See Naples and Die (15 page)

Megan, Chrissie, and Brenda sat in Mrs
Grimshaw’s front room drinking tea and feeling like
The Prisoner of Zenda
–
trapped and isolated. Chrissie was again talking about doing a runner, and
this time Alaska was mentioned. They had gone through the options over and over,
and the only one that was a possibility was a bad one. They were contemplating
contacting Zico Scarpone to try and arrange a meeting, where they would return
his data stick but tell him that they had made a copy and someone would mail it
to the Naples Chief Prosecutor if they went missing. Therefore he would never
be able to kill them … However, as Brenda remarked, he could torture them until
they told him who had the copy – and that, of course, would be exactly what he
would do.

There were no options. Bereft of friends
or allies, they were lost at sea with no help on the horizon. Then Megan looked
out of the window and saw Elliott Chan walking up the driveway. “It’s the
detective,” she said.

Chrissie and Brenda jumped up for a
better view. They stood transfixed, as if they’d just seen Johnny Depp in the
local Tesco. Then the sound of the doorbell snapped them out of it and Megan
rushed to the front door.

“It’s okay, Mrs Grimshaw,” she shouted
upstairs. “It’s only someone come to see us. We’ll go in the front room, if
that’s all right.”

Elliott sat in the armchair by the
window and could feel the warmth of the sun on one side of his face and the
frosty glare from the girls on the other side. It was a weird sensation. Megan
introduced him, and now they were all waiting for him to speak.

“Hi,” he said, trying to break the ice.

No one replied, and the girl’s
expressions remained the same. The situation was becoming awkward, so Elliott
decided to go for it. “I know you have something that both Roberto Vialli and
another Naples Mafia family want very badly. You are hiding out in Wimbledon
and you don’t know how to cope. You look around and there’s no one who can help
you, and it’s scary … Am I right so far?”

“Go on,” said Megan.

Elliott remained serious. Now wasn’t the
time to smile. “Something is going on in the criminal underworld. There have
been several murders, including leading gang members, and even you must have
heard about the gold bullion robbery. People are acting out of character, and
there’s an unusual pattern about it all.”

“Well, none of that’s anything to do
with us,” snapped Chrissie.

“No, of course I don’t imagine you are
involved – but indirectly I believe there is a link. Why is Vialli here?”

“He’s here because we asked him to
come,” said Megan. “We know things about the Scarpone family, who are his
enemies, and he would like this information to use against them and at the same
time get them to leave us alone. Well … that was the idea, anyway.”

“And he double-crossed you?” asked
Elliott.

“Yes,” said Megan.

Chrissie wasn’t bonding with the
detective, and it showed in her voice. “How can there be a connection between
these British crimes and a Mafia guy from Naples who wouldn’t even be here if
we hadn’t contacted him? It’s a stupid theory.”

“You may be right, Chrissie,” said
Elliott, and he smiled. Now was the time to be their friend. “But my experience
tells me that when several events are all happening at once then there is often
a link. We have the murders, the gold robbery, the Naples Mafia, and you … and
I believe that whatever you have is the key to unlocking all these crimes. Why
don’t you tell me what you know about the Scarpones, and I’ll take action
against them? Believe me, I can protect you – either officially or unofficially
– and I promise no harm will come to you.”

Chrissie scoffed. “It seems to me that
life could get even more complicated, if that’s possible. On top of the Mafia
we could end up with a load of English villains hunting us as well.”

“You only die once,” said Elliott.

This phrase caused a tense silence until
Chrissie mellowed. “You smooth-talker, you.”

“So, are we going to work together?”
asked Elliott.

He could see they were considering it
when his mobile rang. He went to switch the phone off but recognised the number
and decided to take the call.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but this could be
important.”

The caller was Jimmy the weasel, and he
was one of Elliott’s informers.

“Hello,” said Elliott, and he waited.

“Meet me at the usual place in one hour.
This is big … very big,” said the weasel, and ended the call.

The usual place was a deserted warehouse
in Rotherhithe, and Elliott would have to hurry to make the meeting in time. He
cursed inwardly but still managed a smile.

“What do you say?” he asked, as if the
phone call had never happened. But the moment had gone. They’d had time to
think, and caution was in control again. Trust no one until they prove their
worth was the way to survive, and this detective was nothing to them.

“I’ve got your card,” said Megan,
holding up the business card Elliott had given her during their first meeting.
“We’ll ring you.”

Elliott knew it would take time to win
them over, and right now he didn’t have that time. Better to try again another
day than ruin things by being hurried.

“Okay,” he said “I’ll let you consider
your options, but the only good guy in all this is me … I hope you will begin
to see that. Call me later, and together we will come up with a solution.” Then
he let himself out and drove quickly away.

Once on the move he called Dave Hyman on
the hands-free and gave him the address of the rendezvous with Jimmy the weasel.
He told Dave to get there as soon as possible, and keep an eye on Jimmy until
he arrived.

The drive from Wimbledon to Rotherhithe
was the usual painful crawl, and even with his blue light and siren trying to
pave the way it still took over an hour. Elliott switched off the siren when
half a mile away, and finally cruised silently to a halt behind Dave Hyman’s
parked Audi 4 coupé. Dave was nowhere to be seen, so Elliott quietly edged into
the warehouse.

Jimmy would always wait in a small
office on the right-hand side of the building, and Elliott picked his way
through the debris of old piping and nuts and bolts that littered the floor.
His heart was pumping in anticipation. Jimmy never called unless he had first-class
information, and the two main cases at the moment were the bullion robbery and
who had killed the Breckell brothers. It had to be news on one of them.

He reached the office door and turned
the wooden knob. “Jimmy,” he whispered, but there was no reply.

Elliott stood to one side and pushed the
door open. As it swung inwards the door hit something and stopped. Elliott – still
standing to the side – pushed again, but the door wouldn’t move. With pistol
drawn he glanced inside the opening but could only see an old metal filing
cabinet, like a Japanese warrior in full armour. Probably too heavy to move, it
was the only piece of furniture left in the building. He could see most of the
room now, his only blind spot being whatever was behind the door.

Elliott considered the pros and cons,
and then went totally against all his training. He held his gun with both hands
and leapt into the room. He ran across the floor and pointed his pistol in
every direction. His first reaction was one of relief that no one was there,
and then his eyes moved to the floor to discover that the obstruction behind
the door was Jimmy the weasel lying in a pool of blood.

Elliott checked around, inside, and
outside the office and then knelt and felt for a pulse – but Jimmy was as still
and as cold as the filing cabinet facing him. Elliott stood up and called for
an ambulance. Then from across the warehouse he heard the sound of footsteps,
and Dave Hyman was running towards him.

“Sorry, boss,” said Hyman. “The traffic
was a nightmare. Is he here?”

“Yes, he’s here,” said a disappointed Elliott,
“but he isn’t talking.” And he nodded his head towards the office.

Dave had a look inside, then came back
looking equally glum. “Bugger. Any idea what he had to say?”

“No.”

“So it’s back to square one.”

“Yes, looks like,” said Elliott. “Have
you managed to come up with anything?”

Dave had spent the morning trying to
find out who Angelo Tardelli was. Along with Walter Monreal he was down as a
director of the Geneva-based company that Elliott had uncovered.

“Nothing,” said Dave. “They both used
the same registered address as the company, which is an empty flat on the
Edgware Road. I did a property search, and the flat is owned by some Greek guy
who lives in Katerini.”

Elliott held out his hands.

“Katerini, boss. It’s in Macedonia.”

Elliott walked slowly out of the
warehouse and stood by his car. Dave Hyman had followed.

“I ran this Tardelli’s name against our
system, and we have no record of him. Neither is he on any electoral role, and
nor does he have any medical history. I was checking through immigration
records when I got your call.”

Elliott was about to disclose his
conversation with the girls but decided he’d told his partner enough about his Mafia
theory. Besides, Dave Hyman wouldn’t let it go when he first mentioned it. He
seemed captivated with the connection, and wanted to know everything. It was a
pain to get him off the subject, and he didn’t want to start it up again.

“You go back to the office, Dave, and
keep trying. I’m going to wait for the ambulance, and I’ve also called
forensics. Maybe we can get lucky and turn up some clues on who did this. I’ll
catch up with you later.”

Then as an afterthought Elliott asked,
“Just one thing … you said the traffic was a nightmare, but your car was
already here when I arrived. So where were you?”

Dave Hyman shrugged. “I misunderstood
your directions and went to the other warehouse down the towpath. When I got
back you were already here and Jimmy was dead … Sorry, boss, but the traffic
really was chocka.”

“I know,” said Elliott. “I was stuck in
it as well.”

Then he motioned for his partner to go,
and he slowly strolled back into the warehouse and sat on an old wooden crate.
He heard a noise in the distance and saw a black rat scratching around for
scraps, but other than the dead body there was nothing in here for him. He’d
probably soon scurry back to the river, and richer pickings. Elliott wondered
if the rat witnessed the murder of Jimmy the weasel, and if he’d be willing to
testify.

He smiled at the thought of the rat in
the witness box before the wise old owl judge and the badger policeman. Then he
forced himself to be serious, and went through the facts. Who would have known
Jimmy was coming here to meet him? If Jimmy’s information was regarding the
gold bullion heist then it would have been one of the robbers, or if the info
was regarding the Breckells then it would have been one of the killers … but
what if they were one and the same?

He couldn’t get away from this suspicion
that all these things were connected, and there was one man behind it all … But
who was that man? Number one in his mind was Roberto Vialli. These weren’t
tinpot events. The suicides, the gangland bosses, and the biggest robbery in
history meant this had to be an organisation with plenty of clout … and that
spelled Mafia. But how could he break into their world? He needed a key, and
Megan Penhaligon and her friends had that key in whatever secrets they knew. He
was convinced that the only way to solving these crimes was to gain the trust of
the girls, and then use them to trap Vialli. This action had a large element of
risk attached – but using people was a necessary part of the job, and taking
risks was sometimes the only way to get things done.

Zico Scarpone was sipping his first cup
of coffee of the day when he took the phone call from Angelo, and he hit the
roof. His immediate reaction – just as Angelo thought – was to order Tigran
killed and take the gold, and then kill a few more Armenians just for the hell
of it.

Angelo was good at dealing with his
boss. He knew not to take too much notice of the first few minutes of rage and to
simply wait for Zico to calm down. Then he explained the position more clearly.
Only Tigran knew where the gold was being kept and he was the type of man who
wouldn’t talk, no matter what they did to him. Also, the Armenian was a
powerful figure and central to their expansion plans in England, but he understood
that he was a loose cannon and something had to be done to rein him in. Both
his own people and the London criminals were afraid of him, and in that respect
he was a valuable asset … for the time being.

Sixty-two million pounds was a good haul
and definitely a plus, but now they had to control the aftermath. The
schizophrenic Zico put his business head on.

“I’ll tell you what we do, Angelo,” he
said. “Forget the gold for now. It seems like it’s in a safe place, and in time
we’ll discover the exact whereabouts. The immediate problem is someone
informing on our London operations. There will be local people who want to get
even with us, and they will see this as an opportunity. We must make them
understand the consequences of talking to the police … so let the madman loose.
He can take whatever steps he feels necessary, but we don’t get involved. If
this goes wrong then we hang him out to dry, and he can take the rap for
everything except the gold. We keep that.

“The Colombians are impatient to begin
the narcotics trading, so I need you to confirm the airfields we can use. We
also need control of some of the smaller ports around the country. You put all
our people on to this and leave the Armenian to do his worst— Oh … and when
it’s done, teach him a lesson. Kill six of his best men.”

Angelo wasn’t happy with this last
request. He was an assassin by trade, but felt this could only lead to further
complications. He knew Tigran had to be reprimanded and that without doubt sometime
in the future he would have to go, but now wasn’t the time to be kicking him in
the teeth.

“You got that?” said Zico.

“Yes … sure, boss.”

“Right. You call me each morning with
news,” and with that he hung up.

He rang a bell on his desk and the cook
appeared with another cup of coffee and a piece of freshly baked bread. This
was a routine they had each morning. When Zico rang the bell it was a signal to
bring in the second cup of coffee and the bread, which had to have been taken
from the oven five minutes earlier – not too hot, but still warm – and these
instructions had to be adhered to in every detail or there would be big
trouble. He would drink the coffee but never touch the bread. Maybe it was a
power thing … or maybe he really was crazy.

Now it was time for the daily briefing
with his two senior generals – his brother Luca Scarpone and the most loyal of
all his enforcers, Carlito Chiellini. Zico was keen to hear how the proposed
massacre of the Viallis and Capecchis was progressing. He had learnt that both
his rivals had arranged a secret meeting between their two families to discuss
what the Scarpones may be up to. Well, they would discover everything that
evening because they would all be eliminated.

Things couldn’t have worked out better
and Zico wished it had been his cunning that was bringing all his enemies
together, but he couldn’t take the credit for it. They had thought of it all by
themselves. Now he just needed to know where and when and his men would be
lying in wait to murder every last one of them, especially that Roberto Vialli.
He was going to take more hits than a video gone viral.

Zico was waiting, but neither Luca nor
Carlito seemed willing to begin. The don raised his left hand in a quizzical
gesture and Luca reluctantly spoke. “There is a problem.”

Zico frowned. “What kind of problem?”

“The meeting of the families has been
postponed … Roberto Vialli is in London,” replied Luca, who then closed his
eyes to withstand the forthcoming tsunami of rage.

“What’s he doing in London?” and,
without waiting for a reply, “We should have been told as soon as he left
Naples. Who is responsible? Have them shot— no, tortured. Why are we paying
these airport people? They must be punished severely. When is he coming back?
Has the meeting been rescheduled? Maybe we’ll kill them all anyway, and then
Vialli has nothing to come home to.”

Zico paused for breath, and Luca
intervened. “We know he is staying at the Ritz and his personal bodyguards are
with him, but we don’t know why he is there.”

“From today he is to be followed
everywhere,” said Zico. “I want reports. I want to know about everything he
does, where he goes, and who he speaks with – and if anything unusual occurs I
want to know straight away.”

Luca nodded. “He will have a shadow
wherever he goes. We can’t do any more.”

“We could assassinate him in London,”
said Carlito.

Zico considered this, then shook his
head. “No. It’s much easier to do it here. Besides … I want him back, and then
the family meeting will go ahead and we can have our bloodbath. This will go
down in Mafia history as the biggest massacre ever known, and I will be the one
responsible. People will talk about Zico Scarpone as one of the most ruthless
men of all time.”

Zico pushed out his chest à la Mussolini
– and Carlito, without any trace of sarcasm, said, “And it will be a title well
deserved, my don.”

Zico was almost serene for a moment, and
then he ran two fingers down the groove that ran along his skull and slipped
back into angry mode. “This is all very well, but the most important issue is
still unresolved. Why don’t we have the USB data stick? You told me three days
ago that this would be taken care of, so why do I not have it?”

Luca had to try and explain. “We know
who has the data. We picked up the trail when these three females met with the
bishop, and our man would have had them but for the treachery of the young
priest. Twice they have escaped from our clutches, but I promise there will not
be a third time.”

“Do we know where they are now?” asked
Zico.

“No, we do not,” Luca answered.

Zico smashed his fist on the table and
the uneaten piece of bread was launched into the air, where it did three
somersaults and then fell like manna from heaven on to Carlito’s lap. The
grizzled old gangster slapped his hand quickly on top of the bread, as if
preventing it from taking off again. “Thank you, Don,” he said.

Zico gave a look of dismay and went on.
“We know one of these girls by name, do we not? And that she lives in Liverpool
and that she recently visited Naples.”

“Yes,” confirmed Luca.

“Then get our people in the English
police force to trace her. I want to know her address, and I want to know who
her friends are. Find out everything about her … and I want a photo. I want to
see her face and look into her eyes. Get back in touch with Angelo, and tell
him we will be sending visual identification. We will also put pressure on our
contacts to find these three. Make sure he understands that there are to be no
mistakes next time. I want my data stick … and I want three dead bodies.”

Then Zico leant across the table and
eyeballed them both. “Now give me some good news … or fuck off.” And he flicked
his head towards the door.

Luca and Carlito looked vacantly at each
other and then got up, bowed to the don, and left.