The Italian Girl

by Patricia Hall

  “Sergeant, did you find any evidence in London to connect John Blake with the Italian girl?” Longley had asked Mower curtly.

  “No, sir. There was a John Parkinson at RADA at the right sort of time but they didn’t know anything about his subsequent career. They had no record of Blake and I couldn’t find any record of him at a couple of other drama colleges, but that doesn’t prove he didn’t go somewhere else. Mr. Thackeray called me back before I could check them all. I did speak to his agent but he’s only represented him for the last couple of years, since he’s been trying to get his career back on the road. He doesn’t know much about his early history, certainly nothing before he got to Hollywood.”

  “And as far as the O’Meara death is concerned, Spencer-Smith claims to have spent the afternoon in question with Blake?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mower said impassively, avoiding Thackeray’s eyes.

  “Right, Michael, I’ll talk to your man Blake. And I’ll see you in my office as soon as I’m done.”

  Thackeray had gone back to his office wondering whether to write out his resignation then or to wait until it was demanded. To have demolished his affair with Laura and put his job on the line, all within twenty-four hours, revealed a talent for self-destruction that even he had rarely achieved before, he thought savagely. But the interview with Longley, when it came, proved less devastating than he had anticipated. Longley merely eyed him wearily and waved him into a chair.

  “I warned you that you were taking this case too personally,” he said, but he seemed to have transferred the brunt of his anger from Thackeray to John Blake during the brief time that he had spent with him.

  “If you could charge a man for supercilious bloody arrogance, I’d go along with it,” he went on with feeling. “D’you know what he asked me? He asked me whether we thought it raised our profile to bait celebrity visitors to Bradfield.”

  “Did he confirm Spencer-Smith’s story?” Thackeray ventured.

  “Aye, he did, and that’s an end of it,” Longley came back sharply. “Even if you could come up with summat concrete you’d have to be bloody quick. He’s leaving Bradfield tomorrow, and goes back to the States next week. After that you’re into extradition and that’s not simple.” Longley paused and took a long slow look at the younger man.

  “He told me what’s bugging you, of course,” he said.

  “And what was that?” Thackeray came back, too quickly.

  “Getting too close to Laura - his words, not mine,” Longley said.

  “Jesus, I’ll…”

  “You’ll do nothing,” Longley snapped. “Your judgement’s gone on this one. You won’t talk to him again without my express permission. Understood?”

  “Understood, sir,” Thackeray said mutinously.

  “Go home, Michael,” Longley said. “Take a break. I don’t want to take you off these cases but I will if I have to. Get some sleep, review the evidence in the morning and then tell me what we’ve really got. It’s facts we need, not fantasy.”

  Thackeray had nodded his acquiescence and gone back to his office. But he went nowhere, because he no longer felt he had a home to go to.

  At length he came to the decision he had been avoiding for hours, put on his jacket, picked up a glossy carrier bag from underneath his desk and walked slowly out of the almost deserted police station by the back entrance. He drove quickly up the hill to Laura’s house and stopped outside. For the second night running he found that her car was not parked in its usual place and the top floor of the tall building was in darkness. Unsure whether he had wanted her to be in or not, he did not know whether to feel disappointed or relieved. At least it meant that there would not be another confrontation.

  He took his carrier bag and went up the steps to the front door but as he put his key in the lock a slight noise to his left beyond the overgrown shrubs at the side of the house attracted his attention and he froze. Leaving his bag on the doorstep, and walking silently on rubber soled shoes round the corner of the house, he followed the rustling sound and came up behind the almost indistinguishable figure of a rather small man who seemed to be peering into one of the ground floor windows. Thackeray reached out a heavy hand for a shoulder.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

  The figure spun round and flung a wild punch in Thackeray’s direction which he easily dodged.

  “I don’t recommend it,” he said, grabbing an arm more firmly.

  “Bloody ‘ell,” the intruder said. “You’ll give me another heart attack, creeping about like that.”

  “I’m a police officer, so don’t do anything stupid,” Thackeray said. “Come out into the light where I can see you.” The stranger walked in front of Thackeray meekly enough and turned round to face him under the street-light where he had parked his car.

  “I come all this bloody way to deal with a crisis and when I get here no-one seems to be expecting me,” he said, taking Thackeray completely by surprise, as the light caught his thinning red hair and bright blue eyes. “You’ll be the boy-friend, I suppose?”

  “Good God,” Thackeray said. “You must be Jack Ackroyd.”

  “Right first time,” Ackroyd said. “And perhaps you can tell me where my daughter is. I’ve tried her office and they thought she’d gone home. But I got no reply here either. I was just trying to see if there were lights on round the back but it’s as dark as a miner’s arse back there.”

  “You’d better come up to the flat,” Thackeray said. “I’ve got a key.” He led the way up to the top floor, moving much faster than Laura’s father who took several rests as he made his way up the stairs.

  “By God, she said it was an attic, but this is ridiculous,” he said when he finally gained Laura’s living-room and sank into an arm-chair breathing heavily.

  “That’s why she couldn’t bring Joyce here,” Thackeray said.

  “Aye, well, I’ve taken care of Joyce for the moment. I went up to the hospital as soon as I got in from the airport. They obviously wanted her out and she wouldn’t hear of a private nursing home, so I’ve up-graded to a suite at the Clarendon and settled her in there. Last time I saw her she’d got herself down to the bar in the lift, settled herself in the comfiest chair in the place, with her bad leg up on another, and was talking politics nineteen to the dozen with a couple of her old cronies from the Town Hall. In her element, she was.”

  Thackeray allowed himself a small smile at that. He could imagine Joyce’s delight at suddenly being translated to the heart of the town again. He put his carrier bag down on the sofa and waved an awkward hand at Laura’s collection of bottles.

  “I’m not sure what she’s got here,” he said. “I don’t.”

  “My doctor thinks I don’t, an’all,” Ackroyd said with a reflective smile. “If there’s any decent Scotch, I’ll have that. Just as it comes.” Thackeray poured him a generous measure and sat down to take stock.

  “What’s that?” Ackroyd asked, nodding at the parcel Thackeray had almost sat on.

  “A mobile phone for Laura,” Thackeray said grimly. “Contract signed, rental paid. We’ve been having some communication problems.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Ackroyd said. “She doesn’t know I got on a flight to Manchester today. Where the hell is she, any road? She doesn’t usually work as late as this, surely?”

  “I don’t know,” Thackeray said. “She may have gone for a meal after work. She wouldn’t have been expecting me tonight.”

  “Serious, is it, you and her?” Ackroyd asked bluntly. Thackeray glanced away with a shrug of his broad shoulders.

  “Seriously over, I think,” he said, far more lightly than he felt.

  “Aye, well, she can do better than a copper, can Laura,” Ackroyd said. “What are you? Inspector? Chief Inspector?”

  “DCI”, Thackeray said with a faint smile. He warmed to Jack Ackroyd in spite of his rudeness.

  “But not chief constable material.” It was a statement not a question.
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  “Hardly,” Thackeray said. “I think I blew that a long while back.”

  “Aye, well, we all blow summat along the way,” Ackroyd said. “I never could work out what it was I blew with Laura. She was the apple of my eye when she was a little lass, you know? But all I ever got was arguments as she got older. She’s as pig-headed as they come. But you must know that by now.” Thackeray nodded wryly. He could think of a few more epithets for Laura which he did not feel like sharing with her father.

  “You’re not going to break her heart, are you?” Ackroyd asked belligerently. Thackeray shrugged.

  “I’ll try not to,” he said non-committally. “Now can I ask you some questions about Mariella Bonnetti? I’m delighted you’re over here for Laura and Joyce, but I need to talk to you professionally as well.”

  “Aye, Laura said,” Jack Ackroyd said, sipping his Scotch thoughtfully. “You know, I can remember that lass as if it were yesterday. It’s funny how some things stick in your mind. She had all the lads in a right old state, a little cracker like her, but Italian, an Eye-tie. We didn’t know whether to love her or hate her.”

  “Did she have a boy-friend?”

  “We weren’t supposed to know about that, us younger ones. Very secretive, they were. And with good reason. Old Bonnetti would have killed any lad he thought had laid a finger on Mariella. But I reckon Keith Smith was laying more than a finger.”

  “Smith? Not John Parkinson?” Thackeray asked sharply.

  “Parky? No, he was more interested in the little lass, what was her name? Danny O’Meara’s sister.”

  “Bridget?”

  “That’s right. Bridie. No-one was supposed to know about that either but I’d a shrewd idea what was going on in the garden of the old house behind the factory that summer. The four of them used to climb over there and us younger ones weren’t supposed to go near. But I climbed on the wall once or twice and got a glimpse of some pretty heavy petting in amongst the bushes.”

  “You’re sure it was Smith and Mariella?” Thackeray persisted, but Ackroyd was adamant.

  “I don’t reckon Smithy was sitting watching Parky have it off wi’two lasses, do you?”

  “Can you remember what happened on Coronation Day?” Thackeray asked.

  “That’s what’s so odd, if you really reckon she was murdered,” Ackroyd said thoughtfully. “We all sloped off outside when we got bored with the television. The rain had stopped and we played cricket for a bit. Then Keith and Parky went off with the two girls, over the wall, and Danny O’Meara and I practised bowling for a bit, and went back indoors looking for some more to eat. You won’t remember rationing, you’re too young, but one of my abiding memories of being a kid just after the war was always being bloody famished. I suppose rationing was all over by ‘53, but we never reckoned we could let party food go to waste. It must have been an hour or so after that we went outside again and saw those four come back.”

  “All four of them?”

  “Oh, yes. And then they all went home,” Ackroyd said. “You mean separately? To their own homes?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. And that’s why I never thought Mariella had been murdered. Keith and Parky went off home first, laughing together like they had some big secret. Then Mariella went home. Danny and I saw her go. Then Danny went off with Bridie. The next day, when we were told Mariella had run away, I thought nowt of it. I knew she’d come to no harm that afternoon. We all knew. And later on the rest of us played cricket again till it got dark.”

  “But you didn’t see her again?” Thackeray said.

  “No, she didn’t come out to play again. We saw her father going up to his allotment with his spade but he just swore at us and said she wasn’t coming out. We didn’t see her again. None of us did.”

  “And you didn’t tell the police all this?”

  “I don’t think they ever asked,” Jack Ackroyd said. Thackeray sat for a moment apparently gazing into space, his eyes blank.

  “Do you know who the most dangerous person in a child’s life is?” he asked at length. Ackroyd shook his head.

  “The father,” Thackeray said bitterly. “One way or another, it’s usually the father.”

  “You think..?”

  “Thinking’s one thing, proving, after forty years, may be something else entirely,” Thackeray said. “Do you think Mariella’s father could have had any idea what was going on between her and the older lads?” Jack Ackroyd sat for a moment, gazing into his drink. Then he nodded slowly.

  “Most of the time we either ignored Mr. Bonnetti or tried to make his life hell,” he said. “Do you remember that daft song they sang around that time? “Papa Piccolino, papa Piccolino?” No, I don’t suppose you would. You’re too bloody young for that, an’all, aren’t you? Any road, it was a silly Italian thing and naturally we latched onto it. We used to run after him in the street singing it at the top of our voices till he lost his rag and ran after us, ranting and raving in Italian. We thought it was a huge joke. I can’t remember whether it was before or after Mariella went missing we took to singing after him. But I do remember speaking to him one day before she went. The four of them had gone off together and I was left on my own. There was no-one else around and I was kicking my heels, pretty pissed off with it all. Old Bonnetti came past on his way to his allotment and asked where Mariella was.”

  “And you told him?” Thackeray asked softly.

  “I don’t suppose I told him in so many words,” Ackroyd said. “You know what honour amongst lads is like. But I was angry enough to have given him a hint.”

  “And that would probably be enough,” Thackeray said. “It’ll be almost impossible to prove, but thanks anyway, Jack. You’ve got me back on track, if nothing else.” He got up and moved towards the door.

  “You’re not waiting for Laura,” Ackroyd asked.

  “She knows where to find me,” Thackeray said, nodding at the package he had left on the sofa. “And she’s got no excuse now, has she?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Maria Bonnetti hit Michael Thackeray hard across the face. She had to stand on tip-toes to do it but she was solidly built and the blow seemed to lose none of its force by describing a rising arc. Taken completely by surprise, Thackeray could only take a step backwards to avoid what would undoubtedly have been a second strike if sergeant Mower had not grabbed the old woman’s arms from behind and held them tightly to her sides until her rage had subsided slightly.

  Hearing the blow the group of tall, dark-haired young men who had clustered at the foot of the stairs in the spacious tiled Bonnetti hallway turned suddenly to fix unsmiling eyes on the two policemen.

  “You are pigs,” Mrs. Bonnetti hissed, her ample bosom heaving. “Get out of my house, you pigs.” One of the young men moved forward uncertainly to put an arm around her shoulders and Mower gradually released his grip.

  “Grandmama?” the boy said.

  “I’m sorry that we have come at such a bad time,” Thackeray said, feeling his reddening cheek gingerly and fighting down the mixture of embarrassment and anger which had seized him ever since he and Mower had been let into the house a few minutes earlier by one of the young Bonnettis who had seemed confused by their arrival. “But assaulting a police officer isn’t a good idea, whatever the provocation.”

  The sound of footsteps on the landing above them attracted the attention of the assembly in the hall. Giuseppe Bonnetti came to the half landing and gestured his mother up to join him.

  “There is no prospect of speaking to my father, inspector,” he said as Maria edged her way towards him, holding tightly to the bannisters to take the weight off inflexible knees.

  “Then I must insist on speaking to you,” Thackeray said, aware of a dozen dark unfriendly eyes fixing themselves on his again as he spoke. The atmosphere was frigid and Bonnetti did not deign to reply until he had helped his mother up the last few stairs and through a door on the landing which they could see stood ajar and from which they coul
d hear the murmur of voices. Having seen his mother safely inside and drawn the door closed behind her, Bonnetti came directly to the top of the stairs again and it was obvious that he too was almost beside himself with anger.

  “You will do me the courtesy of waiting,” he said. “The priest is with my father administering the last rites, if that means anything to you. I will be there.”

  Even as Thackeray nodded his acquiescence, Bonnetti waved the group of young men up the stairs and turned his back. Paolo Bonnetti’s grandsons cast a final collective glare in the direction of the police presence and then filed upstairs and disappeared into the old man’s room.

  Mower glanced around the hall with a shrug.

  “We could have chosen a better moment, guv,” he said.

  “Is there a better moment to ask a father if he killed his daughter?” Thackeray said, following the sergeant into the small sitting room to one side of the front door and flinging himself irritably into a deeply upholstered sofa.

  “Chance’ll be a fine thing,” Mower said. “If he really is dying, we may never discover what happened.”

  “Giuseppe knows,” Thackeray said flatly. “His mother may not, but he does. And you’ve just seen the passion he brings to bear when he thinks his family’s being threatened. And if you’re sure Kay O’Meara will identify him as the man she saw her father talking to before he died then we’ve also got evidence of a confrontation between Guiseppe and O’Meara before O’Meara was killed.”

  “You think O’Meara realised what had happened when Mariella’s body was found,” Mower countered doubtfully.

  “Jack Ackroyd said as much. He said he and Danny saw Mariella go home. At the time the parents said she never arrived. When the body turned up, even after all those years, Danny put two and two together and threatened to expose Guiseppe’s father. Guiseppe went up to Long Moor hospital and killed him.”