Frame-Up

by Gian Bordin

  The return e-mail from Garland is in Long’s private ‘old mail’ folder with the attachment. I save the later on my machine and then open it in programming mode. The last line contains the password: B4D8H6F2 — a rather complicated mixture of letters and numbers, not that easy to remember. I study it more carefully. Only even numbers. Similarly, the ranking of the letters in the alphabet are also even numbered, B the second letter in the alphabet, D the fourth, H the eighth, F the sixth. Is there a pattern here? Yes, the number following the letter is two times its ranking. B, second, followed by a four, D, fourth followed by an eight. H, eighth … followed by a six. The pattern breaks. H should be followed by the number 16. Then I see it. He only uses the last digit, the six, resulting in the letter F, the sixth, followed by the last digit of 12, i.e., 2. So, given the first letter, the resulting sequence is uniquely defined. And the first letter can have an odd ranking. If ever he changes his password while I need access, all I have to guess is the first letter, not an insurmountable problem that a few tries cannot overcome.

  I log out of Long’s username, and log on to Garland’s, using the discovered password. It works. First, I again search his trading transaction records for Sanvino. Nothing. Next, I download all his recent e-mails and then scan the correspondence folders, covering the last four months. There is nothing incriminating in them either. The only item that might have some relevance is an inquiry ten day ago with the bank that holds the mortgage on his property about the size of the penalty for breaking the contract early. However, this could simply mean that he may want to get out of his high fixed-interest contract and refinance his mortgage, taking advantage of the large drop in current floating and fixed mortgage interest rates, at least three hundred points lower. But then it could also be that he is suddenly flush with cash — the profit on the Sanvino transactions.

  I notice that one of the folders is labeled ‘e-reviews’. Could that contain the six-monthly job reviews for the employees? Curiosity gets the better of me and I open it. There is my name, as one of the last files. I resist reading it right away and quickly download it too. Then I get out.

  Once back in my apartment half an hour later, I again resist studying the material I’ve downloaded. I have a busy Saturday schedule ahead of me for which I need a clear head, and that implies getting sufficient sleep. I would like to have Silvio at my side, to be comforted by him over my disappointing setback on Edward Long, but we agreed that, given my plans for the night, we would pass it separately.

  Saturday, 1st November, 7:00 a.m.

  I shut off the beeping of the alarm. The temptation to simply turn over and go back to sleep is almost irresistible. I mutter a mild swearword, push myself up, stretch, and go to empty my bladder. Then I do strenuous exercises, chasing the last remnant of sleep from my limbs. A hot shower, breakfast with a strong coffee, and I’m ready to dig into the files I downloaded last night.

  My job evaluation file is beckoning. I can’t resist seeing what Garland wrote. For the first six-month revue he scores me close to the top on all performance indicators, except for relationships with my colleagues, followed by a few comments: bright, quick to catch on to trading systems and culture, thorough, not taking shortcuts, maybe over cautious; somewhat aloof toward colleagues, not a team-player; overall performance promising. Similar ranking on performance indicators for the second six-month revue, promising performance upgraded to outstanding with comments of: several large deals successfully negotiated; excellent relations with clients, can be given account responsibility; relations with colleagues not improved, consistently stays away from firm socials; overall prospects: senior material. The comments for the third six-month revue read: Ranked first in performance, has been assigned several important accounts mainly of foreign clients, taking advantage of fluency in several continental languages; relations with colleagues remain strained, particularly with Long; dilemma: her promotion to senior level ahead of three male colleagues on same level could result in resentment. The last entry says: Employment terminated 20/10/08; reason: suspected fraudulent trading; case handed over to police.

  I’m pleasantly surprised by how similar Garland’s evaluations coincide with my own perception. Performance: A+; relations with colleagues: C–. In its blandness it is fair assessment. What he failed to understand was that my relations with colleagues was largely a reaction to their attitudes toward me, in fact, it was a defensive stance. But in spite of judging my prospects tops, he hardly hesitated to sacrifice me at the first setback. His remark on the dilemma of promotion is rather telling. It wasn’t that I had less seniority in terms of length of employment, but rather that I was female. Even he recognized that I was a threat to the male ego of my colleagues. By firing me, he conveniently got rid of that dilemma. Will I face the same obstacle at other stockbrokerage firms? It strengthens my resolve to find employment of a different type.

  The search through the last three months of e-mails, both received and sent out, doesn’t get me any further. There is nothing, except a terse e-mail to all employees that my employment has been terminated. Even the bank statements reveals no more than high monthly mortgage payments and regular private investment activity in shares. I’m basically back to ground zero. I still have three, possibly four suspects, but no evidence to pin on any of them.

  Saturday, 10:10 a.m.

  Fausto calls while I search through Garland’s files. He wants to report on his investigation. So we agree to meet again in the same café on Bond Street. He is there first. I query how he is, more out of politeness than interest. Although it is useful to have him do some of the shadowing, I wouldn’t mind if he disappeared for good, never to be seen again.

  "Bene, signorina. I took your advice and ate at Il Napolitano. The food was excellent, real fare from down south. The best meal since I came here. I’ll be back there, but I now understand why a respectable signorina like you would stay away from there. It wouldn’t be decent for you to enter this seedy area, at least at night."

  "Yes, it is not a pleasant place, even in day time," I reply, bemused by his concern over my propriety. It probably reflects the conservative behavior he would see proper for his sisters, all part of the paternalistic Mafia culture toward their female relatives. "So what do you have for me?"

  "Several interesting things. First, your ex-boyfriend has shifted residence." He spreads out the London mini map. "He doesn’t live here any longer … is it Brompton? Yes. He has shifted to here." He takes two seconds the read the name. "Camden Town."

  "An apartment or a house?"

  "An apartment on the third floor of a new building. Quite nice." He shows me the second to the last shot on the camera. It looks like a fairly expensive place.

  "It’s probably the place where his new girlfriend lives. Did you check the name on the bell?"

  "Yes, I did. The name shown is G. Buxton."

  So he has shifted up-market. What surprises me is the speed with which he did it. The Gary I knew was more of a procrastinator. This tendency led to several arguments between us. And he never hinted that he considered moving. "Do you have his exact address?"

  He takes a post-it sticker from his pocket. The address is on it, including the rental agency.

  "Impressive, Fausto. This is excellent work. You show initiative."

  "That’s why il capo sent me here." He grins, clearly proud of being praised so lavishly. "Your ex-boyfriend now also has a car, a black Porsche Carrera. Quite an impressive machine. That’s what it looks like." He shows me the next photo, showing the car drive away.

  A black Carrera. Long’s Porsche was black. Did he sell it to Gary? … Or is this the payoff for a service provided, such as confirming the bum rumor?

  "Unfortunately, I could not read the license plate?"

  I take the camera and say: "Maybe I can read it from the shot."

  "No hope. It’s too small."

  I zoom in on the license plate. At the largest magnification the letters and numbers, although fuzzy, are readabl
e. The number looks familiar, but I can’t be sure that it is Long’s old one. I would have to check it out with the Vehicle Registration Service. While I quickly note the number down, Fausto exclaims: "Per dio, signorina, how did you do this?"

  "This is a very fancy little gadget. See, with the zoom button I can also magnify any part of the photo."

  He scratches his head in wonder. "I should buy myself one like this too. It sure is handy. By the way, how many pictures can I still take with it?"

  "Another four or five hundred."

  "What?"

  "Yes, it has a one gigabyte card in it."

  "Madonna, I will buy one for sure," he exclaims, taking the camera back. "Here is another shot that might interest you." It’s Gary with a girl. "That’s his new girlfriend. You want to see her enlarged." He grins and quickly magnifies the center of the picture, clearly enjoying teasing me. Silvio’s description of her is spot on. She is a platinum blonde, and her laugh looks vulgar, but then I admit that I may be somewhat biased.

  The next shot shows Gary with two other men, sitting at a table behind a window. One of them is Long. I have to look twice before I believe my eyes that the third man is indeed Garland. It doesn’t look like a casual meeting at a bar, not with them sitting formally at a table. I check the time the shot was taken. One ten. So it was a lunch meeting. What would those three have to talk about? I have no answer, only wild speculations — reminiscing about how they did me in? Bargaining about how to split the profits? Planning the next scam? Or could it be something innocent, such as Garland trying to recruit Gary as my replacement? Having missed out on the promotion, Gary might be open to competitive offers.

  "The third man here is Fred Garland, my ex-boss. He is one of my suspects. By the way, I couldn’t find anything suspicious on Long’s computer. He recently inherited big and could easily finance his new car. Not that this rules him out completely, especially after seeing him together with these two."

  "Do you want me to continue shadowing Buxton?"

  "Not now; maybe later again. Over this weekend I would like you to check out my ex-boss, Fred Garland." I hand Fausto the picture I’ve cut out from the employee list and on which I wrote Garland’s address. "He lives way out here in Hampstead Heath." I point to the suburb on the greater London map, which is on the reverse of the mini map, and then hand him the copies of the sky view and street view I printed out a few days ago. "Here, you see it’s a mansion in a large setting, about an acre, with a fence around it."

  "How much is an acre?"

  "Two fifth of a hectare." His expression tells me that this has little meaning for him. "An area about eighty yards long and fifty wide."

  "That is quite large. But how come you have these pictures? Where did you get them from?"

  "I printed them from the Google maps."

  "Google maps? What are those?"

  "Google maps … have you never looked them up on the Internet?"

  "No."

  "With broadband you can access street views of most cities, as if you were driving through the streets. You can even rotate the view 360 degrees. There are also views taken from a plane, like this one."

  "That’s very useful. I wish you would teach me how to do this."

  "Maybe, I can demonstrate it to you another time," I answer, hoping that it may never come to that. The idea of teaching a mafioso tools to sharpen his dubious activities doesn’t appeal. "You should also be aware that he might have security to keep intruders out, such as a remote control gate, possibly even closed circuit cameras near the gate and by the house. They have a dog, but I don’t think it’s a guard dog." The very thought that this big, lovable, long-haired creature won’t greet any stranger with wagging tail makes me smile. My ex-boss occasionally brought him to the office and the dog took a special liking for me, each time lying at my feet. If I remember correctly, it is a Bernese Mountain dog. They got him because these dogs are particularly good with children, and the Garlands have two girls, eight and ten.

  "What’s the purpose of doing this?"

  The man has more brains than I’ve given him credit for. "We may sooner or later have to break in and search for incriminating documents in his house. So you need to find out the best way to get in without raising the alarm or getting caught."

  His eyes light up. The prospect of such action seems to have appeal.

  "And while we are talking about that, we may have to do the same for Long’s penthouse studio." I’m tempted to add, "but don’t get caught" and then decide against it. He may feel insulted.

  "But not Buxton."

  "Too early to say."

  Shortly after that, we each go our separate ways. Rather than return home directly, I stroll toward Oxford Circus, window-shopping, although there is nothing I need. I remind myself that I’m still in the cut-expense mode. In the four years I’ve lived in London, I’ve hardly ever indulged in such leisure activity. Now there is time. The football game is only scheduled for three o’clock and I agreed to meet the Harpers half an hour earlier at the entrance to the Chelsea stadium.

  At Oxford Circus, I turn right into Regent Street. I pass by a shop displaying stuffed toy animals. I owned a genuine Stein bear — my steady companion as long as I can remember, sharing my bed well into my teens. It’s probably still in a cupboard with other things of mine in my grandparents’ house in Montagnola. It reminds me that Silvio is going to visit his four-year-old daughter. I spot a cute Koala bear. On the spur of the moment I enter and ask to see one. They have several. Although made in China, they are well made and soft. I select one with a lovable face and ask the shop assistant to gift-wrap it. Happy with my purchase I take the underground home.

  Saturday, 2:30 p.m.

  I vacillated between wearing a skirt or slacks for the match. In the end, I opted for a stylishly cut combination of a light blue, flowing, knee-length skirt, a white top and a darker blue jacket, under the assumption that Mrs. Harper will most likely be in a skirt. I was right. She wears an elegant blue dress, enhanced by a flowery silk scarf. Sally also wears a short skirt, a white blouse and a blue cardigan. Her eyes are shining, full of excited anticipation. Mr. Harper greets me with a pleased smile: "I see, you’re wearing the Chelsea colors."

  "You urged me to, Mr. Harper," I respond and then turn to his wife: "You look smashing in this dress, Mrs. Harper."

  She smiles bashfully, while Sally whispers into my ear: "Dad bought it for her yesterday. He even took her to the pub last night." In fact, my compliment seems to please him too.

  He guides us through the milling throng in front of the entrance and then into the sea of blue in a central section facing the middle of the field, about a third up. Large bright red patches color the opposite side of the stand. He exchanges greetings and backslaps with several people and relishes in the appraising looks his company of three women elicits. Being the tallest of the four, I’m the object of a lot of curious glances. I can see his pride as he introduces me as a friend of Sally. He buys soft drinks and nibbles for all of us from a vendor.

  When the players jog into the field, the hum around us swells to a rising chorus, breaking into the Chelsea supporters’ song.

  The game starts slowly, the ball rarely leaving the center half of the field, no side dominating. Mr. Harper explains to Sally what is going on and the rulings of the umpire. Twenty minutes into game, a Chelsea player breaks through the Arsenal defense. The constant waves of roar turn ear shattering. Mr. Harper and Sally both jump up, Sally shouting in excitement. I’m sure the player is going to score, but just as the ball flies to the right of the goalie, an Arsenal defender deflects it past the goal post. The roar on our side drops suddenly, replaced by the jeers of relief of the opposition. Five minutes later Chelsea scores, but the goal is disallowed to the prolonged and outraged booing of the Chelsea supporters.

  "Why, dad?" Sally cries, almost in tears.

  When he doesn’t answer right away, I say: "The player was offside when he received the ball."


  Mr. Harper looks at me in surprise: "Yes, that’s right, Miss Walker. You know about football?"

  "A bit. I played it at highschool."

  "You did? Really? What position?"

  "Oh, it wasn’t that formal, usually as striker."

  He raises his eyebrows. Sally cuts in, almost pleading, wanting to know why the player has been offside, and he explains the offside rules.

  At half time, the game is still scoreless, although in my opinion Chelsea did assert its dominance. Mr. Harper goes off to talk to friends, while Mrs. Harper chats with the person sitting next to her.

  "And how are things at home, Sally," I ask.

  "Good."

  "Your father hasn’t slapped you?"

  She blushes, avoiding my gaze.

  "Did he?" I question again.

  "Yes, just one light cuff, but I deserved it. I was fresh."

  For a while I say nothing. It’s probably hard for both to break a pattern that has developed over years. "Sally, you also must do all you can to make your relationship with your father work. It’s not just him who has to make a change, but you also."

  She looks down and murmurs: "Yes, I know. I try."

  "Look, if it happens again, beg your dad, and I mean beg, beg him to talk to you rather than hit you. And if you are at fault, swallow your pride and apologize right away, will you?"

  She nods, looking at me furtively. I hug her and she responds with a relieved smile.

  Ten minutes into the second half, Chelsea scores. The crowd erupts into prolonged singing. I’m not the only one of us four who notices that the Arsenal players have become suddenly more aggressive, committing repeated minor fouls, some missed by the referee, and coming close to even the score several times. Each time Sally literally trembles in fear and then smiles at me when they fail. The game ends one-nil. I thank Mr. Harper for taking me along. They leave happy, Sally’s cheeks still rosy from all the excitement.