See Naples and Die (18 page)

Roberto had one hand on his chin, which
he held out. “So?”

“So, Mr Vialli, who has that sort of
power and influence?”

“Don’t play games, inspector. If you
mean the Mafia then say the Mafia.”

“Okay,” said Elliott. “I believe this
has Mafia written all over it. Why are you in London?”

“For a vacation,” said Roberto. “I
needed to get away from it all.”

“Yet you haven’t left the hotel in three
days … not much of a holiday.”

Roberto leant forward. “What do you
understand about the Mafia, inspector? There are Mafia families all around the
world. The Albanian Mafia run the vice, as I’m sure you are aware, and the
Russians like to own prime real estate. In Italy there are dozens of families,
and in the United States even more. So you think that just because I happen to
be in London that my family is committing murder?”

“And robbery,” added Elliott.

This time Roberto held out both hands in
bewilderment.

“The gold bullion robbery,” said
Elliott.

“So I am killing British gangsters and
stealing their gold. That is very good. Actually, I wish I had thought of it.”

This wasn’t the reaction Elliott had
expected. It was all too light-hearted, and he felt foolish. He could feel his
face flush and the anger burn in his belly.

“You may be able to laugh at justice in
Naples, Mr Vialli, but you are on English soil now and I will find a connection
that links your family to these events. And, when I do, I promise that you will
regret bringing your brand of violence to these shores.”

Roberto settled back in his chair and rolled
his shoulders to create a comfortable position. “Calm down, inspector. Would
you like some coffee?” and without waiting for an answer he clapped his hands
and Armando appeared from the bedroom. The Italian minder had his jacket off
and a shoulder holster and gun were on full display. Elliott checked out the
weapon, but decided not to make an issue of it.

“Two coffees, please, Armando,” said
Roberto. “How do you like yours, inspector?”

“White; two sugars,” replied Elliott,
and Armando in his slow Mafia gait swaggered off into the kitchen.

“A cup of coffee isn’t going to make
this go away,” said Elliott defiantly.

Roberto laughed again. “Inspector, open
your eyes. You are like a horse in the Derby. There is so much at stake, but
you have taken the wrong course and are allowing the others a free run.”

“So you are denying any involvement … but
then you would say that, wouldn’t you?”

Roberto rolled his eyes, but Elliott
continued down the same blinkered path. “What do you know about three girls:
Megan Penhaligon, Chrissie McGuire, and Brenda Smith?”

“What do
you
know about them?”
replied Roberto.

“I’m asking the questions,” said the
detective.

Roberto’s eyes turned cold. “No, you are
not. You said we were having a conversation and in any language that is where
we both participate, so I can ask whatever I want. Up to now this meeting has
been one-sided, so now it’s time for me to ask some questions of my own. How
long have these murders been going on?”

There was a moment of silence before
Elliott relented and decided that he wasn’t giving anything away by complying.
If Vialli was responsible then he knew the answer, and if he wasn’t the culprit
then it didn’t really matter what he was told.

“Around five months.”

“And have you found any pattern or
connection to the victims?”

Elliott thought it best to keep quiet
about Walter Monreal, Angelo Tardelli, and the Manchester development.

“No.”

“I feel you are not being totally honest
with that answer, and that is understandable,” said Roberto sternly. “But you
must learn to widen your vision and see what is all around. Don’t be obsessed
with what is directly ahead or you will miss the obvious, which is behind you.
A theory doesn’t become wrong because there is no end product: it just becomes
a theory that requires adjustment.”

The Mafia don had a cryptic way with
words and Elliott was trying to analyse what he had heard when he felt a sudden
impulse to turn, and there standing behind was Armando with two cups of coffee.

“See,” smiled Roberto. “You are learning
already.”

They both sat for a few minutes and
drank their coffee in silence. It was surprising how having a drink together
had altered the mood, and now a much more relaxed atmosphere prevailed.

Roberto began the conversation again. “I
have no need to say this to you, inspector, but I have no idea what you are
talking about with these tales of murder and robbery. I know about the gold
bullion – I read the papers – but I can tell you, and you can believe what you
wish, that I had absolutely nothing to do with any of it. Yes, yes … I know
what you are going to say, but I have no reason to lie. You have no proof, and
even if you did what could you do about it? If this was my doing I would laugh
in your face and throw you out.”

Elliott smiled. This casual openness was
more to his liking. “You say you have no involvement, but you don’t deny that
it could be Mafia?”

“Ah … at last you are looking left and
right,” said Roberto.

“But, as you said earlier,” sighed
Elliott, “there are dozens of families who could be behind this. I need a
connection.”

Roberto finished his coffee and put the
cup down on a nest of tables at the side of his armchair. “I can help you find
the man you seek.”

“And why would you do that?” asked
Elliott.

“Because we have a common enemy, and it
could be to my advantage to have the English police on my side. I want to move
my family into legitimate businesses and wrestle free from the confines of
crime, but as long as I have enemies I can never let go. You can help me become
a better man.”

“So you will be my informant?” asked
Elliott.

“And you will become my police puppet,”
spat Roberto. “Do not cheapen this arrangement. We will become partners, you
and I. We will work and plan together to achieve the total destruction of our
foe.”

Roberto stood up and walked to the
bureau. He wrote on a pad and tore off the sheet of paper, which he handed to
Elliott. “This is my mobile phone number. Do not share it with anyone … How
many people are involved in this case?”

Elliott felt embarrassed to admit it but
said, “There’re only two of us working on the murder file: everyone else has
been shunted on to the bullion robbery.”

“That’s good,” said Roberto. “You must
not speak of our arrangement or your Mafia theories to anyone. There will be
people within your department who will be taking our enemies’ money … They could
be your friends, or your superiors. They could be people you have known all
your life. Do you trust your partner?”

Elliott thought about Dave Hyman. He was
annoying but he was a good copper. “Yes, he’s okay.”

“Okay isn’t good enough,” said Roberto.
“Tell him only what you must and no more.”

He handed Elliott the pen and writing
pad. “Give me your personal phone number. We must never communicate through a
shared line. Mobile to mobile still isn’t safe, but it’s the best we can do.
Now I am going to ask you to leave, and I will be in touch very soon.”

Elliott realised that this was the end
of the conversation, so he stood and shook the Mafia man’s hand. He was shown
out of the hotel by Beppe, who then unceremoniously turned away and walked back
towards the lifts.

Elliott strolled down Piccadilly, trying
to decipher what had just happened. This could be a momentous turning point in
the investigation: to have information and the backing of a major Mafia family
was more than he could ever have hoped for. Then again, he had seen with his
own eyes Armando and Beppe pursuing Megan Penhaligon and her friends. They had
something Roberto Vialli wanted and he seemed quite prepared to kill them to
get it, so he wasn’t all sweetness and light and Elliott knew he was not to be
trusted.

Elliott Chan walked the half mile to
Charing Cross police station. It had been an eventful morning, and not at all
what he had expected. He wasn’t sure how far he could trust Roberto Vialli, but
even if the Mafia boss was using him in some way he had no other choice but to
run with it. At least now it wasn’t just his pet theory that the Mafia were
involved in the murders: Vialli had confirmed that it was more than likely … but
he had to find a tangible link to prove it, and Angelo Tardelli was that link.
He needed Dave Hyman to uncover some details on Tardelli – anything to prove he
existed. Perhaps he should have mentioned the name to Roberto, but it was still
too early to be sharing such important information – and although the Mafia don
had talked of cooperation he hadn’t exactly given anything away.

“Let’s see what he comes up with,”
thought Elliott. “It’s down to him to make the next move.”

The duty room at Charing Cross had
calmed down since the first news of the gold bullion heist. The combined might
of the metropolitan law enforcement agencies were getting nowhere and, although
it was early days, people were panicking. Enthusiastic individuals who had lots
to say were now keeping their heads down and working quietly behind the scenes.

Elliott sat at his desk, and was handed
a message from Dave Hyman. He’d spent all night at the Bricklayers Arms, and
would be in the office around noon. The note didn’t mention any startling
revelations so Elliott assumed it was now a matter of waiting for forensics,
and so he put all thoughts of Micky Fallon to the back of his mind. It would be
a couple of days before reports would be available, and there were more
important things to be getting on with. This afternoon he would be going back
to the department of business development. There were other companies he hadn’t
had time to scrutinise, and he had a strong feeling that a key was waiting to
be discovered among those files. It would be a painstaking exercise, but it had
to be done.

Elliott checked the time. It was 11.25,
and he decided to wait for Dave Hyman to arrive before leaving for Whitehall
and the mountain of documents. “Coffee time,” he said to himself, and walked
across the duty room towards the canteen. Then he paused, changed direction,
and headed for the street. He fancied a cappuccino and a Danish pastry from the
coffee shop on the Strand. His mind was picturing the patisseries on display as
he passed a rotund gentleman talking to the desk sergeant, and he was almost at
the door when he faintly heard the man mention a name that stopped him in his
tracks. Without turning he listened intently to the conversation – and then he
heard it again, distinctly this time: Angelo Tardelli.

Elliott hurried to the desk, and could see
a bored desk sergeant beginning to take notes from a fast-talking Italian.

“Hiya, John,” said Elliott.

“Hello, chief,” grunted the uniformed
officer.

“I’ll take care of this, if it’s all
right with you.”

“Sure,” said the sergeant, screwing up
the form in his hand. He’d only got as far as writing the date, and so
considered Elliott’s intervention a good result.

Elliott shook hands with the Italian and
introduced himself. “Hello, sir. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Chan, and you
are …?”

“Vincenzo Grappello of the restaurant
Vincenzo’s of St John’s Wood … Steak night on Mondays and two for one every
Wednesday … Here is my card.”

The man handed Elliott a business card
then, as if having a flash of inspiration, peeled off another half-dozen.
“Please, take these for your friends.”

“Thank you,” said Elliott and put one of
the cards on to the desk for the sergeant, who gave a surly look that said,
“I’m not your friend.”

“Mr Grappello,” said Elliott, “if you
can follow me, please.” And together they went back across the duty room to
Elliott’s desk. He wanted to charge in and ask the restaurateur outright about
Angelo Tardelli, but he bit his tongue and let the man begin at the beginning.

Vincenzo cleared his throat. “Last night
Mr Angelo dined with us. He is a regular customer and a friend. He arrived for
his reservation at 9.30 and left at around 11.30. On leaving I walked with him
to the door. He complimented me on the food and then stepped outside. I saw him
standing on the pavement, and when I look again he is on the floor. I rushed to
see what was wrong and saw a man running away and a long screwdriver on the
floor. I don’t want to touch anything but there is an envelope by his side. So
I take the envelope and go and dial 999.

“When I go back outside a man is bending
over Mr Angelo. He says he is a policeman … a detective … and he shows me a
badge. I am not sure about this man. He is looking through Mr Angelo’s pockets
as if searching for something, and asks me if I have seen an envelope. I decide
to say no. He doesn’t check for a pulse or if any first aid can be administered
… he just looks once again through the pockets. Then we hear the sirens of a
police car and he says he will leave the situation to these officers and walks
away. This was a strange way to behave, I think.”

“I think so too,” said Elliott. “What
happened when the officers arrived?”

“They did the correct things. They
checked for a pulse and said that Mr Angelo was still breathing. Then they
waited for the ambulance and let the paramedics take over. They took a
statement from me and then left to follow the ambulance.”

“Do you know which hospital they went
to?”

“No.”

“Did you mention the envelope to these
officers?”

“No. I had put it under the counter in
the restaurant and I still had an uneasy feeling about who to give it to, but
all night it has troubled me and so I have brought it to the police station.”

“So you have it with you. May I see it,
please?”

Vincenzo handed over an A5 envelope.
Elliott split the seal with his paper knife and emptied the contents on to the
desk. A selection of photographs spilled out, and the first one he saw was a
close-up of Megan Penhaligon. As he moved the photos apart he could also see
her friends and typewritten descriptions. He carefully put everything back in
the envelope, and put it into the top drawer in between two document folders.

Elliott folded his arms and put his
serious head on. “Tell me about Angelo Tardelli.”

Vincenzo shuffled uneasily in his chair.
“Mr Angelo was just someone who came into the restaurant. He was a customer … that
is all.”

Elliott frowned. “He was a friend a
minute ago.”

“All my customers are my friends. It is
a friendly restaurant.”

Elliott began to throw questions like
rice at a wedding. “Do you know where he lives?”

“No.”

“Did he ever dine with anyone else?”

“Sometimes he would be with a man called
Caesar.”

“What is Caesar’s second name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“No.”

“How often did Angelo Tardelli visit
your restaurant?”

“Once a week … maybe more.”

“How did he pay?”

“In cash: always in cash.”

“What did he do for a living?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know much, do you?”

Vincenzo snapped out of his ‘ever so
humble’ character. “I know you are trying to intimidate me, and that you have
no right to do that. I came in here voluntarily to hand over what may be
evidence, and it could assist you in the search for a vicious attacker. I have
also alerted you to the suspicious nature of one of your detectives.”

Elliott knew he’d blown it. He should
have trodden softly-softly, but his impatience had got the better of him. Time
was precious and he’d wanted a swift result, but it was a bad move. Vincenzo
could see where he wanted to go with these questions, and he was having none of
it. Elliott tried to mend the broken fences.

“I have to know as much as possible
about Angelo Tardelli before I can try and find out who his attacker was.”

“Then why don’t you start by asking Mr
Angelo? You haven’t even enquired whether he is dead or alive. Shouldn’t you be
finding out which hospital he was taken to and if he is recovering? And
shouldn’t you be trying to discover who this detective was who was searching a
dying man’s pockets?” Vincenzo stood up. “If Mr Angelo is deceased you can come
and ask me all the questions you want, but until that becomes a fact I am
leaving to attend my business.”

“Of course, Mr Grappello. Thank you,”
said Elliott, knowing that he had lost this war of words.

The Italian restaurateur marched out of
Charing Cross police station and walked quickly away, while from the opposite
direction Dave Hyman approached and entered through the high, chapel-style
brown doors. Dave nodded at the desk sergeant, who smiled a genuine smile of
affection. “Hiya, Dave. How’s it going?”

“Bloody awful,” replied the detective,
and they both laughed.

Elliott was on the phone as his partner
strolled across the room. He dragged a nearby chair up to the desk, sat down,
and waited.

Elliott finished the call. “Angelo
Tardelli has turned up.”

“What …? Where?” said an open-mouthed
Dave Hyman.

“In intensive care … He was stabbed last
night … He’s in a bad way, but he’s still breathing. He’s in Chadsworth Green
hospital.”

“Are we going to see him?”

“No, you are,” replied Elliott. “There
have been other developments,” and he took the envelope from his drawer and
emptied out the pictures of Megan, Chrissie, and Brenda.

Dave Hyman looked blank. “Who are they?”

“It’s a long story and I’ll explain when
you get back, but I believe these three are crucial to our entire
investigation. Tardelli had these photographs with him when he was attacked,
and all these girls were already known to me.”

“Known to you which way, boss?”

“Known to me because they have a Mafia
connection,” said Elliott.

Dave Hyman pulled at his earlobe.

“I’m sending a squad car to bring them
in. These photos place them in the centre of an attempted murder, not to
mention a hundred and one other implications. You find out what state Tardelli
is in and then get back here.”

“Okay, boss,” said Dave Hyman, as he took
one more look at each of the pictures. “See you later.”

Elliott sat back. He had at least an
hour to wait before the girls would be brought in for questioning, and so he
set about trying to gather as much information on Angelo Tardelli as he could.
He’d already run the name through records and come up with nothing, so called a
good friend and second cousin who worked for the force as an IT consultant and
software architect. Oliver was a guy who knew more about the police computer
system than the system itself, and if Angelo Tardelli was known to the police
then he was the man to uncover the details.

Elliott smiled as he rang the number. He
always enjoyed talking to Oliver. It was easy conversation, and he was looking
forward to speaking with a friend. He had precious few in Charing Cross, and
was in need of some light-hearted banter without the worry of repercussions.
Oliver was equally pleased to hear his second cousin’s voice, and for a few
precious moments they passed pleasantries and giggled like the two college kids
they used to be. Then Elliott got to the point: find out everything you can
about Angelo Tardelli, by the end of today if possible. And then, as if every
second counted, he ended the call.

An interview room had been booked and
Elliott made his way with a fresh notepad, his lucky pen, and a head full of
questions. He entered the room and viewed the traditional table and three chairs
and then, after consideration, brought in another chair and arranged the
seating to his advantage. Normally only one person would be interviewed at a
time, but in this instance he wanted all three girls together. However, it was
important that he made them feel like individuals. He didn’t want all the girls
in a line so he set the three chairs four feet apart, with the one on the end
set slightly further back. This way they wouldn’t be able to see each other out
of the corner of their eyes and would have to turn their heads to make eye
contact, which would create uneasiness and isolation – whereas he could speak
to them singly with the advantage of viewing all three faces in detail and
comparing each expression for signs of truth and lies. He moved his chair a few
inches to the left until it was directly opposite the centre chair of the three,
which is where he’d decided Megan Penhaligon would sit … and he waited.

Dave Hyman strode through the corridors
of Chadsworth Green hospital, flashing his credentials at every passing nurse.
Never one to miss an opportunity, the cocky cockney was in his element among
this vast female workforce. His smile and head grew bigger by the minute and
then, like a wonderful dream, it all came to an abrupt end just at the best bit
and he was awoken by the gruff Scottish tones of Mr McBride, the consultant in
charge of the Tardelli admission.