by Greg Coppin
‘What was Giuttieri like when he was younger?’ I asked.
‘Thanks for bringing this man back into my life,’ she said. She downed some more of the drink.
‘Why, does he scare you?’
‘Ernesto Giuttieri?’ She shrugged. ‘Would standing under a teetering building scare you, Mr Luc? Because that’s what Giuttieri is like. He’s there. He’s always there. And he could crush you at any time.’ She shrugged again. ‘Or not.’ She looked to be late fifties, but I believe she was almost a decade younger than that.
‘You mentioned his younger days…’ I said.
Vivienne got up and noisily cleared her throat. ‘I need a cigarette. Have you seen any cigarettes since you’ve been here?’ she asked, looking around.
I pointed with my thumb. ‘I think I saw a packet on the kitchen fitment when I walked in.’
‘Good boy. Well done. Ah,’ she said, entering the kitchen area. ‘Here you are.’
She offered me one but I declined. She sat back down on the sofa and took satisfying draws on the cigarette.
‘E.G. The younger years.’ She laughed to herself. ‘The young Giuttieri was a talented scholar. Yes. He was a quiet boy. Studious. He came from a good family. The road ahead for him was assured and promising.
‘He got into a good university. He was reading Physics. And from what I’ve been able to gather, he was not only very good at it, he had set his sights on devoting his life to uncovering many of the unknowns in that scientific world.’
‘So what happened?’ I asked.
‘What happened was his sister.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Ernesto loved his sister. He loved his whole family. When he went to university, he would phone his sister every night to speak to her. And every night, according to her friends, she would eagerly pick up the phone to speak to him. Except one night…she didn’t.’
Vivienne pulled a face and looked at her cigarette. ‘I’m either losing my taste buds, or they’re weakening these things,’ she said. ‘The nicotine equivalent of watering them down.’ She looked earnestly up at me. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘I don’t know. What happened to the sister?’
Vivienne cleared her throat again. Busily tapped some ash into a saucer on the coffee table. ‘Raped,’ she eventually said. ‘Four men. Her throat cut. Her body dumped in a garbage truck. She was coming home from an evening out with her friends in Cobán. Young Ernesto…didn’t take it well.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘It’s about twenty-five years ago.’
‘What did Giuttieri do?’
‘Giuttieri… well, first he went quiet. Sullen. Brooding. His work began to fall off a cliff. From being an A student he was suddenly mopping up the Fs. Then… well, then he took a bunch of guys and tracked down the four men who had raped and murdered his sister. And he did… things to them. He tortured them, Mr Luc. And then he killed them. Which, after the third day, no doubt came as a sweet mercy for them.’
‘Three days?’
She nodded. ‘And now he had a gang. A feared gang. And,’ she raised a finger, ‘and this is just my guess, I have no proof, but it occurred to me as I was researching him that now he’s experiencing something that he’s never truly had before.’ She leaned forward. ‘Control.’ She almost breathed the word.
‘Up until this point he’s been the good little boy, doing what’s expected. Not in control. The biggest loss of control was what happened to his sister. He wasn’t there, couldn’t do anything about it. Wasn’t in control.
‘But now, taking on these men, defeating these men, he’s suddenly suffused with a feeling of control. And this,’ she highlighted the point with a stab of her finger, ‘is what sowed the seeds for everything that came after for him. His life simply became one of wanting more and more control. Of gangs, of money, of women, of businesses.’
‘So he dropped the studies, became a gang leader, got into businesses, bigger businesses...’
She nodded. ‘Anything he could control, he did. His appetites just got bigger and bigger.’
‘And today?’
‘Today he’s at the top of the tree. He controls everything he looks at. But is he satisfied? I doubt it. Nothing is going to be enough. There is no big that’s big enough.’
‘And where is he today?’
‘Ah.’ She took a draw on her cigarette and blew the smoke away to the side. ‘Million dollar. Where is Ernesto today?’ She coughed, a slightly hacking cough, and took a gulp of the rum to soothe her throat. ‘Oh dear. Well, he has this yacht. A very large white yacht. That is where Ernesto Giuttieri is. But where the yacht is?’ She shrugged.
‘This yacht must berth somewhere at some point,’ I said.
‘Oh, it must,’ she agreed. ‘But he hasn’t been back to Guatemala for over fifteen years now. Not a fan of the place. Maybe he sometimes fetches up in Belize, I don’t know. But I think he simply prefers the international waters. Are you sure I can’t tempt you to some of this rum?’
‘Thank you, no. So he leaves his business affairs to Ray Mortlake?’
‘Ah. Ray Mortlake. Another charming chappie. Well, yes, to a certain extent. But wherever he is, Giuttieri is still in control.’
I leaned forward and clasped my hands together. ‘How would you suggest I find him, Miss Marlow?’
‘Mr Luc, I don’t believe that you are a fellow journalist. I’m sorry but I’ve been in this trade for over thirty years and you don’t give off the right vibe, I’m afraid.’
I shrugged. ‘I’m just trying to find this man.’
‘Most people run away from evil.’
‘You didn’t.’
Vivienne held my gaze for a long time. Eventually she spoke. ‘Mr Luc, Yuh gat yuh han eena tiga mouth, as me Pappy used to say. You’re involving yourself in something very dangerous.’
‘I just want to find him.’
‘Be very careful where your journey takes you, Mr Luc,’ she said. ‘But what would I suggest?’ She nodded. ‘Yes, Mortlake. I would start with Ray Mortlake.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
The bass thumped as the music drifted over from the first floor gathering across the road. I could hear the laughter too. Some sort of party. There was something to celebrate on this night was there?
I’d latched onto Ray Mortlake, the lawyer, after observing his office for some hours. He’d eventually come out at eight, late worker, and I watched as he got into his silver Mercedes and drove straight here, to the building with the party.
Charlie came back on the phone and informed me that the house was owned by a Jacaranda Thomas. A thirty-two-year-old woman.
The party looked like it would be going on for some time.
I put the Toyota in reverse and swung round and drove off the way I’d come.
I was going back to his office.
***
Ray Mortlake’s office was situated in Belize City’s commercial centre in Albert. A detached colonial style building with a first floor wooden veranda.
I parked the Toyota and called Charlie.
‘Hello, Luc.’
That wasn’t Charlie’s voice. ‘Who’s this?’ I asked.
‘Warren.’
‘Where the hell’s Charlie?’
‘Charlie’s shift ends at ten. You’ve got me now.’
‘And who the hell are you?’
‘I told you. I’m Warren.’
‘I’ve never heard of you.’
‘I couldn’t exactly write an in-depth biography about you, either. Given your name. Told, no, it’s pronounced Luke. That’s about it.’
‘Charlie’s shift ends at ten?’
‘You want me to put that in a letter or something?’
‘Warren, are you up to speed with what I’m doing?’
‘In what way?’
‘Jesus. You’re not serious?’
‘Be specific for me here, Luc.’
‘Charlie was going to temporarily deactivate the
security system on a building. Has she done that?’
‘She hasn’t done that. I’m doing it.’
‘You’re doing it?’
‘We got there. We got there.’
‘Warren - you’re doing it? In other words you haven’t yet done it?’
‘That’s correct. I am currently still doing it. Have you ever deactivated a security system? It’s not an uncomplicated practice.’
‘Warren, listen to me. I need to get into that building.’
‘So, er, you want to keep nattering to me? Or do you want me to get on with it?’
I sighed and cut the call. Stared moodily at a green-painted office in the distance.
Ten minutes later I got a call back.
‘All done there for you, Luc,’ he said. I wiped some sweat from my forehead.
‘It’s deactivated?’
‘That’s precisely what it is.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Am I sure? I like your style, Luc. I work my arse off, I get no thanks in return and now you progress to calling me incompetent.’
‘Warren, thank you.’
‘No - .’ I cut the call, got out of the Toyota and crossed the street. There were CCTV cameras around the front of Mortlake’s building. But I’d seen that the building next to it on the right had no cameras. I walked across the small front lawn of the next door’s building, slipped round to the side and began scaling the fence. I swung my legs over and dropped down the other side. I remained crouched for a few more seconds, watching, listening, and then stood and stared at the side of Ray Mortlake’s office building. There were no cameras, that I could see, trained down here.
Now was the time to see if Warren was or was not incompetent.
A couple, a man and a woman, passed noisily by in the street. I faded into the darkness again and waited for them to disappear. When they did, and their laughter faded to nothing, I waited a little longer, made sure all was relatively quiet, and then I started to climb the large metal drainpipe.
It wasn’t too difficult actually. Imagining I was Harold Lloyd in a black and white silent always seems to help.
I was now level with the first floor. I was about to reach out with my left foot, for the beginning of the veranda, when lights swung over me.
I froze.
The sound of an engine bit into another gear and sped off, taking the lights with it. It was all right. It was just a car turning the corner.
I reached out again and straddled the empty void between drainpipe and veranda. With my left foot on the wooden edge of the veranda, I leant towards it, gripped hold of the wooden rail, and swung my right leg across. I flipped both legs over the rail and silently crept around to the front of the building.
There were two patio style doors leading out onto the veranda. I chose the first. A Yale lock. I pulled out my own set of keys, the one we’d been issued with in Wiltshire. Seven keys, which, so we’d been told, opened 93% of the world’s locks.
Ten seconds later I turned the key, opened the door and walked inside. Thank you, Wiltshire.
Thank you, Warren.
Closing the door behind me, I walked through the office and out into a waiting area with two secretaries desks. I glanced around and found what I was looking for: discreet metal name cards on the walls next to the office doors.
The one I’d just came out of was for Jacaranda Thomas. Paralegal Assistant. I stepped over to the adjacent office. The card read, Ray Mortlake. Lawyer.
I went inside.
***
The office had a large desk and a large executive chair behind it. On the walls I could see framed prints of waterfalls. It was dark, but not pitch black, as there was some light coming from a nearby street lamp outside. I went behind the desk and tried to open the bottom drawer. Locked.
But happily part of the 93%.
I slipped the keys back in my pocket and opened the bottom drawer. A Sig Sauer 9mm handgun rested on top of a large brown envelope. I brought my phone out and took a photograph of the two. I then took out the gun and the envelope. I pulled out the contents of the envelope, a bundle of papers.
And then froze.
I had reacted to a sudden noise. After a couple of seconds I worked out that it was a muffled musical ring tone from a mobile phone. It sounded like it was inside one of the cupboards. I recognised the music as ‘Start Me Up,’ a Rolling Stones number.
Then it stopped. Silence again.
I went back to looking through the papers. It was a contract of some sort. The parties involved seemed to be Giuttieri Inc. and Parebo Brokers of New York. I used my phone again. Took pictures of each page. I put the contract back in the envelope, and then using the photo I’d taken of them, I put the envelope and the gun back in the drawer, how I found them. Closed and locked the drawer.
I unlocked the top drawer.
Inside was a large diary. Again, I photographed it to make sure I put it back as I’d found it. Then I pulled it out and opened it up. It was a lined, page-a-day affair.
Entries were in blue ink. Things like, ‘Meet BT2. 10.30 a.m.’ ‘Phone SA. 2.15 p.m.’ I -
Light under the door.
Just a faint light sweeping across. So faint I began to think I’d imagined it.
But then I saw it again.
And then heard the creak.
I think someone was coming up the stairs with a torch.
I quickly flicked towards the latest entries in the diary.
For today, in amongst the meetings, was this entry: ‘7 p.m. Publicity.’ The time the bomb had gone off.
Whoever was out there was reaching the top of the stairs. I quickly looked at tomorrow’s entry. Curiously just the one. ‘G. 11.50 a.m. CBM.’
I closed up the diary and put it quietly back in the drawer. I matched it up with the photo and then gently eased the drawer closed. There was a little squeak as it went home and I could only hope the newcomer didn’t hear it. I locked the drawer and the room suddenly got lighter.
My head snapped up. The door was still closed. I swung round and saw a light bathing the veranda.
The light was coming from next door. The newcomer was in Jacaranda’s office.
I padded over to the patio doors. The light from next door streamed across the veranda. I saw a shadow moving about. Looked like a man’s shadow. The patio doors in there were still unlocked from when I’d come in. If they tried the doors, they’d know someone had got in.
I didn’t want anybody to know that I’d been here.
If what I’d read about tomorrow, was what I thought was happening tomorrow, then that meeting must take place. If they got a whiff that someone had been in here, they might just cancel.
In the shorter term, if the man next door discovered the unlocked doors I’d have to get to him quickly. Before he alerted anybody else and who knows how many of them would suddenly descend on me.
I inserted the key in the lock and slowly twisted.
The shadow was quite large now. They were close to the window. It sinisterly stretched out across the floor of the veranda and up onto the rail. And it wasn’t moving. Had he seen something?
I pulled down on the door handle, opened it a fraction of an inch.
If his door opened, I’d have to go for him.
He stood there, stock still. I focused intently on that shadow.
And yet, another part of my brain had sensed something else. Out of the corner of my right eye I could see a dark spot. I thought I saw it move.
My eyes flicked to the right. Creeping slowly down and around the fold of the curtain was a large black spider with a hideously bulbous body.
My throat, knees and buttocks tensed. Cold sweat prickled my forehead. My hand on the door handle started to slightly tremble. I was in the fight or flight reaction mode. I wanted to shout and run. I couldn’t. My arm that held the door handle rested against the curtain. The spider was creeping slowly, delicately towards it. My arm was rigid with fear. I tried to swallow. It was difficult. My hand
still trembled and I feared a spasm from my arm, which would undoubtedly make a noise with the handle. The spindly legs of the arachnid reached out, testing for secure footing, crawling within an inch now of my arm.
And then the shadow outside began to creep back across the veranda.
And then the light was extinguished.
I swung the door open and stepped out. I’d have to be swift. I quickly and quietly closed the door. Slotted the key in and I saw through the glass the office door beginning to open. I gently turned the key, removed it and swung round as light bathed everything.
I stayed where I was for a few seconds: midway between the two offices, my back flat against the wooden wall, my heart pumping fast, trying silently to suck in air. I couldn’t resist glancing down at my arm. All clear. I looked up.
I was almost sure the man hadn’t seen me. But you can never be certain. He may have glimpsed a faint fraction of movement. It didn’t even have to be consciously. His subconscious may have detected something, triggering him to step over and investigate.
I looked at his shadow on the floor of the veranda next to me. He hadn’t come rushing out here. I couldn’t hear any talking on his mobile or walkie-talkie. From his shadow, he looked to be ambling about, checking the room.
I slid away. Quietly locked Jacaranda’s office patio doors and then padded around the corner of the veranda. I quietly lowered myself down the drainpipe and melted away into the night.
Later, as I was threading the Toyota through Belize City’s night-time streets, I thought of ‘G. 11.50 a.m. CBM.’
And really hoped it was Giuttieri. 11.50 a.m. At the Cucumber Beach Marina.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
His eyes were like small black dots. He held mine for a few seconds and then darted off, snaking away.
I paddled with my feet, over the beautiful coral. Other fish and marine life were all around. The colours down here were extraordinary. In the distance I saw a giant turtle swooping and gliding about.
I liked being a part of this world. I liked being accepted into this world.
