by Gian Bordin
"It’s disgusting, isn’t it? I’ve tried several places, even Starbucks, but none serve a coffee like the Italians do, except for that café on Bond Street, but that’s closed on Sundays."
"I know another café that serves breakfasts where we’ll get a decent coffee. Are you game?"
"You bet. None of the places you’ve taken me so far has disappointed me."
"All right, I just tidy myself up a bit. Let’s meet in the lobby in fifteen minutes.
Sunday, 9:40 a.m.
The café I have in mind is just on the other side of Piccadilly Circus. I’m wearing the same outfit I did for taking Carlo to the airport, a zip-up, light-brown cardigan over a cream blouse, gray pants, and comfortable brown shoes — simple but elegant. I’m not worried that I may have an encounter with the police. My large, dark sunglasses provide sufficient disguise.
By the time we get to the square, the sun offers a welcome warmth. There is little or no wind. It feels balmy for this time of year. I expected that the city would still be empty so early on a Sunday, but there is a crowd already, different in their behavior than during the week. Few are hurrying along with seemingly a clear destination in mind. Most look like tourists, eastern Europeans, Spaniards, Indians, Chinese, with a sprinkling of British, ambling in small groups, with the occasional large tour party following a guide. Amused, I watch one Chinese guide hold up her sign, only followed by a flock of pigeons, while her group remains glued to a street vendor who is twisting a balloon into the shape of a squirrel.
About half the tables of the café are occupied. A mixture of languages hums around us. We find a secluded corner, away from the windows, and order a double macchiato each.
"Shall we go over the details of tonight’s operation," Fausto queries.
"Yes, but let’s wait until we have taken a first sip of coffee to wipe away the unpleasant taste of the one at the hotel."
We do. Fausto first sketches the ground floor layout of Garland’s house on a paper napkin. He indicates the location of windows. The microphone will be attached to one of them, most likely to one at Garland’s office. My guess is that if Garland lets Carlo in, he will receive him there. While I will keep watch on the road for Carlo’s arrival, Fausto will remain by the tree, ready to go over the fence the moment he receives my cell phone call that Carlo is through the gate. I will then rush to the back and join him by the house. Once we have recorded their conversation, I will intercept Carlo as he leaves the property, call Willis and ask him to come at once. By then, Fausto will also have left the property, removed the rope, and will be back in the car waiting for my call. After Willis has arrived, I will let him listen to the recording. Hopefully he will then agree to confront Garland.
We also go once more over the back-up plan — the same as for last Friday night — should Carlo not make an appearance.
Sunday, 5 p.m.
Fausto parks his car back by the unoccupied house. It is already dark under the trees at the back of the property. There are lights in several rooms of the Garland mansion. As our first task we secure the rope, so that we can get across the fence quickly, once Carlo arrives. While Fausto remains back there, I take up a position at the end of the driveway, as planned. Night is falling fast. The air is getting noticeably cooler. Hidden from the gate by bushes and from the lone streetlight in the almost black shade cast by trees, I prepare myself for a long wait. As it turns out, it isn’t that long.
Carlo comes walking along the street at half-past five. I inform Fausto by cell phone.
My brother speaks into the intercom. The exchange lasts about a minute. The gate does not open. To my surprise, he walks away. It seems that he has given up rather readily, very much out of character. But he doesn’t go far. He walks across the street and disappears in the darkness under the trees. What is he doing there, I ask myself? I report this to Fausto and he advises to wait, that my brother might try again. Nothing happens for about twenty minutes, nor does Carlo reappear. The wind has picked up a bit and the occasional gust sweeps through the canopy.
Just after a car drives by, Carlo emerges from the trees, carrying a small branch. He goes to the fence, climbs halfway to the top and then hits the security wire hard several times. He leaves the branch perched on both the wire and the top cross bar of the fence, clearly visible from outside. Then he jumps down and disappears across the street. Again I report to Fausto what I’ve observed.
"He is using an old trick. Trip the alarm, wait for the security service to show up. When they see the branch, they’ll remove it and report that a natural hazard has tripped the alarm. He repeats this a second time. The security service might show up once more, but they won’t for a third time. That’s when he goes over. It won’t take him no more than another half hour. Just hang tight."
In fact, ten minutes later, a police vehicle with two officers stops in front of the gate. One gets out, while the other slowly sweeps the grounds with the spotlight attached to the roof of the car. The officer spots the branch and removes it. He returns to the intercom and speaks briefly. All I catch is the word ‘branch’. He gets back into the car and they drive off.
Ten minutes later, Carlo reappears, with another branch. This time he does his trick closer to my hiding place. It takes twenty minutes before a yellow vehicle with the markings ADTSecurity arrives. Its single occupant, a middle-aged man, again looks into the property. Then he walks along the fence, scanning the security wire with a flashlight. The light beam passes the offending branch, comes back to it, and the man climbs up to remove it. On the way back to his vehicle, he picks up the first branch and chucks both through the bars of the gate onto the driveway. He also briefly speaks through the intercom before driving off.
Carlo only waits five minutes for his next move. When he reemerges from the dark, I tell Fausto that it’s time to go over the fence too. This time Carlo goes to the gate and climbs over it, not bothering about touching the security wire. I now run on silent feet to the rear and use the rope to get into the property. Inside, I put on a pair of skin-colored nylon gloves, Fausto procured for me. No fingerprints of mine will be anywhere on the crime scene. Crawling along the grass, hidden by the bushes, I join Fausto who is cowering out of the light next to the nearer of the two office windows, its sill about two feet off the ground. I don’t see the directional microphone.
"Microphone?" I whisper.
He points to the other window, which is a crack open, the microphone inserted and pointing toward the desk.
"Garland is sitting at the desk, talking on the phone," he whispers.
It is pretty safe to assume that he will talk to Carlo in the office. Kneeling in the shadow of a bush, I get a good view into the room. An old-fashioned mahogany desk is placed at a right angle to the window, two chairs six feet in front of it. Bookshelves cover most of the wall behind Garland’s back. A desk lamp is the only light. It leaves the other half of the room in semi-darkness.
While taking in the scene I hear the prolonged metallic banging of a doorknocker. I nod to Fausto and he switches on the tape recorder. I can’t hear the front door opening, only the low voice of a woman, presumably Mrs. Garland. My brother’s voice though comes through loud enough over Garland’s voice on the phone.
"Good evening, Mrs. Garland, I presume. Sorry for disturbing you so late on a Sunday evening." I have to give it to him. He has good manners. "I’m Carlo Walker and I have an appointment with your husband to discuss some business. He is expecting me."
Again the barely audible voice of a woman.
"Thank you." My brother’s voice, presumably thanking her for letting him in.
A few seconds later, there is a distinct knock at the office door.
"Yes," says Garland while holding a hand over the phone mouthpiece.
The door opens and Mrs. Garland announces: "Fred, here is the visitor you’re expecting."
Carlo enters. Garland jumps up, the phone still in his hand. His face turns crimson. His wife looks disconcerted. For a moment
it seems as if he is going to shout, but then he catches himself, quickly says into the phone: "Sorry, Jim, something’s come up. Call you back tomorrow." He turns to Carlo, an artificial smile on his face: "Ah, Carlo, take a seat."
"Would you like some drinks?" she asks.
"No, dear, that won’t be necessary. Carlo won’t be long."
"I’ll be in the kitchen if you change your mind." With that she leaves. I’m surprised how clearly we can hear their voices.
Garland’s mien turns nasty the moment the door closes. "How do you dare to come here? Was it you who triggered the fence alarm?"
"Fence alarm? What fence alarm?" Carlo manages his most innocent face.
"The alarm at the top of the fence. Did you scale the fence?"
"Oh no, the gate was open. After you told me to leave, I went back to the Brent Cross underground station, but then decided to come back, and when I saw the gate open I thought that you had changed your mind. You still owe me some."
"I paid you plenty for that little service of yours, but I promise to give you another thousand. Come to my office Monday at one. But that’s the end, understood."
"I think it’s you who doesn’t understands, Mr. Garland. I’ve heard that my little service has netted you heaps, thousand, no hundreds of thousands. A mere one thousand won’t do anymore. I want my fair share, a neat fifty thousand."
"You’re out of your mind, as you are most of the time. You take the thousand, or else I will have you arrested for trespassing. I assure you the police will believe me when they see you tremble like you do and I tell them that your story is nothing but the hallucination of a blown mind."
"You still don’t understand, Mr. Garland, do you? You did my sister a bad turn. I only have to tell her, and she will set you straight, and she will, take my word for it." The little bastard, trying to squeeze money out of Garland, knowing that I’m accused of the fraud that man did. I don’t feel charitable toward my little brother at this moment.
Garland’s expression suddenly turns amiable. He leans back in his chair. "Your sister did a stupid thing, that’s why she is in trouble. So let’s be reasonable and not spoil everything now. I’m sure she’ll get off. The police have no proof. But I’m willing to be generous. I’ll give you five thousand and that’s it."
"No, fifty thousand or I tell my sister."
Garland shifts to an upright position. He begins playing with the key stuck in the lock of the center drawer of his desk. My grandfather has a similar desk. The side drawers can only be opened if the central drawer is unlocked.
Fausto whispers in my ear: "It looks like he is going to take something out of a side drawer. He might have a gun hidden in there."
That sets the alarm bells off.
"Look Carlo, what you heard is wrong," Garland continues. "The deal only netted me little. Five thousand is a quarter of it."
"Five thousand is only one four hundredth of two million. I’ve always been good at maths."
I put my mouth close to Fausto’s ear. "You smash this window if he pulls a gun, and then disappear."
"And you?"
"I’ll go in through the open one."
"But he might shoot you then."
And claim both Carlo and I broke into his house, but I can’t let him shoot my brother. "The window breaking will distract him long enough, but you have to disappear. I don’t want to get you involved with the police. Please, Fausto, do what I ask."
"Who claims it is two million?" I hear Garland over my own whispers.
"That’s the amount my sister figures it is."
"So you’ve already talked to her about this?"
"No, I haven’t. She said you fired her because of that, but I will tell her if you don’t pay."
Garland turns the key of the drawer. I quickly crawl along the shadow to the other window. I see Fausto grab a brick from the path border. He heaves it over his shoulder into the center of the window. As it shatters into hundreds of shards with an ear splitting crash, I forcefully push the other window open, ripping it off its safety catch, and somersault into the room. Carlo and Garland are both standing, gaping at the shattered window. Garland must have become aware of my entry. He turns, swinging the gun toward me. I leap forward and knock Carlo off his feet. I hear the pop of a gunshot from my right. Using the momentum of the leap, I dive across the desk and take Garland down, ending up on top of him. Carlo’s scream of pain is instantly joined by the furious barking of a dog coming from upstairs. My left hand grips Garland’s wrist of the hand holding the gun. He struggles to wrestle free. I slam my forehead into his face. His first shrill yell quickly subsides into a pitiful whine. There is no fight left in him. He drops the gun. I release him. Both his hands reach for his bloody nose.
I grab the gun and get up. Carlo is on the floor, leaning against the wall. His left hand clutches his right arm. Blood is seeping through the fabric. Only a flesh wound I hope, relieved. I turn back to Garland. He is trying to rise.
"Stay down," I order, pointing the gun at him. He collapses back to the ground, stark fear in his eyes.
Shrill voices, some of children, almost drowned by the continuous barking of the dog, and then the sound of running feet in the corridor. Mrs. Garland bursts into the room, the dog right behind her. Her frightened eyes take in the scene. She sees the bloody face of her husband who is slumped against the bookshelves, looks at the gun in my hand, and screams: "Oh, no, oh, no."
The dog looks around searching, spots me and wagging his tail comes to meet me.
When Mrs. Garland wants to rush to her husband, I step in front of her. "Your husband is all right. He only has a bloody nose. Nothing will happen to him. You now go and reassure your daughters. I will call the police and an ambulance for my brother, who was shot by your husband. When the ambulance comes, please open the gate for them."
Her gaze briefly goes to Carlo and then returns to me, confusion and fear in her eyes.
"Please, Mrs. Garland. Your daughters are distressed. Please, go to them. They need you, and take the dog along, please."
With a last quick glance at her husband, she grabs the dog by its collar and leaves, closing the door. I call 999 and inform the operator that there is an injured male with a bleeding gunshot wound at the Garland address, all the while keeping Garland in sight, but he remains where he is, holding a handkerchief to his nose. Then I retrieve Willis’ number, which I stored in the memory of the iPhone on the day of my arrest. He answers on the fifth ring.
"Willis."
"Cecilia Walker, sir. Sorry for bothering you off duty. There has been a shooting at the home of Fred Garland of Lewis Stockbrokers. Only a flesh wound. I’ve already called the ambulance. I also have uncovered evidence of who is behind the fraud for which you arrested me. Will you please come and join me at the Garland residence in Hampstead Heath. It’s crucial that it be you."
He remains silent for several seconds. "What’s the address?"
"Will you come yourself, please?"
"Yes, I will."
I give him the address and the land line number, which I read off the phone on Garland’s desk.
I have a quick look at Carlo’s wound. The bullet has ripped an ugly gash in his right upper arm without touching the bone. It’s still bleeding badly. I find a reasonably clean handkerchief in his trouser pocket and wrap it tightly around the wound, telling him to hold it in place. These are the first words I speak to him. He wants to get up.
"No, Carlo, you too stay where you are, and don’t try any tricks. You know how fast I am."
He grins, embarrassed.
Next I go to the window I ripped open and slowly pull in the line connecting the directional microphone to the tape recorder, hoping that the gadget won’t snag on an obstacle or the wire come loose, again keeping a vigilant eye on Garland. I retrieve the tape recorder and place both on the far side of the desk. It is still recording.
"Get up," I order Garland.
He rises slowly, his eyes on the gun in my hand,
while growling: "I’ll have you arrested for breaking and entering, you and your druggie brother. You’ll not get away this time."
I ignore him. "Open the safe."
"I have no safe at home. All my important documents are in the office safe."
"According to your wife, you have a safe here. Open it."
"I …"
I point the gun at him and pretend to pull the trigger. I have no intention of firing the gun, only to frighten him. It works.
"Don’t," he exclaims. "It’s behind the books. There is no money in it."
"You know exactly what I’m after and it’s not money. Don’t play dumb. Open it."
He goes to the middle section, presses a button and slowly swings out a three-foot wide section. It reveals a built-in safe in the wall behind.
"Disarm it."
"It’s not armed."
It doesn’t really matter if it is. ADTSecurity will first call his cell phone to confirm. I watch him turn the dials. After the third reverse he pulls the lever down and the safe door snaps open.
"Place all its content on the desk, slowly."
"There is nothing in there of interest to you. All just private documents and papers, birth certificates."
"Why do I have to repeat everything twice? Place the contents on the desk, now!" The last word sounds like a gunshot. He startles involuntarily, and then moves several boxes and folders on the desk. "Sit in this chair." I point to one of the chairs in front of the desk. "You may turn it over first to shake off the glass splinters." He does.
At that point, his cell phone rings. He rises to grab it from the desk. I just point the gun at him and he sinks back into the chair. I answer with "Mrs. Garland" — a precaution to dupe the caller. It is ADTSecurity asking for Mr. Garland.
"Just a moment, I’ll pass him to you."
I go to Garland, holding the microphone opening tightly to my thighs, press the gun into his temple and whisper: "You know what to answer."
