Frame-Up

by Gian Bordin

  In retrospect, I don’t regret having gone to that match. The atmosphere of expectation, the electrifying surges in the tension of the crowd, even the inevitable letdowns of failure, were contagious and something to be experienced at least once. For a two-hour period, the shadow of the Sanvino affair never troubled my mind.

  In terms of following the details of the play, with replays of critical actions from different angles, TV is more instructive. I just wish the commentators would refrain from indulging in inane speculation of what is going on in the players’ minds, but probably that can’t be helped. They must feel that they are paid to make such comments. Here I go speculating about what makes them tick!

  Saturday, 9:10 p.m.

  I go to Silvio at Il Corno d’Oro for a late dinner. He usually manages to free himself more easily at that time and joins me at my table from time to time.

  "Here, take this to Teresa from me." I say at the end of the meal, handing him the gift-wrapped Koala.

  He breaks into the broad smile that reaches right into my heart. "How sweet of you to think of her, and you don’t even know her. What is it?"

  "A stuffed Koala. I saw it in a window and just couldn’t resist."

  "She loves stuffed toys. She has an old rabbit, almost bald from the many washes it got."

  "Do you have a picture of her on you?"

  "Yes," he replies and removes a photo from his wallet. It shows a three- to four-year old girl, dark curly hair like Silvio’s, olive skin, looking into the camera, a hint of a smile on her face. But her most striking feature are her large dark brown eyes.

  I want to hold that girl in my arms. "Oh, what a darling. I must meet her soon. Will you take me to her, the moment the Sanvino affair has been settled?"

  "Yes, I would like to do that. You may even learn to love her."

  "Oh, I have no doubts about that."

  "And how is your investigation going?"

  I report the inconclusive results of my incursion into Garland’s and Long’s files, and then tell him what Fausto has discovered.

  "I don’t like that you to associate with this guy. He may turn against you anytime."

  "I don’t think so. He is smarter than I thought and seems totally dedicated to me. He had dinner at Il Napolitano, praised its food, but said he understands why a respectable lady like me should not venture into Soho."

  "But you didn’t go with him?" Silvio sounds alarmed.

  "Do I detect a hint of jealousy?"

  "Should I be jealous?"

  "You’re not answering my question, but no, there is no reason for jealousy. He invited me for dinner, but I declined. I intend to keep him at a safe distance."

  "Good."

  I stay till closing time and then he joins me in my apartment. I already miss him, knowing he will be gone by early morning for three nights.

  Sunday, 2nd November, 10:20 a.m.

  I decide to undertake a bit of my own reconnaissance by taking my van out to Hampstead Heath. The sky is gray, rain or drizzle imminent. I’ve dressed appropriately for the occasion: warm gray pants, comfortable walking shoes, a dark-green Gore-Tex raincoat with a hood. I park the van half a mile from Garland’s property, don my big sunglasses, check myself in the mirror, satisfied that with the hood on, I’m almost unrecognizable, and take a stroll along his road. On approaching the property, I unobtrusively but carefully survey the fence and the entrance gate.

  The mansion is barely discernable behind trees and bushes. As I expected, the iron gate with sharp spikes is operated by remote control. A buzzer with a camera eye is located at car window level in the right-hand concrete pillar. The iron fence, identical in pattern to the gate, stands over two yards high. Stopping briefly along the fence past the gate, I see a taut wire stretching along the fence on upward slanted brackets about a foot away from the top spikes. Its position renders it almost impossible to get past. The distance between the wire and the fence is too narrow to slip through, whereas getting over it required a fair jump, difficult to do from standing on the top rail between the spikes, and land without breaking any limbs.

  I walk on. There is a path, probably leading to a back section, at the corner of the property. I venture into it partway. The wire extends there too. With security along the fence like this, I should expect more security at the house, such as closed circuit cameras, and a burglar alarm inside. I tell myself that it is crazy to contemplate breaking into such a fortress.

  By the time I return to the van, a steady drizzle is falling. On the way back, I drive via Camden Town and have a look at Gary’s new residence. I don’t really know why.

  I’m just locking the van in the side street near my apartment block when the iPhone sounds its tune. It’s the mafioso. He wants to meet me and report. With the café on Bond Street closed, we agree to meet at Oxford Circus.

  Sunday, 4:00 p.m.

  The crowds are light and I find him easily in spite of the drizzle ushering in an early dusk. After placing our orders at a bar he starts: "Signorina, that place in Hampstead Heath is well protected."

  "Yes, I know. I drove out there this morning and walked by it. Do you have any idea how to get past that wire?"

  "Ah, you noticed. Yes. There is a tree along the back of the property with a sturdy branch straddling the fence. It should be possible to get across there."

  "With a rope to get up to the branch again?"

  "Yes. The back of the house is only ten yards or so from the fence. I don’t think there is a camera there, nor did I see a movement sensor for a light. There is a small balcony with an iron parapet on the upper storey. It should be possible to get up with a rope and a hook."

  "That still leaves the burglar alarm."

  "Yes, it could be triggered by either opening or tampering with the windows or by detection of movement inside, possibly by both."

  "The other thing is that I don’t want to break in when they are at home. So we may have to find out their daily routine. What time of the day where you out there?"

  "Late afternoon, about four thirty."

  "And did you see anybody?"

  "No, nor did I hear any noises, and I was around there for about an hour. It was already getting dark when I left because I couldn’t see enough anymore with all the trees."

  "No lights?"

  "None."

  "I think Garland once told me that they have a weekend place somewhere. I’ll have to confirm that."

  "How?"

  "I’ll call, impersonating a representative of a firm selling condominium shares or something like that. If I reach his wife, she may tell me that they already have a place."

  "Clever."

  The thought of impersonating somebody gives me another idea. I could impersonate a security firm, trying to sell a new security system. But I discard that idea quickly. They would be stupid to disclose any details about their current system to a stranger, even to a firm. They might smell a rat. The only firm they are likely to talk to freely is the one who installed the system in the first place. I would have to impersonate somebody from that outfit and for that I needed to know who installed or supplied it.

  "Security firms usually advertise the presence of a security system by having a label sticking to a window or door glass pane. There might be a small metal tag attached to the fence or the gate. Did you see anything of the sort?"

  "No, I didn’t check along the fence and I couldn’t get close enough to the house."

  "Would you help me get inside the fence to see if I can find out the name of the firm or the system?"

  "Yes, but I would not let you take that risk. I’ll do it."

  Although I wouldn’t shy away from the task, I actually counted on this macho response.

  "But why do you want to know that?" he asks.

  "I can then impersonate the firm to get information about their burglar alarm without raising suspicion."

  "You really are clever. I can learn from you. Yes, we should do that. When?"

  "It would have to be
this coming Friday or Saturday, assuming they have a weekend place and go there regularly. But it may be prudent if you also find out if Mrs. Garland regularly leaves the house during the day and when."

  "I’ll start on this tomorrow morning."

  "Yes, do that. You may have to do it over several days. Do you also have some information about Long’s penthouse setup?"

  "It’s a building with twenty apartments. His is one of the four on the top level, level 5, with windows both toward the street and the river. But that’s all. One needs a swipe card to get into the building, but I discovered an interesting thing about him. Yesterday around eleven at night, I was in the street outside when a black limousine brought a woman there, who got out and rang Long’s apartment and was promptly let in. I’m sure she was from an escort service."

  It confirms what I discovered in his bank statements. "How can you be sure?"

  "First, the driver remained in the car, waiting for her. She came back about twenty minutes later, rather quick, I’d say, and they drove off. Second, she looked and was dressed like a prostitute. Believe me, I know how to spot them."

  "You use them yourself?"

  "Never. I’d never touch one. No, when I went north to Milan, I was for a while one of the drivers for a classy service run by il capo."

  "And now you do more important jobs for him. You have come up in the world. But what you told me confirms what I inferred from his bank statements. He uses that service two or three times a week. It might be useful to know the name of that agency."

  "‘Exotic Escorts’ near that railway station. I think it’s called Victoria, I followed the limousine and saw the neon sign."

  My surprise must show on my face. He grins and asks: "Are you pleased?"

  "Amazed, pleased, grateful that you show so much initiative."

  "Thank you, signorina. A compliment coming from you is worth even more. And you plan to use this as a means for getting into his apartment, am I right?"

  "Yes, naturally in disguise, then render him unconscious when he opens the door and search for evidence." Although I voice it confidently, I don’t feel ready for that step yet. It’s one thing to intrude illegally into a computer system. No violence is involved. However, a home invasion and temporarily incapacitating somebody, even by rendering him unconscious by nonviolent means, is a different story.

  He nods approvingly. "You don’t like violence, but you are good at it."

  "No, I don’t like violence. I have incapacitated people during Aikido practice, but, Fausto, you are the first person I’ve hurt intentionally, but then I was livid like I’ve never been."

  "Yes, I could see it. You taught me a painful lesson, but it was for an honorable cause — defending your sisters."

  "Fausto, you’re a strange man."

  "You mean being a mafioso, but also valuing family honor?"

  "Yes. You’re full of surprises."

  "Nothing compared to you."

  "Are you trying to court me? Let me tell you that I am totally committed to another man, a compatriot of yours."

  "I understand. So you aren’t Italian? You speak it like a native."

  "I’m both British and Swiss-Italian."

  "Signorina, even if you have a fidanzato, would you nevertheless be willing to share dinner with me tonight. It’s lonely for me to be here and I value your company."

  I agree and we share a dinner at Il Pescatore. He keeps to his word and makes no advances. I learn at lot about his life and his family. I’m surprised how open he is, but I also infer that he is proud of his status as a mafioso, and resigned that he may die young.

  Monday, 3rd November, 7:15 a.m.

  In the state between sleep and awakening, I have the strong sense of Silvio’s presence. I can feel his arm around me, cupping one of my breasts, the way he always does when we are falling asleep after making love. I stay with that sensation for a while and then reach over, search for him. I wake up fully. I’m alone, my longing for him raw, unfulfilled. Another two nights. Keep busy and the time will pass faster, I admonish myself, as I rise.

  While I’m preparing and eating breakfast, I take stock of where I am in my quest to uncover who did the Sanvino scam and what I should do next. I have four suspects: Edward Long and Fred Garland of Lewis, and Gary Buxton and Bob Gough of Goldsax. Each one or any combination of them could have done it. Some, such as Garland, would have more ready access to short-term finance required for such a purchase of shares. But all that was really needed as secondary security is two or three percent of the Sanvino share purchase price — less than half a million. The shares themselves provided the main security. Maybe even Long could have managed that, particularly with his equity in the penthouse studio as security. I don’t know the financial situation of Bob Gough. He has been in the trading business for a dozen years already. Last I knew, Gary has probably no more than fifty thousand in savings and shares. Some six months ago he got caught with his investments, losing heavily on a luxury apartment building scheme when it went into receivership. So he can be no more than an accomplice to the other three.

  My computer searches and Fausto’s investigations haven’t uncovered anything of significance, a hint here and there, such as Garland’s inquiry with his bank about the size of the penalty for refinancing his mortgage, the new cars both Long and Gary drive, their get-together for lunches or drinks after work — definitely something new for Gary with Garland, but not necessarily for Long and Gough. They could have known each other for years.

  It really seems that the only avenue left is to break into their premises and search for hard evidence. Although I did mention it to Fausto, the more I think about it, the more repugnant I find the idea. I’m lowering myself to the level of a criminal, and something might go wrong, somebody might get hurt. Furthermore, even if it results in clearing me, the very act of breaking and entering may land me jail. I rack my brain for what else I can do. Have Fausto shake each one a bit to see if something falls out? I know, he wouldn’t mind doing it, but would he be able to restrain himself and not inflict permanent damage? That idea appeals to me even less. I have some leverage on Long. He may spill the beans if threatened with exposure about his insider trading and using an escort service several times a week. He would hate to lose face in front of his colleagues. However, he might gladly suffer that as the lesser of two evils. If he denied any involvement beyond giving me the bum rumor, I still wouldn’t know whether he is telling the truth. Time and again, the option of searching the premises of the two most likely culprits seems to only possibility offering some measure of success.

  Getting into Long’s apartment seems relatively simple. Fausto and I would keep watch outside his building for the escort limousine to arrive. Fausto then convinces them to depart again with threats and maybe a bribe. I take her place suitably disguised, and once Long opens the door, we render him unconscious, and then search his apartment. If I find nothing, he would never know who did it or why.

  More ‘ifs’ are involved in getting into Garland’s mansion, with at least two levels of security to be overcome, one along the fence, the other in the house.

  It seems that I have little choice but to explore these two avenues more fully. I hope that Fausto will keep to his promise and start checking this morning on the comings and goings of the Garlands.

  I time my morning exercises such that I’m able to report to the Snow Hill Police Station before ten, as required.

  Monday, 1:30 p.m.

  The uncertainty and the impatience for something to happen render me restless. I already went for a run after breakfast, did my Aikido practices, even made a wash of both light and dark colors — all temporary distractions, no more. What could I do next? Reading doesn’t attract me. I know I won’t be able to take in what I read. My thoughts are bound to stray time and again back to what other things I could do to help my quest along. Finally, I call Fausto to check what else he has discovered about the Garlands.

  He answers on the second ring. I
don’t identify myself, expecting that he will recognize my voice.

  "Where are you?" I ask.

  "In Hampstead Heath. The wife just went to the local highschool and parked her car in the staff parking area. I saw her enter the library. Could that mean she works there?"

  "Yes, probably voluntary work. Are you willing to stick around and see how long she stays? It would be useful to know."

  "So that we can explore the grounds already tomorrow."

  "Yes, you got it."

  "Yes, I will wait. Il signore left by car, an Audi, shortly after eight. She took the girls to school at eight forty. Then she went shopping in the supermarket and returned home around ten."

  "I admire your patience."

  "It’s boring, but that’s part of the job."

  "Call me back tonight. Maybe we can schedule some work for tomorrow. Thanks." I disconnect.

  We will need a rope. I own one, stored with the climbing gear in my basement storage cubicle. I’ve not been down there for ages and am appalled by the amount of stuff I’ve already accumulated since I moved into my apartment almost two years ago, still renting at that time. I purchased the unit eight months later. Being a person who likes order, everything is neatly packed and labeled. I don’t really know why I took the climbing gear along when I came to London. I did a bit of climbing in the Swiss Alps as a member of the University Mountaineering Club, but haven’t touched it since. There was no time while doing the MBA and Gary isn’t the outdoors type. His only sport is squash.

  I find the rope, neatly coiled, at the top of the box that also contains hiking boots, rock climbing boots, my helmet, crampons, and other things. I take the rock-climbing boots out too. They may be useful for getting over the fence.