See Naples and Die (17 page)

Elliott Chan took the call in the early
hours of the morning. Micky Fallon was dead.

“Not another one”, he thought, as he
hurriedly drove towards East London and the Bricklayers Arms. This new murder
only confirmed that this was no turf war. This was Micky Fallon, and everybody
left Micky Fallon alone – plus he didn’t owe allegiances to any gang, so his
death wasn’t teaching a lesson to anyone in particular … but what if that was
the point? What if his killing wasn’t a message to an individual group, but a
warning to all? “If we can do this to Mad Micky Fallon, then everyone else had
better toe the line,” and if that was what had happened then whoever was
responsible had indeed made a very powerful statement.

There was a lot for Elliott to consider
as he drove through the dark city streets. These events were like a puppet show,
with one man writing the script and pulling the strings. At this moment he felt
like he was being controlled as much as anyone, and he didn’t like that
feeling.

The front of the pub was cordoned off
with crime scene tape and several uniformed officers were mulling around, not
really sure what to do next. On seeing Elliott they were obviously relieved
that the DCI was about to assume command. He entered the bar to see two guys
from forensics busy taking samples and dusting the entire area. Two police
constables stood like sentries, one at either side of the slumped body of Micky
Fallon. It was a gory sight. Micky was covered in blood, most of it from his
mouth and from where his tongue had been severed. He was sitting on the floor,
his back resting against the bar, with his head pushed back and his large,
lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling.

Elliott moved through the scene, and
could see from the glasses of alcohol left on the tables and the amount of
money in the till that this had been a busy Friday night. A lot of people had
been present when all this took place, and in time they would find out who was
there. A mountain of fingerprints would identify customers drinking that
evening, and then they would begin their questioning. Everyone would say that
they left before the murder took place, but eventually someone would crack. They
always did. But it would all take time and, once again, this was a commodity
they didn’t have. Elliott knew this was just another piece of some big
situation that was building in strength and ferocity, and if it was to be
stopped then it had to be stopped soon.

It was an anonymous phone call that had
alerted the police, but by the time the officers arrived the Bricklayers Arms
was deserted. Even the landlord had done a runner, leaving money in the till
and a hot water tap flooding the sink. Whatever had happened here had scared
them, and no one wanted to be a witness.

Elliott had spoken with the constables
and forensics, and the picture seemed clear. It had been a knife fight, with
Micky coming off worse, but they needed more than that. What had started the
fight? And, most importantly, who was the assailant? Two knives had been found
and the hope was that there would be plenty of blood, fingerprints, and DNA for
a positive ID. The constables remarked how stupid the killer had been, but
Elliott knew differently. The knife had been discarded deliberately – as a
final gesture of blood-soaked terror – and all the identification in the world
is only of use if it can be cross-checked against records. If that person is
not known to the police then he is an invisible man, free to carry on a reign
of fear, until one day they get lucky or he gets careless.

Elliott was considering whether or not
to call Dave Hyman when, to his surprise, the detective inspector appeared from
a side room.

“Hiya, boss,” quipped the DI.

Elliott was momentarily lost for words,
and Hyman answered the questions before they could be asked.

“It was a thousand-to-one shot, boss. I
was on my way home and turned the corner just as the crime scene van pulled up.
There were already a few uniforms around and so I offered my services. Who
would have thought it, eh …? Micky Fallon, of all people.”

Elliott didn’t like his thoughts being
interpreted before he’d even spoken, and his annoyance showed. “Pity you
weren’t just passing by a little earlier. You might have caught sight of who
did this.”

“And that would have been a million-to-one
shot,” replied Dave Hyman, equally annoyed.

Elliott thought about rebuking his
subordinate officer for his tone, but decided to count to ten and start again.
In any case Hyman always rubbed him up the wrong way with his cheeky chappie routine,
so it was best to put that to one side … and his being first on the scene was a
good thing, wasn’t it?

“So … you’ve had a good look around. What
have you come up with?”

Dave Hyman began with the obvious. “Well,
it was a busy night and the place would have been full of ‘faces’. There’s a
bullet hole in the ceiling and two bloodied knives, one with Micky’s tongue
stuck on the end. We may get lucky with fingerprints, but somehow I don’t think
so. There are lots of witnesses but we have to find one who’s willing to talk,
and as all this is probably intended to make sure people keep silent that’s not
going to be easy. It’s pretty clear what happened, and why, but we need to find
out who did it. Who was confident enough to take on Micky Fallon hand to hand?”

The DI paused and looked up, as if
searching for a sign, and he tugged at his earlobe. “Do you still think there’s
a Mafia connection, boss?”

Elliott chose to ignore this question
and started to walk towards the bar.

Dave Hyman followed. “I think you’re
well off the mark with that theory, sir. I mean … the Mafia … in London. No
way. Although I do agree that this isn’t the work of other London gangs. Not
even the South London mob would cross the water and do this, but what about the
Scots? Or the Irish? Or even the Russians?”

Without turning Elliott mumbled, “Could
be.”

He looked down on the shape of the
deceased Micky Fallon and shuddered. He had seen it many times, but death still
troubled him. Here was a man who had towered above his rivals but now, with the
breath sucked from his body and the light extinguished from his eyes, he was
nothing but a frail, ghostly apparition. His soul, already departed, had left
behind an earthly carcass bereft of strength or substance that now appeared as
nothing but a bag of bones. Dust to dust … ashes to ashes.

Dave Hyman felt the need to break the
melancholy mood. “Why don’t you get off, boss? I’ll stay around here until
everything’s sorted, and if anything turns up I’ll let you know.”

Elliott faced the detective. He wasn’t a
bad guy, and just because he had a personality that Elliott envied that
shouldn’t cause a rift between them. “Yes … thanks, Dave. We’ve still got a
heap of research to do, and I need to be in the office first thing … By the way,
has anything turned up on this Angelo Tardelli character?”

Dave Hyman shook his head. “Not a
thing.”

“Okay,” said Elliott. “Well, keep trying
on that one.”

Then he left the Bricklayers Arms crime
scene and once more switched his mind to the big picture and the threads that
ran through all these recent events. There was a pattern being woven and each
stitch triggered a new situation, which was bringing this work of art nearer to
completion. It was beautiful in its complexity and terrifying in its execution,
and it was consuming Elliott’s thoughts. What was the common denominator? And
who was creating this tapestry of death?

He drove leisurely through the city
centre just as the capital’s nocturnal population were wearily tramping back to
their hideaways: street cleaners, prostitutes, casino employees, and ravers,
all rushing home to avoid the daylight. Elliott casually scanned them as he
drove into the quiet streets of Pimlico and parked his car outside the white-painted
five-storey terraced building. He walked smartly up the spiral staircase in the
centre to the second floor and turned the key into his apartment. It always
gave him a warm, secure feeling when he stepped inside the hallway and became
surrounded by familiar walls and his own furnishings. The apartment was modern
and clean – even clinical – and it drove his mother mad when she visited. She
would often bring rubber plants and vases to add character to the place, but
Elliott didn’t like clutter and she always had to return them to the shop. However,
this constant refusal never stopped her turning up with something new next time
– and in a way it pleased them both to play this game.

It was too late to go to bed so Elliott
made a cup of strong black coffee and sat in his thinking chair, arching his
head over the cup to feel the steam and aroma hit his face. He inhaled slowly
and soaked it in. His head was numb from lack of sleep, and his eyes burnt with
the effort of keeping them open. He sipped the coffee and felt the rush of
caffeine as it passed through his body and alerted his senses. There was nothing
to gain by keeping going over past events. Now was the time to be positive and
look forward.

Elliott was convinced there was a Mafia
involvement, and his mind was made up that it was Roberto Vialli who was
responsible, but how could he prove this connection? And, more to the point,
how could he put an end to this Mafia invasion? He decided to take the bull by
the horns and go and see Vialli. It would be safe enough to visit him at the
Ritz, and although he may walk out of the meeting with a contract on his head
he wanted to look the don in the eye and tell him that he knew what was
happening and that he – Elliott Chan – was going to end it. This type of
confrontation would be sure to provoke a reaction and more than likely this
would mean he would be the next ‘suicide’, but time was running out and he
needed to step up to the plate.

Elliott closed his eyes and allowed
thoughts of sleep into his subconscious. It was too early to be knocking on
hotel doors, and he needed rest. He put down the cup of coffee and set a mental
alarm clock in his head to ring in two hours. Then with that thought in mind
his body relaxed, and he fell into a deep slumber where all the problems of the
day disappeared. This was Elliott’s saving grace. He could sleep anywhere and
shut out what troubled him during waking hours. He could even sleep when in
pain, and would always wake up refreshed and ready for whatever the new day had
in store. He didn’t feel he had many gifts, but the ability to sleep was a
definite plus and something he was very grateful for.

Elliott’s mental alarm had gone off
right on time, and after a shower and a change of clothes he had ordered a taxi
and was now on his way to the Ritz for a showdown with a dreaded Mafia boss. As
they passed Hyde Park Corner Elliott suddenly realised that he should have told
someone where he was going, just in case it all went wrong. He was about to
dial Dave Hyman when something made him stop, and he put the phone back into
his pocket. The taxi dropped him off at the door, and he nodded to the
concierge as he entered the historic building. He showed his ID to the girl at
the desk, and asked her to call Roberto Vialli and say he was here for a
meeting and would be waiting in reception.

The Mafia don’t hurry and it was fifteen
minutes later when he was approached by Beppe, who simply pointed with his head
to the outer hallway. Together they took lift number two. Once inside Beppe did
the honours and frisked Elliott, who simply held out his arms in compliance.
They exited the lift and walked down the corridor to where another man, who was
in a crisp Italian tailored suit, stood with hands clasped together just above
the crotch area. He was blocking the way to the door and stared intently at the
detective, his eyes narrowing, with a look of menace. This piercing gaze was
saying, “I will let you into this room because I choose to do so, and for no
other reason. You may be British police, but if you disrespect my employer you
will not leave this hotel alive.” Elliott nodded his understanding and the
guard opened the door and let him enter.

The suite took Elliott by surprise. It
was bigger than his apartment … much bigger. Two separate couches and several
chairs were spaced around the living area, and a man who Elliott recognised as
Roberto Vialli was sitting in one of the high-backed armchairs.

“Please, Detective Chief Inspector Chan,
be seated,” said the Mafia don, and Elliott sat in an armchair facing him. “I
assume you aren’t bringing me free tickets to a show, so what can I do for you?”

“That’s very direct of you, Mr Vialli,”
replied Elliott, trying to sound as if he hadn’t noticed the intended
intimidation in the question.

Roberto Vialli wasn’t used to passing
pleasantries with policemen. In Naples they were usually on his payroll and grovelled
around him like courtesans. “Get on with it, inspector,” he said.

Elliott sat with a straight back and
held his head high. “Firstly, Mr Vialli, I am here to have a conversation. I
will tell you what I believe is happening, and we can then discuss what I have
said.” Elliott tried to read the Mafia boss’s features, but they weren’t giving
anything away. He wasn’t intrigued about what was about to be said. In fact he
looked downright bored. “Over the past few months,” continued Elliott, “there
have been several high-profile murders. These have comically been made to
appear as suicides, and have included members of the London criminal
fraternity. Someone is trying to take over, and that someone is from outside of
the UK.”