by Hannah Howe
We continued our stroll along the tree-lined streets, at a more leisurely pace now. While waiting to cross a road, I asked, “You accompanied Osborne on his recent business trip?”
“Aye; that I did.”
“Was it business?”
Mac nodded. “In the fair city of Boston, Massachusetts.”
“And pleasure?”
He turned and scowled at me, his forehead wrinkling with disapproval. “That’d be betraying a confidence.”
We skipped across the road, narrowly avoiding a motorbike, which appeared out of nowhere. The man on the motorbike was wearing black leather and a black helmet. ‘The Leader of the Pack’ by The Shangri-La’s went tripping through my mind, not a favourite song; but that tune was in my head now and set to annoy me for the rest of the day.
“I tell you what,” I suggested, “I’ll mention a name, you just shake your head or nod.”
Mac gazed straight ahead. He lengthened his stride.
“Gemma,” I said.
Mac hesitated. He gave me an old-fashioned look, one of weary acceptance, then nodded.
“Vittoria Vanzetti?”
He paused and shook his head.
“You’ve worked for Vincent Vanzetti; you know Vittoria?”
“I’ve seen her around, aye.”
“What’s she like as a person?”
Mac delved into his overcoat pocket. He produced a large bar of fruit and nut chocolate and offered me a bite. I declined, so he broke off four squares of chocolate, slipped them into his mouth then offered a blissful smile. “Vittoria Vanzetti...she struck me as a well-balanced kid.”
“She’s twenty-two, Mac.”
“Missy,” he said reproachfully, “anyone under thirty is a kid to me, and that includes you.”
“I’m thirty-four; had my birthday in April.”
“Missy, you sip from the fountain of eternal youth; you’ll always be a kid to me.”
I smiled and accepted the compliment. “So you’d say that Vittoria doesn’t suffer from emotional problems?”
Mac shrugged. “Who am I to be the judge of that?” We paused while a train raced by on a nearby railway track, speeding west, out of the city. The noise was disturbing, the train’s physical presence was intimidating, though Mac didn’t bat an eyelid. When silence ensued, he said, “She’s Vanzetti’s daughter; that must do something for your thought processes.”
We’d arrived at our destination, Mac’s pride and joy, his vintage Bugatti 57. As Mac flicked a speck of dust from the bonnet of the Bugatti, I asked, “What next for you?”
“Well, I’m through with Mr Osborne, for now. I guess I’m footloose and fancy free.”
“You promised me dinner; you sent a postcard...”
He nodded, “From San Francisco, aye.”
“What were you doing in San Francisco?” I asked cheekily.
Mac scowled. He narrowed his eyes and glared at me. “Anyone ever told you, you have a very inquisitive mind?”
“San Francisco,” I persisted.
“That was a business trip.”
“No pleasure?”
Mac sighed. He folded his arms then leaned back, rested on his Bugatti. Mac was such a big man, his weight threatened to tip the car over. I daresay, he had the strength to lift the car, if he felt the need. “You’re very nosy, you know that, Missy.”
I smiled and nodded.
Despite himself, Mac couldn’t suppress a grin. “Okay, San Francisco was fun, but for now I thought I’d take in the delights of your fair city.”
“You’ve spent a lot of time in Cardiff recently...”
“I have,” he agreed.
“Any reason for that?”
Once again, a frown creased his forehead, though a smile still played around his lips. “Maybe I should place a blanket on the floor and you can sleep under my bed.”
I raised a demure eyebrow and shook my head. “I’m not sure I want to go that far.”
Mac fished in his overcoat pocket and produced the keys to his Bugatti. In essence, a private man he was keen to drive off without further explanation. However, we’d cemented a firm friendship over the past year and I sensed that, despite his desire for privacy, he felt a need to confide in me.
“If I tell ya, ya’ll keep it to yaself?” He shook his head, dismissing his own question. “Aye, course ya will. I’d trust ya with my life, I would, Missy.”
“So, tell me then...”
I swear, he almost blushed. Certainly, he shuffled his feet, as though embarrassed. “Aye, I have a new lover.”
“From Cardiff?”
“From the States, originally; he’s living here now.”
I hugged my friend, a genuine show of elation. “I’m thrilled for you, Mac.”
Mac glanced away. He stared at the railway line. His cheeks had coloured and he was definitely embarrassed. “He wants me to move in with him.”
“Just like Alan.”
“What ya gonna do?” Mac asked, his gaze returning to me just as another train sped along the railway line.
“Think about it.”
“Me too.”
Mac opened the driver’s door and climbed into his Bugatti. Before he could fire the engine, I leaned towards him and said, “My search for Vittoria Vanzetti...I’m not sure where this is going, but if I should need you?”
He helped himself to another slab of chocolate then grinned, “Just whistle, Missy, and I’ll come a-running.”
Lightly, I tapped the roof of his car and said, “I’ll do just that.”
Chapter Seven
Still no sign of Vittoria. And despite the rumour, she wasn’t with Osborne; Mac said so and I believed him.
It was time to report to Vincent Vanzetti in person, which meant a trip along the coast, west to St Donats.
Vanzetti lived in a palatial mansion on the outskirts of St Donats. The house contained an outdoor swimming pool and acres of well-manicured lawns. Security cameras and a high stone wall kept intruders out. However, there was a flaw in Vanzetti’s security system, which I’d exploited on one occasion; a blind spot at the side of the house. Had someone sneaked in and kidnapped Vittoria? For what reason? No one had demanded a ransom. A kidnapping seemed unlikely, yet remained as a possibility.
I found Vanzetti in his playroom, a room equipped with a snooker table, a dartboard and a jukebox. Someone had pinned a picture to the dartboard, of a government minister, and thrown three darts into her face – one in her eye, the other in a cheek, the third up her nose.
“I’d like to talk with Sherri,” I said to Vanzetti. He seemed subdued, sitting in a leather armchair, nursing a glass of whisky.
“Sure,” he said, pointing with his whisky glass. “She’s in there.”
I wandered into a luxurious living room, a long room with coffee and cream panels covering the floor, arranged in broad vertical stripes. The room also contained two huge suede sofas with gold cushions, a large gold-framed mirror, a number of cabinets displaying ornaments and porcelain figurines, an elaborate crystal chandelier and, as a centrepiece, a long low table with a glass top. The table reflected the objects around it and so shimmered with gold. In addition, a wall-mounted television dominated the west wall. Sherri was sitting on one of the sofas, watching television, one of the programmes that pass as ‘Reality TV’.
In her early twenties, Sherri had shoulder-length, bottle-blonde hair, wide, blue, innocent eyes, an attractive oval face, holding a quizzical expression, a huge bust that said ‘hello’ long before her lips did, and legs that seemed to go on for miles. Her clothes highlighted her natural attributes. She was dressed in a figure-hugging, low cut top and a mini skirt that belonged to the 1960s. A gold pendant hung around her neck on a gold chain while an enormous diamond threatened to strain the sinews of the ring finger on her left hand.
“Hi,” I said, offering a bright smile. “You’re Sherri?”
“With an ‘i’.” Sherri stood in front of me. She made an elaborate gesture, pointed to
her right eye with her right index finger. Then she held that digit straight as she applied an imaginary dot. I sensed that for an encore, she was about to pirouette and curtsy.
However, before she went that far, I glanced at the TV and asked, “You like that stuff?”
“Oh yes!” Sherri sighed. She rolled her eyes, then made a heart shape with her fingers; she placed that heart to her breast. “I adore the programme. My big dream is to be on Reality TV. I’ve made the final audition for Celebrity Sleepover, you know, the one where celebrities shack up for the night but they’re not allowed to touch or have sex or anything. Of course, the producer wants them to have sex so he can broadcast it live and entertain the millions of viewers. My agent says I have a very good chance of making the final cut.” She offered a little jig of glee. “I’m ever so excited!” Then she frowned and stared at me. “Would you like to be on Reality TV?”
I grimaced and said, “I think I’d rather be strung up with piano wire.”
“Celebrity Sleepover is really something,” Sherri insisted, ignoring me. “It’s the best programme on TV.”
We turned and gazed at the celebrities, unknowns to me, who were lying, semi-naked, in bed. The lighting was subdued, but suggestive. Were they? Would they? Should they? Millions of viewers tuned in each evening and asked themselves those questions. Who needs an education when you can spend your leisure time watching Reality TV?
“Do you think they’ll select me?” Sherri asked, breathlessly.
“I don’t know,” I said. “You have the looks and the, er, um...” Real, or enhanced? After a moment’s thought, I gave her the benefit of the doubt; nature had been over-generous; in the mammary department, Sherri was well blessed indeed. “The, er, um, demeanour. But you’re not a celebrity.”
“When I’ve been on Celebrity Sleepover I will be a celebrity,” she said with a logic that defied all argument.
I was still trying to get my head around that thought when Sherri picked up the remote control and changed channels. She managed to locate Peter Falk in his crumpled raincoat.
“Oh, look,” she gasped, “Columbo’s on. This is my favourite cop show.”
As the villain stalked his victim with a Colt .45, Sherri made a gun shape with her right hand. When the gun went off on the screen, Sherri said, “bang!” She mimicked the villain’s gestures, eventually placing her ‘gun’ in a sideboard, out of harm’s way. With a sad shake of her head, she said, “He’s so dumb, isn’t he?”
“Columbo always apprehends the villain.”
“Apprehends?” she frowned.
“Arrests.”
“I know. But,” she reasoned, “it takes him so long. I mean, if he sat down and watched the start of the programme, he’d catch the villains in minutes, wouldn’t he?”
“Yes, but...” I held myself in check. Was I really having this conversation? Had Alice invited me to a tea party? Had I fallen through a hole, into Wonderland? “What do you do now,” I asked, partly in desperation, anything to change the subject, “to pass the time?”
“I’m an actress.” Sherri placed her hands together and held them against her right cheek. She fluttered her eyelashes with all the subtlety of a silent movie star from the 1920s.
“Been in any big movies?” I bit my tongue immediately, for I knew that I’d regret asking that question.
“I’ve been in This Tongue’s for Lickin’, Squeeze Me, Please Me, Serial Killer Sixty-Nine and Bimbo Bondage. I played Sasha and Sally in that, identical twins. In this one scene, I had sex with my twin, only it was a double really, a look-a-like, not that many women look like me. Anyway, the director was so clever. When he cut the film, you’d swear it was me playing both parts. The director said I was a real star in that role, though I faked the end bit, you know. I only do the end bit with Vincent. Of course,” she added in a sultry whisper, “I’m in semi-retirement now, since I married Vincent.”
I smiled politely then nodded.
“Have you seen Bimbo Bondage?” Sherri asked, her tone bubbling with enthusiasm.
“No, but don’t take that as an insult; I don’t watch modern TV.”
Sherri frowned. Her animated features revealed that she found it hard to imagine life without a TV. Then she smiled brightly, her face glowing, radiant with inspiration. “Wait a minute...I’m an actress...I am a celebrity. So you’re wrong.”
I sighed, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Have you ever made a movie?” she asked abruptly.
“Pardon?” I frowned.
“With your boyfriend. Have you ever made a movie?”
Somewhat embarrassed, I shuffled my feet and stared down to the ground. The thought of Sam the sexy starlet did not really become me. “We don’t own a camera,” I lied haltingly.
“Everyone owns a camera,” Sherri insisted. “On their phone. You should make a movie. Vincent loves to see me on the big screen.”
I glanced up and around, as though searching for the home cinema. “You have a big screen?”
“In our bedroom,” Sherri nodded. “Would you like to see it?”
“Not now,” I replied defensively. I’d wandered into a maze with this conversation and was desperately searching for an exit. When in doubt, always apply rule number one from the Gumshoe’s Guide to Sleuthing: refer to the most pertinent aspect of the case. “I’m looking for Vittoria.”
“I know. It’s terrible. She ran away.”
“Tell me what you know about Vittoria.”
“Tell you what?” Sherri frowned.
“Do you get on with her?”
“Yeah, we’re like sisters.” Sherri paused. Once again, she frowned. She replayed her words, formed them with her lips. “That sounds a bit kinky, don’t it; what with me married to Vincent and all...should I have said that?”
I ignored her question, and a re-entry into the immoral maze, and asked, “You’re good friends?”
“Yeah. Not bosom buddies, you know, but good mates.”
“You love Vincent?”
Once again, Sherri made a heart-shaped gesture with her hands and hugged her breast. “With all my heart.”
“And his ex, Catrin?”
Now, and for the first time, Sherri revealed a darker side to her character; while screwing up her features into a spiteful scowl, she spat out, “She’s a bitch.”
“Does Vittoria get on with Catrin?”
Sherri clasped her hands in front of her midriff. Like a little girl, she swung playfully from side to side. “They’re mother and daughter. I suppose she does.”
“Do you get on with your mother?”
“Yeah.” Sherri offered me her light bulb smile. “My mother’s my rock. She encouraged me to get into the movies. She loves all my films, tells her friends all about them.”
I let that pass and asked, “Does Vittoria get on with Vincent?”
“They’re father and daughter. They’re pretty close.”
“How close?”
Sherri scowled. Her mind wandered off at a tangent and when she returned, she wasn’t pleased with me. “Not the way you’re thinking. Vincent isn’t a perv.”
While talking with Sherri it was difficult to know what I was thinking. In all fairness, she probably had an IQ; maybe she was a genius. Maybe she was so skilled as an actress she hid her intelligence well. Maybe.
“Do you get on with your father?” I asked.
She gave me a sulky pout while still swinging, childlike, from side to side. “He split when I was young. I don’t have much to do with him anymore.”
“Did Vittoria discuss any problems with you?”
“Problems?” Sherri frowned.
“Did she discuss a reason why she might leave?”
“No. We never talked about heavy things. We just chatted about music, fashion, beauty products...Reality TV.”
“Would you describe Vittoria as happy?”
Sherri beamed her innocent smile. She went into a little dance and said, “H.A.P.P.Y. Happy! Yeah. Vit
toria could be quiet at times, but she’s cool.”
“Vittoria has a boyfriend.”
“Yeah. V.J. Parks. He’s a boxer.”
“Does she get on with him?”
“They love each other.” Sherri fluttered her long eyelashes. She stared up to the ceiling, starry-eyed, as though gazing at the moon. “So I guess so.”
“Has V.J. ever raised his voice to Vittoria?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Has he ever raised his fists?”
“V.J.’s not like that,” Sherri insisted. “He’s a lion in the ring, but a pussycat outside it.”
I nodded. “Thanks, Sherri, you’ve been very helpful.”
“I do what I can,” she said. She smiled at me, a look so naive it was deeply touching. “I like helping people. I think it’s good to be kind.”
Meanwhile, Peter Falk was having better luck than yours truly; his questions had brought forth meaningful answers and he was closing in on the wily villain, an actor who’d murdered at least three other people in three previous series.
I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked towards the door. Then Sherri protested, “Hey...aren’t you gonna say, ‘just one more thing?’”
During the course of our conversation, I’d noticed an item, though decorum had demanded that I should let it pass. However, when presented with the opportunity, I felt compelled to jump in, so against my better judgement, I asked, “Just one more thing, Sherri. The label on your knickers suggests that you’re wearing them inside out...”
“Oh, I always do that,” Sherri said brightly. “Shall I tell you why?”
Did I really want to delve into Sherri’s satin knickers, metaphorically speaking? Definitely not. So I adjusted my bag again, walked towards the door then called out over my shoulder, “Maybe next time.”
Chapter Eight
Vincent Vanzetti’s notes told me that I could find V.J. Parks at the Riverside boxing gym, a graffiti-sprayed, decrepit, crumbling shack of a building with a corrugated iron roof and wire mesh on its grimy windows. So I drove to the Riverside gym, beside the River Taff, in a rundown area of the city.
