Frame-Up

by Gian Bordin

  The latter is a guess, but it works. For the first time something like a smile crosses his face. "Yes, Chelsea."

  "Then take Sally to a match; explain to her what’s happening. She’ll love you for it. And take your wife along too. You’ll be envied to have both of them with you."

  "They’d not want to. They’ve never shown any interest."

  "I would, dad, I really would," exclaims Sally, the first words she has uttered since she entered the house, her face suddenly alive.

  "There, you see. Give her a chance, and you’ll have your daughter back. And now, Mr. Harper, I want your solemn promise that you won’t hit Sally anymore. As I said, there are other ways of disciplining her, like grounding her for a few days. Do I get that promise?"

  He mutters something like a "yes"; I’m sure it cost him dearly. He doesn’t strike me as a man who easily admits being in the wrong.

  I turn to the girl. "And Sally, you’ll have to do your bit too."

  She nods, blushing.

  "It’s late, Sally, but I think you should take a shower before going to bed. And I’ll see you this morning at nine for the errand we agreed. Your mother will write an excuse for being late for school."

  Mr. Harper rises alarmed, his face turning red, his voice booming again. "What’s that about an errand? What kind of errand? What’s she done you didn’t tell me about?"

  "Sir, I have perfect hearing. There is no reason to shout. And yes, Sally and I will visit a family planning clinic."

  "Why?" He turns to her. "Did you have it off with that guy, you slut?"

  "Calling her names is hardly the way to show you care for her," I barge in. "And why do you assume that it wasn’t rape, that she wasn’t forced? The guy had a knife." I don’t feel bad for twisting the truth. Her father needs to be shocked.

  He opens his mouth for another shout and then collapses onto the chair. "Oh, god!" he mutters, hiding his face in his hands

  "Sir, maybe an apology would be appropriate to show your concern for your daughter."

  He looks up startled and murmurs: "Sally, I’m sorry."

  And then the unexpected happens. Sally rushes around the table and hugs him, sobbing.

  I leave quietly without saying goodbye and drive home. It’s too late to resume my quest of searching through Long’s e-mail. But I feel that helping Sally has been more important. I’m even proud of how I handled it. I’m sure that nobody has ever confronted Sally’s father like I did.

  Wednesday, 8:15 a.m.

  Starved for sleep after no more than two hours in bed, I’m back at the Boltons to take the girls to school. They are excited about the special attention they receive. Lucy lets us go alone. Fortunately, it is dry under a dull sky. No rain predicted. On the walk, I’m vigilant without being obvious about it, but I see no suspicious cars or people along the streets. I safely deposit the girls at the school gate and watch them go through the school door.

  Then I rush down to Croydon for the errand with Sally. Her mother offers to take her and I don’t object. Both mother and daughter thank me, and I promise Sally to visit again.

  As I drive past Il Corno d’Oro in South Kensington, I’m suddenly flooded by sadness. Silvio! His smile, the fire in his eyes when he looked at me rise in my inner eye. How I long for him, the soft caresses of his hands that set me on fire. With all the commotion over the last twelve hours, he has slipped from my mind, but now is back stronger than ever. It would be so easy to give in, forget about my pledge, love the man who so suddenly and unexpectedly captured my heart, let myself be loved by him. I’ve no doubt that he loves me. But would the guilt of breaking up a marriage and the loss of self-esteem for abandoning my pledge not constantly eat at me?

  I’m home by nine thirty, brew myself another strong espresso. Silvio left a message on the answering system, begging me to call back. I fight with myself for several minutes, while drinking the coffee, but not really tasting it. It’s as if the internal struggle has blocked my taste buds. In the end, ‘resist’ wins out.

  I get down to studying the three bank statements I downloaded the previous night. Two entries in the October statement raise my excitement. One is a credit of 220,000 pounds on the 2nd of October, the other a debit next day of the same amount — the day of the settlement for the penthouse studio purchase. The credit is an Internet bank transfer without showing further particulars, the debit names a real-estate firm as the recipient. Where did that money come from?

  Close analysis of all three statements reveals an interesting pattern of one-hundred-pound charges paid by debit card to Leisure Services Ltd. What could that be, I wonder? Then it dawns on me. He is either visiting a massage parlor or using an escort service. Two to three hundred pounds a week for prostitutes? Probably more than he spends on food. And there he was always bragging about how women fall for him. What a pathetic fellow! He is spending his money as fast as he earns it. It confirms my conclusion that the equity for his penthouse can hardly have come from savings, but that doesn’t get me any closer to an answer from where. I will be back in the alley tonight. Maybe his e-mails might give some clues. This time, I’ll simply download all his recent mail messages, so I can study them at leisure in my apartment, rather than do it while I’m logged on the Lewis network.

  Wednesday, 12:50 p.m.

  Mr. Warren of Cossgrove Land Agents calls to let me know that he has the details on the two properties. I take the underground to Paddington, rather than walk to collect the files. Again they tell me little more than what I already guessed. Long took out a one-year floating-interest mortgage of 770,000 pounds. Garland purchased the property five years ago at a bargain for less than two million and has a mortgage of 1.5 million still outstanding. The two hundred pound fee to Cossgrove has not got me an iota further.

  When I return to the apartment building, Silvio is sitting on the steps. He rises to meet me. My intestines go all soft when I see the tentative but begging sheen in his eyes. He doesn’t give me time to say anything.

  "Ceci, this is all a misunderstanding. We must talk."

  "You mean, you are not married?"

  "Yes, I am, but —"

  "Then there can be no but."

  "Please, hear me out, I beg you… My wife left me over four years ago. She simply disappeared and I haven’t heard from her ever since." Hope is rising, constricting my throat. "So, I’m legally still married, but the marriage ended four years ago."

  "You didn’t file for a divorce?"

  "No, I left for England shortly afterward. In fact, that was the main reason I left, and getting a divorce when the other party cannot be found is difficult and complicated." He reaches out to hold me by the shoulders. "Please, Ceci, I love you. Don’t deny me. I’m not cheating on a wife and you’re not splitting up a marriage."

  My arms fly around his neck by themselves, and we kiss in the street. A worker on the construction site across the street whistles loudly. I disengage, taking Silvio’s hand and say: "Come, let’s go upstairs."

  Once inside the apartment, we kiss again. His right hand cups one of my breasts. It feels like an electric bolt shooting into my belly and I’m moist instantly. I begin unbuttoning his shirt. He pulls off my top and fumbles with the bra hook. Our clothes fly off in a frenzy. Our bodies meet standing, clinging to each other.

  Wednesday, 3:00 p.m.

  Silvio drops me off near the school of the girls; otherwise I would have been late. Even so, I had a scare when I suddenly discovered that it was 2:40, and we were still skin on skin in bed. I didn’t even have time for a shower. On the way to the school, I explained why I had to be there.

  "Mafia? Are you sure?" he questions, visibly alarmed. "You have to take your father’s family into hiding. You can’t fight them."

  "That’s what I begged my father to do. Maybe he will now. But I have to stay here. I have to clear my name."

  "Ceci, please listen. They’ll kill you. You must go into hiding."

  "For how long? Forever? … No, I must fight them.
So far there seems to be only one guy here, and as long as they think that I have the money they won’t kill me. They’ll try to frighten me in other ways. And we are in London, not in Naples. Once I know who did that scam on me, I can send them after him."

  Lucy is already waiting at the school. I join her. First, Clara, and a short time later, Susan comes running to us. We hold hands and begin walking toward the Boltons. We have gone halfway down the first side street when the mafioso steps out from behind a tree and blocks our path. My first reaction is fury that he dares to threaten me by frightening Lucy and the girls.

  I step in front of them. "Lucy, keep the girls behind me, but don’t run," I order sharply. She does so instantly.

  The guy sneers, speaking Italian: "You think that you can do anything against me, you dumb broad. If I want to take one of your sisters hostage, I will."

  "No, you won’t." I may give the impression of simply standing there, but my body is tensed like a loaded spring, ready to explode instantly. One wrong movement on his part and my right foot will kick his throat, throwing him into his back. He is just the right distance away for such a move.

  He laughs. "Since you are here, I will give you the message in person. You have only two more days. Keep this firmly in mind." With that he turns and walks across the street. As I guessed, his intention has only been to frighten us.

  I turn to Lucy. She is holding both girls to her. She seems to have understood his intention too. There is relief in her eyes.

  "Please, take the girls home, and lock the house," I beg.

  "Aren’t you coming with us? What are you going to do?" She sounds suddenly alarmed.

  "I have to know where the guy lives."

  "Cecilia, don’t!"

  But I’m already sprinting after him as he turns a corner. I assume that his car is parked somewhere close by and hope to hire a taxi and follow him. As I come to the corner, he is maneuvering his car out of a tight space. At the same time, I hear Silvio calling me from behind. He is in his car. How fortunate! I run back.

  "What’s happening?" he asks.

  At that moment, I spot the gray Ford Focus drive past in the street ahead of us. I jump into Silvio’s car, crying at the same time: "Follow that car. Don’t lose him."

  He reacts instantly and follows the car at a safe distance, going south toward the river. He wants to know why. I report what happened and that I need to know where the guy lives, that I must confront him.

  "Cecilia, this is crazy. What can you do against a man like this? He is probably armed with knives and a gun. Don’t do it."

  "I’ll not give him a chance to use any weapon on me."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I’m an expert in Aikido. I can disable, even kill him before he even realizes what’s happening."

  "But if he draws a gun on you?"

  "He won’t be able to finish the draw."

  Silvio only shakes his head in dismay. On Fulham Road the Ford turns east toward Brompton. While following the car, he looks at me several times, between keeping his eyes on the road. "I didn’t know. You somehow just don’t look the type."

  "That’s to my advantage."

  "And if he had moved on you just now, you would have used your skill on him?"

  "Yes, and he would be on the way to hospital with a crushed throat."

  We remain silent, keeping the Ford in view. The mafioso drives cautiously, slower than the prevailing traffic. When we approach the Pelham Street intersection, the light turns yellow. He makes it across, while we are caught by the red. Silvio looks at me apologetically. The car disappears up Brompton Road, with other cars falling in behind it. Our lights turn green and Silvio speeds off, changing lanes twice. A minute later we come to another set of red lights where Cromwell Road merges with Brompton. The gray Ford is five cars ahead of us.

  "There he is," I exclaim, relieved, pointing to the other lane.

  The mafioso leads us past Hyde Park Corner into Piccadilly. He does not seem to be aware that our car has followed him all the way, but then I can easily understand that. Used to driving on the right side of the road as in Italy, it probably takes all his attention to stay on the left.

  I want to know why Silvio came back in search of me after dropping me off at the school.

  "It suddenly occurred to me I might offer all of you a lift. So I turned back."

  "How fortunate. Thank you, Silvio."

  He returns my smile.

  At Old Bond Street, the mafioso turns left. Some three hundred yards up he slows, signals, and disappears in a public underground garage.

  "Silvio, let me out," I say.

  He stops the car. I give him a kiss on the left cheek, murmuring: "Thank you. I’ll see you later tonight in the restaurant."

  "Shouldn’t I stay here?"

  "No. I need to be alone for what comes next and I have no idea how long that will take."

  As I get out, he begs: "Cecilia, promise me to be careful. I love you."

  "I promise, Silvio, and I love you too." I’ve said it, said those words for the first time. It feels right.

  Somehow, I’m not frightened of what’s coming, just wary and alert like a hawk. The Italian only sees me as a dumb office broad. I plan to take him by complete surprise before he knows what hit him, and then we will talk on my terms. I know I’m going to break the oath I gave to my Aikido instructor never to use the skill offensively, only to protect. But I justify the action, that, in some sense, I’m doing it to protect my relatives, as well as myself.

  I go to the entrance of the underground garage. A young woman is doing her nails in the tollbooth.

  "Could you tell me where the pedestrian exit is located, please?" I ask.

  She points to the glass door behind my back. "Over there," she replies, going back to her nails.

  "Is this the only one?"

  "Yes, except for the emergency exit into Albemarle." When she sees my questioning expression, she adds: "One street over."

  I return across the street. A few steps farther down is a bus stop where a couple of people are waiting. I hide behind them, my eyes on the garage entrance. It would have been good if I could have changed clothing or at least had a coat to wear. All I can do is to wear my big sunglasses, but that doesn’t provide much of a disguise.

  Two minutes or so later, the mafioso comes out and slowly continues up Old Bond Street. I follow. He enters a building, with a ‘Hotel’ sign sticking out over the sidewalk. Its nondescript exterior tells me that it is no more than a two-star establishment if that. I now quickly run across the street and up to the hotel entrance. There is a window at street level next to it. He is standing at the reception counter with his back to me. The receptionist reaches into a pigeonhole and retrieves a key, which he hands to the mafioso. I remove my sunglasses to read the number on the pigeonhole — 416. My guy goes over to the lift. By its decor and antique door, I reckon that it is a slow one. I should be able to beat him via the stairs. When the lift door closes, I go inside and walk brazenly past the desk.

  The receptionist calls out: "Ma’am, can I help you?"

  "No thanks, I’m expected in room 416." I put on a strong Italian accent, so that he will figure that I’m a compatriot of that guest.

  "The gentleman just went up."

  I enter the staircase. Once out of sight of the reception, I hurry up, taking the steps two at a time. The lift door opens while I’m on the last set of steps to level 4. I hear him walk away from the stairs. When I reach the corridor, he is fumbling with the key five doors away. I break into a run. Alerted by the soft thudding of my running shoes, he turns. I see recognition in his face. He drops the keys and draws a knife from the left sleeve of his jacket. I’m upon him before he can raise his right arm. I jump, my left foot kicking the wrist of the hand holding the knife. It tumbles through the air. A fraction of a second later, my right foot connects with his upper chest, throwing him backward into the wall. He tries to right himself, as my right fist hits him squarely on the
nose. I hear the soft bone break. He screams, both hands reaching for his nose. Instantly, red stripes blossom down the front of his white shirt. For a short moment, he seems too stunned to react, enough time for me to recover his knife.

  "Open up and go inside, slowly," I say in Italian, keeping to the formal ‘Lei’, giving my voice a steely edge, "and then we will talk on my terms."

  When he doesn’t react, I do a short swipe with the knife. He throws up a hand trying to fend off the blade. Another expletive, as the blade nicks him below the thumb.

  "Pick up the key and open up, slowly," I order once more.

  He bends down to get the key, turns the lock, and slowly opens the door. I’m prepared for him trying to slam the door into my face and place a foot over the sill before he is totally inside. Instead, he bursts into a sprint. My Aikido training doesn’t let me down. Instantly, I explode forward while dropping the knife and kick his right foot, tripping him. He falls forward on his face. A fraction of a second later I’m on top of him, my thighs pinning his arms to his torso. I take his hair in a tight grip, forcing his head up.

  "Now laugh … go on, laugh, like you laughed by the school," I hiss, forcing his head up painfully, my anger taking over. He moans, gasping for breath. "I could easily kill you now. One jerk and I break your neck." I give his head a little twist.

  "Please, no," he grunts.