by Gian Bordin
"Miss Walker may leave, under two conditions: First, she will have to hand in her passport, and second, she is required to reside at her current address, or if she changes address, she will have to notify us in advance and in person. Police officer Barlow will now accompany Miss Walker to her apartment and take possession of her passport."
"You may have my passport, and I have no intention of moving since I own my apartment," I reply. I even manage to produce a smile. Nor does it bother me to hand in the British passport. They don’t know that I also have a valid Swiss passport. Once a Swiss citizen, always a Swiss citizen, unless you apply to the Swiss parliament to have your citizenship revoked.
Friday, 3:20 p.m.
My peace, if the state of being in limbo can be given that label, is again broken barely an hour after Barlow brought me home and collected my British passport. The entrance door intercom chimes once more.
"DI Willis here."
Not again is my immediate thought.
"We have a search warrant for your apartment. Please, let us in."
I probably should have expected that this is going to be his next move. Although his manners are benign, underneath he works more like a bloodhound. Once he has a sniff of suspicion, he doesn’t let go. I release the door. A minute later he and Somes appear, together with three uniformed police officers.
"Please, search," I say, "just don’t ruin anything."
He assigns the three police officers to the kitchen, living room, and guest bedroom, which also serves as my study, while Somes goes into the bedroom.
"What are you actually looking for?" I ask.
"Anything that could be related to the Sanvino transactions," he answers. "Do you have a safe?"
"No."
"Where are your cell phone and your computer?"
On the spur of the moment, I decide to play a trick on him. A year ago I purchased an iPhone with e-mail and web-browsing facility. Since then I’ve rarely used my old card cell phone, but that’s the one they will get. Except for its ‘contacts’ list, all SMS registers are empty. Fortunately my iPhone happens to be hidden in my loose trouser pocket. "Both are on the desk in the guest bedroom cum study over there."
"I regret we will have to take them to the station for detailed analysis."
What can I do? Nothing. The thought of Somes reading through my e-mails and copies of personal letters feels like a violation. I just hope that they won’t keep the computer too long. There is nothing incriminating on it.
"Sir, the computer is password protected."
"We will be able to overcome that, but it would speed up things if you gave me the password, Miss Walker." He opens a small notebook and retrieves a ball pen.
"QT312H764. When will I get the machine back?"
"If it’s clear, within a day or two," he remarks as he writes down the password, and then moves toward the study.
"Sir, all documents, bank and credit card statements, bills, and correspondence are in the right-hand drawers of the desk," I say, following him. Since I’ve nothing to hide, I might as well make it easier. There is a small risk that he might discover the hidden compartment at the back of the desk drawers where I keep my Swiss passport and a few other documents. I bank on the fact that it is well camouflaged and thin enough not to be noticed unless the desk is turned upside down. Willis inspects the desk, removes the drawers and places them on top. Then he briefly shines a flashlight into the opening. He misses the secret compartment.
I leave him to it and watch the other officers do the search, glad that everything looks in perfect order. It is quite an experience seeing them remove the upholstery from the leather sofa, checking the seams carefully — fortunately they do not cut them open — looking behind pictures, going through the CDs and shaking out all books, even checking my food supplies and spices.
Somes is by far the messiest. She strips the bed, lifts the mattress, and then empties the wire baskets that contain my undergarments, blouses, tops, and so on, onto the bed, flicking through them. As she continues, I sense her increasing frustration.
"What do you expect to find in my bras and nickers? Two million pounds in bank notes?" I taunt her. Somehow this woman provokes me.
She ignores me and tosses another basket of socks and stockings onto the pile on the bed.
"You are wasting your time. You’ll find nothing, because there is nothing to find."
"We will find it," she grunts and moves into the bathroom.
"Will you, please, not mess up my cosmetics and medicines in the mirror cabinet?" I call after her.
Half an hour later, they are finished. Willis gives me a receipt for the items they are taking along: the old cell phone, the laptop, several CDs and DVDs, and two memory sticks. Before they leave, I ask Willis to follow me into the bedroom where I point to the heap of clothing and undergarments piled onto the bed.
"Detective Inspector, would you teach DS Somes some manners, both in behavior and attitude? Was it necessary to make such a mess?"
"Miss Walker, I will try, but I cannot promise to get any results." He smiles ruefully.
Friday, 7:15 p.m.
After the day’s double whammy, I have the urge to spoil myself a bit. I’ve been good all week and cooked simple dinners, surprised by how little that cost. What treat could I offer myself? I feel like seeing a friendly face. Silvio of Il Corno d’Oro springs to mind. Twenty minutes later I enter the restaurant. He comes to meet me at the door with a pleased smile. "Ciao bella."
Yes, that’s what I expected, that’s what I need. We exchange the customary brushing of cheeks. He usually refrained from doing it when I came with Gary.
"A drink at the bar first, Cecilia?" he asks in Italian, guiding me toward it. "The usual Barbaresco?"
I nod. "Yes, I need it."
"Alone?" he questions, when he returns with two glasses, one for me, the other for himself.
"Yes, Silvio, alone. You may woo me now to your heart’s content."
He responds with a laugh. "Your boyfriend — or is it ex-boyfriend? — he was here the other day … with a buxom blonde, or rather yellow-haired broad."
That didn’t take Gary long. Still, it feels like a stab in the side, but passes quickly. "Yes, he is a fast mover."
"What happened?" He adds quickly: "You don’t have to tell me if you’d rather not talk about it."
"Oh, it’s a long story, Silvio. Let’s see … a story in five acts. I was first accused of fraud, then fired, next questioned by the police, then dumped by Gary because I refused to perjure myself, and finally today the police searched my apartment and took away my laptop. That’s it in very few words." My flippancy surprises me.
"That can’t be true! Fraud? You?"
"Not me, no, but I think I’ve been framed."
He puts his hand on mine. I don’t remove mine. His face tells me that he feels for me.
"Look. Cecilia, you were wasted on Gary. He didn’t deserve you."
"Yes, I’ve come to that conclusion too."
"Good. That’s the spirit." A warm smile lights up his face. "And what are you going to do now?"
"What can I do but wait? Wait for the police to drop the case for lack of evidence."
"But right now, Cecilia, you need to celebrate with a good meal."
"Celebrate?"
"Yes, celebrate ‘good riddance’. Come, your usual table is free."
I take the glass and follow.
"The meal is on me, bella."
"Thank you, Silvio, but you don’t have to do this."
"But I want to. I think that you need right now is to be spoiled a bit, and I want to be the one doing the spoiling. I may join you later. And I’ll order for you. I know exactly what. You’ll love me for it … at least I hope you will."
It is one of the best meals ever. He joins me whenever he can make himself free, even shares some of the dishes and the selection of wines. He wants to know details about the events.
By eleven thirty, we are the only two people
left. He closes up and offers to drive me home. When I protest, he says: "I want to make sure you get home safely."
Near my building, he gets out of the car and accompanies me to the entrance. Does he hope for more, I wonder? I’m usually not the type who jumps into bed quickly. It has to feel right, and this seems rather fast, but I say nothing. In fact, I don’t know what my answer would be if he asks to come up.
He doesn’t. His lips briefly brush mine, and then he locks eyes with me. His are almost black with a deep, mysterious smile. He kisses me a second time with more fire and says: "Ciao bella, I enjoyed this evening." Then he turns and goes back to his car. I watch. Confused? Disappointed? I can’t tell which.
Saturday, 25th October, 8:35 a.m.
Saturday, another weekend. I sleep in. When I wake, something feels different. Something is missing, and then it comes to me. Gary isn’t in bed next to me as on most Saturday mornings. He dumped you, a voice in my head reminds me. Two years simply drained away like from a ruptured flask, with nothing to show but empty feelings. I shake my head as if this could banish the hurt. Ruminating on it won’t change a thing, the voice admonishes.
I force my mind on today. There is no housework, nor do I have any plans for the weekend. That feels even stranger. I stretch my limbs and moan with pleasure. My thoughts return to last night. I enjoyed myself thoroughly. It wasn’t just the food, but also the company. There was a complete absence of stress, of unspoken expectations. I could be myself. I didn’t have to choose my words carefully, as it now seems to have been the case with Gary lately. Maybe it is because we spoke Italian.
I wonder if Silvio will call me. It isn’t so much that I want to get into a new relationship, not so quickly, not on the rebound. It’s just that last night felt so good.
After a breakfast of coffee and a croissant, I wander over to the Bayswater underground station to buy The Times Saturday edition. Picking through that should keep me occupied for a while. I also want to scan the notices for painting exhibitions and any interesting movies.
Back in my apartment, I call Lucy and ask if I may visit and spend the afternoon with my two sisters. I hear her question Susan and Clara. Noise of running feet and shouts of "yes, yes" by Susan, echoed by Clara, are the answer. She invites me over for lunch to the Boltons, where my father lives in a quaint Queen Anne style house in South Kensington.
Saturday, 5:50 p.m.
After a fun afternoon of games with the girls — I even enticed dad to participate in one of them — I again don’t feel like cooking and decide to have a dish at the cheep Bangladeshi restaurant near the Bayswater underground station. While I’m waiting for my dishes, a swarthy man enters and pauses at the door, scanning the patrons. I guess he is in his early thirties. He wears a fashionably cut sports jacket over an indigo open-neck silk shirt. His clothes emphasize his well-looked-after body. His face doesn’t strike me as handsome but it shows character. It reveals recognition when he spots me. Nobody I know, but I respond to his look with a faint smile. There is something determined, bordering on menacing, as he approaches my table. Without asking for permission, he sits on the chair opposite me. I’m somewhat taken aback by this forwardness, but at the same time he has me intrigued.
"Do I know you?" I ask.
He answers in Italian with a strong southern accent, keeping to the formal polite ‘Lei’.
"No, signorina, you don’t. I won’t detain you long. I only have to give you a message from Signor Carvaggio."
My view of him changes one hundred and eighty degrees. Instantly I’m apprehensive and alert. This is not a would-be admirer, but somebody come to threaten me, somebody who must have been waiting for me near my apartment.
"Signor Carvaggio of Ventura?" I question, trying to gain time.
"Good. I see you know what this is all about."
"Yes, you have come to threaten me, but before you deliver your message, I have a message for Signor Carvaggio —"
"He is not interested in your message," he interrupts. "You have two million pounds of his. He wants that money, and he wants it promptly. He gives you till Friday of next week to transfer the funds to his bank account, and if you do not remember it anymore, here are the details." He slides a business card of Ventura across the table. "He is a kind and forgiving man. Since you have done well by him in the past, he will not punish you for your misdeed, unless you fail to heed his command." He locks eyes with me for a few seconds. They are dark and threatening. "Signorina, do you fully understand the import of this message? Nobody ignores our orders. Our reach is long."
It feels like an icy hand is gripping my heart. There is no doubt in my mind that he is a mafioso, by his accent most likely from the notorious Camorra clans of Naples. As Roberto Saviano in his book Gomorra describes so graphically, they do not shy away from killing relatives of their victims. The thought that my two young stepsisters are in danger paralyzes me for a moment. I swallow hard. I was going to tell him that I too am the victim of a scam, but suddenly think better of it. If I tell him I don’t have the funds, he might simply interpret this as unwillingness to pay and give me a demonstration of their cruelty immediately. It might be better to let them believe that I have the money. I might gain time and string them along until I can find out who is behind the fraud and then send them after the real quarry.
He rises smoothly, casting me a quick threatening glance, and leaves the restaurant.
With his appearance, the Sanvino affair has not only changed character, but has been ratcheted up to a level of real physical danger not just for me but also for my relatives. I find myself between the hammer and the anvil, the police and the Mafia. Should I let the police in on this latest development? Would they believe me? Agree to protect my father’s family? Wouldn’t Somes simply dismiss this as a subterfuge on my part? How about Willis? He might take it more seriously. I ponder over this, as I play with my food, my appetite gone. One thought keeps ringing in my mind — prevent the girls from becoming a target, and that means discovering the real culprits quickly. Carlo I’m less worried about. He is more elusive to find and may be out of the country, as he told me.
The first thing I must do is to inform my father. I call him on my iPhone, begging him to see me again, that it is urgent. He tells me to come over. I quickly pay, leave the restaurant, and take the Circle Line to the Gloucester Road underground station, a ten-minute walk to the Boltons. It goes without saying that he is upset about the latest development.
"Somebody has framed you, to make you take the rap for this thing. Do you have any idea who?"
"It can be one or more of a number of people. Edward Long, the guy who gave me the false rumor, is the most likely. A few months ago I caught him doing an insider trading deal that netted him a few thousand. He leads a rather extravagant life style — drives a Porsche, lives in a penthouse in Chelsea near the Embankment and always brags about his holidays in Club Méditerrané. But he might not have done it alone. Then I cannot even rule out Gary Buxton, although he would have needed somebody to advance the finance."
"But Gary Buxton, isn’t he your boyfriend?"
"Was, dad, was. He dumped me after the police questioned him about the affair. But it was Gary who confirmed the rumor and Long who suggested I check it with Goldsax, knowing damn well that I would ask Gary."
"I’m sorry to hear that Gary broke with you. He was a nice chap."
"Yes, I thought so too until he dropped his mask and showed me his real self when I refused to perjure myself for him."
"He wanted you to lie to the police?" Dad frowns, shaking his head
"Yes."
"But I hope you didn’t."
"No, I have nothing to hide."
His frown dissolves. "Good… So Long and Buxton could well be accomplices."
"Yes, that possibility has occurred to me too. But there are several other stockbrokers at Lewis who had it in for me. And then even my ex-boss, Fred Garland, could be behind it. What puzzles me most is how any of them could ha
ve conjured up a ten-million-pound loan to acquire the shares, even if just for two days. Somewhere, there must be a rich backer."
"If offered a substantial share, I guess many a broker would be willing to help out. So what do you plan to do?"
"I don’t know yet. Investigate these guys, see if there has been a significant change in lifestyle —"
"Good, but whoever did it might lie low for a while. Still, it may pay to check if Long has suddenly paid off his mortgage."
"I think he is only renting, but I’ll check on it, and yes, I’ll also check on Fred Garland. Gary is only renting a small rather rundown studio. I’ll search titles with the Land Registry. Their e-mail and computer files may also contain some useful info."
"Don’t do anything illegal for which the police can charge you." Dad sounds alarmed.
"I may have no choice. I may have to do some illegal things to get to the bottom of it, but I don’t really want to worry you about that. I’ll be careful it can’t be traced back to me. Remember, I have a degree in computer science. As I said, my real reason for seeing you again tonight is to warn you about this Mafia guy. They are known to go after relatives. You have to get the girls and Lucy to safety, and I think you should do this before Friday next week. You may be under surveillance after that. I’m really sorry, dad."
"I have a hard time believing they would harm innocent girls."
"But they do. I read this book about the Camorra clans of Naples, you know the one written by this journalist who is now under police protection because of it? He writes about how they killed teenage girlfriends of associates or of rival clan members, if these guys did something that displeased the boss, just to teach them a lesson."
