
wanted Tigran taught a lesson. He had insisted that four of the Armenians were
to be killed as a show of force from the don, and Angelo had reluctantly agreed
… but one more thing needed taking care of before that punishment was
administered. The fear they’d spread with the slayings in Hackney wasn’t
enough. It had initially enforced a silence among the criminal fraternity, but
they obviously had short memories – or maybe stealing the gold had wound them
up. Either way there was talk, and Angelo was taking his boss’s advice and letting
the madman loose. Terrifying people was Tigran’s speciality, and now was the
time to let him prove it. The best way to scare an army is to kill its greatest
warrior, for if he can be defeated then what chance have they got? And without
a leader they are all nothing but frightened individuals.

It appeared there had been murmurings
from the lower classes, and Angelo had heard about Jimmy the weasel and his
intended meeting with DCI Chan. But, more importantly, a leading villain by the
name of Micky Fallon had been shouting from the rooftops about the Mafia and
their involvement in the Breckell murders and the gold bullion theft. Micky was
probably part of the team who had planned the robbery, and he was furious at
what had happened. The gangster had a fearsome reputation, and he was the great
warrior who Tigran must face. Yet Angelo was already thinking beyond this
contest. He had a reserve plan if Tigran was beaten, and if all went well he
knew they would be safe to carry on taking over bona fide businesses like the
Manchester development without any accusations or dissent. They already had
politicians and police officers on their payroll, and with the Armenians taking
care of any problems their power base was spreading across Europe.

Angelo was enjoying the control, and was
pleased with himself. He had unearthed skills that he did not know he possessed
in handling everything from arranging the assassinations to chairing meetings
with other criminals and legitimate companies, and supervising the accounting and
cleaning of vast sums of money. He was a big cheese now, someone Zico couldn’t
do without … perhaps even an equal to his Mafia don. He puffed out his chest
and posed in the full-length bathroom mirror, and then his posturing was
disturbed by the sound of the front door chime.

It was Caesar, and together they went
into the sumptuous living room where coffee had already been prepared. Caesar
was expected to arrive at 10.30, and he was never late, so the coffee pot was
fresh and hot and Angelo poured drinks.

“The Armenian is going to face this
Micky guy tonight,” said Angelo.

“Do you want me to go with him?” asked
Caesar.

“No. He must do this alone. He has to
prove himself to the don. If all goes well it may be possible for Zico to
change his mind about teaching him a lesson. I will do as I’m instructed, but
in this instance I don’t agree with killing the Armenians. It can only create
bad blood, and we need them. That was the whole point of developing this
network, plus I don’t think murder scares Tigran. He will take it all in his
stride but he won’t forget, and I’ll never be able to turn my back on him
again.”

“I will always watch your back,” said
Caesar.

“I know you will, my friend, but we rely
on Tigran to carry out our wishes – and if I can’t trust him then it doesn’t
work. Zico believes retribution will bring him into line, but it will only make
him more unpredictable.”

“And if the don doesn’t change his
mind?” asked Caesar.

“Then I will kill four Armenians, but
one of them will have to be Tigran Sadorian. I cannot let him live if we reward
his efforts with treachery. Sooner or later he would have his revenge.”

“Then we will do it together and make it
quick,” smiled Caesar.

“Yes, we will. We have done it many
times before, you and I.”

Angelo looked thoughtful and Caesar just
shrugged. “Que sera sera.”

For a while they sat as two friends do,
talking about the latest news and about the old times. They discussed football
and movies, and laughed about past exploits. Then Angelo went to check his emails,
and there were two from Zico. The first was asking for updates and the second
had attachments, which were the photos of Megan Penhaligon, Brenda Smith, and
Chrissie McGuire. The JPEGs were accompanied by a few pages of personal details
on each girl, and Angelo printed everything out. He studied the photos and then
put them into an envelope. He was meeting one of their police informers this
evening, and he would pass it on. The girls had to be found. He didn’t know
about the memory stick, but it was enough that Zico had made it top priority.
Angelo had a reputation for getting the job done, and he wasn’t about to let
his boss down.

He’d booked a table at his favourite
restaurant for 9.30 p.m., and there he would dine alone with only his own
thoughts for company. At the same time Tigran Sadorian would be confronting
Micky Fallon, and by the end of his meal it would all be over one way or the
other. Then he would meet outside the restaurant with the police informer and
pass over the details and photographs of the girls.

“Find them, but do not harm them,” were Zico’s
orders. “They have something we need,” he had said. “Once you have them you
call me straight away, day or night, and I will tell you what we are looking
for. You extract this information and then you kill them all, making sure you
leave our mark. There is to be no ambiguity. Everyone needs to know that this
was a Mafia hit.”

Then Angelo returned to Caesar. He had
chores for him to complete, and he had telephone calls to do before the end of
the day. They had another cup of coffee and then both men went about their
duties … A Mafia man’s work is never done.

At 9.30 precisely Angelo entered the
restaurant, with the owner welcoming him like a favourite son and personally
escorting him to his usual table. The wine waiter came over and, before taking
the order, exchanged pleasantries with genuine goodwill. Angelo felt
comfortable here. They knew and respected him … and the food was excellent.

This evening he was in no hurry. There
was a lot unfurling across the city, and Mr Mafia didn’t want to think about
it. He was going to enjoy the wine and then order a fillet steak Rossini with a
selection of vegetables and eat slowly, savouring each mouthful. It didn’t
really matter if Tigran was successful or not – he was going to die, anyway –
but it would save him a job if the London criminals could be silenced tonight.
Once again he regretted having to take such drastic measures with the Armenian.

He recollected their first meeting in
the back of a truck, with Tigran emerging from beneath the floor with murder on
his hands already. He was a bloodthirsty sonofabitch but in Angelo’s world that
was an asset, and although he could be infuriating with his total lack of
interest it was something Angelo had got used to. There was lots not to like
about Tigran Sadorian but the main thing was, like Angelo, he always got the
job done. He sipped his wine and gazed reflectively at the waiters in their
immaculate white shirts and waistcoats, their smiles as wide as the Thames.
Their professionalism and their personalities were a joy to behold, and it made
him proud to be Italian. The lobster bisque soup arrived, and he took a drink
of water to clean the palate and put his napkin on his knee. He picked up the
huge soup spoon and as it dipped into the bowl and he smelt the flavours rise
he relaxed, and put all previous thoughts to the back of his mind.

The bar at the Bricklayers Arms was
busy. It was Friday night, and an array of London’s villains mulled around.
Mostly they were second-tier criminals, burglars, receivers, car thieves, and
the like, who grouped together in their plotting … but one man sat at the end
of the bar and everyone gave him his space.

Micky Fallon loved to fight, and he
never lost. Not against other hard men, martial arts experts, or men twice his
size. He was quick and he was lethal, and no one wanted the kind of trouble he
brought to the table. Like most violent men he had the proverbial number one
haircut and broken nose but beyond that he was a debonair type, who always
dressed well and expensively. He had a thunderous temper and could turn on
anyone if the mood took him, which was why he drank alone.

Micky did his own thing. He had form for
armed robbery, and he had two Old Bailey murder trials that had collapsed when
the witnesses changed their stories at the eleventh hour – and against all the
evidence the jury had declared not guilty verdicts. He worked wherever he
wanted to, and although he had to deal with the London gangs he owed no allegiance
to any of them. He was a man you didn’t cross, and even the most hardened
criminals let him get on with it.

He was London Irish and not backward in
going forward. He said what was on his mind, and for the past two days he’d let
it be known that everyone knew who’d done the gold bullion job and those bloody
Mafia bastards were due a good seeing-to. He was stirring things up and he
didn’t care.

There were around eighty people in the
pub, and the drink and banter was flowing like party time at the house in
The
Great Gatsby
. No one noticed the large man in the hoodie entering, nor the
six men who followed. They pushed gently through the throng and made their way
towards the end of the bar, where Micky Fallon sat checking messages on his
phone.

Once alongside Micky the large man
produced a revolver, which he raised and shot once into the ceiling. White
plaster fluttered down like snowflakes, and everyone stopped what they were
doing and fell silent. Micky Fallon spun around on his chair and found he was
looking down the barrel of a gun.

The man with the gun dropped the hood
surrounding his face and spoke in broken English. “You seem to have a lot to
say about the Mafiosi, my friend.”

Micky showed no fear. He knew this was
the man who had killed Harry Hastings, from the stories he’d heard, and he was
glad to be facing him. This was the sort of confrontation he thrived on, and he
stepped off the bar stool and faced the gun.

“I’m not your friend, and if you’re
going to shoot me then you’d better get it done or else I’m going to rip your
fucking head off.”

As he spoke the last word he made a
lunge for the gun. Tigran sidestepped and smacked him on the side of the head,
and Micky fell to the floor. The other Armenians formed a circle by pushing the
crowd back until they had created a boxing ring-sized space. Like a wounded
panther Micky jumped up and went on the attack. He rained blows on the Armenian,
who blocked them with his forearms – and then kicked Micky in the stomach, which
sent him once more to the floor.

Tigran threw the gun to one of the other
Armenians, and produced his hunting knife. He watched and waited until Micky
bounced up again, and this time Micky also had a knife. The two men made a
sequence of slashing swipes then came together in a deadly embrace, each one
holding the other’s knife hand. They swung around in a manic waltz of death,
with Micky grunting obscenities and Tigran snarling like a cornered wolf.

The watching crowd were jostling for the
best view. Some of them were standing on chairs and tables, eager to get a
bird’s eye view of this gladiatorial contest, but all the time remaining silent
and in fear of the Armenian guards who aimed Uzi automatics at them.

Micky headbutted his adversary, and at
the same time brought his knee up savagely into the Armenian’s groin. This dual
attack sapped Tigran’s strength for a split second, and that was enough for
Micky to drag his knife away and plunge it into Tigran’s chest. The Armenian
roared, and with a fist as solid as a wrecking ball punched the Londoner in the
face. Micky had never been hit as hard and fell back, leaving the knife still
protruding from Tigran’s shirt.

Micky made a grab for the knife handle,
but Tigran slashed his wrist. Blood sprayed over them both and Micky took a
step backward. Even with a severed hand he still made another rush, grabbed
Tigran by the throat, and tried with his good hand to put enough pressure on to
choke his assailant. But Tigran was in control now, and stabbed him twice just
above the kidneys. Micky’s grip lessened and his head fell back. Tigran pushed
him to the floor, and it was all over.

The crowd looked on in awe as the
Armenian pulled the knife from his chest and hurled it across the bar. Then he
took his own knife and cut out Micky’s tongue, stabbed the piece of bloodied
meat, and held it aloft.

“My name is Tigran Sadorian,” he said.
“I want you all to know my name, and never forget it. But you will never speak
my name, and if anyone does then they should know that I will come for them … Once
these words have left your mouth you become a dead man.”

Then he walked to the door, and the
entire crowd bowed their heads and parted. The other Armenians put away their
weapons, as they were no longer required. The sheer terror of Tigran Sadorian
had consumed the room. By the next morning this fear would have spread
throughout the entire criminal world, and was a far more powerful deterrent
than any gun.

Angelo Tardelli had enjoyed his evening.
He felt satisfied within, his cheeks were flush with wine, and his taste buds
tingled from the flavours of the food. Now, as he sat with the table cleared
and the last glass of wine in his hand, he allowed himself to once again
consider the outcome of Tigran and Micky Fallon’s showdown. His money would
always be on the Armenian, and he was trying to find the right words to try and
change Zico’s mind about the planned reprisals. It really didn’t make sense and
he had to admit that, although he was totally loyal to the Scarpones – and he
was – Zico’s judgement wasn’t always the best, and had caused many problems
over the years. He knew that killing the four Armenians was a bad call, and
would only lead to further confrontations that didn’t need to be. For the first
time in his life he was seriously thinking of disobeying an order from the don.

He paid the bill, and again the owner
came over personally and thanked him profusely for his custom. They shook hands,
and Angelo stepped into the street. This was where he would rendezvous with
their police informer. He would stand outside the restaurant enjoying a
cigarette, and the man would pass and drop something. Angelo would bend down to
pick up the object and then stand and hand him the envelope, and that would be
it. Then hopefully the next day they would have a lead on finding these girls.

It was a balmy summer evening, and
Angelo was dressed casually. His sports jacket was open and his Moschino shirt was
unbuttoned. He lit a cigarette and once again his mind wondered to Tigran
Sadorian, and he found himself willing the night to have been a success. Tigran
needed someone on his side, and Angelo had decided that he would be that
person. He truly felt that together they were going places. He would definitely
fight the Armenian’s case, and one day they may even become friends.

He saw someone approaching, and although
they had their coat collar pulled high he could tell it wasn’t the person he normally
met and so he continued to look ahead. As the stranger passed he banged harshly
into Angelo and then walked on.

“Fucking
stronzo
,” yelled the
Italian and made to follow the man. But his legs didn’t want to move, and a
sudden harsh pain shot up his back. He saw the man drop a long shiny object and
he felt his shirt. It was wet and his hands were bloodied. His strength had
gone and he was about to collapse, when through the mist that was descending he
saw a face he knew well. The man had returned and spat at the Italian. “You are
the fucking
stronzo
,” he said, and then the world turned black and
Angelo Tardelli fell to the floor.