by Hannah Howe
After breakfast and a quick trip to my office to catch up on messages and mundane business, I drove to Osborne’s farmhouse, on the outskirts of Llancarfan. I found Osborne and his wife in a field, admiring their horse.
“What are you doing here?” Osborne asked as I leaned on the five bar gate.
“I’d like a word,” I said.
“I’m busy.” Osborne offered his back to me. He prepared to mount the horse.
“About Vittoria Vanzetti.”
Slowly, he turned. He took a step towards me, offered a lumbering gait. His boots sank into the soft mud, squelched in obscene fashion. The bear of a man glowered at me then said to his wife, “I think you should look after Folio.”
Osborne handed the reins to Maya. She eyed me with suspicion, brushed a silky strand of hair from her cheek, then took control of the horse. She led him towards the stables, her gaze fixed on me the whole time.
To Osborne, I said, “I think your wife should stay and listen.”
“I’m hungry,” he called out to Maya, yelling over his shoulder. “Prepare my dinner.”
“Dinner?” I frowned. “It’s not even lunch time.”
Osborne grinned at me. He wore a riding hat, which he adjusted; he pulled the peak over his brow. “Maybe I could have you instead,” he said.
I let that pass, though I did frown. “I found Vittoria,” I said.
“What do you want,” he scoffed, “a coconut.”
“I talked with Vittoria. I know why she ran.”
Osborne shrugged. He picked up a long stick and proceeded to scrape the mud from his boots. “What has this to do with me?” he asked, his tone gruff, discourteous.
“You raped her,” I said bluntly. “It has everything to do with you.”
“Who says?” he laughed.
“She says.”
He laughed again. “And you believe her?”
“An expert was present, a psychologist. Vittoria was telling the truth, there’s no doubt about that.”
Osborne examined his stick, now caked in mud. He flicked the stick at me, soiling my trench coat. “Okay,” he leered, narrowing his cold blue eyes, offering a politician’s smile, fake and insincere, “so maybe we had sex, maybe she found me irresistible; what’re you going to do about it?”
“You raped her,” I said.
“She couldn’t get enough of me,” he laughed, flicking his stick again, though by now the stick was devoid of mud.
I scowled. My hand went to my shoulder bag and my gun. I was on the point of losing it, but somehow I kept control. “You’re a sick man,” I said, “to talk like that.”
Osborne removed his riding hat, exposed a mop of blond hair. He ran a hand through his hair and laughed aloud.
“Rape is about power, exerting power,” I said. “It’s about anger and hatred, humiliation and punishment, violence and control. For all your wealth,” I nodded towards his grand house, “I’d say that you were an angry person, a person easily moved to hatred and violence; someone who needs to humiliate and punish, someone who craves control.”
“Fuck off,” Osborne snarled.
“Money isn’t enough for you, is it? Ripping people off with exorbitant loans isn’t enough for you. Exploiting people who have next to nothing isn’t enough for you.”
He cracked his stick against the five bar gate and the twig splinted into a hundred pieces. Aware that he’d betrayed his true emotions, he examined the remains of his stick, then tossed it on to the ground. He was angry with me, furious, and the feeling was mutual. The gate served as a barrier, an obstacle to further violence. Should the gate swing open, I knew that we would clash and that our fight would be relentless, unceasing, until one of us lay in the ground.
Osborne held himself in check. He gathered his emotions. As a smirk returned to his face, he said, “You sound upset.”
“Damn right I’m upset.”
“And there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“We could go to the police.”
A jet zoomed overhead, its roar smothering Osborne’s obscene laugh. “She’s a Vanzetti,” he said. “You think they’d listen, take pity on her?”
“I could release Vanzetti from his cage.”
A second jet zoomed overhead, another military plane, possibly on manoeuvres. As its roar rumbled over the countryside, Osborne said, “Vanzetti’s over the hill. He’s past it. He’s lost his touch. I’m not afraid of him.”
“You won’t get away with this,” I said, leaning my slender frame against the five bar gate, itching to tear it down.
“Who’s gonna stop me?” Osborne grinned. Before I could reply, a third jet screeched overhead, completing the show of military might. “You? What you gonna do, tie me up with your hair?” He reached across and pulled my hair. His tug hurt, and I felt like screaming, but I didn’t yowl. “You’re a joke, girly. You make trouble for me and I’ll make trouble for you, just like I made trouble for Vittoria.”
“Why did you pick on her?” I asked, hooking my hair over my ears, dragging it out of harm’s way.
“That’s none of your business.”
“What threat does she pose to you?”
Osborne glared at me through his cold blue eyes. His lips moved, but he did not answer.
“What point were you trying to make?”
He glanced into a field, to a bull eyeing a herd of cows. He licked his lips, moistened a spiteful smile then said, “Maybe I did it for the sex.”
“No, I don’t believe that. You raped Vittoria to make a point. You raped her for a reason. What reason?”
Osborne leaned towards me. He frowned. As we talked, he swayed gently from side to side, like an oversized marionette, dangling from strings. In general, his actions were slow and lumbering, though his forearms were huge, revealing his great strength. If Osborne grabbed hold of you, he could snap you like a twig; he knew it, I knew it; and, I suspected, so did many other women besides Vittoria Vanzetti.
“Maybe you should shut up and get out of here while you can still walk,” Osborne suggested, his gaze wandering to my Mini, which I’d parked in a country lane.
“Are you still on drugs?” I asked, ignoring his comment, holding my ground.
“Huh?” he frowned.
“I’m willing to bet that you took drugs in your youth. After all, drugs are as accessible as sweets, when you have affluence and power.”
“You talk too much. Button it.”
“Wealth and power, they’re drugs, aren’t they. They destroy society; they’re the most poisonous drugs of all. Of course, the irony is, they also destroy the rich and the powerful, but people like you don’t realise that, even when it’s too late. You leave a trail of sadness and destruction in your wake, all to satisfy your eternal greed. But greed is an insatiable monster – no matter how much you feed that monster, it can never have enough. And soon that monster devours you and you turn into the beast.”
Osborne had had enough. He dragged open the gate. While striding towards me, he said, “And what if the beast wants you for dinner?”
“Try it,” I said, producing my gun. I carried a .32 Smith and Wesson, for defensive purposes, though right now, in my anger, I was prepared to move on to the attack. “Try it,” I repeated. “Go on, try it; I’d love to put a bullet in you and blow a hole between your legs.”
Osborne retreated behind the gate, as though a five bar gate offered an effective barrier to a bullet. “You’re next on my list,” he said, waving an unsteady arm, pointing in my general direction, “you mark my words.”
“So, you have a list, do you?”
“Get off my land,” he yelled.
“We could argue the point of ownership,” I said. “After all, God, or nature, depending on your beliefs or opinion, created this land. You had no hand in its conception. You acquired the land at some point during your life, but you’re a mere custodian not an owner; this land will move on to someone else, when you’re dead and gone.”
“You�
�d love to kill me, wouldn’t you?” Osborne scowled, reading my mood. “But you haven’t got the balls.”
“I don’t know about killing you,” I said, my gun still resting snugly in the palm of my hand, its walnut stock smooth to the touch, “but I’m keen to plot your downfall. And make no mistake, when scum like you does fall, it doesn’t get back up.”
I dropped my Smith and Wesson into my shoulder bag and returned to my Mini. As I walked down the lane, I peered over my shoulder, to the stables. There, I spied Maya, who’d been eavesdropping, listening to our conversation. I glanced over to Maya and, for a second, our eyes met. Her expression was difficult to read; was it sympathetic, or merely curious. Before I could find out, Osborne grabbed hold of Maya’s shoulder. He pushed her into the house and closed the door.
Maya Osborne: could I recruit her as an ally, or should I see her as an enemy? Maybe I could talk with her, when she was alone. I remained in two minds about Maya, but had clear thoughts about Osborne. After today’s encounter, we were at war.
Chapter Twenty-Two
At dawn, I found myself sitting in a small copse, adjusting my binoculars, spying on Maya and Osborne. I had a flask of coffee for company, an assortment of wholemeal sandwiches and plenty to think about.
The sun had been up for two hours when, at 7 a.m., Maya emerged from the house. She walked to the stables and disappeared from view. Close on an hour later, Osborne walked past his Ferrari to his Range Rover. He opened the driver’s door, retrieved an item from the vehicle, a small package, then returned to the house. The package might have contained drugs; it might have contained sandwiches – from my position in the grove, it was impossible to tell. With a warm sun shining down, the birds singing in the trees and the smell of cut grass drifting in the air, all appeared peaceful and tranquil; the house exuded an air of domestic bliss.
Around mid-morning, Maya went horse riding. She led Folio to the five bar gate, slipped into the saddle and galloped down the lane. Though I’m nimble and fast, and possess a fair amount of stamina, I cannot outrun a horse, so a fruitless pursuit seemed futile and counterproductive. Therefore, I leaned my back against a tree, sipped my coffee and enjoyed the warmth of the sun’s rays.
When Maya returned, maybe I could intercept her in the lane. However, should Osborne see us that would spell trouble and the end of this particular plan, though to grace my initiative with the epithet ‘plan’ did seem overgenerous.
Maya reappeared at noon when, at the gate, Osborne stepped forward to greet her. They talked and they smiled, Maya swept her silky hair from her face and laughed, but at no time did they kiss or touch.
With Folio in the stables, and with Osborne and Maya in their grand farmhouse, I sat against a tree and nibbled my sandwiches – cucumber with a hint of pickle. I’m no domestic goddess, so I survive on the basics, unless Alan’s doing the cooking. I wondered about Alan and Vittoria; I wondered about the Vanzetti family in general; I wondered how Vittoria felt today.
Should Osborne leave the house and the way clear to Maya, what should I say? Maybe she could help me pinpoint a weakness, a means to bring Osborne down.
However, Osborne did not leave the house. Indeed, apart from occasional walks to the stables and outhouses, the happy couple remained indoors all day.
At 5 p.m., the stench of fertiliser drifted across the fields. The fragrant aroma reminded me that I had to answer a call of nature, the guillotine moment on most stakeouts.
So, twelve hours older and none the wiser, I drove home, did what a gal has to do, then called at my office. At the office, I found Marlowe waiting on the window ledge. I opened the window, let the cat in, then fed him a dish of succulent salmon in natural juices. Marlowe rewarded me with a throaty purr and oodles of feline affection as he sat in my lap, arched his back and rubbed his body against my head.
“What are we going to do about Osborne?” I asked of Marlowe. I lacked a plan, which at the best of times placed me on edge.
I was still thinking about Osborne when the phone rang.
“Hey, chick, it’s Slick.”
I sighed, “Just when I thought the day couldn’t get any worse.”
“We’re opening a new line of business, did ya know that? Chat lines, unadulterated sex. I was wondering if you’d like to audition. I mean, like now?”
I stared at the receiver then said, “Sure your name isn’t sick not Slick?”
“We’re performing a social service.”
“Of course you are,” I said. “Is there a point to this conversation, or should I hang up now?”
“Rudy wants to see ya,” Slick said abruptly. “Urgent. The cricket ground.”
I left Marlowe on my desk, sleeping. After all, a cat’s gotta do what a cat’s gotta do, and sleeping’s what they do best.
All was quiet at Pontcanna Fields when I arrived there – the cricketers were not on parade this evening.
I wandered along a path, lined with tall green trees, planted in regular fashion. The trees stood to attention, like green soldiers in a row, forming a guard of honour. To the east of the river, trees grew in abundance, crowding out a series of woodland trails. The trees offered a buffer, a barrier to the urban scars of the city. From parkland to metropolis, all within a stone’s throw. Beauty and the beast, hand in hand, offering the eternal contrast of our fair land.
At the end of the path, beside a narrow bridge, a suspension footbridge, which spanned the River Taff, I found Rudy Valentine. Thankfully, Valentine had left Slick in his grotto.
Valentine caught sight of me. He smiled then bowed graciously. “Good evening, my lady.”
“Good evening,” I said, my gaze taken by the foaming waters of the turbulent Taff as the river ran over a weir and a line of jagged rocks.
“Congratulations, my lady, I understand that you’ve found Vittoria Vanzetti.”
I nodded, “Word travels fast.”
“Sherri,” Rudy Valentine smiled. He raised a crooked index finger then placed a dot above that finger, signifying the letter ‘i’. “Sherri has a wide circle of social media contacts. Naturally, we have our own people amongst those contacts.”
We walked on, along the riverbank, eyeing the grassy islands within the river, passing a man in a leather coat and a leather hat, and a woman resplendent with mauve hair. The man and woman walked and talked as a couple. He had red varnish on his fingernails while she had a dragon tattoo on her neck. She also wore a tee-shirt, which proclaimed that ‘Tom Jones is God’.
While eyeing the woman, Valentine steepled his fingers together, placed them against his chin and said, “I understand that Vittoria has been through something of an ordeal.”
“To put it mildly,” I said.
“Sherri didn’t go into detail, but reading between the lines it appears that Grant Osborne was Vittoria’s tormentor.”
I frowned. “What if he was?”
“Osborne’s out of order,” Valentine said. With his jaw set firm, he gazed at the foaming water, his body arched, his eyes still, a light film of perspiration forming on his proud forehead. “A man who behaves like that loses my respect.”
“I don’t think I’ll add him to my Christmas list either,” I said.
“But you’re on Osborne’s list,” Valentine said. He steepled his fingers again then eyed me with a look bordering on concern. “Word is, he wants to cross you off that list, permanently.”
“What’s this to you?” I asked.
Valentine paused. He smiled at a young woman clothed in a skimpy summer dress. The dress was white, matching Valentine’s suit; despite the pleasant weather, Valentine wore a three-piece suit and a heavy overcoat, which probably accounted for the fine specks of perspiration beading his brow.
“I’m willing to offer you protection,” Valentine said. “You remember George?”
I nodded. “How could I forget?”
Gorgeous George was Rudy Valentine’s hit man. He was into bondage and flagellation sessions and, on one occasion, I’d had t
he misfortune to gatecrash him in search of answers to a set of urgent questions; that was one interview I’d never forget.
“George is a good man with a gun,” Valentine said. “He could look after you.”
“Why?” I asked. “Why this interest?”
Valentine smiled pleasantly. “Sometimes it’s good to offer a little charity, to do things for others, not just yourself.”
I nodded then surmised, “And when the dust has settled and Osborne’s been confined to the trash, you’d like to muscle in on his financial scams.”
Valentine’s lips parted to reveal an easy, genial smile, the smile of a favourite uncle. “That idea did cross my mind,” he confessed.
“Thank you, Mr Valentine, but I can look after myself.”
Valentine nodded. He placed his hands in his overcoat pockets. With the sunlight glinting off his gold neck chain, he said, “Allow me to warn you, my lady; Osborne has no conscience, no respect for anyone, especially fine ladies. He is a barbarian; he has no principles or scruples. He is morally bankrupt, little more than a creature from the cesspit. He is despised by many, and feared by many more. If a misfortune should befall Mr Osborne, no one would shed a tear. If he should approach you, my lady, and you should feel a need to defend yourself, do it, without compunction. I provide a line in, er, after-confrontational services. Do I make myself clear?”
I nodded then said, “You’ll get rid of his corpse.”
Valentine smiled. He nodded. “Look after yourself, my lady.”
Then, with his body slightly bowed, he walked towards the avenue of green trees dispensing bonhomie to the passersby, offering civil greetings and good cheer. He was a friendly uncle, yes, but one who could sleep easy with murder on his mind.
Chapter Twenty-Three
After another fruitless day spent staking out Maya and Osborne, I drove to Newton to catch up with Vittoria, Alan and Mac.
Observing our regular pattern, Mac and I walked through the sand dunes while Alan and Vittoria strolled along the beach. Today, they eschewed the flotsam and jetsam. Instead, they talked in earnest fashion, or rather, Vittoria talked while Alan listened intently.
