by Luca Veste
He started running.
Thirty-six
Rossi sat in silence, listening as her brother detailed his involvement to that point. Something changed within her as she heard his words wash over her. She knew that things would never be the same within her family after this was over. That was certain. If her parents found out what she wanted to do, that would be it. She would often shake her head at people who believed the Mafia films and their stance on going against the family. It wasn’t as bad as all that, she would say, downplaying its importance.
It was lies.
What her brother was telling her now would send him to prison – if she chose to tell someone about it. There was no doubt about that.
If she said anything about what he was saying.
‘I was trying to help her,’ Vincenzo said, lost in the haze between them now. ‘That’s all. It’s the least I could do. We spoke to the girl who Tim was interested in. She was Polish, trying to get by on her own. She’d been trafficked here or something . . . I wasn’t sure about that part. Anyway, she was more than happy to help. She was already pregnant before she slept with him.’
‘This is unbelievable . . .’
‘Hazel talked her into the whole thing. There was a big plan. She was going to have the baby, no one would know about it, then she would disappear. Only, the fact that Tim ran away with the baby made it more difficult. We had to get the little girl back, so I . . . I helped do that.’
‘Why?’ Rossi said, surprised how strong her voice was. ‘Why did you feel you had to?’
‘I could have stopped them. The club. Back at the beginning. Told them it was a bad idea. Or, I could have joined them, brought them down from the inside . . . I don’t know. I could have done more.’
‘This is unbelievable,’ Rossi repeated once more, running both hands through her hair, wanting to pull on it and scream.
‘You have to help me,’ Vincenzo said, crossing the room and sitting next to her on the sofa. ‘I’ve screwed up, I know that. I don’t know what to do.’
‘You could start by telling me where she is.’
Vincenzo shook his head. ‘No, I can’t do that. It’s not fair. There has to be something else we can do.’
‘There are people dying in the city,’ Rossi said, turning on her brother, stopping as he flinched backwards. ‘We need to stop this.’
‘It’s too late,’ Vincenzo said, covering his face with both hands. ‘It’s already over.’
‘No it’s not,’ Rossi replied, reaching out towards him, before pulling back. ‘You need to do the right thing now.’
‘You know, I went to see him in Manchester.’
‘Who?’ Rossi said, her brow creasing as she tried to keep track of where he was going. ‘Sam?’
‘No, Simon,’ Vincenzo replied, his hands dropping down into his lap. ‘I thought he might be more willing to come forward. That he might have more of a conscience. You have to remember something here – Hazel wasn’t the only one. There were other girls who suffered at their hands. Some of them didn’t survive it. Simon was affected personally by what they did.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘They didn’t kill them, but they may as well have. They contributed to at least two suicides I know of. I thought Simon might understand more, given what had happened to his sister. Hazel told me about it. Two suicides, unbelievable. One while they were still at university, another after they left. They couldn’t do it any more.’
‘Do what?’
‘Live with the memories of what had happened, the fact that no one was there to help them afterwards. That there was no one to provide justice . . . I don’t know really. When I met Hazel, she was probably at her lowest point. She was just a kid, really, just turned twenty-two, looked about sixteen. Wasting away she was.’
‘You knew her before, right?’
Vincenzo was still for a second, then nodded. ‘I didn’t know what to do about it, though. I wanted to stop what they were doing, but there was just no way anyone would ever help me do that. They, and their families, were just too powerful.’
‘You could have gone to the police. That would have been a good start.’
‘And what would they do? You’re one of them, you know the score.’
Rossi was about to defend her profession, then stopped herself. She had been in the company of enough police officers in the past to know what their views were, for the most part. Anything less than an open-and-shut case suddenly became a ‘he said, she said’ argument. ‘It still would have been better than this.’
‘She went to see his parents,’ Vincenzo said, continuing as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Hoping that they would be horrified and step in. Instead, they closed the door in her face. She was at rock bottom. She had no one. She had nothing to cling on to. With Sam being in the public eye, she thought if he and his parents knew that she wasn’t going to go away, then the club could be brought down and stopped.’
‘So, revenge became her reason to go on . . . great plan.’
Vincenzo exhaled, loud enough for Rossi to roll her eyes at his dramatics. ‘You need to understand what happened,’ he said, turning on the sofa towards her. ‘He deserved what happened to him. You can see that, surely?’
‘Who did? Because I’m struggling to see how anyone deserves to be cut up and put in the boot of a car. Honestly, even I’m not advocating that for rapists.’
‘No, Tim,’ Vincenzo said, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. ‘That’s all I’ve been a part of in all of this. He deserved to have something taken away from him, just like he’d done to her. She remembered him. His face. She thinks the others were involved as well, but she couldn’t be sure. They drugged them, all the girls. His face was the only one she remembered.’
‘So, you don’t know where she is now?’
‘I have no idea,’ Vincenzo said, standing up and walking round the coffee table and stopping near the mantelpiece. ‘I don’t think Tim was enough. She wanted more.’
‘You think it’s been her doing this?’
‘I don’t know.’
Rossi thought for a few seconds, then remembered something. ‘Why were you there that night?’
Vincenzo began to speak then stopped himself.
‘Don’t mess me about here . . .’
‘What night?’
Rossi stood up and faced him. ‘You know what night. Last Thursday, where were you?’
Vincenzo looked down at his feet. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said eventually, mumbling.
‘What have you done? Look at me.’
Vincenzo flinched as her voice echoed around the room. ‘Nothing.’
‘You were there, that night. Were you helping her? Is that what you’ve been doing all along? Helping her transport a man to his death, perhaps? Cutting him up for her? What?’
There was silence. Rossi looked from her brother to where spittle had landed on the polished surface of the coffee table.
‘I can’t believe you think I’m capable of anything like that . . .’
‘Until today, I didn’t think you were capable of helping put someone in prison for a murder that didn’t even happen.’
‘OK, OK,’ Vincenzo said, raising his hands up in front of him. ‘I got involved in something I shouldn’t have, I’ll admit it. But that man was never going to change. He deserved everything he got. I promise you that. He doesn’t deserve pity for where he’s ended up – he should have been there a long time ago.’
Rossi simply stared at the man she thought she’d known well, wondering what had happened to drive him to this point. ‘It’s not right . . .’
‘Right? You’re telling me about right and wrong?’ Vincenzo began to pace up and down the small space on the opposite side of the coffee table. ‘You, of all people, should know that the world doesn’t work in terms of black and white, good and evil, right and wrong. The world is grey. He should have been locked up for a long time for other thing
s he’s done, but that didn’t happen. Now he is, that’s the end of it.’
‘No it’s not . . .’
Rossi flinched as Vincenzo slammed his hand down on the mantelpiece. ‘There’s nothing you can do. I only came here because you’re police and you’re my sister. I need to know how much trouble I’m in.’
She fixed him with a stare. ‘A fucking lot. As soon as they find out what you’ve done . . .’
‘How are they going to find out?’ Vincenzo said, interrupting with a laugh. ‘I’ve only told you about this and I can’t envisage Hazel suddenly spilling the beans. What physical evidence is there of me being involved?’
‘I can’t believe you’re doing this, Cenzo.’
‘I just need to know.’
Rossi closed her eyes for a few seconds, rubbing her temples with both hands. ‘You need to come forward and tell them what you’ve done. I’ve got nothing to do with the investigation now – thanks to you, I’ve been removed from it.’
‘So they know enough to throw you off the case, enough to say they want to speak to me, but . . .’
‘No, don’t.’
‘You don’t have to say anything else,’ Vincenzo said, nodding his head. ‘Good, good. They don’t know enough, that’s it, isn’t it? How could they? Everything’s going to be OK. Honestly. No one needs to know anything about this.’
Rossi looked up, seeing a stranger for the first time. He was her brother, yes, but he was just like everyone else. He was normal. She had looked up to her siblings – idolised them. Placed them on pedestals. They could never live up to her expectations. She knew that now.
When it came down to it, they were as fallible as everyone else.
‘You’re what we call a white knight, Cenzo,’ she said, her voice flat and toneless. ‘You think you rode into this on your big white horse, and saved the day for the stricken princess. In fact, you’ve made everything worse for her.’
‘That’s not how it is–’
‘No,’ Rossi said, her voice as loud as it had been earlier. ‘You don’t get to speak until I ask you a question. Why did you come here?’
Vincenzo stayed silent for a few seconds, staring at the floor like an insolent child. ‘Because I thought you could help me,’ he said finally, speaking in a low voice.
‘Help you because you know they’re looking for you?’
He nodded and then shrugged. Rossi gritted her teeth, watching as he shrugged again. He was three seconds from putting his hands in his pockets and going silent, like he had when he was a teenager.
‘I can’t help you out of this,’ Rossi said. ‘You’ve made your bed. There’s nothing I can do for you. What I can do, is help stop all of this, if you tell me everything I need to know.’
‘You can’t leave me to deal with this. You’re my sister and you’re a copper . . . what’s the point in having a bizzie for a sister if she doesn’t help you out when it’s needed?’
Rossi rolled her eyes as Vincenzo tried a smile on her. It wasn’t going to work. She would deal with the consequences of her decision at another time, but for now, all she could think about was saving herself.
And maybe a couple of men she had no interest in saving. She would think about the ambiguity of it all later.
‘What was her plan?’
‘She didn’t have one,’ Vincenzo said, crossing the room and sinking into the sofa. ‘Not one she told me about, anyway.’
‘This all started somewhere,’ Rossi said, walking across the room and taking up the position Vincenzo had just vacated. ‘That’s where she’ll finish it. At the university.’
‘If she’s behind any of this.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m sure your new girlfriend has nothing to do with any of these murders. Of course not. Just . . .’ Rossi stopped talking as her brother began laughing, chuckling at first before it grew louder, then he suddenly stopped.
‘What?’
‘It wasn’t her who called me to Sam’s apartment that night,’ Vincenzo said, looking up at her and widening his eyes. ‘I know that much.’
‘Who was it?’
Vincenzo shrugged. ‘Got me. I saw them, though.’
‘Saw who?’ Rossi replied, feeling the air begin to suck out of the room as her brother spoke.
‘The club will always exist, you know. Nothing will ever stop that, no matter how many people want to see it end. Cut off the head and two more will replace it. They’re more powerful now, holed up in that new place.’
‘What new place? What are you talking about?’
‘The original eight leaders will be dead within a day or two. It’s inevitable now. But that won’t stop it happening again. The whole place would need to burn – to put them off ever trying to start up again. That’s what he said.’
‘Who said this?’
‘It’s funny, I thought he knew what had happened to her. I mean, it’s not like it wasn’t talked about. They crossed a line there.’
‘Tell me who it was.’
Vincenzo smiled and told her the name.
You
You know this is the end. That it is time to take down the whole system. That’s the only way to ensure it never happens again. You have to burn what you helped to create. That’s the only chance for your salvation.
You park the car, deciding it doesn’t matter where you leave it, so double yellow lines mean nothing. You remove the second jerrycan full of petrol from the car and slam the boot down. You look around at the place where you had spent so many years and say a silent goodbye.
You’re not coming back from this.
You notice how little the university campus has changed since you were last there. The square is still full of students crossing back and forth to different buildings, carrying bags and their dreams along with them. There are a couple of stalls hawking day trips and advertising student support groups. The shops are quiet, but you know a few hours earlier there would have been queues outside Subway and Greggs as students on a budget looked for a cheap lunch.
Back then, you didn’t ever queue up for a cheese pasty or sausage roll. You would take lunch in the old building in the centre of the square.
You stand outside it now, feeling the strain in your neck as you look up to its peak. The clock on the side is still five minutes fast, as it always was when you were a student. You wonder if anyone is looking at you as you stand outside the old gallery and museum, holding a jerrycan full of petrol and wearing a long coat. You wonder if you look suspicious enough for someone to say something. You slowly look around again, watching the young students walk past you, lost in their own worlds. Headphones in and on. Conversations unbroken by your presence.
No one notices you. No one wonders what you’re doing there, or what you have planned.
You look up at the clock again, wondering if they are all sitting down now, laughing conspiratorially between themselves, excited to be there. To be a part of something. The meeting was scheduled to start ten minutes earlier, but it won’t matter that you are late.
You take one last look around you, then enter the building. The security guard doesn’t look up from the paper he’s reading as you push through the small barrier inside. You have purpose, you’re walking as if you know where you’re going and have a reason to be there. That’s the key for anything like this. People are trained to look out for what is the unexpected, rather than for someone who looks as if he belongs.
You learned that a long time ago.
You know where they meet. You know the large conference room they have commandeered on the first floor, the layout of it and the possible exits. You know how panic can make even the most level-headed person make the wrong choices.
You know you have to kill them all.
You know you have to finish your list and then burn the whole thing to the ground. So it will not carry on.
It’s the only way.
You wonder how you’ll be remembered. You wonder if anyone will grieve for you, once they know what you’ve done.
You wonder if you’ll deserve to be thought of at all, given everything you have done in the previous few months.
This was the only way.
You have to keep thinking about that. You have to make things right. You have to atone for your sins.
You stand at the door, trying to control your breathing. They’re in there now, so many of them.
Dozens.
James Morley is in there. Second to last name on your list.
You grip the door handle, breathing in and out, then swing the door forwards, reaching into your coat as you do so. All in one movement.
You wait for the eyes of the men inside to swivel towards you.
Then you begin the end of it all.
Thirty-seven
Murphy was first out of the car, ignoring the screeches of the other vehicles as they pulled up on the street. He was already running, having seen something rising from one of the windows of the Old Vic.
Smoke, billowing from the top floor of the building.
‘Secure the scene,’ he shouted behind him, then repeated himself louder for the other arriving officers. ‘Don’t let anyone leave.’
He heard the alarm blaring on the periphery of his consciousness as he made his way to the entrance. People began to stream out. They were moving slowly, too used to false alarms and fire drills.
‘Move,’ he said, making one man jump and begin to move more quickly. Murphy tried to shove his way into the building. ‘Come on, get out.’
Heads turned to see who was shouting as officers tried to shepherd people to safety. Murphy scanned the crowd, trying to see if his wife was one of those moving rapidly out of the building. There was no sign of her. He continued to try and push past the exiting people, looking for an easier way into the building. He finally spotted a better path, splitting the crowd as he pushed his way to the far side of the hallway. He vaulted over the entrance barrier and started running.
There was a moment when he had a sudden flash of clarity about the situation. Above the sound of people talking animatedly and someone crying, the fire alarm ringing overhead, a voice within him asked what the hell he thought he was doing.
