Frame-Up

by Gian Bordin

  Suddenly, I remember that I have an appointment with Silvio at my place in ten minutes. I have to prevent him from going to the apartment. I start the van, return to Queensway and then continue driving south to Bayswater Road, in the hope of intercepting Silvio, assuming he is coming from South Kensington. When I reach Bayswater Road, I stop, wondering right or left? Just then I see his car coming from the right. I quickly park illegally and wave frantically. He doesn’t seem to pay any attention to me and turns into Queensway, but then suddenly swings into a parking spot. Dodging the traffic, I run to him.

  He gets out of his car too.

  "The police are at my place," I murmur in Italian, preempting him. "Let’s meet at the restaurant. My van is over there." With that I’m away, back to the van.

  Fifteen minutes later I park the van behind the restaurant. Silvio is waiting next to his car.

  "What happened? Why are the police at your apartment?" are his first words.

  "Let’s first go to your office," I reply. I don’t want to stand around in the open.

  Once inside, he asks: "So?"

  "I don’t know what happened. All I know is that Somes is in my apartment, I presume, waiting for me, and the only reason she is waiting is to arrest me."

  "But why now?"

  "They might have found evidence they think justifies arresting me again."

  He puts his arms around me, hugging me. It feels good. "My poor love. What are you going to do? Call your lawyer?"

  "No, I need another two or three days and then I’ll have the evidence to clear myself. Until then I’ll go into hiding."

  "But won’t that get you into more trouble?"

  "Yes, but I’ll have to risk that."

  "You can come to my place."

  "No, Silvio, that wouldn’t work, not with your wife there, nor do I want to get you into trouble too."

  "I guess you’re right. So where will you go? To your father?"

  "No. The police might check with him. I’ll book into a small hotel in the City."

  I slip back into his embrace. I need to feel his arms around me. I was so looking forward to make love to him, but Somes has put a stop to that.

  "I love you," he murmurs, kissing me, and I respond.

  After a while, I disengage and ask: "Have you talked to your wife?"

  "Not yet. She was still in bed when I left for the office at ten."

  "Your bed?"

  "Yes. I slept on the sofa after she gave up. If she had been strong enough, she would have raped me."

  "Poor Silvio," I reply, kissing him. "I won’t rape you, nor do I want to fuck you. I want to share with you making love."

  "Oh Ceci, why did it take me three years before I found the courage to tell you that I love you? It’s three years, isn’t it, when we met the first time?"

  "A bit more than that. It was in June, after my first year in the MBA program, when I celebrated passing the first year’s courses, and that is three summers ago."

  "Before you met Gary. When you were still free."

  "I wasn’t free then. All my energy went into excelling in the MBA so that I would land an interesting and lucrative job. I was an impenetrable fortress then, and I might not have appreciated your true worth."

  "And what is my true worth now?"

  "The way you make my heart swell, make me want you all the time."

  "Oh, Ceci, I wish all this were over. Emilia gone; you clear; the two of us together."

  "With Teresa."

  He smiles. "Yes, with Teresa."

  Saturday, 7:05 p.m.

  I decide that I might as well try to get into the same hotel as Fausto. It would simplify things. So shortly after seven I check in under the name of Cindy Walsh, and ask for a room on level four. The desk clerk obliges and gives me the keys to room 414.

  I have only a sports bag for luggage, a purchase made after I left Silvio. I also bought a toothbrush and toothpaste, a shampoo, as well as a few pieces of essential clothing — a black tracksuit and black running shoes I will need for tomorrow night. I also bought a black marker to cover the few bits of whites and blues on the running shoes. I came by underground. The van is with Silvio at the restaurant.

  The room is identical to Fausto’s, except symmetrically reversed. I place the toothbrush and toothpaste in the glass on the bathroom vanity.

  Carlo should by now be with mother. Switzerland being an hour ahead of London, their time is shortly after eight, still early enough to call. After a few words of greeting I ask if Carlo has arrived.

  "Oh, is Carlino coming today?" she exclaims.

  "I put him on a plane to Milano just after lunch, and he promised to take the train to Lugano."

  "You should have told me. I would have gone to the station to meet him."

  "I didn’t know which train he might catch. So he hasn’t shown up yet." Alarm bells start ringing.

  "Don’t worry, Ceci. If he promised to come, he will. He may just have missed the train."

  "Mamma, there is a train leaving Milano for Lugano every hour."

  "Oh, he will be here. After seven there are few buses to Montagnola. The poor boy may be waiting at the station. It’s unseasonably cold here."

  Yes, it’s well into November, I’m tempted to respond, and hence seasonably cold, and Carlo’s promises aren’t worth much, but I say nothing.

  "With Carlo here, will you also come home for Christmas, so the whole family can celebrate together?"

  Only half my family. "I hope I’ll manage it." Provided the Sanvino affair has been settled, or else I may have to do it illegally on my Swiss passport. "I will let you know by early December. I’ll call again tomorrow morning. I need to talk to Carlo."

  She chats for another five minutes, telling me things about her neighbors I care little about, before we say goodbye.

  Has Carlo done a runner on me? If he has, there is only one reason. He intends to go back to Garland and blackmail him for more money. Given his current physical state — just having come off a prolonged drug binge financed by Garland’s first payoff — he will want to do this at the earliest possible time, and that is tomorrow night after the Garlands have returned from their weekend house.

  I must get Fausto’s cooperation to stop Carlo. I’ve no doubt that if Garland refuses to open the gate for him, he will climb over the fence and trigger the alarm. That will bring in the police and God knows what may happen then. Carlo could be charged for trespassing or worse. He may then spill the beans — not that this in itself is unattractive — but it would warn Garland and he may do away with any incriminating evidence. So far, there has been no need for that, and, knowing his obsession to have everything documented, I’m pretty sure that the evidence of the transactions is still in his house, probably in the safe.

  I even doubt that the police would take any of Carlo’s statement seriously. They would see him as a druggie and therefore unreliable. Only if DI Willis were informed might Carlo’s statements be investigated. And if the attempt to arrest me again was triggered by something Gary reported about Carlo, then they may already be biased that my brother is one of the accomplices they so far have not been able to identify.

  There isn’t anything I can or should do right now. I first need conclusive confirmation that Carlo didn’t board the flight to Milan by calling my mother again tomorrow morning. But even knowing that he hasn’t shown up in Montagnola, I remind myself, is no conclusive proof that he wasn’t on that flight. He could have stayed in Milan. I gave him enough pocket money for one or two highs.

  Or is there a way to find out if he was on that flight? Airlines usually refuse to disclose who is on board a flight to a private person, but I could impersonate the police. They surely wouldn’t withhold that information from them. An idea starts forming in my mind. However, if I claim that the call comes from Scotland Yard or the City of London Police, the airline may want a call back to verify that the call is genuine. Why not impersonate the Italian police? Staff at Alitalia are likely to be more
intimidated by the Italian police and would hardly refuse a request from them. Fausto may be willing to pull this off.

  I call his cell phone. He answers after the first ring.

  "Signorina, I was just about to call you," he says without any preamble.

  "Fausto, you can talk to me in person. I’m just next door, room 414. Will you come over, please?"

  "But why? What happened?"

  "Come over, and I’ll tell you. Room 414'

  Twenty seconds later, he knocks at the door. I let him in.

  "Why are you here?" he questions again.

  "When I drove home from the airport, I noticed a police car in front of my building. I drove on and then called my land line. Sure enough, Detective Sergeant Somes, the woman who arrested me the first time, was in my apartment. That can only mean one thing. There is a new arrest warrant out for me."

  "And obviously, you didn’t go up," he responds, smiling. "What are you going to do?"

  "Hide, until I have uncovered the evidence that will clear me."

  "Yes, London is big. It is like a jungle and easy to hide. Do you have a suspicion why the police tried to arrest you again?"

  "There is no evidence that indicts me. So it must be something else —"

  "— such as your ex-boyfriend making a false statement,’

  I’m intrigued. Does he draw the same conclusion as I? "Such as?"

  His answer confirms it. "Trying to pay you back, as he promised in that café? A report to the police that Carlo signed that bank application would do. All he has to do is to also state that Carlo is a druggie. The police will then treat anything your brother says as suspicious."

  "Yes, Fausto, that very same reasoning has occurred to me too."

  "Maybe I should shake Buxton a bit to make him retract whatever he told the police."

  "What’s been said has been said. No way to undo it. And the way I know Buxton, he’ll dig in his heels. He may even accuse me of hiring somebody to rough him up. No, I think it’s best to let Buxton believe that he has succeeded. We can always deal with him later on … Something else has cropped up. I’m afraid that my brother has given me the slip. If this is so, you immediately see the implication."

  "Yes, he will go back to Garland to demand money."

  "Exactly. I checked with my mother. He has not arrived in Lugano yet."

  "He could have stayed in Milan."

  "Yes, but we don’t know. The only way to learn whether he was on that flight is to call the airline. But they won’t pass out information to a private person,’

  "So, you pretend to be police."

  "Right, Fausto. You got it." He gave me a pleased smile. I then explained why it should be the Italian police and that he should do the call.

  "I think that should work," he responds, "but rather than claim to be police it may be better to use the Guardia di Finanza."

  "You do what you think is most likely to work." I write down the flight details on a piece of paper and then look up the contact number for Alitalia at Heathrow on the Web browser of my iPhone.

  He makes the call. He sounds genuine, starting out in English with just the right Italian accent and then switching to Italian. They first ask him to call back Monday during office hours. When he insists that it is urgent, they pass him from official to official, but finally he gets the information: a Carlo Walker checked in for the flight, but failed to take his seat.

  "So your brother reneged on his promise," he says after disconnecting, "and if he goes to Garland again, it might interfere with our plans. What are we going to do?"

  I notice the ‘we’. Fausto has taken ownership of our operation. "I don’t know yet for sure. I’ll sleep on it and we’ll discuss it tomorrow. There is nothing we can do tonight. But, right now, my stomach reminds me that I’ve not had a meal since this morning. Will you join me for dinner?"

  "Signorina, I would be honored."

  "You like Spanish food?"

  "I will be pleased with whatever you choose."

  "All right, Spanish it is. It’s only a few steps from here, in a little side street this side of Piccadilly Circus. And Fausto, let’s drop the formalities. I’m Cecilia, and lets give us the ‘tu’."

  He smiles, pleased. "Cecilia … It is a beautiful name, but it doesn’t suit the tough woman you are underneath."

  It’s now my turn to smile. "Maybe."

  Saturday, 11:15 p.m.

  We return to the hotel rather later than I had planned. The paella we shared was rich with seafood and the Spanish wine heavy. Fausto insisted on paying. There is no doubt that he enjoyed himself. He even told me about his fidanzata. When we part to our adjacent rooms, we agree to meet at half past eight for breakfast.

  After a minimum of evening toilet, I slip naked between the unfamiliar sheets. When I did a minimum of shopping late afternoon, I didn’t bother to buy myself also a nightshirt. The mattress is too soft. The sheets are rough and the heavy bedcover feels restrictive. I get up again and fold it away and then I’m cold. I miss my Swedish style eiderdown. Between the discomfort of the bed and the dilemma Carlo presented me with, sleep refuses to oblige.

  Should I try to rescue my brother once more or should I use him as bait for trapping Garland? Do I owe it to Carlo to keep him safe or would I do him a greater favor if I make him face the consequences of his actions? In the long run, the latter is really the only solution.

  What could the police charge him with if I chose to let him confront Garland and used him to clear my name? He may be charged with trespassing. He only supplied a signature for opening a bank account, but had no involvement in its subsequent use for the Sanvino transactions. Might he get off with just a slap on the wrist on both counts, particularly if he cooperated with the police? But I also know that he will never do this voluntarily. He has a childish phobia about the police. He has to be placed into a situation from which he can’t back out.

  Sunday, 9th November, 7:40 a.m.

  The night’s sleep has brought the resolution to my quandary about using Carlo to trap Garland. I gave Carlo a chance. He rejected it in favor of trying to squeeze more money from Garland. Even if I prevent him once more and book him on another flight, he might play the same trick on me again. On the other hand, if I catch them in the transaction, maybe even record them haggling over how much, I will have the evidence that Garland arranged for the signature on the bank account, enough to convince Willis to go after him. Even Garland won’t be able to talk himself out of the fact that he passed on the bank statement to the police for an account he opened by proxy. I can then leave it to Carvaggio and Fausto to recover the money. The only downside is that Carlo could end up with a conviction, but I doubt that it would lead to a custodial sentence. It may even shake him up enough to have a serious look at his life and his future.

  I call my mother, telling her that Carlo missed the plane and that we haven’t yet booked another flight. She wants to speak to him, and I reply that he slept over with some friends — probably not that far fetched.

  Next, I call Silvio.

  "Salve, Ceci," he greets me, probably having seen my number on the screen of his cell phone. "I love you."

  "Silvio, I love you too. Have talked to your wife?"

  "Don’t always refer to Emilia as my wife. She hasn’t been my wife for four years."

  "Sorry, so did you speak to her?"

  "Yes, but she flatly refuses to talk about it. She says she’s still my wife and intends to keep it that way."

  "Did you offer her money?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "I don’t have a hundred thousand Euros to throw after her."

  I try again to make him see that Emilia, once made aware of her weak position, might be willing to settle for far less. I then excuse myself that I won’t be able to see him today, that Carlo made a runner and didn’t board the flight, and that I have to find him before he does something stupid. Not quite the full truth, but I’m not willing to alarm Silvio by disclosing my pl
ans for the coming evening.

  At eight thirty I join Fausto for breakfast. He voices his surprise when I tell him that I’m not going to rescue my brother again. "Cecilia, you will be a good mother," he comments, "you care, but you’re tough enough to impose boundaries, that if a child steps beyond them he has to bear the consequences."

  I respond with a smile. Fausto’s views still catch me by surprise. Yes, he is right in some respects, except that Carlo isn’t my child, but maybe I have behaved like a mother to him for far too long.

  "So what’s the plan for tonight?" he questions, suddenly more alert. "I would guess that your brother is likely to show up at Garlands already this evening."

  "Yes, I think you’re correct." I explain my plan for catching Garland and my brother. "If at all possible, I would like to record them, which means I have to get a directional microphone, like the ones spies use."

  Fausto’s face lights up. "Signorina, I came prepared. I have one in my suitcase. It has an attachment that allows it to be stuck to glass and so will capture what’s spoken on the other side. So we’ll again go over the fence."

  "Excellent, Fausto. What would I do without you?"

  He beams.

  "I think we should be out there before dusk, say around five —" I continue.

  "— to make sure to catch your brother, but we’ll only go across once we see him or once it’s dark."

  "Right. However, we also need a contingency plan, just in case my brother doesn’t show up, namely to break into the house and search Garland’s office, get into his safe. It may well turn out to be a long night."

  "That’s fine. I’m used to that. I’ll get all the equipment ready. Your rope is still in my car. What time do you want to start out?"

  "It gets dark around five thirty; so say four. Is that all right?"

  He nods.

  "Fortunately the weather is holding up; it won’t be cold tonight, but take something warm along anyway, just in case we’ll have to wait until after midnight." There is no need to tell him to wear dark clothing. "And I’ll pick up some food and drink for us. Talking about drink, how can you stomach this awful coffee? It tastes like kerosene."