by Hannah Howe
I parked my car on a patch of waste ground then ducked my head to avoid the long arm of a JCB as it swooped to clear away some rubble. I had to tiptoe through the rumble, climbing over fallen masonry, thankful that today I was wearing training shoes and not high heels. I was also dressed in jeans and a short leather jacket, maybe a subconscious reaction to Catrin Vanzetti’s mild criticism of my trench coat.
The gym door was open, so I entered to find three sweaty men pursuing pugilistic activities. One of the men, little more than a teenager, was punching the living daylights out of a punchbag, which was suspended from the ceiling. Even to my untutored eye, it was plain to see that this boxer relied purely on aggression, not finesse or style. The way he thumped the punchbag suggested that it hung there to release his frustration.
The second man, in his early thirties, was on a rowing machine, easing the oars back and forth, as though travelling through still waters. Meanwhile, the third man was standing beside the boxing ring, skipping. His languid, natural movements marked him out as a professional. From newspaper photographs and Vanzetti’s file, I could tell that this man was V.J. Parks.
Parks moved with grace and style, ignoring the grunts and groans of his companions. A middleweight and southpaw, he was in his mid-twenties. He had short, black hair, neatly trimmed, dark, smouldering eyes and a handsome, Mediterranean face. I noticed an area of scar tissue around his eyes and recalled that some experts believed that cuts around his eyes were his only obstacle to greatness. Needless to say, he possessed a lean, muscular body; toned, trimmed, athletic.
As the boxers went about their training, I recalled the beatings, dished out by my mother and ex-husband. Alan wasn’t like Dan; I repeated that mantra to myself daily. I understood that Alan was a different type of man, not violent or aggressive. Yet, the past is like an anchor, and it can hold you in one place, if you’re not careful. Step by step, I was walking away from my past, creating a new life for myself, and new memories. However, the black cloud remained and, maybe, that had a bearing on my reluctance to commit to marriage.
“The ladies’ gym is down the road,” Parks said. He paused to wipe the sweat from his brow then walked towards me.
“I’m not here to box,” I said. “I’m working for Vincent Vanzetti, looking for Vittoria.”
Parks nodded, slowly. He flashed a brief, tight smile; true, his eyes were scarred, but his teeth were in great shape. “You’re Sam.”
I nodded.
“Mr Vanzetti mentioned you. You found Vittoria yet?”
Sadly, I shook my head.
“Got a lead?”
“Not yet,” I confessed. “I was hoping to talk with you.”
“Sure,” Parks said. Once again, he removed a towel from around his shoulders and mopped the perspiration from his brow. “Let me freshen up first. Be with you in a tick.”
While V.J. Parks showered, I wandered outside. I stood on the embankment and gazed at the river. Apparently, as a small child, I fell into the Taff. As usual, my mother was drunk in charge of a toddler. Over the years, that story varied in the telling: sometimes my mother would insist that she rescued me, or a passing policeman saved me, or a handsome man dived in, then instantly proposed marriage to my mother. In all probability, I had to scramble out myself; I did a hell of a lot of scrambling of one sort or another throughout my childhood. Nevertheless, maybe this hazy memory helped to explain my mild fear of water.
V.J. Parks walked into the spring sunshine wearing a smart sports jacket, a trim pair of slacks, a white shirt and a navy tie with a boxing emblem emblazoned on its large Windsor knot. We fell into step and strolled along the embankment.
“Do you get on well with Mr Vanzetti?” I asked after some preliminary banter about the weather and the changing face of the city.
“Sure, he’s a good man.”
“And you get on well with Vittoria.”
Parks thrust out his chin. He hitched up his shoulders and seemed to grow taller, with pride. “She’s my girl. I love her.”
“Then why has she run out on you, on everyone?”
“I don’t know.” His shoulders sagged. He slumped into his powerful frame, his face morose. “And not knowing, not knowing where she is, is like taking a low blow, you know.”
I nodded and we walked on in silence.
We were strolling south, towards a salubrious neighbourhood, a series of modern tower blocks, living accommodation, with balconies leaning towards the river. I could picture my mother dangling a naughty Samantha from a balcony, threatening to drop her into the river. I could hear my screams of protest. I felt like screaming now. Good job my mother brought me up in a simple Victorian slum; poverty has its advantages.
While pausing under a balcony, I said, “You’re in line for a shot at the world title.”
“Yeah. If I win my next fight, I’ll be up for the crown.”
“Do you think you’ll win?”
“I wouldn’t step into the ring if I thought I’d lose,” Parks said with an air of confidence, but with no arrogance.
“Why do you train here,” I asked, “there must be better facilities?”
“Oh, yeah, I use other gyms as well. I call at the Riverside when I want to put in some extra training. Also, it keeps me in touch with my roots, with my dad, my first trainer. I guess I still train here to honour his memory.” Parks crossed himself and glanced up to the sky. “The extra work I put in here will make me world champion.”
“How does Vittoria feel about your boxing?”
“She’s thrilled. She supports me. We’re real close.”
“But not at the moment,” I said.
“No.” Parks paused. He hung his head, pursed his lips and kicked at a loose stone.
“Any idea where Vittoria might be?”
He shook his head. “I gave Mr Vanzetti my suggestions. He wrote a list.”
“I’ve checked those locations. No one’s seen Vittoria for the past ten days.”
While we reflected on that sombre fact, a young man rode past on a bicycle. He recognised V.J. Parks and yelled, “Give him hell, V.J.!”
Parks raised his left fist and smiled in acknowledgment. The smile was genuine, but it failed to touch his eyes.
“What do you do outside boxing?” I asked after the cyclist had disappeared.
“Nothing really. I watch a bit of football; have a kick around with the lads. But my life is Vittoria and boxing, and that’s all I want.” He clenched his left fist, grimaced, and threatened to punch a hole into a nearby tree. “I miss her,” he sniffed. He appeared close to tears. “I’m worried about her. Where can she be?”
I gazed at the river, at the dirty Taff, abused for generations. One day, the river would fight back; it would flood its banks. Then all the people in the luxury homes and fancy apartments would cry out, ‘how can this be?’ We reap what we sow; we abuse the planet at our peril.
However, I sensed that V.J. Parks was genuine, that he was telling the truth. To him, I said, “You just concentrate on your boxing; I’ll keep looking for Vittoria; I’ll be in touch, soon.”
Parks nodded. He pressed his fist against the tree; through his shirt and jacket, his biceps bulged with latent power. Parks had won the vast majority of his fights with knockouts, many within the first three rounds. Boxing was a brutal profession, yet many of its heroes were men of honour. Parks struck me as a man of honour, which begged the question: why would Vittoria run and abandon him? If I found the answer to that question maybe I’d locate the lady herself.
Chapter Nine
I spent the early hours of the morning touring the nightclubs and park benches, to no avail. Despite scanning the seedier sides of the city, I was no closer to locating Vittoria. So, I decided to ask an expert; I arranged to meet up with my old friend, Detective Inspector ‘Sweets’ MacArthur.
The weather had turned chilly and showery, so I’d reverted to my trench coat. I was standing outside the law courts, in King Edward VII Avenue, sheltering under a tall
, leafy tree, waiting for Sweets to arrive.
Sure enough, just after noon, Sweets strolled out of the law courts, not looking best pleased. He adjusted his trilby, sighed and said, “A lawyer buys a farm as a weekend retreat. While walking around the fields he sees that his feet are sinking into a cowpat. He yells, ‘Oh, my God...help me! Help me!’ His wife runs up and says, ‘What’s the matter, dear?’ The lawyer stares at the cowpat and moans, “I’m melting! I’m melting!’ Or try this one...A woman drives home with the front of her car covered in mud, leaves, branches, and lots of blood. ‘I’m very sorry about the car,’ she says to her husband. ‘But I hit a lawyer on the way home.’ The husband nods and says, ‘Well that explains the blood, but what about the other stuff?’ The woman grimaces and admits, ‘Well I had to chase him through the park first.’ Or this one...If a lawyer and a politician were both drowning, what would you do...go to lunch or read a magazine?”
I smiled and said, “You sound bitter, Sweets.”
He removed his trilby, scratched his balding crown then whistled through the gap in his two front teeth. “I tell you, we had him, bang to rights. Yet his lawyer spots a minor technicality, the judge supports him, and the villain walks free. I ask you, why am I doing this job?”
I shrugged then asked, “You reckon the villain’s connected?”
Sweets groaned then sighed, “Aren’t they all?”
We walked north, along the avenue, towards the central police station. At a road junction, Sweets remembered that he was walking with me, and that he didn’t like his colleagues to see that he was fraternizing with me, so we turned east instead and entered the picturesque grounds of Alexandra Gardens.
The gardens contained a war memorial and a memorial to those killed during the Falklands conflict. Samuel, my mother’s husband – but not my father – died in that conflict. In many respects, Sweets was a father figure to me, someone I looked up to and respected, someone who offered guidance and commonsense.
As we strolled towards the war memorial, I said, “I’m working for Vincent Vanzetti.”
Sweets offered me a double take. He almost fell over his own feet, in his indignation. “Have you lost your marbles, Sam?”
“I’m looking for his daughter, Vittoria.”
Sweets puffed out his cheeks. I sensed that he wanted to yell, but there were people in the park, enjoying their lunch break, so instead he hissed, “Vanzetti’s a big time crook, heavy duty.”
“I know. But his daughter isn’t.”
“Who says?” Sweets demanded.
“The people I’ve talked with.”
“And they’re telling you the truth?”
“Some of the time,” I conceded. We paused while an elderly couple strolled towards the war memorial. Unveiled on the 12th June 1928, the memorial commemorated the servicemen who died during the First World War. A plaque honouring those who died during the Second World War was added in 1949. As the elderly couple studied the plaque, I continued, “I don’t picture Vittoria as a villain. She’s a villain’s daughter true, and maybe that’s landed her in trouble. Equally, something might be worrying her and that’s why she’s on the run.”
The elderly couple muttered a polite ‘good afternoon’ to Sweets, who smiled, doffed his hat, and replied in turn. Then the couple continued their stroll through the park, heading towards the memorial that honoured Samuel, amongst many others.
When alone again, I turned to Sweets and asked, “Have you heard anything about Vittoria’s disappearance?”
“Not a whisper.”
“Has Vittoria been in trouble before?”
“She doesn’t have a record; she’s clean.”
“No issues with drugs?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
“Have you seen Vittoria, in your dealings with Vanzetti?”
“A couple of times,” Sweets admitted, “at Vanzetti’s palace.”
“How did she strike you?”
He shrugged, grimaced, then placed a hand to his right shoulder, as though to ease a pain. “As an ordinary kid, I guess.”
“You talked with her?”
“Only to say hello.”
“Never questioned her?”
Sweets shook his head. “Never had a need to. But I’ve still got a hundred questions for her old man.”
A young woman entered the park. She was carrying a sketch pad and pencils. She eyed the war memorial, studied its circular colonnade and the three bronze sculptures arranged around a stone pylon. The sculptures represented the three main branches of the armed services: the air force, the navy and the army. All three were holding wreaths above their heads. Then the artist glanced up to Victory, a winged male nude, who crowned the structure.
The artist was carrying a small canvas chair. She unfolded that chair, sat, and began sketching. As her pencils danced across the paper, I said to Sweets, “Vittoria’s studying to become a child psychologist.”
He nodded. “That figures. She struck me as the studious sort.”
“So not a typical Vanzetti then.”
“I guess not,” Sweets conceded. “But you take money off him, Sam, and you’re taking blood money.”
I resented that accusation; it rubbed against my moral code and sense of propriety. In response, I scowled, “And all my other clients are saints, I suppose.”
“Maybe not,” Sweets sighed. “Probably not. But you know Vanzetti’s crooked, up front.”
As my mind cooled, I had to admit that Sweets had made a fair point. “Maybe I’ll donate my fee to charity,” I said with a hint of repentance.
“You do that,” Sweets said. He studied his trilby, flicked an imaginary speck of dust from its crown, then plonked the hat on his head. “Better still, tell Vanzetti to take a hike; there are other private eyes in the phone book.”
“He could even contact the police,” I said somewhat tartly.
“If he’d like to talk, we’re here.” Sweets strode towards the exit, glancing at the artist and her embryonic drawing en route. Meanwhile, I scurried behind him only to receive a further lashing from his tongue. “You’re walking a tightrope, Sam, working for Vanzetti. You be careful you don’t fall off.”
“If I do,” I smiled, “you’ll catch me.”
“Not with Vanzetti in the frame,” Sweets scowled. “You stumble on this one, you’re on your own.”
Chapter Ten
The following morning, I arranged a summit meeting, a gathering of the Vanzetti clan. Maybe it was a good idea, maybe it wasn’t, but the days and nights were blurring into one and with each passing hour, Vittoria disappeared further into the fog. It occurred to me that, maybe, she was dead. If someone had murdered her, how would Vanzetti, Catrin and V.J. Parks react? I saw more sleepless nights and possibly bloodshed ahead.
We met in Vanzetti’s gold living room: Catrin, V.J. Parks, Sherri and yours truly. The television was on, broadcasting more Reality TV. Then Vanzetti entered, snatched up the remote control and switched off the picture with an angry flick of his index finger. He sighed, composed himself then turned to the boxer and asked, “How’s the training going, V.J.?”
V.J. Parks shuffled forward, moved to the edge of his seat. He placed his elbows on his thighs and stared down to the ground. “I’m a bit distracted at the moment, what with Vittoria missing, and all.”
Vanzetti nodded. He looked grim, determined. I sensed that he was simmering, ready to explode. As he walked around the room, I said, “A thought...could someone be holding Vittoria against her will to put V.J. off his game?”
Vanzetti glanced at the boxer. Simultaneously, both men made a fist and thumped it into an open palm. “If someone is holding Vittoria, then he’s facing the big chill,” Vanzetti ground out through clenched teeth. “I don’t think anyone would take that risk, not with the daughter of Vincent Vanzetti.”
I glanced at Catrin, who was gazing at her ex-husband, her features set, hard and stern. “You look strained, Vince.” Her tone was matter-of-fact and lacke
d sympathy. “Is Sherri looking after you?”
“It’s this upset over Vittoria,” Vanzetti insisted. “Me and Sherri are fine.”
“I’m so happy for you,” Catrin said, her words heavy with sarcasm.
“No need to come on like a jealous bitch,” Vanzetti snarled, his moustache bristling.
“Me...?” Catrin scoffed. She glared at Sherri, a look that threatened to fry the actress on the spot. “Jealous...of that.”
Sherri glanced at Catrin, then stared at the wall, her bottom lip slipping into a childlike pout.
“You’re showing yourself up, Catrin,” Vanzetti insisted.
“Don’t you think I’m feeling the strain too?” Catrin asked, slinking into the sofa, turning away, looking upset.
“Well, don’t take it out on Sherri,” Vanzetti said. He walked over to the cocktail cabinet and suggested, “Maybe we could all do with a drink. You want one, Catty?”
“Whisky, neat. A large one.” Catrin scowled, no doubt recalling the promise she’d made to herself, to stand up to the strain alone, to abjure the crutch of alcohol. “No, second thoughts make it a fruit juice.”
“A drink, V.J.?” Vanzetti asked while pouring a measure of fruit juice into a tall glass. With a noncommittal grunt, he handed that glass to Catrin.
“Nah.” V.J. shook his head. “No alcohol while I’m in training.” He glanced up briefly, then continued to stare down to the ground.
“Sherri?” Vanzetti enquired, arching his left eyebrow.
“I’ll have a pina colada, thank you, Vincent,” Sherri said, while flouncing across the room.
We were here to discuss Vittoria, yet I sensed that there were many subplots at play. Maybe one of those subplots would offer a clue to Vittoria’s whereabouts. In any event, the Vanzetti family needed to talk; they needed this group therapy session, so I decided to go with the flow and let them have their say.
“How’s business?” Catrin asked, her simple question barbed and baited; she was looking for a negative reply – that was evident from the cynical look on her face.
