by Jan Toms
It was then that he wondered if Frenchie had topped Verdi down near the junction. Surely he wouldn’t be so stupid as to shoot him in a public place? If so, there was a good chance that he had been caught and arrested. At the thought he swerved, narrowly missing a gatepost. He slowed right down, trying to concentrate, but whichever way he looked at it, if Frenchie was in custody, sooner or later he was going to break and tell the cops everything.
Another thought occurred to him. Supposing Vincenzo had spotted him and taken him prisoner? It wouldn’t take him long to get out of Frenchie that it was Dodge who had set it up and then he would become the focus for Vincenzo’s next killing. God, this was awful. There must be a way out.
The next day he was going to visit his brother Randy in Camp Hill. He felt a sense of relief. Somehow he’d manage to tell the whole story to his brother and ask him his advice. He’d have to be careful though, make sure the screw didn’t cotton on. He arrived home without any further incident and went straight to bed.
The next morning he got up early. He could have been driven to the prison but he thought that he would rather give himself thinking time on the bus. On the way he could rehearse exactly what he was going to say, decide what he needed to know.
On the journey he had plenty of opportunity to think about the events of the day before. He still hadn’t heard any news of Frenchie. He no longer trusted his judgement and it would be a relief to ask Randy’s advice. Randy would know what to do.
At the prison they went through the usual routine of showing papers and being frisked. Camp Hill was a newer prison, lighter, less gloomy than Parkhurst, and catered for less dangerous guests. Essentially though, the place had the same smell of men and cooking, overlaid with whiffs of cannabis that somehow managed to find its way into every penal institution. Dodge guessed that it was Randy who had been sent here rather than his brother because Reggie was generally viewed as the driving force behind their nefarious activities. Twins they might be and physically the original two peas, but in personality there was a softer, more restrained side to Randy. The prison ethos was gentler too, an attempt to treat even hardened cons with respect and kindness in the belief that it might rub off on them. As a result, there were no uniform tables separating visitor from prisoner, just a series of comfortable chairs neatly spaced in pairs.
Randy was waiting for him in a seat near to the window. Although it was no doubt heavily reinforced and possibly even electrified in some devilish way, the window gave the impression of a light, sunny room with a vista onto an undulating field. They were in a peaceful rural setting.
‘Dodge!’ Randy looked genuinely pleased to see him. The screw nodded indulgently as they embraced, keeping an eye on them yes, but not obtrusively. Randy looked quite animated.
‘Our appeal comes up on Monday.’ He bristled with nervous excitement. ‘Our barrister has got new evidence. Witnesses have come forward to prove that we weren’t there when the robbery was committed.’
But you were, Dodge thought, then decided it was best not to pursue that train of thought.
Randy stopped to draw breath. He grinned. ‘All being well, before the end of next week we’ll both be out.’
‘That’s wonderful!’ Dodge did not want to spoil his brother’s euphoria by filling him in on recent events.
‘I saw Reggie last week,’ he started.
‘How is he?’
‘Well. He didn’t know about the appeal.’ Try as he might, he could not cast aside his worries. He hesitated, then blurted out, ‘There have been a few incidents lately. Reg thinks that the Pretty Boys are trying to move in on our territory – he wants me to take steps to sort it out.’
Randy’s face clouded. ‘Yes, I heard about Frenchie.’
‘Frenchie?’
‘Yes, the accident. It was on the news.’ He shook his head. ‘Good man, Frenchie. He’ll be missed.’
Dodge was glad that he was sitting down. Black waves crashed through his head and he had to hold on to the arm of the chair to stop himself from sliding to the ground. ‘Was he shot?’ he managed to ask.
‘Shot? No, he was run over apparently, on a pedestrian crossing of all things.’
Dodge was breathing heavily to ward off the blackness.
‘Dodge?’ Randy leaned towards him.
‘Something wrong?’ The omniscient screw came forward.
‘Nothing, Sir. He’s just feeling a bit faint that’s all. It will pass.’
Dodge made a huge effort to take control of himself. ‘I’m alright, thanks,’ he managed to say, sitting up straight.
As soon as the warder withdrew, Randy asked, ‘What in hell’s going on?’
In a low voice it all tumbled out, the death of Gruesome so closely followed by Mauler, then Fingers – and now this. Quietly, guiltily, Dodge explained his decision to take Vincenzo Verdi out.
Randy drew in his breath at the wisdom of the plan.
‘Have you ever met Verdi?’ Dodge asked, a disturbing sense of guilt mixed with his earlier fantasies about the elusive hitman.
‘No. I don’t think anyone has. That’s how he operates, through banks, institutions, keeping his identity secret.’
Dodge remembered the original report in the Clarion, how they had even printed his address, but he didn’t say anything. It was just another niggling doubt in his mind. Meanwhile, the enormity of Frenchie’s demise began to fill his thoughts.
Randy said, ‘Look Dodge, if Reggie and I are going to be home in a week, perhaps you should just keep a low profile. We’ll sort everything out when we get home.’
Dodge nodded. This was the best news he had heard in weeks.
Charity was having second thoughts about her relationship with Victor. He was forever trying to fob her off with some pretext about bad backs and early starts and having things to do. Besides, the sex wasn’t up to much and she really didn’t like Fluffy. He was a stupid, snappy little dog, always peeing and yapping. She had more or less made up her mind to stop seeing either of them when Alan came home from work looking particularly drawn and grey.
‘Bad day?’ she asked, dishing him up a nut roast with bean sprouts and spinach.
‘Bad enough. Nasty accident down on the High Street.’ He was frowning, his thoughts in another place. Eventually he gave a sigh of monumental proportions and said, ‘The damned thing is, witnesses say that the victim was chasing a little bloke with a white poodle.’ He looked up to see her reaction.
She showed very little other than to blink rapidly. ‘Have you managed to speak to him?’ she asked, her voice made brittle by the tension in her throat.
He shook his head. ‘He disappeared. The thing is, there’s no evidence that a crime has been committed here. According to everyone who saw it, the guy just ran out into the road. The other thing is that his name is Leon leFevre and he’s yet another known associate of the Blues Brothers.’
Rapidly Charity began to reverse her strategy. Yes, she did want to get rid of Victor as her boyfriend but her original plan to follow up the mysterious case of this secret assassin must now be her priority.
Aloud she said, ‘Leave it to me. I’ll find out what Victor was doing tonight if it kills me.’
Seeing her father’s alarm, she added, ‘Don’t worry, only joking.’
The Clarion was having a field day. Somehow their reporter had got wind of the fact that the ubiquitous white poodle had been at the scene of this latest accident and it ran as its front-page headline: ‘Angel of Death Strikes Again!’ It also featured a photograph of a large, very superior white French poodle that was about ten sizes bigger and bore no resemblance whatsoever to Fluffy. The caption read, ‘If you see this dog, be very afraid!’
At home Victor was coming to the conclusion that he would now be under siege. Step outside the gate with Fluffy in tow and someone would spot him. Before he could draw breath he would be accosted, arrested, questioned, perhaps imprisoned for a series of crimes, none of which he had committed. The worst one could say was
that he had landed on Gruesome Hewson and that Fluffy had nipped the ankles of both Mauler Maguire and Fingers Kilbride. In fact, the worst scenario was that Fluffy would be put down as a dangerous dog.
As he considered the possibility, Victor’s thoughts on that particular outcome were mixed indeed. He had looked forward to having the dog as a companion, felt sorry for him in his abandoned state, but the reality was that he had dirty habits and was at best of uncertain temperament. Walkies were no fun in case Fluffy took it into his head to bite a passer by. At the same time, Victor always had to be on the alert in case another dog came near and threatened Fluffy with actual bodily harm, in which case the poodle promptly went into meltdown, yelping for Britain before he was even touched. No, dog ownership was not at all what it was cracked up to be. Besides, Victor had a strong desire to go away somewhere, get away from it all, but with the dog he was trapped. If the police took action then he would be powerless to stop it. It wouldn’t be his fault if Fluffy was found guilty and despatched to meet his maker. Perhaps he should go to the station and confess to everything? At the very worst he could only see himself being charged with failing to report an incident – well, several incidents, but surely the sentence would not be too long? But then of course, on the downside, he would lose his job at the tax office, lose his civil service pension – no, perhaps it was not such a good idea after all. He and Fluffy seemed doomed to struggle on together.
As these thoughts assailed him, there was a knock at the door and it opened immediately with the call of ‘Yoohoo!’ It was Charity.
For once he was glad to see her. It crossed his mind to tell her everything. Whatever her failings she was unbeatable when it came to taking control of a situation and she would know what to do. The sly thought came to him that if he went to gaol then perhaps he could palm Fluffy off onto her, thereby being released of his burden.
Charity came into the living room and removed her jacket, throwing it across the arm of a chair, a gesture that reminded him of their first date when… He must not think about Last Tango in Paris.
‘How are you?’ he asked, for want of anything better to say.
‘More important, how are you – not too busy? Back not hurting? Not got to get up early in the morning?’ She hadn’t intended to say any of this and the edge of sarcasm in her voice put Victor on the defensive. No, what she must do was to win his confidence.
To make amends she kissed him on the cheek and said, ‘Sorry darling, feeling a bit edgy that’s all.’ From her handbag she produced a bottle of red wine. ‘Thought you would like this.’
‘Thank you.’ He took it with surprise and she waited expectantly until he hurried off to the kitchen to open it.
One of the kittens was sitting in the dirt box while the other fought a life and death battle with the string from the loose cover of the sofa, unravelling it bit by bit. Fluffy had already come over to say hello, wagging his tail in the expectation that Charity’s visit meant a walk. She wondered why he enjoyed walks so much when all he seemed to do was live in fear of other dogs.
Victor came back with two glasses of wine and placed them on coasters on the coffee table. Charity considered her strategy.
‘What did you do last night?’ she asked, hoping that the enquiry sounded casual.
‘Nothing. I stayed in.’
Lie number one. ‘Didn’t you even take Fluffy for a walk?’
‘Oh yes, we just went down the road.’
‘Where to?’ Did she sound calm and merely polite as if she was making small talk or would he recognise that he was being grilled?
She saw Victor’s expression change and physically he stiffened. ‘Why are you asking?’
‘No reason, I just thought that you might have popped out somewhere, that’s all.’
Defensively, Victor said, ‘I popped into a pub for a drink.’
‘You? On your own?’ Too late she recognised the disbelief in her voice.
Lie number two. ‘I was thirsty,’ he replied.
Trying to regain control of her role, Charity asked, ‘Which pub was that then?’
‘I can’t remember.’
She was about to challenge him as to the impossibility of having forgotten so soon when she realised that this wasn’t getting her anywhere. Instead she said, ‘I only thought that if it was somewhere nice, perhaps you and I could go there sometime.’
‘It was just in the High Street.’
‘Near where that accident happened last night?’
‘I don’t know. What accident?’
‘Just some chap ran out in front of a lorry at the traffic lights.’
She took a huge gulp of wine and put her glass down again before coming across to him and placing her hands on his shoulders. ‘Victor, you do know that you can trust me, don’t you. With anything.’
She felt him lean away from her until his back was pressed against the back of the chair. His hands gripped the arms until his knuckles were white. ‘Charity, I don’t think…’
‘Just relax now. I am going to make you feel a lot better…’
In spite of himself, the hypnotic movement of her fingers transported him into another place. Just as he was abandoning himself to a daydream where he was being held prisoner by the minister for Social Services, whose name he had forgotten but who was busty and bossy and might well have caned the juniors in her department, Charity stopped. His eyes jerked open. She was looking down at him. He couldn’t interpret her expression. ‘Please,’ he whimpered, desperate to get back to the minister. Charity said, ‘Victor, we’ll continue after you have told me the truth.’ Her hand gave him a gentle tug to remind him of what he was now missing.
‘Tell me,’ she said, sliding her leg across his and raising her skirts in promise of more delights to come. ‘Are you Vincenzo Verdi?’
‘What?’
‘Are you Vincenzo Verdi, the hitman? Go on, you know you can tell me.’
‘Charity, of course I’m not.’ He struggled to sit up but she had him pinioned beneath her.
‘Do you swear, on Fluffy’s life?’
‘Fluffy? Oh course I swear. How could I be a hitman? I’ve never handled a gun in my life.’
‘You promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘That’s alright then.’
Ten minutes later and Victor didn’t know whether he felt better or not. As Charity slipped from his lap and smoothed down her skirt, she said, ‘You’ll really have to try and hold on a bit longer.’ He felt like a pupil who had just taken a test and received the verdict of ’could do better.’
EIGHTEEN
The Singapore Airlines flight from Sydney had just landed at Heathrow airport. The journey had lasted for nearly thirty hours as there had been an unscheduled stop at Hong Kong but at last it touched down just as the sun was setting.
The first class passengers trouped off looking travel-worn. Altogether there were about a dozen, a cosmopolitan mixture of Chinese, Asian and Europeans all distinguished by a certain veneer of wealth that separated them from the general masses.
Among them was a man in his early forties wearing charcoal grey trousers and a black shirt. In spite of the long journey, he alone of his fellow travellers looked cool and at ease. He was of average height but distinguished by his impressive athletic carriage, not muscular so much as lithe. He might have been a dancer. His head of sleek black curling hair showed the first signs of grey at the temples. His passport bore the name of Guido Morelli. He was known in five continents as Vincenzo Verdi.
Guido, or more properly Vincenzo, had just returned from a successful assignment in Canberra. It had been easy. Fly in, stay a couple of days as a tourist to stake out the place, carry out the commission then move on to Melbourne for more tourism and fly back to the UK. He travelled lightly, just a black shoulder bag with shaving gear and some clean underwear. Everything else, wardrobe, weapon, was acquired on site. By the time he reached his hotel, a sum of £60,000 sterling would have been paid into his Swiss ba
nk account.
Vincenzo flagged down a taxi and sat in the back, pointedly shutting himself off from the driver in case he felt inclined to pass the time of day. While he was away he had heard a rumour that his name was being banded around along the south coast. His first task was to find out what was going on.
At the Royal Cascade in Mayfair he had a suite permanently booked in the name of Giuseppi Milano. It was plush yet discreet and he had been left in peace there for the best part of two years. These rumours made him edgy and he wondered whether the time had come to look for another base, perhaps on the continent this time. The taxi dropped him off in Camberwell, where he picked up a passport from a run-down little shop in the name of Milano, where he had a private letterbox. It gave his occupation as pasta merchant, a legitimate reason for criss-crossing Europe. Taking another taxi he went to the hotel. As requested, the broadsheets from the last two weeks were waiting in his room. He took a shower, changed into clothing permanently hung in his closet, raided the drinks bar, sent down for some smoked salmon sandwiches and settled down to catch up on the latest news and rumours.
It soon became clear that something was seriously amiss here. Although the reports were brief, two South London gangs, the Blues Brothers and the Pretty Boys, appeared to be embarking on a gang war on the Isle of Wight and already several people had died in mysterious circumstances. It was these circumstances that worried him. If these were all contract killings made to look like accidents, then their bizarre nature made him feel very uneasy indeed. Goof old-fashioned shootings and stabbings were much more reliable. His name was being hinted at as the hitman working for at least one gang. Tomorrow he would take a little trip to the Isle of Wight and see what was going on.
The hotel arranged the hire of a Mercedes and it was delivered to the door at 10.30 the next morning. As soon as the paperwork was sorted out he drove south.
