Family Honour

by Hannah Howe

  With the sun slipping towards the horizon, I raised a hand to shield my eyes. Once again, the weather had become changeable as grey clouds gathered above us, driven on a brisk westerly breeze. The grey clouds served as a deterrent so the beach was largely deserted, though I did spy a man with a camera and a frisky puppy. Incongruously, the man carved ‘Merry Christmas’ in the sand and captured the image while the puppy dug furiously and threatened to burrow through to Australia.

  “I received a call today,” Mac said, his tone heavy, sombre.

  “Oh, yes,” I said.

  “From Grant Osborne.”

  I turned sharply, twisting my heel in the sand. “He doesn’t know that you’re protecting Vittoria?”

  “So far, we’ve managed to keep that mum.”

  “What did he want?” I asked.

  “You, Lassie. He asked me to kidnap you.”

  I nodded. In truth, Mac’s words did not come as a surprise. All the same, they did send icicles down my spine. “What did you say?”

  “Well, I offered him the first word that came to my mind...I said, ‘yes’.”

  I scowled at Mac, a full-powered glare, on the megawatt scale, registering a million.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Missy. Lucky I’m not drinking a glass of milk or it would curdle.”

  Mac adjusted his greatcoat, turned the collar up to protect the back of his neck. The breeze was chilly this evening and I started to shiver. At least, I told myself that it was the breeze, and not Osborne’s threat.

  “Let me explain,” Mac continued. “I said ‘yes’ because I figured that if I agreed to his offer he wouldn’t ask anyone else, for the time being at any rate.”

  “Thanks, Mac.”

  He nodded. “So I’ve bought you a little time. But maybe I should stick around, in case he goes behind my back and hires someone else to do the snatching.”

  “No,” I said, “you stay with Vittoria. She needs you. She trusts you.”

  Mac frowned. He glanced at Vittoria and me, caught on the horns of a dilemma. A man of action, Mac disliked sitting around; it made him restless, allowed too much time for thought; he’d prefer to tackle Osborne head-on, and damn the consequences.

  “The good Dr Storey would be very upset if anything happened to you.”

  I nodded then asked, “What do you know about Osborne, his background?”

  “He’s from Bavarian stock, so I believe. His family made a fortune out of recycling scrap metal before recycling became popular.” Mac paused. He frowned, “You have a plan for dealing with Osborne?”

  I shook my head then bit my lip. “Not yet.”

  “We could always shoot him,” Mac said. “After all, the scumbag deserves a bullet; several, in fact.”

  The puppy ran into the sand dunes followed by the man with the camera. On the beach, the tide rolled in, over the words ‘Merry Christmas’, while Alan and Vittoria continued their walk and talk, disappearing into the distance.

  Mac and I stepped on to the beach, on to an area covered in shingle. As we walked, I asked, “Have you shot anyone in cold blood?”

  Mac paused. He stooped then picked up a pebble. The pebble was round and smooth, as smooth as Mac’s bald cranium. While running a thumb over the pebble, he said, “I’ve shot people, as you know, to prevent a killing or in self-defence. But to shoot someone in cold blood...that takes a different mindset, a mind that doesn’t register any emotion.”

  “A mind like Gorgeous George’s, Rudy Valentine’s hit man.”

  “Aye,” Mac agreed. “George would do it, no questions asked.”

  Mac bent a knee. Carefully, he placed the pebble on the sand; for a big man and a brute, he could be so delicate.

  As Mac straightened, he turned to me and said, “Did I ever tell you about this guy, a hit man? He’d been hired to take someone out. He did his homework, set up his target. Then, when it came to the crunch, he couldn’t pull the trigger.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “The target was naked. It takes a cold mind to carry out an assassination. It takes a mind in the freezer to put a bullet into naked flesh, a mind that can live with the images.”

  At that moment, an image flashed through my mind, a picture of a semi-naked Grant Osborne with yours truly behind the trigger. Could I fire the gun? Could I kill him? Call me a coward, but I wasn’t keen to find out.

  “So,” Mac asked, “what are you going to do about Grant Osborne?”

  I shuffled my feet on the sand. I looked along the beach, across the bay, but could find no answer. I was thinking too hard; experience told me to let it go, to submit to my subconscious, because within that intuitive world I often found the answer.

  “Sleep on it,” I said, “and hope that I come up with a plan.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I went to bed thinking of Grant Osborne so, naturally, he crowded my nightmares. In those nightmares, I was chasing Osborne, then he was chasing me. Then I aimed my gun at him. Then he raised his hands to strangle me. At that moment, I woke with a start, to the sound of my telephone ringing. I brushed my hair from my eyes, reached for the phone and muttered a confused, “Hello?”

  “The bastard’s been shot,” Vincent Vanzetti said.

  I blinked and within that second, I was wide-awake. “Which bastard?”

  “Osborne.”

  “When?”

  “This morning.”

  “Dead?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Who shot him?” I asked.

  “Don’t know that either,” Vanzetti said, “but the filth have fingered V.J. for the hit.”

  I scrambled out of bed and looked through the window. The streets were wet, displaying evidence of overnight rain. A minor fact, maybe, but I filed it away in my noggin, then said to Vanzetti, “Okay. I’ll make enquiries. I’ll be in touch.”

  After a quick shower and toast on the run for breakfast, I drove into the city, to the central police station. There, I asked for Detective Inspector ‘Sweets’ MacArthur, claiming that I had evidence. It was a white lie, one I’d used previously; Sweets always seemed to forgive me, though if the roles were reversed, I doubt that I’d be so magnanimous.

  I met Sweets in his goldfish bowl of an office. There, I asked, “You got a minute?”

  Sweets scurried around his office, from filing cabinet, to computer, and back again. “I got thirty seconds,” he said.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Grant Osborne, the financier, shot, wounded.”

  “Will he live?”

  “Probably.” Sweets paused. He pointed to his upper arm. “The wound’s pretty superficial.”

  I nodded then stepped back as Sweets answered the telephone. While Sweets offered the caller a series of monosyllabic grunts, I glanced around the office, to a map detailing local trouble spots, to a coat stand supporting Sweets’ raincoat and trilby, then to a picture on his desk portraying his wife and children.

  At the conclusion of the phone call, I stepped forward and asked, “You figure V.J. Parks as the shooter?”

  Sweets threw a bonbon into his mouth. He nodded then sucked vigorously. “Parks was seen, at the scene of the crime.”

  “By whom?”

  “Osborne’s missus, Maya. She saw Parks leaning over her husband. Furthermore, Parks had Vincent Vanzetti’s gun in his hand.”

  “You’ve check ownership of the gun?”

  “Yeah. It’s Vanzetti’s.”

  “And the bullet that grazed Osborne’s arm was fired from that gun?”

  Sweets nodded. “A perfect match.”

  “So maybe Vanzetti fired the gun.”

  “If Vanzetti fired the gun,” Sweets reasoned, “you reckon Osborne would still be standing?”

  I thought about that, but only for a second. “Probably not,” I said.

  “Definitely not,” Sweets said. He sat behind his desk, leaned back, raised his arms and placed them behind his head. Sartorial elegance escaped Sweets;
indeed, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear that he was colour-blind. Today, he wore a lime green shirt and navy trousers, along with an orange tie. The tie contained creases and evidence of breakfast: egg and bacon with lashings of tomato sauce, at a guess. As Sweets chomped away on his bonbon, he asked, “Any idea why Parks would take a pop at Osborne? I mean, he’s only one fight away from a shot at the world title; he’s got everything going for him.”

  “He has,” I agreed, “except Osborne raped his girlfriend.”

  “What?” Sweets leaned forward; he placed his elbows on his desk.

  Ignoring the maelstrom of activity in the outer office: the ringing telephones, the raised voices, the occasional bursts of laughter, I told Sweets about the rape and its effect on Vittoria Vanzetti, and about the Vanzetti family and their desire for revenge. All this information dropped V.J. Parks further into the mire, supplied him with a motive. However, sometimes you have to retreat before you can move forward.

  “Why didn’t Vittoria Vanzetti report this?” Sweets asked.

  “Because she’s a Vanzetti,” I said. “And because she’s a woman.”

  Sweets scowled at me. He picked up a pen and scratched his head. “Times have changed, Sam; rape victims get more support these days.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but judges still smile indulgently at rapists before handing them a token sentence or their freedom. Times have changed, but some people’s attitudes have not.”

  “So,” Sweets reasoned, “Parks took the law into his own hands.”

  I shrugged. Certainly, V.J. Parks had a motive for murder and the evidence was stacked against him. However, if only for Vittoria’s sake, I longed to find a loophole, a wrinkle in that evidence, an equitable way out.

  “I’d like to talk with Parks,” I said.

  “Can’t allow that, Sam,” Sweets frowned; “you have no authority.”

  “I’m working for the family, remember?”

  He paused, then shook his head. “No, it’s more than my job’s worth.”

  I sighed, then waved a hand around his office, a demonstration of my frustration and my need to talk with Parks. “Since when have you been a jobsworth, Sweets?”

  Sweets broke the rules to talk with me; he broke the rules to pass information on to me; maybe I took those indiscretions for granted; maybe I owed him a little respect and gratitude. Someday, somehow, I’d find a way to repay him, but for Vittoria’s sake, for my sake, I had to speak with V.J. Parks, now.

  “I don’t know, Sam,” Sweets said, his tone and body language wavering.

  “Does Parks have a solicitor?” I asked.

  Sweets nodded, “Lawrence Gouldman.”

  “Of Fry, Gouldman and Fletcher?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What if I swing it with them, to act as their investigator?”

  Sweets paused. He swallowed his bonbon. He glanced, briefly, at his colleagues in the outer office. He shuffled the papers on his desk. He gazed at the photograph of his family, at his sons and daughter. Then he nodded and said, “Okay, but I’m in on the chat.”

  I thought for a moment then smiled. When you receive an offer you can’t refuse, you have to accept.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Via my mobile phone, I placed a call to Fry, Gouldman and Fletcher; Manny Fry was a friend; furthermore, the company employed me on a regular basis. In a moment of telepathy, Lawrence Gouldman announced that he was about to call me; he had doubts about the shooting and asked if I could help. Naturally, I said, ‘yes’. I passed this information on to Sweets and he set the ball rolling. An hour later, I walked down a corridor on my way to interview V.J. Parks.

  The interview room was grey and green: grey walls and skirting boards, green floor and notice board. The room contained a small, square table, which was grey with green legs, while the chairs offered a degree of contrast, being black with green legs. V.J. Parks sat on one of those chairs, his elbows resting on the desk, his head in his hands.

  Sweets stood guard at the door while I eased myself on to a second chair. As I made myself comfortable, V.J. said, “You know what the V in my name stands for, don’t you...Vivian. That’s a girl’s name, innit; it’s a sissy’s name. That’s why I’m known as V.J. Parks. That’s why I took up boxing.”

  “Like Johnny Cash and ‘A Boy Named Sue’,” I said.

  “Huh?” V.J. glanced up. He frowned.

  “A song, ‘A Boy Named Sue’.”

  V.J. stared at the table, his head still resting in his hands; this was not the moment to discuss one of the greats of popular music, so instead I asked, “What happened, V.J.?”

  “It’s all unravelling,” he moaned.

  “Did you shoot him?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “But you were at the farmhouse, with a gun in your hand?”

  A pause, then a reluctant nod. “Yeah.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “I went there to confront Osborne. But if I was gonna do any damage, I’d use my fists, wouldn’t I?”

  V.J. glanced up and stared at me. As he stared, he flexed his fingers and clenched his fists, created two weapons as potent as any handgun. His tee-shirt revealed bulging biceps and taut triceps; one blow from V.J. Parks would send the average man spinning; two blows would knock him out.

  With that in mind, I asked, “Have you ever fired a gun, V.J.?”

  “Never. I’ve never handled one before today.”

  “Did you see anyone at the farmhouse?”

  “Only Osborne and his missus. And Osborne had been shot by the time I got there.”

  “Explain,” I said.

  “The window door, the...”

  “French window.”

  “Was open and I just walked in and found Osborne on the canvas, so to speak, groaning and moaning.”

  “Then what happened?” I asked.

  “I saw the gun. I picked it up; I thought Osborne might lunge for it and use it on me.”

  “And then?”

  “His missus walked in and saw us, didn’t she. She screamed, I panicked, dropped the gun and ran.”

  “And the police picked you up later.”

  “Yeah. At the gym. I wasn’t hiding or anything. I mean, if I’d taken a pop at him, I’d be in hiding, wouldn’t I?”

  I glanced at Sweets, to gauge his reaction, to see what he made of V.J. Parks’ tale. A fair man, Sweets looked on with interest; he wouldn’t throw the book at Parks, or fit him up, just to put the case to bed. Like me, Sweets had an insatiable desire for justice; some people in his department didn’t understand our relationship, our friendship, but maybe that desire for justice served as our greatest bond.

  “You feel angry towards Osborne,” I said, stating the obvious, inviting a reaction.

  Nervously, Parks glanced at Sweets, then at me. “Of course,” he said.

  “What about your feelings for Vittoria?”

  He leaned forward and stared at the table. A high, narrow window offered a shaft of light, which slanted across the table, across V.J.’s face, casting a long shadow. The shadow stretched to the door, to Sweets’ feet, covering his brown shoes. V.J. shook his head and disturbed the shadow. In a halting voice he said, “I’m not sure.”

  “Why aren’t you sure?”

  He looked up, gazed into my eyes, then looked away again. “She’s been with another man, hasn’t she.”

  “He raped her,” I said.

  “Yeah, I know, but...” V.J. shrugged. He rolled his shoulders and his muscles bulged under the light fabric of his tee-shirt. Understandably, he looked tense, primed, ready to jump up at any moment, ready to burst into violent action. He sighed and said, “It’s like she’s not mine anymore.”

  “She needs you,” I said. “This is no time to abandon her.”

  “I’m not abandoning her,” V.J. insisted. “But...I don’t know...”

  I glanced at Sweets. From his position beside the door, he looked on, with intent. He folded his arms across
his chest, leaned against the wall, offered a pose of nonchalant indifference. However, I knew from personal experience that Sweets was filing away every word, every gesture. He liked to play the fool, sometimes looked like a fool, but his mind was as sharp as a razor.

  “Get me out of here,” V.J. pleaded, offering a cry of desperation, “I hate feeling cooped up.”

  “I’ll get you out,” I said. “But it might take a little time.”

  I paused, to gather my thoughts, to consider how I could keep my promise. Then, from the corridor, the sound of footsteps echoing, followed by a drunken yowl and a minor scuffle. As the groans and protests faded away, disappeared into a distant room, I asked, “Why did Osborne pick on Vittoria?”

  “What do you mean?” V.J. frowned.

  “He raped her for a reason, beyond lust.”

  V.J. glanced at Sweets. He stared at the wall. He shuffled in his chair, his face troubled, burdened, distressed. “I don’t know,” he said, his tone wary, defensive.

  “You want to get out of here?” I asked, my tone edgy, impatient. “You want me to help you?”

  V.J. swallowed. He nodded.

  “Well then...”

  “Osborne’s an animal,” V.J. said. “His type ain’t human.”

  “Why did he rape Vittoria?”

  V.J. swallowed again. His Adam’s apple bobbed in uncomfortable fashion. He grimaced, groaned, as though he’d ingested a dozen razorblades. A film of perspiration gathered on his brow, on the palms of his hands. He mopped his brow, wiped his hands on his tee-shirt then continued, “Osborne wanted me to take a dive, to throw my next fight.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “He has contacts in Asia; he’s into sports betting, match fixing. With him around, no sport is clean.”

  “And you refused to take a dive?”

  “I’m clean,” V.J. insisted. “Every fight I’ve been involved in has been above board.” He stood and with his face glowing red, he thumbed the table, pummelled the smooth surface with the palm of his left hand. “This is my career; I want that title.”