by Gian Bordin
Monday, 6:50 p.m.
Fausto calls, reporting that Mrs. Garland left the library shortly before three and went to pick up her daughters at the primary school, before returning home.
"We may be fortunate," he adds. "There seems to be nobody staying at the moment in the house at the end of the driveway along Garland’s property."
"How did you find out?"
"Junk mail in the mailbox. I noticed that there was quite a bit, so I checked out the house."
"You really know your job. Thank you."
"Overflowing mailboxes are a sure sign that nobody is at home. Any thief knows that."
"But you’re not a thief."
"It still pays to know their tricks, including how to pick a lock, open windows, cut a hole in glass without breaking anything and without any noise, plus a few other tricks."
"I’m glad you’re an expert in this. We may need it."
We agree that he picks me up tomorrow around eleven thirty. On the way out there I plan to buy a snack, and then we will observe Mrs. Garland’s movements. If we see her again go to the highschool and enter the library, we will attempt to get into the grounds.
Tuesday, 4th November 12:20 p.m.
We are parked near the roundabout that leads to the highschool where Mrs. Garland presumably works or does voluntary work. Over my running outfit, I wear the paint-splattered overalls I wore to paint my apartment after I bought it. The rock-climbing boots serve as footwear. Fausto is in jeans, a dark sweatshirt, and running shoes.
On the way out, I bought some Italian cheeses, salami, and a baguette at a delicatessen, a beer for Fausto and a fruit juice for myself. We are sharing the picnic, while waiting and hoping our target will again show up soon. She does shortly before one. After assuring ourselves that she goes to the library, we drive back to the property and take the driveway down to the unoccupied house. Fausto parks in front of the garage, hidden from the Garlands by bushes. Armed with the rope, we tread to the back of the property through an overgrown and neglected garden. In places, the canopy of the trees is so dense that it is quite dusky under the gray sky.
The tree with the overhanging branch rises almost directly behind the house. I swing the rope around the branch and then climb up, where I secure it at the trunk with a knot that can be undone quickly, just in case we have to decamp in a hurry. From this vantage point I can see the entrance gate through a gap in the bushes and trees at the front of the house. I signal to Fausto to climb up. He balances himself along the branch by holding on to another one higher up and then hooks the rope over a side branch once he is past the security wire, lowers it and scrambles down. I made knots at that end to make climbing back up easier.
I watch how he slowly approaches the rear of the house, inspecting everything carefully. He goes to the back door without touching anything, then to the left along the wall and around the corner, where bushes along the side of the house hide him from view. I wait impatiently. As far as I’m concerned, the purpose of the exercise is to find the label of the company that provides the security service. It is usually attached on the inside of a window close to the main entrance in easy view of anybody approaching the house from the front. Why is he taking so long, I wonder? After ten minutes, I weigh up whether I should go and check on him, but decide to give him another five. He appears shortly afterward, nodding up to me as he approaches, a satisfied smile on his face. So he found the information I’m after. He easily climbs up the rope to the branch, but while righting himself there, he almost loses his balance, catching the branch above him with an audible gasp. He faces me, grinning embarrassed.
Five minutes later, we are back in the car, driving away. I’ve taken off the overalls. Fausto wrote down the name, address, and phone number of the security firm. But he did much more than this. He inspected all windows, the French doors into the garden, the main entrance door. All windows and the French doors on the ground floor have security locks. He spotted a motion detector in the salon. He climbed up to the balcony above the front door with the help of a down pipe and a trellis. The balcony door gives into the master bedroom. It also has a security lock. He could not spot a motion detector inside, but then it could be on the hidden part of the wall, nor was he able to see if any other upstairs windows have security locks.
"So, if the upstairs windows are not protected, and there are no motion detectors there, we could get in that way," he concludes.
I praise him for his thoroughness. He replies with a pleased grin.
"But is it possible to get easily to an upstairs window?" I question.
"Yes, there is a low extension on the left side of the house —"
"Left side as seen from the back?"
"No, left side from the front. I think it is part of the kitchen. It has a row of narrow windows just under the sloping roof. I could barely see in, but above it is a window within easy reach. I should have climbed on the roof and checked it out."
"If need be, we can do it another day. The question is though where is Garland’s office? If it is downstairs, we will still run into the motion detectors, assuming there are none upstairs. When you checked the downstairs windows, could you see if one room looked like an office?"
"Yes, the room next to the salon, on the right side of the house. It has two windows."
"So we would have to go downstairs," I remark, disappointed, and we would trigger the alarm. There is no need to voice that.
"Isn’t it though likely that while they are in the house, the motion detectors are turned off, even at night?" he asks.
"Yes, but you don’t suggest we break in while they are asleep?" I must sound alarmed, because he grins.
"That’s the first time I see you afraid of something. Yes, I mean that. I’ve done it before. We just have to be very careful to avoid any noise."
"What about the dog?"
"You said it wasn’t a guard dog. Does he know you?"
"Yes, Garland brought him to the office many times and I petted him."
"So, he won’t be alarmed by your presence. You’ll simply have to keep him quiet."
I’m slowly but surely warming to his proposal. But first I will try to learn more about the internal security in the house, as well as the general layout of the rooms. I mention that and he agrees. He says that he has a fair idea of the inside arrangement in terms of rooms — a family room, a dining room off the kitchen, on the left side, a salon, a library and study, some storage room on the other side, and five bedrooms upstairs.
At a roundabout partway back into the city, I happen to spot a small black car in the side mirror. I vaguely remember seeing a small black car when we emerged from the neighbor’s driveway, with one male occupant only, parked along the road near Garland’s property, but I dismiss the idea that it is the same car, which has followed us all the way. There are many small black cars. Somehow, they have become the vogue the last two years. There is something classy about black cars.
Fausto drops me off near my apartment building. While I walk to the entrance, carrying the overalls and the rope, I see what looks like the identical model drive past. It’s a Fiat Punto. It too has only one occupant, a man. Is this triple sighting just coincidence or has somebody been following us? And if so, who? Fausto is the only one who shadowed me. Who else might be interested in my movements? The police are the most plausible answer. If it’s them, that doesn’t augur well for a break-in at Garlands. They may easily connect me to it, having followed me there, possibly more than once. I don’t like the implications of that. But would the London City police drive a small foreign car? It seems doubtful. So who else could it be?
Back in the apartment, I call ADTSecurity Ltd., the outfit that installed and monitors Garland’s security system, to make an appointment — the stated reason: exploring security options for a property under offer.
Tuesday, 10:10 p.m.
Fausto calls. Long has just returned to his apartment, he reports. From the bank statement, it seems that Tuesday could well be
a night where Long avails himself of an escort. I’m to join Fausto, suitably disguised, and then we will wait in his car on Old Church Road, about a hundred yards from Long’s building, for the possible arrival of the escort limousine. I drive there in my van and park it a street over from Long’s building.
I’m dressed in a black miniskirt, a pink blouse, with the top buttons left open, revealing a frilly black bra forming a bit of cleavage, a black jacket with half sleeves, black mesh stockings and black pumps. My own dark hair is hidden under a blonde wig I bought half a year earlier for a costume party Gary and I attended. I reckon that the dim light at the entrance and on the landings will hide that it is cheap.
It is getting close to eleven — we’re on the verge of concluding that this is not the night — when the black limousine drives past.
"That’s them," Fausto exclaims and immediately follows it. He parks the Ford behind the limousine, just as a petite blonde gets out. She looks at our car, hesitating for a moment, but when she sees me climb out, she walks up to the entrance. I’m right behind her, while Fausto knocks at the driver’s window and I hear him talk.
The woman presses Long’s buzzer. I fumble with my handbag, as if searching for the swipe card, muttering: "Where is that silly card."
From the corner of my vision, I perceive a dark silhouette rush toward us. Turning my head, I see a pistol in his hand, pointing at us. The escort girl must have seen him too. She screams, pushing herself into a corner.
I react instantly. Using the momentum of my half-turn, I push off the wall into a jump, and my right foot, coming up sharp from below, kicks the wrist of the left hand that is holding the pistol. A shot rings out. The pistol flies away, followed almost instantly by the shattering of glass and the man’s scream. His right hand grips the wrist of his left. By then, I am back on my feet. Even if he still had the presence of mind to defend himself from my next blow aimed at his neck, he has no chance. He crumbles to the ground, out cold.
The escort girl keeps screaming. Then I hear the click of the entrance door being released. I push the girl toward the door, saying: "Go up. You are safe now." But she just rushes past me, almost crashing into Fausto who comes running up to the entrance, scrambles into the limousine, which takes off immediately.
Fausto bends down to look at the man on the ground. "Misericordia, it’s Massimo. What is he doing here?"
"Another mafioso?" I ask.
He nods, while checking for a pulse. "One of il capo’s enforcers."
"Come, Fausto, we have to disappear in a hurry. The police will be here in a minute."
"We should take him along. He is alive."
"No time for that."
I push him forcefully toward his car. He comes reluctantly, looking back at the man lying on the ground. When he wants to turn on the car lights, I growl: "No lights. Go down to the embankment and turn left. You can turn the lights on after that."
Some thirty yards along the road, I spot the same black Fiat Punto that seems to have followed us earlier today. It is parked on the other side of the street. Is the man I saw this afternoon in the Fiat the same who attacked us at the door?
We are turning into the embankment, when I hear the police sirens and see the flashing lights of a car entering the other end of Old Church Road from King’s Road.
"We just made it," I murmur.
Fausto only nods.
"Let’s go to my place. We need to call Signor Carvaggio."
After a while of silence, I ask: "Do you know this Massimo?"
"Massimo Conci, yes, he does the dirty jobs for il capo. A very nasty fellow, a brute."
"Why do you think he is here?"
Fausto doesn’t answer. Has he known and kept it from me? "Today, when we drove back from Hampstead Heath, I noticed a black car, a Fiat Punto, following us all the way back to where I live, and just now I saw the same model black Fiat Punto parked near Long’s building. Do you think Carvaggio sent him to spy on us?"
"Possible. He is very suspicious, il capo. I thought he believed me when he agreed to give you ten days’ time." He sounds apologetic.
"Is there another explanation for him being here?"
"No." I see that he cringes, admitting my suspicion.
"This guy ruined our operation. But I cannot imagine what would have made him interfere. What did he expect to achieve?"
"Maybe, he had the same idea as us, trying to get to Long via the prostitute."
"This would imply that he has been around for quite a while. He must have followed you and also discovered that Long gets escorts. But why would he know about Long?"
Fausto seems highly embarrassed, refusing to look at me. "Il capo wanted to know whom you suspect. I had no choice but to tell him. Massimo may have taken it into his dumb head to rough Long up a bit and see if he spills the beans. He is that way. He likes to hurt people, especially women. He wouldn’t have blinked an eye killing you." Then he shakes his head. "He was pointing a gun at you and lost out. He has never lost out to anybody."
"He was pointing a gun in my general direction, not specifically at me. He hardly expected a woman to defend herself. So the time delay to react and shift the aim on me was all I needed."
"If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it. He is a big fellow." After a pause, he adds: "We should have taken him along."
"And be in police custody too? No, we had to clear out."
"How long will he be out?"
"Ten, fifteen minutes."
"What will happen to him?"
"I broke his wrist, so they will take him to a hospital, where he will be under police guard. I guess that he will spin some tale that he was assaulted and that he only defended himself. I doubt they’ll believe him once they discover that he is Italian and just recently entered England. They’ll assume he is a mafioso, and then charge him for carrying an unlicensed gun and smuggling a gun into the country. He will spend six to twelve months in jail."
"Il capo will be furious."
"Good, because I’m furious at Carvaggio too." I almost called him il capo, as if he were my boss. I also decide he doesn’t deserve to be politely referred to as ‘signore’.
"You really want to talk to him?"
"Yes, I want to let him know in no uncertain terms to stop messing us up."
Although it is close to midnight by the time we reach my apartment and almost one in Milan, Carvaggio answers at the third ring. We’re using my iPhone, switched to the speaker, so that we both can hear.
Fausto first explains what just happened and that it is certain Massimo is now in police custody. As expected, Carvaggio erupts in expletives. I take over at that point.
"Signor Carvaggio, this is Cecilia Walker. It was extremely foolish of you to send one of your enforcers to jeopardize the work Fausto and I are doing. It has —"
"Young woman, nobody calls me foolish," he interrupts. "You don’t know me."
"Signore, there is no other word for it." My voice is uncompromising. "It was unwise. It has set us back by several days. It might even betray us to the culprits and this would mean that you may never see that money."
He grunts.
"This whole affair requires stealth, not brute force and threats. Fortunately, Fausto is a smart man and realized that he is more likely to get results by working with me rather than against me. The idiot you just sent behaved like a bull in a china shop and delivered himself right into the hands of the police. So, please exercise some patience. Rome was not built in one day either." When he remains silent, I ask: "Will you now let Fausto and me do this at our own pace?"
"Yes, but I will not wait forever."
"Signore, don’t threaten me. It will not get you anywhere. Remember, you are in the firing line as much as I. What would your Naples’ bosses do if you bungled the recovery of this money?"
After a pregnant silence, he asks: "Signorina Walker, what is this about Naples’ bosses?"
I notice the polite address. "Signore, any prudent s
tockbroker does a minimal check on his or her clients. It takes no genius to guess the implications of a Liechtenstein registration for Ventura, with offices in a suburban villa in Milan. But rest assured I do not care where your ample investments funds originate." That is a lie. As I got more involved their deals, the source of the funds I helped Ventura invest profitably has begun to bother me more than I was initially willing to admit.
"Signorina, I underestimated you. Please accept my apologies. Pass me Fausto again."
I hand the iPhone to him.
"Capo, I trust Signorina Walker. I beg you to trust me too. In a week’s time or so, we should know who did the scam."
"All right, but I heard some disturbing news about you. Massimo reported that you have become involved with this woman. Is that true?"
"No, capo, I am not, and Signorina Walker is a very honorable woman. I hold her in the highest respect."
"He saw you dining out together."
"Yes, we did, but Massimo drew the wrong conclusion. We were making detailed plans for tonight’s operation. Even I have to eat, capo. And Signorina Walker knows local restaurants offering real cucina italiana that even you would approve of."
"All right, Fausto, but I warn you, prove yourself!" He disconnects. No goodbye!
Fausto grins. "I bet no woman has ever dared chide him like this except his mother many years ago. He may never forgive you for it."
"He will once he has the money." Although I sound assured, I have some misgivings. It might have been wiser not to let my mouth run away. Getting mad and acting on it seems to be one of my weaknesses.
Before Fausto leaves, we agree that we will try Long again the coming night. I decide to pick up the van in the morning and then also check if the Fiat is still there. If it is a rental car, it’s almost certainly Massimo’s. I might even give the rental company an anonymous call and tell them where they can pick up the car. They might tell me in which hotel he is staying. Fausto can then check out his room and remove anything that could compromise us.
