Family Honour

by Hannah Howe

  My glance urged caution, so V.J. sat again, holding his head in his hands.

  “I guess he raped Vittoria to teach me a lesson,” V.J. said in a small, sad voice.

  “So you feel guilty about the rape.”

  “I don’t know what to think.” V.J. shook his head as though to clear it. He pinched the bridge of his nose, stemming tears. “I don’t know what to feel anymore.”

  I glanced at Sweets. V.J.’s statement had taken this beyond rape, beyond attempted murder. Now, we’d added an international element, opened a can of worms, worms that slithered under the name of match fixing. Needless to say, all this was beyond my control, my resources. Moreover, to judge from Sweets’ perplexed expression, he’d have to call in the cavalry as well.

  Meanwhile, V.J. gazed longingly at the door, at the prospect of freedom. “Get me out of here,” he pleaded.

  I narrowed my eyes in determined fashion, reached across the table and placed a hand on his arm. I reflected: Vittoria required long-term counselling, that was understandable, but V.J. was a victim too and in need of our help.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  That afternoon I found myself in the lane, outside Llancarfan, eyeing Osborne’s farmhouse. Osborne was still under police care, being tended and interviewed, so I decided that it was safe to approach Maya to ‘have a word’.

  Understandably, the crime scene was taped off, a no-go area. Indeed, the police were still in evidence, searching the grounds. I didn’t want to clash or interfere with them, so I sat back and waited.

  Forty-seven minutes later, Maya climbed into her Range Rover and trundled along the lane. After she’d slipped around a bend, I jumped into my Mini and followed in her muddy tracks.

  Maya drove to the outskirts of Cardiff, where she called on a bookmaker. She entered the bookies, no doubt to place a bet. And, given her husband’s criminal connections, she would place that bet on a winner.

  Grant Osborne already had more money than sense, so why would Maya place a, presumably, modest bet to win a little more money. Greed; the more money you have, the more money you want; a few years ago a vagrant told me that he was a king because he had the freedom to do anything he wanted, the freedom to roam anywhere he pleased; he had a point.

  From the bookmaker’s, Maya drove into the country. She called at a riding school and chatted with a horsey-looking woman, a woman with long blonde hair, then she mingled with the horses. The blonde disappeared into a large stone house carrying a saddle. Maya was dressed for riding, so I thought it best to move in and intercept her before she galloped into the sunset.

  “You love horses,” I said, observing as Maya caressed the mane of a chestnut stallion.

  “They are so graceful,” she said, rubbing her head against the horse.

  I placed a hand up to my brow, to shield my eyes. As I squinted into the sunlight, I said, “Does your husband know that you’re here?”

  “He is still with his solicitor and the police.” While Maya talked, she inspected the horse, ran an eye over his general wellbeing, over the stirrups and saddle. Meanwhile, the horse stood by, displaying a placid temperament, though from time to time he did cast a suspicious eye over yours truly.

  “How is your husband?” I asked.

  Maya shrugged. “His wound is nothing. Only a scratch.”

  “But he was howling with pain.”

  “Men,” she smiled. “They are babies.”

  “You found your husband,” I said, “after the shooting.”

  Maya turned away from the horse; she offered me her full attention for the first time. “Yes,” she said, her tone laced with caution.

  “You called the police?”

  “Yes.” Still the cautious tone and a reluctance to look me in the eye.

  “You saw V.J. Parks with the gun?”

  Maya hesitated. She frowned, as though concocting an answer. In my experience, the truth came quickly. If people had to vacillate, to think deeply, they were lying, and their body language underlined that fact.

  “Yes,” Maya said after a long pause for thought.

  “You saw V.J. fire the gun?”

  A long silence, then, “Yes.”

  “Did you see anyone else?”

  Maya hooked her hair behind her ears. She wore pearl earrings, brilliant white, which contrasted with the silky blackness of her hair. “No,” she said while offering me an oblique glance. “I didn’t see anyone else.”

  “V.J. said he didn’t do it.”

  “He did,” Maya insisted, though her tone was far from firm.

  “Did your husband tell you to put the finger on V.J.?” I asked.

  Maya frowned, maybe the first genuine gesture or word since the start of our conversation. She shook her head and smiled, “I don’t understand.”

  “Did your husband see V.J. fire the gun?”

  “I think he did,” Maya said slowly.

  “So you were in the room when the gun went off.”

  Another long pause while she led the horse to a wooden gate. The gate offered access to a vast expanse of countryside and a bridle path. The horse recognized the path and became frisky, so Maya raised a soothing hand to calm him down.

  “I was in the stables,” she said, eventually finding an answer to my question.

  “At 7 a.m.?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Did you get wet?”

  Maya paused. She glanced at the sky, at the broken clouds. “No,” she said, “because it had stopped raining.”

  “But you were in the stables?”

  “Yes.”

  “So how did you see the shooting?”

  With an easy, lithe movement, Maya slipped into the saddle. She adjusted the reins then patted the horse on his neck. “Through the French window,” she said. “I saw the shooting through the window; it was open.”

  I nodded then said, “You know that your husband raped Vittoria Vanzetti.”

  She turned away then bobbed her head, “Yes.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  She offered a gentle shrug of her right shoulder, which disturbed her jerkin. “He is my husband, I must stand by him.”

  “Even though he raped a woman.”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though he’s a monster.”

  Maya turned to glare at me. She raised her whip, held in her left hand. “My husband is a kind man,” she said slowly, patiently, as though talking with a small child. “He gives much money to charity.”

  “Your husband is a monster,” I said.

  “I must stand by him,” she insisted. “I will stand by him.”

  “You feel no hatred towards him, no anger?”

  Maya laughed and the horse whinnied, offered a chorus of disapproval. “You think I shot him?” she asked.

  “Maybe. And he’s covering up for you. At a guess, it was a professional hit, or a crime of passion. If it was a professional hit, the gunman would have been more proficient, so that suggests a crime of passion. And by definition most crimes of passion are committed by spouses or lovers.”

  “I didn’t shoot my husband,” Maya insisted. “If I raised a finger against him, he would kill me.”

  “Do you fear him?” I asked.

  Before Maya could answer, the horse tossed his head and scratched the ground, eager for action. In truth, the horse was displaying great forbearance, great patience, qualities that were trickling to the bottom of Maya’s sandglass.

  “I love him,” she said.

  “Even though he’s a monster.”

  Maya scowled. She cracked her whip above my head. The horse reacted and she had to circle him to retain control. “Why do you keep saying that?” she asked.

  “I’m only speaking the truth,” I said. “I admire loyalty, but there’s a time and place for everything. Maybe you have to decide where your loyalties lie; with a man you fear, or with Vittoria and the other women that your husband has no doubt abused.”

  The last grain of sand trickle
d to the bottom of the hourglass; Maya’s patience ran out. She stood tall in her stirrups, then leaned forward in her saddle. With a word of encouragement, she eased the horse into the field. Horse and rider went galloping across the field, chestnut mane and silky black hair flowing. They were as one; content, free.

  Which left the question: who pulled the trigger, who tried to murder Grant Osborne? A man in his position had doubtless made many enemies. However, none of those people had access to Vincent Vanzetti’s gun, and that included Maya Osborne, so the finger of suspicion pointed at the mobster.

  After talking with Maya, I wasn’t convinced of Vanzetti’s guilt. Nevertheless, I felt sure that the answer lay at his house.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Vincent Vanzetti, Catrin and Sherri were sitting in the gold living room. I was pacing the floor, in the space formally occupied by the low glass table, wondering how best to make my pitch, to offer my accusation. However, and quite rightly, Vanzetti gave priority to his daughter.

  “How is Vittoria?” he asked.

  “She is making progress with Alan. Hopefully, she’ll return home soon.”

  “I don’t blame her for what happened,” Vanzetti said, his eyes downcast, his gaze lost in the depths of his whisky glass.

  “You need to convince her of that fact,” I said, “make sure she understands that she hasn’t dishonoured your family.”

  Vanzetti nodded. He sipped his drink. He caressed the corners of his grey moustache. He looked old, thoughtful, troubled by recent events, burdened by the cares of his lifestyle.

  “How is V.J.?” he asked.

  “Upset. Confused. He insists that he didn’t shoot Osborne.”

  “So who did?”

  I paused and sipped my drink, a fruit juice, my only source of sustenance since breakfast. No wonder I was a size ten: the Samantha Smith diet – don’t eat, do worry, stay active; buy the DVD now.

  “Initially,” I said, “I figured Maya for the hit, though the weapon did offer an obstacle to that supposition. However, now my guess is someone in this room; someone who had access to your gun, Mr Vanzetti.”

  “You think I did it?” Vanzetti frowned, arching a grey eyebrow.

  “You have a very strong motive. And, some would argue, form. But the attempt was too sloppy to carry your hallmark, and there’s no way in the world you’d have left your gun at the crime scene, or used your own gun, for that matter.”

  “So you think Catrin did it?” Vanzetti asked.

  I glanced at Catrin Vanzetti. She was sitting next to her ex-husband, her expression preoccupied, her left hand absentmindedly caressing his thigh. There was a comfortable familiarity between them; dare I say it, the familiarity of a long-time married couple.

  In reply to Vincent Vanzetti, I said, “Who’d blame Catrin if she did take a pop at Osborne?”

  “I thought about it,” Catrin confessed, snapping out of her reverie, placing her hands in her lap. “But, like I said earlier, shooting Osborne would not offer a solution. If he died at my hands, it would be a long, slow, painful death; I’d want to see the bastard suffer.”

  I nodded. I could well believe that. To Catrin, I said, “It would help if you could offer an alibi.”

  Catrin glanced at her ex-husband. She took hold of his right hand and their fingers entwined. “Vince is my alibi,” she said while gazing into Vanzetti’s eyes.

  I blinked, cleared my throat and said, “Mr Vanzetti?”

  With reluctance, Vanzetti glanced at Sherri. He didn’t blush exactly, but he did look embarrassed when he said, “I was with Catrin in the guest suite. We were together, all night.” He ran a finger under his shirt collar, flexed his neck muscles and loosened his tie. “Unfinished business,” he shrugged. “You know how it is.”

  “Oh, Vincent!” Sherri sobbed. She curled her hands into two tiny fists then rubbed her eyes. The woman, despite her long legs, suspenders and over-generous cleavage, looked like a little child.

  “Which just leaves Sherri,” I said.

  Sherri unfurled her fingers. She made a pathetic attempt to place a dot above her index finger to form the letter ‘i’. “With an ‘i’,” she cried.

  “With an ‘i’,” I echoed. “You were alone all night?”

  Sherri nodded. Then, in a dramatic gesture, she swooped on to the floor, dropped to her knees before Vanzetti. “I did it for you, Vincent. I thought you’d be proud of me. I was going to tell you. I don’t want to lose you to that cow-faced bitch.” She glanced at Catrin and snarled, transformed herself from Miss Jekyll into Mistress Hyde. “I love you, Vincent. I can’t live without you. I need you in my life.”

  “How did you do it?” I asked.

  “Simple.” Sherri jumped up. She turned towards me and offered her girlish smile. As she spoke, she performed every action, displayed attempted murder in a mime. “I took the gun from under Vincent’s pillow. I knew he was with that cow-faced bitch, so I took the gun from under his pillow and drove to Osborne’s house. I was going to win my true love back, just like they do in the movies, just like I did in Gangster Gangbang.”

  The thought of Sherri behind the wheel of a car made my mind boggle, but I let it pass.

  “I knocked on the glass door,” Sherri continued, “flashed him a thigh, and he let me in. Then I shot him.” She placed her right thumb to her lips, swayed playfully from side to side then gave her thumbnail a thoughtful nibble. “I guess I panicked a bit...the gunshot was so loud...and I dropped the gun and ran. I aimed to kill him, but I guess I missed. They won’t find my prints on the gun,” she said while rolling her eyes, “I’m not that stupid. I wore gloves. I saw that on Columbo.” Sherri paused. She abandoned the mime. She dropped all pretence. Gone was the actress; in her stead, I saw the true Sherri, a vulnerable young woman, a woman in need of protection from herself.

  “I did it for you, Vincent, and for Vittoria. I love you both.” Large teardrops rolled down her cheeks, splashed on to the floor in a rain of raw emotion. She sniffed, licked a tear from her lips and said, “My father doesn’t care about me. My mother only wanted me to be famous; she never loved me, she never even liked me for who I am. She didn’t care if I became a porn actress, as long as I was famous. No one loves you unless you’re famous. But I love you, Vincent. I love Vittoria. You’re my family.”

  Vanzetti and Catrin stared at Sherri. They shuffled in their seats then glanced at each other; they looked confused, embarrassed.

  I drained my fruit juice then placed the tall, elegant glass on the cocktail cabinet. Sherri was sobbing, crying the rain, so I offered her my shoulder. While her tears moistened my blouse, I said to the mobster, “There you are, Mr Vanzetti; either V.J. Parks or your wife for a long spell in the cooler. What do you reckon?”

  Vanzetti placed his head in his hands. He drew his fingers across his face. He looked as weary as Old Father Time. He glanced at me, stared into his empty glass and sighed, “I need a drink.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The following morning, while driving to Newton, I reflected on recent events. I’d passed the hot potato of the attempted murder on to Vanzetti; either V.J. Parks or Sherri would have to take the rap. In their own way, I reckoned that both were innocent. However, a crime had been committed, and we couldn’t ignore that fact.

  Sweets had passed the match fixing allegations on to his superiors, though with only V.J. Parks’ statement to call on, he wasn’t optimistic of seeing a result. Furthermore, Parks was hedging his bets, contradicting his statement, not wishing to become embroiled in a case of international standing; he’d defied Osborne once, but had no wish to enrage the monster and his cronies again. I guess that boiled down to fear, that four-letter word that all tyrants rely upon, the foremost four-letter word in the English language. No doubt, V.J. centred his fear on Vittoria and a desire to protect her, and I could well understand that.

  All this left me with Osborne and the dilemma of justice for Vittoria. As things stood, the innocent faced the frying pan
while the guilty walked away from the fire.

  At Newton, I decided to take a leaf out of Alan’s book; I invited Vittoria for a stroll along the beach. Looking more at ease today, she accepted.

  With Mac watching from the sand dunes, Vittoria and I removed our trainers. We walked towards the incoming tide then allowed the waves to lap over our bare feet. Vittoria was wearing a sunhat today, to hide her badly cropped hair, not for protection. I sensed that her hair caused her embarrassment, which implied progress; gradually, she was rediscovering herself, coming to terms with her situation.

  We splashed around for a while, enjoyed the unblemished view, the peace, the solitude. Then as we stooped to examine the shells, I turned to Vittoria and asked, “How do you feel?”

  “Better. The days are becoming bearable now, but I hate the nights. I hate the quiet and being trapped with my own thoughts.”

  We selected a handful of shells and dropped them into a bag, which I’d brought along for the purpose. The sun warmed our necks; the seagulls flew high, offered lazy cries, as though afraid to disturb the stillness. Meanwhile, the tide rolled in in somnolent fashion, the gentle waves kissing our feet.

  “Your fella is a lovely man,” Vittoria said. She raised a hand to her eyes, gazed at the gentle waves then blinked into the sunlight. “You’re very lucky.”

  “He is and I am,” I agreed. “And maybe I fail to show my appreciation at times.”

  Vittoria nodded and we walked on in silence.

  Our footsteps reminded me of Robinson Crusoe, of the day he discovered Man Friday, of his unbridled joy at breaking the chain of loneliness. However, forget far-off, deserted islands – living alone with your own dark thoughts is the loneliest place on the map.

  “Why are you doing this?” Vittoria asked. She fixed her gaze on her toes, on the patterns she’d made in the sand, at the delicate imprints offered by her raised instep. “I mean, you don’t have to.” She glanced over her shoulder, towards the sand dunes, to the imposing figure of Mac. “You’ve put yourself in danger, I know because Mac is concerned about you.”