by Hannah Howe
“Alis is a lovely girl.” My comment was genuine; despite her doubts about me, I did like her.
“She misses her mother. Maybe I should have remarried as soon as possible and provided Alis with a role model. But becoming romantically involved with another woman didn’t seem right at the time.”
I took hold of Alan’s hand and gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze. “You’re a fine role model.”
“As a father, I try to be. But it is difficult being mum and dad.”
Another firework lit up the sky, diffusing into an umbrella-like rainbow. In the background, lights illuminated the castle and I wondered what the ghosts of centuries ago would make of our modern ritual.
While watching a firework trail across the sky like a miniature comet, Alan said, “Tell me about your mother, what was she like?”
“In a word, drunk.”
“And when sober?”
I shrugged. “Maybe she was sober during the day, when I was in school, but when I arrived home from school I always found my mother drunk.”
“So you became ‘mum’ to her.”
“From the age of seven I did all the cooking, along with the cleaning, washing and ironing. I was useless; I had no idea what I was doing. I’m still a useless cook. My mother would get angry with me for preparing inedible meals. She would scream and shout and throw the food in the bin. I guess her attitude made me lose confidence. I’ve lacked confidence in the kitchen, and in other areas of my life, ever since.”
“There must have been some good times,” Alan coaxed, “with your mum.”
I nodded. Though my memories tended to be bleak, there were occasional shafts of light. “Christmas was okay. I was in charge of that. Can you imagine, a seven year old in charge of a Christmas tree...I used to put the fairy on top of the star most of the time...no wonder she looked so annoyed. I must have been a handful for my mother. I did lots of wicked things. One time, I dropped a dozen eggs from the fridge to see if they would bounce...Of course, I got a beating for that. I received lots of beatings...”
For some reason, I started to well up and a tear stung my eye. Quickly, I brushed it away, but not quickly enough because Alan had noticed.
“It’s all right to let the emotion out, Sam, if you want to.”
I glanced at the crowd gathered at the fireworks display and shook my head. “Not with all these people around.”
He nodded then offered a sympathetic smile and we returned to the fireworks.
Someone, a stranger to me, was distributing sparklers, and somehow I found one in my hand. I gave the sparkler a twirl, as I did as a child, though not on many occasions; my mother drummed into me that fireworks were a waste of money; of course, funds were tight and she needed every spare penny to feed her addiction.
“After your father, or rather, I should say your mother’s husband, died, did she welcome men into her life?”
“Maybe. But she kept them hidden from me. For the last five years of her life she was too ill to bother with anyone, she was too soaked in the booze. To be honest, it’s amazing that she survived for so long. By that stage she had stopped slapping me and would criticise me instead, my looks, my clothes, my interests...I can still hear her voice now...Samantha, don’t do that, Samantha, look at the state of yourself, Samantha, you can’t go out looking like that...And when she was unhappy with me it was always Samantha, never Sam...”
I glanced up at Alan and noticed that his attention had wandered to the castle side of the field where a woman walked towards us. She was busty in the extreme with blonde hair that appeared natural. She was fully aware of her charms because she walked with her coat open, her low-cut top revealing a deep valley of cleavage. Why don’t you just go topless and have done with it, I thought peevishly. She waved at Alan and he returned her smile. Obviously, they knew each other and I found myself resenting their friendship. God, I was in a bad mood, not fit to be let out on my own, as my mother used to say.
“Excuse me; I’d better have a word with Yvonne.” Alan was talking to me, but his eyes were on his lady friend. “We’ll meet again soon, okay,” he added, glancing over his shoulder. “I’ll phone you and arrange something.”
“Okay,” I replied, but my quiet voice was lost amid the exploding fireworks and the crowd’s laughter.
He’s going to ditch me, I know it. For all his kind words and apparent patience, he’ll get bored with me. He’s a man, with needs, with a string of attractive women interested in him, so why should he waste his time with me, with someone so cold and indecisive? While I wrestle with my insecurities, he’ll run off with someone else and I’ll only have myself to blame. Maybe Mickey Anthony was right, maybe I’m an iceberg after all.
Chapter Fifteen
The following day I was in my office, feeding Marlowe, when the phone rang. While juggling the phone, a tin opener and a can of succulent salmon-flavoured cat food, I said, “Hello, Sam’s Enquiry Agency, how can I help you?”
“It’s Mickey. I’ve arranged the meet, noon, on the waterfront. Vincent Vanzetti owns a yacht, the Esmeralda, meet him there.” Through the phone wire, I could sense Mickey’s lecherous grin “Would you like me to come along and hold your hand?”
“I can handle Vanzetti by myself. But thank you, Mickey, for your time and the legwork.”
“Any time, babe. I’ve chalked this one up on the slate, don’t forget that.”
As if I could. With a sigh, I placed the phone on my desk and Marlowe’s dish of succulent salmon, in natural juices, on the floor.
I gave my meeting with Vincent Vanzetti a moment’s thought, then decided to take out some insurance. I phoned Detective Inspector ‘Sweets’ MacArthur and left a message, pointing him in the right direction, should someone find my svelte-like body floating in the harbour.
From my office, I drove the short distance to the waterfront. I parked my Mini then scoured the bay, looking for the Esmeralda. Within five minutes I found her, a splendid looking vessel, white with black flashes, sleek and predatory, like a whale shark in appearance, which, if his reputation was anything to go by, also applied to Vincent Vanzetti.
I was admiring the boat when a man appeared on deck. Standing around six foot tall and of medium build, he had a high forehead and dark, wavy hair, which was greying at the temples. He also possessed soft, hazel eyes, a long, straight nose, a firm chin and a neatly trimmed moustache. Furthermore, I noted that Vanzetti had a series of pale moles dotted over the right-hand side of his face. He was smartly dressed in a dark grey suit, a pale blue shirt and a dark blue tie, speckled with white dots. A gold wristwatch on a gold wristband circled his left wrist. Take away the yacht and the harbour setting and Vanzetti could pass as my local bank manager. And, given the perilous state of my finances, I felt the same level of nervous anticipation as I did when meeting with Mr Russell at the bank.
Vincent Vanzetti placed his hands on the boat rail and peered down at me. I recognised him from my newspaper clippings – from the early days of my agency, I had cultivated the habit of filing items of potential interest in my cabinet. Most of these clippings amounted to nothing and were never viewed again; but, occasionally, they did offer a clue or a lead.
“Samantha Smith?” Vanzetti frowned, and I nodded. “Come aboard. I’ll give you five minutes of my time and not a minute more.”
I placed my right hand on a guide rope then stepped aboard the Esmeralda. The first thing I noticed was the ash-coloured decking. The second thing I noticed was that the decking moved with the gentle swell of the harbour. I don’t know about you, but when I walk, I like to set foot on firm foundations. Consequently, I found the movement under my feet disconcerting and I discovered that I was overcompensating in an effort to retain my balance.
“You’re not a sailor, I take it?” Vanzetti asked, his moustache bristling with amusement.
I placed a hand on a damp rail, to steady myself, then glanced over my shoulder. “What gave you that idea?”
I followed Vanzetti
into an area of the boat lined with polished oak panelling. Louvred cupboard doors gleamed from one side of the boat while blue padded sofas formed an L around a square, highly polished oak table. The table had a yellow emblem ingrained on its surface and as I walked past the table, I noted that the emblem was a compass. I sat on one of the sofas, facing the table and the glass and oak panels that partitioned this galley from the business end of the boat. As you might have gathered, my knowledge of boats is limited; indeed, you could scribble all I know about boats on to a note and stuff it into a very small bottle.
Vincent Vanzetti sat on the blue sofa, to my left, at right angles to me. He glanced down to his large hands, admired his neatly manicured fingernails, then looked up and glared at me.
“So,” he glowered, “you’re the woman who put four bullets into Lady Fiona Grimsley.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And now you wanna put a bullet into me?”
Surreptitiously, I glanced around, looking for Vanzetti’s security people. I couldn’t see anyone, but I sensed that eyes were watching us from the shadows.
“I’d like to talk with you,” I explained, “about your brother, Peter.”
Vanzetti’s eyes narrowed. Absentmindedly, he fingered a ruby ring, adorning the little finger of his right hand. He asked, “What about Peter?”
“I think he’s in trouble. I’d like to help him, if I can.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“I think Peter’s abducted Dr Ruth Carey.”
Vanzetti adjusted the ruby ring on his little finger, then polished it on his trouser leg. I couldn’t be sure, but I think I detected a bulge under his stylishly tailored jacket, a bulge conversant with a shoulder holster and a handgun. “Peter has abducted someone...what leads you to that conclusion?” he asked.
“Peter was one of Dr Carey’s patients, you are aware of that?”
“He’s my brother,” Vincent Vanzetti said with a tight smile on his lips. He held up his right hand then circled it in the air, as though searching for the right words, as though trying to capture a phrase. “Peter had some...emotional problems after our mother died.”
I nodded and said, “Peter also had an affair with Dr Carey.”
Vanzetti shuffled forward in his seat. His jacket fell open revealing that my suspicions were correct, that he was carrying a gun. “That is unethical.”
“Much of what Dr Carey does is unethical.”
A strand of hair had fallen across my face, so I flicked it over my shoulder. My hand went to my shoulder bag, at my side. My gun was in my shoulder bag, though to my surprise, Vanzetti had not taken the trouble to search me. It was an example of how people, men in particular, could underestimate me; they see a petite woman with very long hair wearing an inoffensive smile and, for some reason, they drop their guard.
To Vanzetti, I explained, “Dr Carey ditched Peter and moved on to another lover. I have read a series of emails Peter sent to Ruth Carey. They start as loving, then they become erotic, pornographic even, then they become angry when she ends the affair. The final email talks of revenge and retribution. It makes for uncomfortable reading. It suggests that Peter has a troubled mind.”
“Peter’s mind is as sound as yours or mine,” Vanzetti replied with a defensive twitch of his right shoulder.
“The emails suggest otherwise.”
A gentle swell went under the boat and the Esmeralda wobbled on the water. I swear my stomach moved two foot to the right while the rest of my body moved two foot to the left, leaving my mind somewhere in the depths of the harbour. While placing my hands on the sofa to steady myself, I asked, “Where might I find Peter?”
“You’re not going to throw up, are you?” Vanzetti asked, his hazel eyes viewing me with suspicion.
I shook my head while gulping down a mixture of bile and undigested muesli. “Peter,” I repeated.
“You’re persistent,” Vanzetti growled. “Anyone ever tell you that asking too many questions can get you into trouble?”
“Just about everyone I meet,” I smiled.
“And still you ask away.” He shook his head, as though perplexed, as though not sure what to make of me. “You know who I am?” he asked.
“I know what you are, a career criminal.”
“And still you agreed to meet me, on your own?”
I shrugged, then replied, “I left a message with a friend, a detective inspector.”
Vanzetti nodded. He viewed me through shrewd eyes. “You’re smarter than you look.”
“Should I take that as a compliment, or an insult?” I asked primly.
Vanzetti grunted. With the index finger and thumb of his right hand, he caressed the corners of his moustache. All the while, his eyes were fixed on me, appraising me, though his poker face hid his conclusions.
“Have you been in touch with Peter lately?” I asked.
“We’re not as close as we used to be. Busy lives, Peter’s emotional problems, my business interests...”
Vanzetti stood and I sensed that our conversation was coming to a close. He walked on to the deck and, with rubber legs, I followed.
“You want to talk with Peter?” Vanzetti asked, his gaze wandering across the harbour, his thoughts apparently lost in the fine mist that swirled around the bay.
“I want to help Peter,” I repeated, “if I can.”
Vincent Vanzetti shot me a forceful, powerful glance, his eyes bright with intimidation. “And what if Peter has abducted Ruth Carey?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I replied, allowing myself a secret smile at using Alan’s bridge metaphor.
“Here, try this.” Vanzetti removed his phone from his trouser pocket. He flashed me Peter’s contact details, including an address in Canton. “Peter shacks up there sometimes with his mates.”
“Thanks.” I made a mental note of the address then, with some relief, I took my leave of the Esmeralda. “Oh, one more thing,” I remembered, turning to face Vincent Vanzetti. “Do you have a picture of Peter?”
Vanzetti sighed. Through clenched teeth, he replied, “You’ve got the ability to annoy, do you know that?”
“Nice to have a talent for something,” I grinned.
Again, the local Godfather removed his phone from his trouser pocket and, through the wonders of modern technology, he transferred a picture of Peter to my phone.
“If Peter is involved in the abduction, I want to know about it,” Vanzetti called out as I walked away from the Esmeralda. “You understand?”
I waved in acknowledgment from over my shoulder, relieved to be away from Vanzetti, relieved to be off the boat and walking on terra firma.
Chapter Sixteen
Vincent Vanzetti’s information took me west along the coast to Canton. One of the chapels in the vicinity is dedicated to St Canna a sixth century lady who had a beautiful voice. St Canna wooed the pagans with her voice, converting them to Christianity and, some centuries later, the suburb took her name. The area is also famous for Billy the seal. A fishing trawler brought Billy to Canton in 1912 and he made his home on the lake at Victoria Park. The locals, especially the children, loved him and they even kept him well fed during the 1914 – 1918 war when food was scarce. When Billy died in 1939 it transpired that ‘he’ was in fact a ‘she’; make of that what you will.
I sat in my Mini outside a square, partially boarded up, Edwardian house and thought of seals. I thought of chapels and their decline, I thought of the shocking state of my fingernails and resolved that I must do something about them, I fantasized about film stars from the 1940s and 1950s then troubled myself by wondering if such fantasies amounted to necrophilia, I thought of a bothersome stain on my living room carpet and wondered if there was a carpet cleaner on the market powerful enough to shift it and I considered that maybe, for supper, I should settle for something simple, like a frozen cottage pie, vegetarian, of course. And, as the afternoon drifted into evening, I thought where the hell is Peter Vanzetti? Before settling
into my car I’d knocked on the door of the squat and asked for Peter only to be told by a sleepy, unkempt, drug befuddled youth that Peter was due back in an hour and in the meantime I should ‘hang loose’ and did I have any spare change for a packet of fags? I told him that, like the Queen, I don’t carry any money. Then, I retired to my Mini, where I checked my purse only to discover that my lie had become a truth. Unless you regard three pounds forty-seven pence as serious money.
By 11 p.m., I was cold, I was tired and I was beginning to suspect that either Vincent Vanzetti or the drug befuddled youth had sold me down the river. So I went home, threw my cottage pie into the microwave, scoffed it and went to bed. Needless to say, I tossed and turned all night with indigestion.
The following morning I was in my office. There was no sign of Marlowe, so I searched through my newspaper clippings to see if I could find something on Peter Vanzetti, to no avail. I crossed my fingers, switched on my computer and was about to try the Internet when Mickey Anthony sauntered into view.
“How did the meeting go?” he asked while leaning nonchalantly against the door frame.
“Great. We got on like a house on fire.”
“You do get on well with criminals, don’t you, Sam,” Mickey observed.
Immediately, I felt my hackles rising. “Now what are you insinuating?”
“Nothing,” he replied defensively. “Just making an observation, that’s all.” He wandered into my office and joined me at my desk.
As the red mist faded, I considered Mickey’s remark. I did get on well with most of the rogues I encountered and I wondered if that had something to do with my genes. Certainly, I did not inherit that trait from my mother, who was law-abiding to the point of obsession – she used to go into hysterics if so much as a library book became overdue – so maybe I inherited my mischievous ways from my father. Because my father had abandoned my mother and me, I sensed that he was a rogue.
While trying to coax my computer into life, I said to Mickey, “Vanzetti told me to go to Canton. I camped outside an Edwardian squat in Albert Street all afternoon and all evening, but Peter didn’t show. Very frustrating. Very annoying.”
