The Liberation

by Kate Furnivall

‘You know the rules,’ the chairman said mildly.

  He let the man stand there, empty handed.

  In the ante-room on the other side of the door, the drinkers of the Caesar Club could be heard carousing, unaware of the decisions of the eleven men in the banqueting chamber.

  ‘The rules state,’ he continued, ‘that no one can leave or enter until the meeting is ended.’

  ‘To hell with the rules. Open this door.’

  The chairman was patient. Slowly he opened the buff file in front of him. Slowly he extracted a photograph of the exporter lounging on the deck of a ship and wearing no clothes. Surrounded by six exquisite naked boys.

  ‘Sit down.’ Sharp. Cold. Full of acid. ‘I have a picture for your wife.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  ‘What is it you want?’ Vanni’s voice came at Caterina out of the darkness.

  She sat up, making her bed-nest rustle. A bundle of copies of Il Mattino acted as her mattress, betraying every twitch or shift of a limb. Vanni had led them into a tenement courtyard and slithered through a broken air-vent into a basement that stank of urine and rat excrement, where they laid claim to a pile of old newspapers kept there for sleeping nests, but Caterina could not sleep. Not while she thought of Luca with Aldo.

  Tino was coughing, so she crawled over to his bed-nest, lifted his ragged shirt and rubbed his skinny little chest to help bring up the phlegm, the same as she used to do for Luca. When Tino finally fell into a fitful sleep, she felt her way back to her own newspaper nest, collapsed on to it, aching as she let her eyes sink shut.

  ‘What the fuck is it you want, Bruno?’

  Her eyes shot open. She rolled her head to face in the direction of Vanni, though she could see nothing. It felt safer. Facing him.

  ‘I am looking for someone, Vanni.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A man called Aldo. He’s huge. An ox with a big moustache. Likes hurting people. You know of him?’

  In the silence she could hear him thinking.

  ‘You seen him around, Vanni?’

  ‘You ask too many questions, kid.’

  Earlier Vanni had got into a fight, some clash over boundaries. He and the leader of another group of street urchins had flown at each other like wolves, teeth and claws slashing. That’s what she was aware of now, that ruthlessness of his, if she stepped out of line and threatened his pack.

  ‘What happened to your parents?’ she murmured.

  ‘None of your fucking business,’ he snapped.

  ‘What about Tino’s?’

  ‘Dead. All our parents. All in the same street. Fucking British bombers came at night. Except for Meo’s pa. He was shot down.’ She saw the flare of a match as he lit himself a cigarette. ‘It’s kill or be killed. The bombs taught me that. Life is a shithole and you got to stay on top. You got to learn that, kid.’

  ‘You watch out for your wolves.’

  ‘Sure I do. They’re . . .’ He drew hard on his cigarette.

  Family. That’s what he was going to say. These orphans had become his replacement family and she knew he would spill blood for them.

  ‘Vanni, I got family.’

  No comment. The tip of the cigarette dodged like a firefly.

  ‘A brother,’ she added. ‘Luca. Did you have a brother, Vanni?’

  Still no comment.

  ‘I need to find Aldo. Real bad. He’s got something of mine.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘My Luca.’

  Smoke curled around her nostrils, so he must be looking at her.

  ‘Where is Aldo?’ She could hear the urgency in her voice. ‘Please, Vanni.’

  There was a rustle of newspaper as he shifted position, turning his back on her.

  ‘Like I said, kid, you ask too many questions.’

  From nowhere the sluggish clouds came, bringing a dismal morning drizzle that constantly threatened worse. It swept through the harbour, blurring the hard edges of the cranes and trucks, turning the sea into a sheet of lead that nudged the grey troopships moored offshore. More military units were leaving.

  Caterina pushed Tino’s tattered cap firmly down on his head. His skin was burning up. He should be out of the rain, but he wouldn’t let Vanni leave him behind. They had come to the docks to see if they could pick up anything the army wouldn’t miss and while the rest of the pack sheltered in the ruined hallway of a roofless block of apartments, Vanni loped back and forth out in the rain.

  To Caterina he did look like a wolf. That same ferocity, that same fixed focus. His long jaw thrust forward, and always the tireless stride.

  Did he trust her? Did he trust Bruno?

  She yanked her cap lower over her eyes and stepped out into the downpour, shoulders hunched, her shirt already soaked to her skin. Now was the time to find out.

  Luca. Hold on, Luca. I’m coming. And if Aldo has laid a finger on you, my brother, I will put a skewer right through his heart.

  She fell into step beside Vanni, though he didn’t bother to acknowledge her. She could sense a tension in him, a restlessness as he paced, hands cupped around his eyes to help him peer through the rain, and she wondered what was going on in that head of his.

  ‘What you need,’ she announced at his elbow as he scanned the curve of the sea-road up past the grim medieval fortress of Castell Nuovo, ‘is a pair of binoculars.’ She gave a rough smile. ‘You could spy on . . .’

  Vanni jerked to a halt, seized her shirt front and yanked her to him. Not roughly but firmly.

  ‘You got binoculars?’ he demanded.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You know where to get them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He shook her, rattling her teeth. ‘You tricking me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where?’

  She placed both hands flat on his chest and pushed hard, breaking his grip, and danced out of reach before he could lash out at her.

  ‘I’ll get them,’ she said. ‘And bring them here. Maybe two pairs of binoculars.’

  He sneered at her through the rain, rivulets running off his chin. ‘No, Bruno, you little shit. We’re coming with you.’

  Jake was seated at his desk, surrounded by papers, a cup of army coffee at his elbow and grit between his teeth. The grit came from his ride up to Sorrento. This morning he’d roared through the rain on the Harley, taking bends at breakneck speed, but still Caterina wasn’t home. No sign of her. And now it had got one hell of a lot worse because there was no sign of her brother either. With a curse he flung the report of his latest interview across the desk, lit a cigarette and filled his lungs with smoke.

  Where are you, Caterina?

  Goddammit, why hadn’t she stayed put in her workshop yesterday like he’d told her? They both knew this business with Aldo wasn’t over. Jake and his team had spent yesterday interviewing half of Sorrento’s inhabitants about the murders and Commissari Belzano had proved to be anything but helpful. To hell with the local police. In a case like this that involved both the army and the polizia, the Allied Military pulled rank every time. Everyone knew the police were corrupt. It was a fact of life in Italy. They were paid a pittance and were struggling to survive, just like everyone else round here.

  But when Jake had finally reached Caterina’s workshop it was late afternoon and it was locked. At her house her grandfather was a bundle of nerves, pacing the floor, cracking his stick down on the tiles as if it were somebody’s head.

  She had left a note. Gone to Naples. Back soon. Don’t worry.

  But she wasn’t back. And now there was no Luca either. It was that note that convinced Jake that Caterina and Luca were not together. The note was obviously intended for her brother to read, not for her blind grandfather.

  Don’t worry.

  Of course I worry, Caterina. I worry like crazy.

  ‘Find her,’ her grandfather had pleaded. ‘Find my grandchildren, I beg you, Major Parr.’

  This was not a man who found it easy to beg.

 
Rapidly and methodically Jake had interviewed the neighbours, even dragging them out of bed in their nightclothes. One piece of information emerged that he hadn’t expected: Caterina and Lucia Lombardi had been seen deep in conversation yesterday outside her house. Jake allowed himself a sliver of hope. If Caterina was with her mother, they could be together in a bar somewhere and Lucia Lombardi was a woman who knew how to look after herself.

  He had raced back to Naples and set about tracking down Lucia. It didn’t take him long. He started by questioning Maria, the prostitute who hung out at Leo’s Bar, the one who had recognised Caterina as Lucia Lombardi’s daughter the first day he met her. It seemed Maria hadn’t seen Lucia, but she gave him names of others who might have. So Jake had the prostitutes marched into his office, brothel by brothel. Blonde, brunette, flame-haired, sweet or sharp, yawning or sullen, it made no difference to him. He questioned them all. He had learned long ago that streetwalkers know the secrets of a city.

  And all the time he’d handed out cigarettes as if smoking had just been invented, until a raven-haired fifty-year-old in a scarlet skirt had said, ‘Si, Major Parr. I know this Lucia Lombardi.’

  He pushed a pack of two hundred Lucky Strikes across his desk and she wrote down an address.

  Simple as that.

  ‘Jake, you got a minute?’

  Jake finished checking his .45 and slid it into its holster. ‘Can it wait, Harry?’ He picked up his officer cap and tucked it under his arm. ‘I can’t hang about.’

  ‘No, Jake. It can’t wait.’

  Jake heard the note of urgency. ‘Okay, get in here, but be quick.’

  Harry entered the office and shut the door behind him.

  ‘What is it, Harry?’

  Harry stood to attention. Something he never did when they were alone.

  ‘Spit it out, Harry.’

  Harry drew in a deep breath. ‘The painting of Mary Magdalene by Bronzino, the one that you retrieved from the brick factory. It is missing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It is not in the basement storeroom. Not any more. It has gone.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean? Gone? How can it have gone? I put it there myself.’

  ‘Someone has removed it.’

  ‘Not possible. No one has access to those basement keys except you, me and Colonel Quincy.’

  Their eyes fixed on each other, and Jake started to shake his head. Slowly at first, but then faster.

  ‘No,’ he said softly, ‘not Quincy.’ He began to prowl the room. ‘No. Colonel Quincy has worked as tirelessly as we have to preserve this collection for Italy. Not Quincy.’ The possibility stunned him. ‘I informed him on the evening of the nightclub bomb that I had deposited the painting.’

  He halted mid-stride.

  ‘Colonel Quincy insisted I stay in hospital the next day.’ He stared bleakly at his comrade.

  Harry nodded. ‘He ordered me to take the unit up to Sant’Agata to do a sweep of the place because of so-called information of a cache up there. Which I will remind you, Jake, we did not find.’

  ‘We have no proof of criminal intent,’ Jake pointed out. ‘He may have removed it in order to . . .’

  A knock sounded on the door and it opened.

  ‘Not now, sergeant.’

  ‘I have a message for you, sir.’ The young uniformed soldier looked uneasy.

  ‘Who is it from?’ Jake asked.

  ‘It’s from one of the dirty kids that roam the gutters of the streets. He’s out the front. I booted him away but he was insistent.’

  ‘Deal with it, sergeant.’ He turned away.

  ‘But sir . . .’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘He said it was important and that you’d want to speak to him.’

  Jake was suddenly alert. ‘What is the message?’

  ‘He says he has information. About someone called Caterina Lombardi.’

  The rain was lashing down, blurring the world outside, as Jake scanned the street outside the palazzo for the boy. A passing yellow bus sent a wave of water up over the pavement and a movement off to his left caught his eye. A skinny youth in rags was shaking his bare legs like a dog to rid them of the soaking, but his shirt and cap were already drenched. How long had he been waiting there?

  ‘Boy!’ Jake shouted. ‘Get over here.’

  Instantly the boy came scurrying over, head down against the downpour, dirt snaking down his limbs in dark runnels. Jake was sheltering under the portico that adorned the palazzo’s façade and indicated for the scugnizzo to join him.

  ‘Well? What is it you know about Caterina Lombardi?’

  He put out a hand to grasp the boy because he knew how these street kids could vanish in the blink of an eye, but at that moment the boy raised his head and looked directly at Jake. Huge blue eyes stared up at him.

  ‘Caterina?’ he gasped. ‘What . . . ?’

  ‘Frown,’ she hissed at him. ‘Frown and smack me. We are being watched.’

  It was hard to frown when he wanted to grin with relief and hug her soaked body to him, but he forced his face into stern lines and cuffed her lightly across one shoulder.

  ‘Come inside,’ he said quickly.

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ He inspected the street, squinting through the rain. This time he saw them. In the doorway of a draper’s shop, two lean figures, boys who would be men.

  ‘Who are they?’ He spoke in quiet tones, as if the watchers might somehow hear through the rain.

  ‘Jake.’

  One word. Desperation within it.

  ‘Tell me what has happened?’

  She stepped back from him. To stop them reaching out to each other.

  ‘Aldo has my brother. Drago Vincelli arranged it.’

  ‘Oh God, no.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  He seized her thin wrist. She tried to pull away but he refused to let go. ‘Where is he keeping him?’ he demanded.

  ‘I don’t know yet. But the scugnizzi have some information and I am buying it.’ She hung her head as though being bullied by him.

  ‘Buying it with what?’

  She flicked a glance up at him with the faintest of smiles. ‘Two pairs of American Army binoculars. Cigarettes and aspirin.’

  He didn’t even blink. ‘Wait here.’

  Reluctantly he released her wrist and hurried inside, crossing the huge marble hall at a run. It had happened so fast. She had materialised on his doorstep looking like something dragged up from the bottom of the harbour, yet he wasn’t able to give her the shelter he craved to give. Her skin was ashen, her lips blue and bruised-looking, yet her eyes still burned with that intensity that meant he could never look away.

  He burst into his office, ransacked desk and cupboards, and emerged two minutes later with a pair of Bausch & Lomb binoculars in their leather case, a pack of aspirin and his last two hundred Lucky Strikes carton.

  As the price of a boy’s life, it didn’t seem much.

  ‘Harry.’

  Jake barged into the English captain’s office without knocking.

  ‘I need your binoculars.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Quickly, Harry.’

  Harry was on the telephone. He clamped his hand over the mouthpiece and mouthed, ‘Colonel Quincy,’ raising one eyebrow. ‘Excuse me for one moment, sir,’ he said smoothly into the telephone and pointed at a filing cupboard. ‘Bottom drawer.’

  Jake snatched from it a case of Kershaw binoculars, British Army issue, and headed for the door. With a sinking heart he heard Harry saying to their senior officer, ‘Did you by any chance remove the painting to have it cleaned, sir?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Jake handed over what she’d requested, plus his army raincoat. He knew it would be far too big for her but he couldn’t bear to watch her drown.

  ‘Come straight back here,’ he said. He hadn’t meant it to sound like an order, but that’s how it came out. ‘When you know
where Luca is being held, I’ll find him for you. Promise me you won’t do anything foolish on your own.’

  She didn’t promise. But she wrapped herself in his raincoat, pulling it up over her head, burrowing inside it so that only her dirty lonely face showed.

  ‘Thank you, Jake.’ She gave him a soft self-conscious smile that ripped his heart open. ‘You’ve saved my life. Because otherwise I would have had to batter the information out of Vanni and I don’t think his wolves would have liked that.’

  ‘What do they call you, those wolves?’

  ‘Bruno.’

  ‘Well, Bruno, I intend to wait right here on this spot until you get back. Make it fast.’ He risked a smile. ‘I’ll need my coat.’

  She lingered another minute, reluctant to leave him, it seemed.

  ‘I tell them you give me these things,’ she whispered, ‘because I found you down the side of the National Museum in Piazza Museo kissing your colonel’s wife.’

  It took an effort not to laugh. ‘Come back to me, Caterina. In one piece.’ He glanced in the direction of the huddle of youths in the shop doorway. ‘Let me take them the binoculars; I could bring them in for questioning.’

  ‘They’d be gone before you’d got within five metres of them.’

  ‘Try me,’ he said.

  She shook her head heavily. ‘I daren’t. They are my only link with Luca. Give me a slap and then I’ll go.’

  Her reluctance to leave frightened him. As though she did not expect to return.

  ‘I’d rather give you a kiss,’ he said.

  That made her smile. But then she was gone.

  Jake stood there an hour and then another hour. The downpour stopped and the pavements started to steam.

  Cigarette after cigarette hit the black basalt slabs under his feet. A mountain of paperwork sat on his desk demanding attention but he concentrated only on the mouth of the alleyway where she had disappeared. He stood there and willed her to come back to him and did deals with San Gennaro, the patron saint of Naples, if he would send her hurtling back around that corner.

  He thought about her young brother, Luca. Terrified and alone, only eleven years old. Tied up. A prisoner of a man who took pleasure in inflicting pain, but if the boy possessed even half his sister’s guts, he’d hold on. He’d know she would come.