by Gill Paul
‘Why is he scared of a drug dealer?’
‘Luigi, the one who supplied drugs to Helen, told Ernesto exactly what to say to the police. It seems he was furious with Diana for pointing the finger at him and decided to incriminate her. That’s why he persuaded Ernesto and the other witness to testify against her.’
‘Goodness. How on earth did you force him to tell you all this?’
Trevor was astonished. Just when he thought his opinion of Diana’s lover couldn’t sink any lower …
‘Money. I paid him. I bet he’s broke now that he’s not working at Cinecittà. They’ll never take him back when they hear what he’s done.’
‘I’ll make sure they don’t,’ Trevor promised. ‘I’ll tell Hilary personally.’
‘Who was the witness, though? That’s what I’d like to know.’
‘I met her this afternoon,’ Trevor said, and he explained about finding Helen’s note and identifying the place where she fell from the boat, as well as the woman’s unreliable testimony.
‘Was her name Ghianciamina?’ Scott asked eagerly.
Trevor shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. But I can call my friend, the guard at Torre Astura, and ask if he remembers.’
Scott’s office was just around the corner, so they agreed to pop up there and phone when they finished their beers.
‘Ernesto and Helen weren’t really an item, were they?’ Trevor asked. ‘What did he say about her?’
‘He tried to brag that she was chasing him but I reckon it didn’t go beyond flirtation. What upset me is that Helen asked him for money for her plane fare the evening she died and he refused point blank to help. If only she had come to me.’ She couldn’t, though, because he had never given her his address or telephone number. He felt awful about that.
‘Do you think Diana is going to be in any danger from Luigi once she’s out of prison?’ Trevor asked. ‘Perhaps I should whisk her straight out of the country.’
Scott pondered that. ‘It makes me sick to let him get away with it. I wish there was something I could do to incriminate him. The police know he’s dealing drugs and don’t seem to want to charge him. It was a Saturday night and he must have been loaded with stuff when they took him in for questioning but they chose not to find it. If only there was something else we could get him on – like the way they finally got Al Capone for tax evasion. I bet Luigi doesn’t pay his taxes!’
‘Why does it have to be so complicated? Why not tell the police what you know about him?’ In any decent justice system, that would be taken seriously, Trevor thought. They’d have to. Even the ancient Romans had laws against falsely accusing someone.
‘It would help if I could find a link between Luigi and the witness. Wouldn’t it be handy if it turned out to be his aunt or something?’
‘Do you really think he’d be so stupid?’
‘I dunno. But it would be good news.’
Back at the office, they telephoned the day guard at Torre Astura, who supplied Trevor not only with the name of the woman – Cecilia Tessero – but also with an address. She worked as the housekeeper at a villa two miles up the coast towards Anzio, he said. A house called Villa Armonioso.
‘That’s owned by Luigi’s boss!’ Scott exclaimed. ‘He’s not going to be very happy if his housekeeper is charged with perjury. Holy shit, I wouldn’t like to be in Luigi’s shoes.’
‘Will you call the police or will I?’
‘Let me,’ Scott said. ‘I know a little more about who I’m dealing with. You and Diana need to walk away and forget you ever heard any of this. Get your wife out of jail and go and enjoy your lives!’
Oh God, I hope so, Trevor thought. He glanced at his watch. Time to rush back to the pensione and wait for news from the lawyer. He was so nervous he kept forgetting to breathe.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
After Trevor left, Scott considered calling the police about Luigi’s links to the Ghianciaminas, but he could predict the reaction. Any charges against the housekeeper would be dropped as soon as they found out who she worked for. Ernesto would never admit to the police that Luigi had manufactured evidence against Diana. And whoever had given Luigi an alibi would stick to their story. No, there was no point. He would have to wait until his drugs story was published and present the truth about Luigi there. He still needed some incontrovertible evidence against the Ghianciamina family, something so big that the police couldn’t ignore it. He decided to take another trip down to the Villa Armonioso, but this time by night. It had been late evening when Helen was taken there. Maybe that’s when most of their business took place.
Before leaving Rome, Scott headed back to his pensione and picked up the binoculars and his camera. He bought some sandwiches and a bottle of water from a bar, and took his leather jacket in case it got chilly later. He wasn’t sure how long this would take.
It was almost nine by the time he reached Anzio and headed south past the port and down along the coast road. Dusk was on the verge of turning to night and illuminated signs were switched on outside bars and trattorie: Coca-Cola, Peroni, Buona Cucina. At first he overshot the turn-off but soon realised his mistake and headed back. He hid his bike in the same old shed then made his way by foot across the dunes, aware that it was going to be harder to justify his presence if he were caught this time. He couldn’t use birdwatching as an excuse now that it was dark.
A car pulled up at around nine-thirty and, using the binoculars, Scott managed to note down the number plate as it swept through the gates, but he couldn’t see who got out because they drove round to the other side of the house. He ate two of his sandwiches and drank some water, then settled in to wait as the night drew in. Two more cars came at eleven but it was too dark to make out their number plates. One left again half an hour later. Another arrived. He lay back against a sand dune to wait, and must have dozed off for a while because he awakened around two a.m. to the sound of a motorboat.
The moon had come out and it cast a surreal white glow over the ocean, almost like the unnatural light cast by the paparazzis’ flashbulbs in Via Veneto. Through the binoculars, Scott saw a boat pulling out from a mooring behind the villa and heading out to sea. He swept the binoculars round to the horizon and there, lit up in the moonlight, was a huge ship looming out of the blackness like a mountain in the mist. It gave him a start. It was exactly as Bradley Wyndham had predicted: a shipment of drugs was being smuggled out to sea and there wasn’t a coastguard in sight.
Scott adjusted the binoculars, trying to make out the name of the vessel, but all he could see was that there were two words, of which the first might begin with RE and the second might end in A. He took a series of photographs as pallets were hauled up the side of the ship on ropes. If they were packed with drugs, they would be worth thousands and thousands of dollars. One thing he was sure of: this cargo would not have been registered for export, and no duties would have been paid. He’d bet his bottom dollar on it.
The motor launch turned and headed back to shore. Scott took a few more photos until he’d finished the roll, praying that enough would come out to show the villa, the launch and the ship accepting illicit cargo. He didn’t have any illusions that he could change the world in a day, but he was more and more determined to nail these people who had caused the death of Helen and goodness knows how many other vulnerable people. The police wouldn’t do anything, but he would. He was ready to write his article now.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
At nine that evening, a guard came to the cell door and asked Diana not to change for bed because the supervisor was coming for a word.
‘Have you been complaining about anything?’ Donatella asked sharply. Guilt was written all over her face, and Diana guessed she thought it was about the theft of the gettoni.
‘No, I haven’t. Perhaps it’s about my request for us to get extra food. Trevor has paid the money.’
They waited in silence, sitting on their beds, until the supervisor appeared in the doorway. ‘Signora B
ailey? Pack your things. You’re going home tomorrow morning.’
There was no preamble and Diana couldn’t absorb the words at first.
‘Lucky bitch!’ Donatella commented. ‘Can I come too?’
‘They’ve dropped the charges against you,’ the supervisor explained to Diana. ‘You’ll be released at eight in the morning.’
‘Are you sure?’ Diana asked. She didn’t want to get her hopes up for nothing. But the supervisor insisted it was true, then turned and left and they were locked in for the night. She stared after her, feeling stunned at the news.
‘Your fancy lawyer must have found a loophole in the law,’ Donatella speculated. ‘I don’t suppose you could ask him to look into my case now?’
But you’re guilty, Diana thought. ‘I’ll ask him,’ she said out loud.
‘You should sue the police for wrongful imprisonment. You deserve compensation for all the hardship you’ve had to endure, and the damage to your good name. Get the bastards to grovel.’
‘I don’t want any money. I’ll just be happy to be free.’
The witness’s story must have fallen apart. She wondered who it was? It didn’t matter now, but she’d like to know. She tried to decide what she would do when she was released, but beyond seeing Trevor and hearing what had happened, she couldn’t think. She would only have spent eight days in jail but it seemed like weeks. She’d already got used to the routine of meals being brought on trays, lights being switched off at the appointed time, and baths being taken when the guards took you to the bathroom. The only thing she hadn’t got used to was the boredom. Even with her books to read, each hour was interminable.
There was no chance of sleep that night. She listened to Donatella’s mumbling and wondered what everyone at Cinecittà would say about her ordeal. Would she be allowed to complete her work on the film? Would Ernesto still be there? Had Helen’s funeral been held yet and, if not, would she be able to go? And beyond that, she wondered what would happen to her and Trevor. There were no answers, only endless questions.
Breakfast was brought to them at seven and, as they ate, Donatella kept giving Diana odd, slightly aggressive looks.
‘You’ve got money, haven’t you? I mean, you’ve got a house back home and all that?’
‘We rent a flat in London. We’re not rich,’ Diana replied, wondering where this was heading.
‘Oh.’ There was a pause while they both ate. Still Donatella kept glancing across. ‘It’s just I’ve written a letter for my children and I wondered if you could see it gets there? You’d have to give it to my sister, because her husband would destroy it if he saw it first.’
‘Have you put the address on it?’ Diana asked. ‘Of course I’ll make sure it gets there.’ She glanced at it but didn’t recognise the area.
‘Could you give them some money as well?’ She gave Diana a defiant look. ‘After all, I’ve looked after you in here. You could have been in all kinds of bother without me.’
‘Yes, I’ll give them some money. I’ll give it to your sister and ask her to spend it on them.’
‘Tell her to get them new clothes, will you?’
‘I will.’
Donatella nodded but didn’t say thanks, and she just grunted her goodbyes when a warden came to collect Diana at seven-thirty. She’s jealous, poor thing. She’d give anything to be leaving this morning.
Diana was led down to reception. She hadn’t had a chance to wash or brush her teeth. She must look a fright, and God knows what she smelled like. There were various forms to sign then she sat on a bench watching as the minute hand jerked round on a clock face. She wasn’t to be released a second before eight o’clock: rules were rules. She wondered if Trevor knew she was being released. Would he be there to meet her? Or would she have to catch a bus back to Pensione Splendid? She had no idea what to expect.
At eight o’clock, there was no ceremony, no shaking of hands, no formal apology. A guard simply stood up, opened a large wooden door and gestured for Diana to walk through. Bright white sunshine blinded her after the gloom of the prison interior. The air smelled fresh and she could feel a breeze on her skin.
‘Diana!’ Trevor’s voice said, and his arms were round her, which was just as well because her knees felt wobbly. ‘I came by bus but I’ve got a taxi driver waiting to take us back. I thought that was better.’ He was gabbling. ‘Can I carry your bag?’
She handed it to him, so overcome with emotion she couldn’t speak. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘No point hanging around.’
They held hands in the taxi and he explained to her what had happened and why she had been freed. She started to cry when he told her the wording of the note from Helen. If only the padrona hadn’t put her in a different room. That one simple thing had made all the difference between life and death.
She was alarmed to hear about Luigi threatening Ernesto and forcing the witness to testify against her. What if he was still looking for her?
‘I think we should fly home, darling,’ Trevor said. ‘We can’t take the risk of him coming after you. If we pack quickly, I expect we could even catch a flight to London this afternoon.’
She considered it for a brief moment, but knew instinctively it felt wrong. ‘No, I don’t want to leave Rome like that.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘Truthfully? All I can think of right now is having a bath. And perhaps an espresso with a cornetto.’
Trevor squeezed her hand. ‘You have that bath. I’ll bring you an espresso and buy you as many cornetti as you can eat. If I could afford it, I’d buy you a cornetti factory. I’m so glad to see you, darling.’
He leant over and buried his face in her shoulder and she could tell from slight shaking movements that he was sobbing, but he didn’t make a sound.
Chapter Seventy
Scott was disappointed to read in the Italian press that police had traced the letter threatening Elizabeth Taylor to a Canadian man with mental health problems. Why had he written in Italian? That’s what had raised Scott’s hopes that it would turn out to involve an Italian crime family – maybe even the Ghianciaminas – but no such luck. The letter-writer was just another of the many lunatics who sought fame – or at least notoriety – by association with a public figure they had built up in their heads to be a symbol of all that they needed to make their own lives work out.
The day after his night visit to Anzio, he continued his research. First he went to the customs office in Rome to check the register of shipping, but there were dozens of ships whose names began with RE and ended with A: Regina Carolina, Regina Aurora … he’d never be able to identify the one he had seen. Next he made enquiries about tracking car number plates, but struck a blank there as well. If he’d had a contact high up in the police force, maybe they would have been able to help, but Scott’s most valuable contact in Rome was Gianni, and he knew without asking that this was way beyond his photographer’s sphere of influence.
Nevertheless, Scott began writing his article. He framed it around H****, a pretty, naïve young girl in Rome, who was sucked into the murky world of drugs. He wrote about a dealer called L****, who deliberately targeted her, bled her dry of money then demanded sexual favours in return for further supplies. He wrote about the young men who drove drugs up from the south in cars with secret hiding places, and left them in a garage to be stripped of their cargo. And he wrote about a crime family called the G*****s, who were untouchable because of their political influence and the bribes they paid to the police force and customs officials, so that no one intervened when motorboats carried unregistered cargo out to huge ships off the coast of Anzio in the middle of the night. What’s more, no one investigated when an American journalist was kicked half to death in the street.
He widened out the article to explain Rome’s current position as a world centre of drug trafficking, with money laundered through the booming construction industry and every bay and outcrop of the long Italian peninsula providing possible locations fo
r smugglers to load international shipments. He used information from Bradley Wyndham’s research about bribes paid to politicians in return for clauses in shipping bills that relaxed regulations. And he finished by writing about H****’s lonely death when, distraught and fleeing from the people who had destroyed her, she slipped, hit her head and drowned.
The first draft of his article was much longer than the Midwest Daily normally ran, so he began to hone it, tightening sentences and slashing unnecessary words. He typed it up himself in the evenings, once his secretary had left, and always hid it afterwards in the secret compartment by the shutters.
When he left the office he felt nervous, as if someone might guess what he was up to and seek to put a stop to it. He even considered asking Gianni where he could purchase a gun for self-protection. He’d briefly been a member of a rifle-shooting club at Harvard and, although he’d never fired a handgun, he reckoned he would know what to do. Perhaps he should get one before the article’s publication. He felt excited and nervous all at once.
Most evenings he went to the Via Veneto or Piazza di Spagna to have a beer with Gianni and catch up on news of what the stars were doing and where the best photographs might be taken. He looked forward to these chats. Gianni had fast become his best friend in Rome, but Scott didn’t confide in him about the article. Gianni sensed there was a secret project and assumed it was to do with the death of the makeup girl in Torre Astura, but he didn’t ask questions.
Everywhere they went, Scott kept a wary eye out for Luigi. It seemed unlikely but, if Ernesto had reported their conversation and Luigi asked around, he might realise that Scott was a reporter and, what’s more, that he was investigating him. He was several inches taller than the dealer, and probably much fitter, so he reckoned he could beat him in a straight fistfight but what if he had a knuckleduster, like Alessandro Ghianciamina? Or a knife? Or friends nearby who would pitch in?
