by Jan Toms
‘I sometimes take a winter skiing break,’ he added, his tongue running away with him, ‘and I once went hill walking at the base of the Himalayas.’
‘Gosh!’
His heart beat faster, dreading the inquest that must follow, knowing that his inventiveness had now dried up. He had a terrible feeling that, against all the odds, Pamela might just turn out to be an expert in one of these activities and start bombarding him with technical terms he didn’t understand.
Instead, she let out a sudden, ear-splitting scream. Victor leapt back, splashing his trousers with water. ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’
Pamela, speechless, was pointing across the sand. Victor followed the direction of her finger and there, at the edge where the waves broke onto the golden sand, was Fluffy, mounting Fifi with an ecstatic gleam in his eyes while the bitch braced herself for his attentions.
For a moment he thought that the scene was the canine equivalent of From Here to Eternity. He was enchanted by the pairing until Pamela cried, ‘Victor, do something!’
There wasn’t much that he could do. Even as they watched, Fluffy had worn himself out and now fell back to the ground, his little tail quivering with post-coital delight. Fifi looked like the dog that had got the cream.
Pamela began a hysterical weeping while Victor helplessly held out his hankie.
‘Oh, oh, whatever is going to happen?’
Victor was lost for words. The worst that could happen would be that Fifi had puppies. Had Pamela not said that her mother thought it would be nice for Fifi to experience motherhood? He would have thought that these puppies would be highly suitable, being the product of two dogs of the same breed. He couldn’t see what the problem was.
‘Oh, oh, what will mother say?’ Pamela was inconsolable. Victor took Fifi’s lead from her and went to catch both dogs, now walking side by side, both with far-off expressions.
In silence, Victor held out Fifi’s lead and Pamela grabbed it as if her dog had just been rescued from kidnappers. She swept the poodle up into her arms, sand and all, kissing and comforting her for her worse than death experience.
‘Perhaps we should go home?’ Victor suggested.
As if she had been assaulted herself, Pamela forced her damp feet into her sandals and, with her nose pointing upwards towards the spire of St Saviour’s Church, she hurried back to the Esplanade with Victor trailing confusedly behind. He had to hurry to keep up and by the time he reached her front gate Pamela was already through it.
‘Pamela, I am so sorry,’ he called out, but she simply poked her nose even higher in the air, opened the door and disappeared inside.
This was not the sort of afternoon he had envisaged.
On Sunday morning, Charity Grimes, aka Sophia Rosselini, along with her companion, now called Fabio Firenze, flew out of Heathrow Airport. Their flight was due to land at John F. Kennedy International Airport, where they would change planes for Georgetown in the Cayman Islands.
In her handbag Charity had two letters, one addressed to her father and the other to her solicitor. She had not mentioned either of them to Fabio/Giuseppi/Vincenzo.
Just before they landed at New York, she popped along to the plane’s toilet and, while in the queue, struck up a conversation with a young American.
‘You going to New York?’ she enquired.
‘I certainly am, Ma’am.’ He turned his open, square-cut face to give her his full attention.
‘I wonder whether I could ask you to do something for me?’
‘Certainly, if I can.’
She produced the two letters. ‘I didn’t have time to post these before I left London and I am very anxious to send them – especially this, as it is to my father and he worries.’
‘Of course.’ He was nodding, already ahead of her.
‘Would it be too much trouble to mail them for me from New York?’
‘No trouble at all.’
She tried to give him a five-dollar bill for the postage but he refused to take it. He said, ‘It will be my pleasure.’
Later, when they were on the plane to Georgetown, Charity said to Vincenzo, ‘Just to make sure that everything is OK, I’ve posted a letter to father.’
‘Why you do that for?’ Vincenzo looked alarmed.
‘Darling, my father will be worried. I didn’t tell him where we were going, just not to be anxious.’
Doubtfully, he nodded.
Just as he was beginning to relax, she added, ‘But I did also send a letter to my solicitor, to be opened if anything should happen to me.’
‘But why?’ He now looked seriously shaken.
‘Just to be sure that nothing does happen to me.’ She squeezed his arm, watching the emotions flicker across his face like a fast frame picture show.
‘But what could happen to you?’
She shook her head and smiled. ‘I’m just being silly.’ To herself, she thought: A girl has to be careful. You are, after all, an assassin. To distract him, she nibbled the lobe of his ear and a familiar look of bliss appeared on his face so that she was reassured.
Sliding her hand under cover of the newspaper lying across his lap, she whispered, ‘Nothing to worry about, darling. We are going to be very happy.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
Victor felt very awkward when he went into work on Monday morning. Pamela was already there and she ignored his tentative greeting. A chilly exclusion zone surrounded her and it was clear that anything he said would only make matters worse, so he decided to concentrate on his caseload. Deadlines were approaching for receiving completed tax returns and he had plenty to keep him busy.
Now that Charity had disappeared, he faced the problem of what to do with Fluffy when he was at work all day. As a temporary measure, he got up an hour earlier and took him for a very long walk then left the cat flap open so that the poodle could go into the garden whenever wanted to. He took the precaution of putting a padlock on the back gate so that no unsuspecting visitor could wander into the garden and be savaged.
He tried to work but the thought of the two messages about the meeting at the old Congregational church that evening would not go away. He was dying to know what might take place and wondered if he should not just happen to take Fluffy for his evening stroll past the building. He tried to imagine what Alan might be planning, some sort of stake out perhaps, with snipers strategically placed behind bushes, but perhaps this only happened in America.
About mid-morning a very pretty young woman came into the tax office with a query and it fell to Victor to advise her.
She said that she was an artist and while she knew that she could deduct money for the purchase of paint and canvas, she wondered about the rent she paid for her studio and the occasional fee she paid to models – ‘and things like that.’ Her magenta-coloured mouth formed a timid smile and Victor’s heart felt distinctly rocky. She wore a top that looked rather like an action painting with vivid swirls of colour all over it. It reminded Victor of a spray of fuchsias. The girl pushed a very long strand of wavy burnished hair away from her forehead and said, ‘I’m sorry to trouble you but I really am clueless about what I can claim as legitimate expenses.’
She smiled sweetly at him and to his horror he felt a very large erection asserting itself. He quickly crossed his legs and his voice gave an embarrassing squeak.
The young woman, whose name was Dolores, spread out her claim form on the desk and he had no choice but to lean over her shoulder. She wore some exotic, musky perfume, or it might have been her shampoo, but she smelt divine.
‘For example, is it reasonable to claim for a taxi to transport my paintings to a gallery?’ she asked.
Victor started to explain but he got terribly tongue-tied and his stutter forced him to a halt. Dolores waited patiently.
‘S-s-s-so you s-s-s-see, th-this is a-a-a- v-v-valid cl-claim,’ he eventually managed to say.
‘Thank you so much, you’ve been brilliant.’ Dolores smoothed her wonderful hair back behind
her ears and Victor felt quite weak. He stared as she gathered her papers together before giving him a devastating smile. As she stuffed her paperwork into an old canvas shoulder bag, she said, ‘I’ve got an exhibition at the Queen’s Gallery next week.’ She rummaged in the bag and withdrew a piece of paper. ‘Here’s an invitation to the preview. Please come, I’d love to have your opinion.’
Victor mumbled his thanks and placed the card in pride of place on his desk. For the rest of the day, the sight and the smell of Dolores kept him fully occupied.
Alan had spent the weekend wondering whether he should talk to his Inspector about Victor’s mysterious notes. By themselves, they didn’t really amount to much. At best they were probably some sort of practical joke that someone, or even some people, were playing on the young man. If Alan made a big to do about it then he would look a fool if nothing happened. At the same time, he had what he often thought of as a feeling in his water. It invariably turned out to be accurate and he certainly had a feeling that this rendezvous was significant. As a precaution, he explained the situation to Constable Isabelle Peters and asked her if she would like to come along with him, just to see if there was anything worth investigating.
‘It’s probably nothing,’ he finished, ‘but it’s best to follow any leads. After all, you never know where it might – lead.’ He gave a little laugh.
Isabelle laughed as well, a tinkly sound that was pleasing to the ear. She really was a very nice girl.
Alan decided that she should wait outside and as a precaution they would take radios along with them, just in case they needed to call for back up. That way Isabelle would be on hand to get help but at the same time she wouldn’t be in any danger.
‘Above all I don’t want you to take any risks,’ he assured her at the private briefing he arranged during their tea break. He felt quite paternal towards her. In fact, she had a lot of the qualities that he would have welcomed in a daughter. He was therefore quite unprepared when she said, ‘I do think you’re wonderful Alan. When this is sorted perhaps we could go for a drink?’
For the rest of the day he was all of a twitch.
Barry and Dodge spent Sunday night together at Barry’s flat. It felt a bit risky in case Harry or Larry should happen to drop in, but, as Barry, said, ‘By this time tomorrow everything will be out in the open so there is no point in waiting.’
‘Do you think there will be any violence?’ asked Dodge. ‘I don’t want to be the cause of a lot of fighting.’
‘Listen, we’ve arranged this meeting and we’re going to be in charge. We won’t let it get out of hand. We’ll just tell it like it is and persuade our families that the only sensible way forward is to work together. This – us, we’ll be a sort of symbolic union bringing together our two families. Trust me.’
Dodge relaxed, reassured. ‘Oh I do Bar, I really do.’
On Monday morning Harry called an emergency board meeting.
‘Just to get our plans straight for this evening,’ he started, ‘I’ve put the word around. The lads will be there in force.’
‘What lads?’ Barry was shocked into interrupting his brother.
‘The usual gang, Knuckles, Razor, the others. Meanwhile, we’d better get tooled up.’
‘I thought this was just going to be us,’ Barry felt distinctly faint.
Larry said, ‘Shut up Bar, Harry knows what he’s talking about.’ He removed the back of the drinks cabinet cupboard and said, ‘Don’t fool about now, just get yourself a gun.’
Seeing no way out, Barry picked up a rifle. Looking down the black tunnel of the barrel, it was like looking along the road that led to hell.
There was a buzz of excitement at Something for Everyone as the word went round that the twins, Reggie and Randy, were in the building. They walked in together, causing both employees and shoppers to do a double take, for it was almost impossible to tell them apart. With an occasional nod of the head, they acknowledged their notoriety as they made their way up to the office.
Dodge was already there, looking nervous.
‘Have you heard from Vinnie?’ Reggie asked him.
‘Vinnie?’
‘Vincenzo. You were supposed to arrange for him to come and do a little job for us.’
‘Oh, yes, I’ve been in touch with him.’
‘Good.’ The boys sat down. Reggie sent out for coffee and eclairs and, once they had been delivered, he said, ‘Just to be sure, we’ll take our own weapons.’
‘Weapons?’ Dodge swallowed hard.
‘There you go again,’ said Reggie, ‘repeating everything I say. You’re like a fucking echo.’
The echo felt sick.
As he sat trying to calm his breathing, Reggie placed an evil looking revolver in front of him. The firing end was pointing straight at him, as if without the aid of human hand it might just go off on its own.
‘None of this overture nonsense,’ Reggie said. ‘The important thing is that we take them by surprise. Just you wait and see my boys, by this time tomorrow the entire manor will be ours.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
The old Congregational church had an air of dusty neglect, as if the congregation had gone home one Sunday evening and forgotten to return.
As arranged, Dodge and Barry met half an hour before the allotted time of the meeting. On the way to the rendezvous, Barry had stopped by the canal and thrown the rifle into the water. Breaking his journey, Dodge had stopped at the Chine and flung the pistol into the rushing stream.
As there was no one around, they embraced briefly and went in through the broken back door of the church.
‘There’s going to be trouble, Bar. My lot has got guns and they’re bringing reinforcements.’ Dodge tended to stutter when he was anxious and the words struggled over each other.
‘Same here. What are we going to do?’ Barry felt as if he had let a Rottweiler off the lead and it had just spotted a pit bull terrier. There was no calling the situation to heel.
By the time everyone arrived, it would be dusk and the electricity had been disconnected – but the church had high, leaded windows and Barry had thought to bring plenty of candles and torches. On the other hand, perhaps it might be better if the opposing sides couldn’t actually see each other. That way it would be harder to start a fracas.
The pews were still there but stacked to one side. In the empty space in the middle the boys found an old table and some chairs, and placed two chairs behind the table and the rest in front for the Rodriguez and the Hickman brothers. Lesser mortals and late arrivals would have to squeeze into the pews wherever they could.
‘What are we going to do if fighting breaks out?’ Dodge was already panicking. With the best of intentions, they had set in motion a train of events over which they had no control.
‘We’ll just have to try and use persuasion,’ Barry said. ‘Show them by example that it is possible – indeed it’s in all our best interests – to work together.’
Dodge nodded miserably, his stomach giving a good impression of a stormy sea.
Barry had a speech prepared. It was going to be hard to stand up to Harry and insist that he took the chair, but he would do it. Dodge was wondering how on earth he could pacify Reggie and make him at least listen before he started World War Three.
The first arrivals were quieter than expected, single individuals slipping in through the back door and taking up a position of their choice. Like guests at a wedding, they chose to sit on different sides, either the bride’s or the groom’s.
As Harry and Gary strolled in, Barry pointedly took a seat behind the table and said, ‘Sit down, boys, we have something to tell you.’ Harry looked surprised but did not argue. Gary, as usual, followed his lead.
Reggie was not so easily persuaded, trying to push Dodge out of the way, but Barry said, ‘Please, Mr Rodriguez, first of all listen to what we have to say.’ Grumbling, Reggie and Randy, the two peas in a poisonous pod, sat down next to each other and waited.
At exactly 8.30,
Barry stood up and said, ‘Gentlemen, we have called this meeting tonight so we can iron out our problems.’ At this point he had to raise his voice, as Harry was muttering something about there being an easy way to do that.
Speaking louder, Barry said, ‘There have been some deaths on both sides. We’ve all lost friends and I’m sure we don’t want to lose any more. There are plenty of ways that we can work together. If we spend our time fighting each other then we will all be the losers.’
‘Sounds like a fucking sermon,’ Reggie announced to the world. As an aside to his brother, he asked, ‘Where’s Vincenzo?’
At this point, Dodge stood up. He was visibly shaking. ‘I – I want you all to listen,’ he stammered. ‘Barry and me – we’ve become friends. We want us to be able to all work together.’
‘What sort of friends?’ Harry Hickman gave something resembling a snigger and Barry, stung by the tone, said, ‘We love each other. Dodge and I are going to live together as family.’ Appealing to the reluctant congregation, he said, ‘That makes us all family…’
He didn’t get any further before Harry leapt to his feet and produced a pistol from his pocket. ‘What sort of arsehole talk is this?’ he shouted, waving the weapon around.
‘Harry, please!’
Seeing the weapon, Reggie was on his feet, his own revolver ready in his hand. ‘Put that fucking weapon away. Threaten my brother and you’ll be sorry.’
That was it. Like a stray spark in a firework factory, the church exploded with ricocheting bullets. Grabbing Dodge’s hand, Barry made a dive for the empty pews, crawling between two rows and dragging his lover with him. They both crouched low, covering their ears against the intolerable noise.
At the back of the church, just inside the door, Alan had carefully let himself in ready to listen to whatever was being said and feeling like a lone lamb among a pack of wolves. He was hardly inside before all hell was unleashed, and, making a hasty dive for cover, he radioed through to Isabelle, who was lurking in the bushes outside.
