See Naples and Die (9 page)

Brenda Smith sat up in bed and
stretched. She glanced around the room. It was all decorative curtains,
flowered wallpaper, ornate furnishings, and thick patterned carpet … and she
loved it.

They had booked into a small guest house
in a tree-lined cul-de-sac about half a mile outside of Wimbledon centre. It
was a detached four-bedroomed property that had been converted into a business
to make two double rooms, one twin room, and one single, with the doubles
having full en suite facilities. Chrissie and Megan had taken the twin, with
Brenda having one en suite double and Bruno the other. The single room was
being refurbished and so between them they were occupying all the available
space, which was perfect.

The guest house was run by a Mr and Mrs
Grimshaw, who had decided to transform their home fifteen years ago. The plan
was for Eric Grimshaw to take early retirement from his job in the City, and
then supplement the household income by letting out the bedrooms. They built an
extension on the back of the house which became their living quarters, and all
in all it had worked out fine.

Everyone met downstairs for breakfast at
eight, and it felt like home from home. Sitting in someone’s dining room eating
a hearty breakfast and listening to Capital Radio made all this Mafia madness
seem like a bad dream.

Chrissie picked up the teapot and, as
she pointed the spout at Bruno, said, “More tea, vicar?” Bruno didn’t answer,
so she poured him a cup anyway. “I feel like Mrs Fancypants, coming down from
the Cotswolds for Wimbledon fortnight … here to see our brave boys and girls go
out in the opening match – then spend a few days shopping and sightseeing until
it’s time for the ladies’ and men’s semi-finals and final … super!”

“I’ve been thinking,” said Brenda.

“Oh, have you, darling?” said Chrissie,
still in character. “Why, that’s absolutely spiffing. Well done.”

Brenda held up the USB stick. “We still
don’t know exactly what’s on this thing. So I suggest we go to the nearest
library or Internet cafe and have a good look and make a few copies, because I
hate being the only keyholder.”

“Oh, but you really are such a brilliant
keyholder,” said Chrissie.

“Give it a rest,” snapped Brenda.

“Okay, Mrs Trumpington,” said Chrissie
in her normal voice. “That’s a good idea, by the way. Only I think the copy we
make shouldn’t be the whole thing. We should take off a few files that give a
flavour of what’s on there, and show this version to Vialli. It’s too early to
be giving everything away. If he clears off then we’re left up the creek
without a paddle – or memory stick. We give him a taste to whet his appetite
for more, and then somehow make sure he keeps his side of the bargain before we
part with the original.”

Megan leant forward. “And we should put
the original in a safety deposit box somewhere. It’s crazy to carry it around.
That way, even if we are captured, they can only find a key – and will still
need us. Until they actually get their hands on the entire data we are still
alive.”

“Good one, Megan,” said Chrissie. “What
do you think, Bruno?” She was deliberately trying to bring the priest into the
conversation because he appeared troubled, and she needed to know what the
problem was.

“Um … sorry, what did you say?” he
stuttered.

“What’s the matter, Bruno?” asked
Brenda.

Bruno looked at Brenda with sad puppy
dog eyes. “I’m leaving,” he said. “I can’t help you any more. You need to do
the deal with Vialli, and save yourselves. To be honest … they won’t pursue me,
as they will you. I only betrayed them by helping you, which means I’m on the
death list – but I don’t possess the memory stick, and so I have a chance. Your
way out is to negotiate. My way out is to go to Ecuador.”

“Ecuador?” they all said.

“Why not? I have a friend there, and he
will hide me. If you are successful in bringing down the Scarpones then I may
be able to return – but if not, South America is not so bad. Better a life in
Ecuador than a grave in Milan.”

They could see his point. “We’re going
to miss you, Bruno.”

“And I am going to miss you,” he said.
“We will split the money. I will take one quarter, and you have the rest.”

Chrissie looked at Brenda and Megan and
they knew what she was thinking, and nodded. She held Bruno’s hand. “You take
the three-quarters. You’re going to need at least that much to start a new
life. We’ll have plenty with what’s left. This is all going to come to a head
in the next few days – and we’ll either get our old lives back or we’ll be
brown bread, so as long as we’ve got enough money until then … In any case,
this money did belong to the church – so call it redundancy pay. In fact, if
you think about it, it does actually belong to you.”

Then they held hands in the centre of
the table until Bruno got up and left. They waited in the dining room until he
came back downstairs and walked him to the door. Last hugs and kisses were exchanged,
and he set off down the cul-de-sac. When he got to the end of the road he
stopped and looked left and right. Chrissie shouted his name, and he turned.  “Ecuador
is that way,” she said, pointing to the right. He waved, and then he was gone.

They closed the door and sat in the
small front room, which was now a guests’ lounge area. The leaded-glass bay
window looked out on to the road outside, and then beyond that on to the rows
of never-ending rooftops that stretched across this part of South West London.
The cosy armchairs were better than a Thai massage, and Mrs Grimshaw’s guest
house felt like sanctuary. It was a big scary world out there, and it had
become a whole lot scarier in these past few days.

They were all lost in contemplation when
Mrs Grimshaw popped her head around the door.

“Hello, there. Would anyone like a cup
of tea? I’m just going to make one.”

“No, thank you,” said Brenda. “We have
to go out soon. Would you happen to know if there’s a library or cafe nearby
that has public computers we can use?”

“I do,” said Mrs Grimshaw. “Of course,
you can always use that one.” And she pointed to an office desk in the corner –
and there, plain as day, was a twenty-inch monitor with tower and printer
underneath.

“How come we didn’t see that?” Brenda said
to no one in particular.

“It’s because she’s really Mary Poppins.
Isn’t that right, Mrs G?” said Chrissie.

Mrs Grimshaw laughed. “Far from it. It
still takes me four hours a day to wash and clean everything around here.”

“Trouble is,” said Brenda, “we need to
copy something from a USB stick, and we don’t have any new ones. So we’ll have
to go and buy some before we can even use the computer.”

“That’s all right, dear. How many do you
need?”

“Two would be enough,” said Brenda.

“Well, if you look in that drawer I’m
sure there’re three or four. I think they were £5.50 each. Take what you need,
and I’ll add it to your bill.”

“That’s great. Thank you very much,”
said Brenda sincerely.

“That’s what we’re here for. Now, then, if
you don’t have to go out … would you like that pot of tea?”

“Yes, please,” they all said, delighted
that they didn’t have to venture back out on to the mean streets just yet.

Brenda booted up the computer and waited
for everything to load up. She put the USB into its slot and waited. The
options came on screen …
Would you like to view the files?
She clicked,
and dozens and dozens of files came into view … Trouble was, they were all in
Italian.

“Oh, shit,” said Chrissie. “Quick …
let’s run after Bruno.”

“He’ll be well gone,” said Megan.

“What about Mary Poppins? She’s magic. I
bet she speaks Italian.”

Chrissie seemed serious, and they were
beginning to have concerns about her. At that moment Mrs Grimshaw came in with
the tea. “You can speak Italian, can’t you?” said Chrissie confidently.

The proprietor was taken aback. “No,
sorry. I’m okay with French, if that helps.”

Chrissie looked incredibly disappointed,
and simply shook her head. The tea tray was put on to a narrow coffee table,
and Mrs Grimshaw left to begin her daily cleaning regime.

“We could google the words,” said Megan.

“That will take forever,” replied Brenda.
“And we’ve got maybe two hours before we need to leave.”

“Then we’d better get on with it,” said
Chrissie, coming out of her Mary Poppins bubble. “We can’t read the actual files,
but we can try and work out the file names. We pick a few at random, and then
at eleven o’ clock we decide which ones to copy and just pray they contain the
information Roberto is looking for.”

For the next two hours they scrutinised
the different names, some of which had words they recognised – but mostly it
was a painstaking exercise in Internet translation, word by word.

Eleven o’clock arrived and they’d only
managed to decipher fourteen folder names, half of them simply saying ‘number
one’ or ‘amended’, and the date. They could contain masses of relevant
information but, then again, it could be a Christmas card list. They had no way
of knowing. The memory stick held over 400 folders, so what they’d achieved was
only a drop in the ocean.

They copied the whole fourteen and threw
in another one for the pot. Without any knowledge of what the folders actually
contained they were taking a massive gamble. If Roberto decided they had
nothing to offer then he would return to Italy, and they would lose the only
chance they had of getting out of this. On the other hand, if they gave him all
the data – and even if it was exactly what he wanted – he could still leave
them alone, and at the mercy of the Scarpone hit men. It was best to keep to
the plan. As long as they held on to the original they still had something to
bargain with.

Before logging out of the computer
Brenda found one more name and address. It was the address of the chief prosecutor
of Naples. She wrote the address on an envelope taken from a stationery pack in
the desk. Then made a copy of the entire data and placed it inside. “I’m giving
this to Mrs Grimshaw with instructions to post it if she doesn’t hear from us
within seven days. If we’re still around we’ll come and get it back … If not,
then at least we might get some revenge and put a nail or two in the Scarpone
coffin.”

Then they hurriedly put a few things
together and ordered a taxi to take them to the station. Chrissie tucked a
bundle of money into the snakeskin-effect shoulder bag she’d bought the
previous evening, and Brenda put the two USB sticks into a small zip pocket in
her denim skirt.

As the taxi manoeuvred its way along the
busy streets Chrissie, Brenda, and Megan gazed out of their respective windows
at the cross section of people passing by: thousands of individuals, all with
their own stories to tell and crosses to bear. Sometimes life can be harsh and
fate has a habit of putting you in the wrong place at the wrong time – they
certainly knew about that – but even though it’s a crazy mixed-up world they
still wanted to be a part of it. They didn’t want to die on some dirty London
street. They didn’t want to die at all. To try and mask these thoughts they
each focused on a happy occasion from the past – a good memory they could take with
them if all this went wrong.

The journey on the Tube was just as
surreal. It was as if they were ghosts walking among the living, unable to
communicate or ask for help. People entered and left the train, and station
names flashed by like a dream sequence from a Fellini movie.

They arrived at Victoria, and it was an
effort to stand up. They went into the main-line station and looked for left
luggage, then bought a safety deposit key. Maybe it was talking to the customer
services person or perhaps it was the cooler air around the station, but that
weird feeling was leaving and they could feel the floor beneath their feet and
the oxygen in their lungs. They felt whole instead of fragmented, and solid
instead of transparent. They had the strength of mind and body back again – and
that was good, because they were going to need both very soon.

Thirty-five minutes later they were
exiting the Tube at Piccadilly Circus. Chrissie remarked how her granny used to
say that if you stand in this part of London long enough, sooner or later,
everyone in the world will pass by. How some Papua New Guinean pygmy saved up
enough money to get here is mystifying – and why he would want to even more
mystifying.

They walked down Shaftesbury Avenue like
any other tourists and paused at the KFC as if contemplating whether to eat in
or cross over the road to Chinatown and have an oriental version of Chicken Zinger.
Then they checked out the Queen’s Theatre and paused to look at photographs of
the cast.

“I remember him from
Home and Away
,”
said Chrissie. “He’s come a
long way from Summer Bay. Maybe there is
something in this Piccadilly Circus thing after all.”

They turned into Wardour Street and then
right into Old Compton Street. The bar Chrissie had suggested was on the right,
and as they walked past the gay sex shops and bondage clothing displays it
suddenly crossed her mind that perhaps this wasn’t the best place to meet with
the head of a Mafia family. They didn’t like to be disrespected, and this could
be interpreted as a slight on Roberto’s masculinity. These were touchy people,
and had to be handled carefully. Plus they were foreign, so who knows how they
think?