Frame-Up (22 page)

"Good."

"Your father hasn’t slapped you?"

She blushes, avoiding my gaze.

"Did he?" I question again.

"Yes, just one light cuff, but I deserved it. I was fresh."

For a while I say nothing. It’s probably hard for both to break a pattern
that has developed over years. "Sally, you also must do all you can to
make your relationship with your father work. It’s not just him who has
to make a change, but you also."

She looks down and murmurs: "Yes, I know. I try."

"Look, if it happens again, beg your dad, and I mean beg, beg him to
talk to you rather than hit you. And if you are at fault, swallow your pride
and apologize right away, will you?"

She nods, looking at me furtively. I hug her and she responds with a
relieved smile.

Ten minutes into the second half, Chelsea scores. The crowd erupts
into prolonged singing. I’m not the only one of us four who notices that
the Arsenal players have become suddenly more aggressive, committing
repeated minor fouls, some missed by the referee, and coming close to
even the score several times. Each time Sally literally trembles in fear and
then smiles at me when they fail. The game ends one-nil. I thank Mr.
Harper for taking me along. They leave happy, Sally’s cheeks still rosy
from all the excitement.

In retrospect, I don’t regret having gone to that match. The atmosphere
of expectation, the electrifying surges in the tension of the crowd, even
the inevitable letdowns of failure, were contagious and something to be
experienced at least once. For a two-hour period, the shadow of the
Sanvino affair never troubled my mind.

In terms of following the details of the play, with replays of critical
actions from different angles, TV is more instructive. I just wish the
commentators would refrain from indulging in inane speculation of what
is going on in the players’ minds, but probably that can’t be helped. They
must feel that they are paid to make such comments. Here I go
speculating about what makes them tick!

Saturday, 9:10 p.m.

I go to Silvio at
Il Corno d’Oro
for a late dinner. He usually manages to
free himself more easily at that time and joins me at my table from time
to time.

"Here, take this to Teresa from me." I say at the end of the meal,
handing him the gift-wrapped Koala.

He breaks into the broad smile that reaches right into my heart. "How
sweet of you to think of her, and you don’t even know her. What is it?"

"A stuffed Koala. I saw it in a window and just couldn’t resist."

"She loves stuffed toys. She has an old rabbit, almost bald from the
many washes it got."

"Do you have a picture of her on you?"

"Yes," he replies and removes a photo from his wallet. It shows a
three- to four-year old girl, dark curly hair like Silvio’s, olive skin,
looking into the camera, a hint of a smile on her face. But her most
striking feature are her large dark brown eyes.

I want to hold that girl in my arms. "Oh, what a darling. I must meet
her soon. Will you take me to her, the moment the Sanvino affair has
been settled?"

"Yes, I would like to do that. You may even learn to love her."

"Oh, I have no doubts about that."

"And how is your investigation going?"

I report the inconclusive results of my incursion into Garland’s and
Long’s files, and then tell him what Fausto has discovered.

"I don’t like that you to associate with this guy. He may turn against
you anytime."

"I don’t think so. He is smarter than I thought and seems totally
dedicated to me. He had dinner at
Il Napolitano
, praised its food, but said
he understands why a respectable lady like me should not venture into
Soho."

"But you didn’t go with him?" Silvio sounds alarmed.

"Do I detect a hint of jealousy?"

"Should I be jealous?"

"You’re not answering my question, but no, there is no reason for
jealousy. He invited me for dinner, but I declined. I intend to keep him at
a safe distance."

"Good."

I stay till closing time and then he joins me in my apartment. I already
miss him, knowing he will be gone by early morning for three nights.

Sunday, 2
^nd
November, 10:20
a.m.

I decide to undertake a bit of my own reconnaissance by taking my van
out to Hampstead Heath. The sky is gray, rain or drizzle imminent. I’ve
dressed appropriately for the occasion: warm gray pants, comfortable
walking shoes, a dark-green Gore-Tex raincoat with a hood. I park the
van half a mile from Garland’s property, don my big sunglasses, check
myself in the mirror, satisfied that with the hood on, I’m almost
unrecognizable, and take a stroll along his road. On approaching the
property, I unobtrusively but carefully survey the fence and the entrance
gate.

     
 The mansion is barely discernable behind trees and bushes. As I
expected, the iron gate with sharp spikes is operated by remote control.
A buzzer with a camera eye is located at car window level in the right-hand concrete pillar. The iron fence, identical in pattern to the gate, stands
over two yards high. Stopping briefly along the fence past the gate, I see
a taut wire stretching along the fence on upward slanted brackets about
a foot away from the top spikes. Its position renders it almost impossible
to get past. The distance between the wire and the fence is too narrow to
slip through, whereas getting over it required a fair jump, difficult to do
from standing on the top rail between the spikes, and land without
breaking any limbs.

I walk on. There is a path, probably leading to a back section, at the
corner of the property. I venture into it partway. The wire extends there
too. With security along the fence like this, I should expect more security
at the house, such as closed circuit cameras, and a burglar alarm inside.
I tell myself that it is crazy to contemplate breaking into such a fortress.

By the time I return to the van, a steady drizzle is falling. On the way
back, I drive via Camden Town and have a look at Gary’s new residence.
I don’t really know why.

I’m just locking the van in the side street near my apartment block
when the iPhone sounds its tune. It’s the
mafioso
. He wants to meet me
and report. With the café on Bond Street closed, we agree to meet at
Oxford Circus.

Sunday, 4:00 p.m.

The crowds are light and I find him easily in spite of the drizzle ushering
in an early dusk. After placing our orders at a bar he starts: "Signorina,
that place in Hampstead Heath is well protected."

"Yes, I know. I drove out there this morning and walked by it. Do you
have any idea how to get past that wire?"

"Ah, you noticed. Yes. There is a tree along the back of the property
with a sturdy branch straddling the fence. It should be possible to get
across there."

"With a rope to get up to the branch again?"

"Yes. The back of the house is only ten yards or so from the fence. I
don’t think there is a camera there, nor did I see a movement sensor for
a light. There is a small balcony with an iron parapet on the upper storey.
It should be possible to get up with a rope and a hook."

"That still leaves the burglar alarm."

"Yes, it could be triggered by either opening or tampering with the
windows or by detection of movement inside, possibly by both."

"The other thing is that I don’t want to break in when they are at home.
So we may have to find out their daily routine. What time of the day
where you out there?"

"Late afternoon, about four thirty."

"And did you see anybody?"

"No, nor did I hear any noises, and I was around there for about an
hour. It was already getting dark when I left because I couldn’t see
enough anymore with all the trees."

"No lights?"

"None."

"I think Garland once told me that they have a weekend place
somewhere. I’ll have to confirm that."

"How?"

"I’ll call, impersonating a representative of a firm selling condominium shares or something like that. If I reach his wife, she may tell me
that they already have a place."

"Clever."

The thought of impersonating somebody gives me another idea. I could
impersonate a security firm, trying to sell a new security system. But I
discard that idea quickly. They would be stupid to disclose any details
about their current system to a stranger, even to a firm. They might smell
a rat. The only firm they are likely to talk to freely is the one who
installed the system in the first place. I would have to impersonate
somebody from that outfit and for that I needed to know who installed or
supplied it.

"Security firms usually advertise the presence of a security system by
having a label sticking to a window or door glass pane. There might be a
small metal tag attached to the fence or the gate. Did you see anything of
the sort?"

"No, I didn’t check along the fence and I couldn’t get close enough to
the house."

"Would you help me get inside the fence to see if I can find out the
name of the firm or the system?"

"Yes, but I would not let you take that risk. I’ll do it."

Although I wouldn’t shy away from the task, I actually counted on this
macho response.

"But why do you want to know that?" he asks.

"I can then impersonate the firm to get information about their burglar
alarm without raising suspicion."

"You really are clever. I can learn from you. Yes, we should do that.
When?"

"It would have to be this coming Friday or Saturday, assuming they
have a weekend place and go there regularly. But it may be prudent if you
also find out if Mrs. Garland regularly leaves the house during the day
and when."

"I’ll start on this tomorrow morning."

"Yes, do that. You may have to do it over several days. Do you also
have some information about Long’s penthouse setup?"

"It’s a building with twenty apartments. His is one of the four on the
top level, level 5, with windows both toward the street and the river. But
that’s all. One needs a swipe card to get into the building, but I discovered
an interesting thing about him. Yesterday around eleven at night, I was in
the street outside when a black limousine brought a woman there, who got
out and rang Long’s apartment and was promptly let in. I’m sure she was
from an escort service."

It confirms what I discovered in his bank statements. "How can you be
sure?"

"First, the driver remained in the car, waiting for her. She came back
about twenty minutes later, rather quick, I’d say, and they drove off.
Second, she looked and was dressed like a prostitute. Believe me, I know
how to spot them."

"You use them yourself?"

"Never. I’d never touch one. No, when I went north to Milan, I was for
a while one of the drivers for a classy service run by
il capo
."

"And now you do more important jobs for him. You have come up in
the world. But what you told me confirms what I inferred from his bank
statements. He uses that service two or three times a week. It might be
useful to know the name of that agency."

"‘Exotic Escorts’ near that railway station. I think it’s called Victoria,
I followed the limousine and saw the neon sign."

My surprise must show on my face. He grins and asks: "Are you
pleased?"

"Amazed, pleased, grateful that you show so much initiative."

"Thank you, signorina. A compliment coming from you is worth even
more. And you plan to use this as a means for getting into his apartment,
am I right?"

"Yes, naturally in disguise, then render him unconscious when he
opens the door and search for evidence." Although I voice it confidently,
I don’t feel ready for that step yet. It’s one thing to intrude illegally into
a computer system. No violence is involved. However, a home invasion
and temporarily incapacitating somebody, even by rendering him
unconscious by nonviolent means, is a different story.