From Humble Beginnings (Joe Steel) Page 10

  Surrounded by the carnage of crockery, I watch as she rests her elbows on the table and places her hand on her head.

  The sounds of a car rolling down the drive are easily audible and I stride out of the dining hall and to the front door. Pulling it open, I holler, “Brigida, we’ll need you to translate.”

  The policemen jump out of their cars, armed with pistols at the hips, and stride over to me. Simultaneously, Brigida appears and begins to explain in smooth Italian what’s happening. Or at least, I hope that’s what she’s saying. Shit, she could have been telling them that we’d just chopped off her husband’s hand, for all I know!

  Before she can say another word, I motion with my hands to the open doorway of the dining room. I’d prefer it if Cass was there. She doesn’t have to focus 100%, but any smattering of information would have been most useful.

  After the peculiarity of Brigida’s reaction to the sight of that abomination, I don’t trust her.

  It’s a bitch when out of the four Italian people we’ve met, I trust the short-arsed, mite-riddled, smelly gardener more than any of them.

  And only God knows how honest these cops are. In mafia land, they’re probably as bent as a set of Uri Geller’s spoons!

  Cass lifts her head to stare at the policemen and whispers a phrase that has them frowning.

  Feeling clueless, I wander towards the kitchen, knowing that one has followed me and that the other has gone to Cass. The Italians are suckers for a pretty face. Especially a distressed pretty face.

  Opening the fridge, I point to the box and the policeman grabs a pen from his pocket and lifts the flaps. Spying the severed hand, he reaches for his radio and calls it in.

  Without waiting, I retreat to Cassandra’s side. Letting her explain the situation in her own words and not those of our psycho housekeeper.

  An ambulance comes to collect the box, not before a man dressed in a white suit, who from TV shows I can tell was in forensics, had dusted the remainder of the post and the exterior of the box for fingerprints.

  “I’ll have to go to the police station either today or tomorrow to give them my prints. They want yours as well as Brigida’s and Marco’s,” Cass eventually says, her voice dulled.

  “They don’t think that we had anything to do with it?” I ask, astounded that they might, because who in their right mind sends severed hands to themselves?

  “No. They just want to clear us from the investigation. Any finger prints that aren’t ours could belong to the person who mailed the package.”

  “I didn’t even touch the box. Nor did Brigida.”

  “They’re just dotting every I, Joe.”

  Marco appears, his stench alongside him and as he answers the questions the police put to him, Cass translates for my benefit.

  “He says he found it on front porch. On the top step. There was no note, no letter. He just assumed it was for us.”

  “Yeah, because we know so many people in these parts, don’t we?”

  “They’re asking him if he has any idea who the hand might belong to.” Cass’ eyes dart to Brigida who is sullenly glaring at her husband. “The police have asked the pair of them and they both said no.”

  “If she doesn’t know, then I’ll eat my hat.”

  “You’re not wearing a hat.”

  “Okay, I’ll eat my invisible hat. She’s involved somehow. You were too far out to notice,” I whisper, so that Brigida can’t hear me. “But you should have seen the way she reacted.”

  “Everyone reacts differently.”

  “To a point! She didn’t react at all. I’d say this isn’t the first package like this received by this household. She was way too used to seeing it. She didn’t even bloody whimper. You started to pant, for God’s sake. And you’re cooler than a bloody cucumber.”

  Cass blanches again and says, “I couldn’t help it.”

  “I wasn’t criticising you. I was just saying that if you couldn’t control your reaction, then Brigida sure wouldn’t be able to. You’ve got years of boardroom experience on your side. Never showing your true emotions to the opposition. She’s a housekeeper!”

  “Yeah. A servant. A bland face is the only protection you get from some of the people you serve. Leave her alone, Joe. She’s probably as freaked out by all this as we are.”

  Choosing to remain silent, because as soon as the words pop out, I remembered that Cass’ family served Bernard, I sink back against my seat and stare at Brigida.

  She sure doesn’t look freaked out. Merely pissed off. Pissed off, because the police are here? Or pissed off because her husband is?

  I don’t know the answer to that, although this morning’s row deserves an explanation. The argument had been forgotten in the furore of discovering the hand, but that had been unusual to say the least!

  Where had the usually calm woman disappeared to, when she’d thrown that plate at Marco’s head?

  I know Italian women are volatile, but bloody hell! That’s a bit extreme; especially as I don’t think Marco was the man behind her assault. Had he had bruises on his fist and if I was able to condemn him as a wife-beater, then he more than deserved an omelette thrown at his head.

  But there were no bruises. And I don’t think Brigida lets Marco close enough to so much as brush by her, never mind thump her.

  No, whatever’s going on here, Brigida is on it. Up to her skinny, olive-tone neck!

  And if Cass can’t see that, then that’s her mistake.

  Not mine.

  Chapter Seven

  At the age of fourteen, I turned into a rebel. My mum and dad despaired as I trudged about with the bad lot from our estate, wreaking havoc wherever we went. No car’s lock was safe, no pack of cigarettes or bottle of cheap booze could pass us by without us getting our mits on it. Chaos was our forte and our pleasure.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve frequented any sort of police station. And I can certainly state that I haven’t missed it. One bit. Although in this case, I’m not being charged with the pre-cursor to an ASBO. I’m simply here to provide my genetic material.

  Fun.

  Cass is a mass of trembling nerves; she’s retreated behind a pair of shades that overtake nearly all of her face and is supping at a coffee carton and making no bones about her fear. Fear of what, I’m not sure. Fear that she’ll be the next one to get chopped up into little pieces? Could be, but it seems a highly unlikely possibility! Who on earth wants us dead? We’re nothing more than worker bees for a company. As far as outsiders are concerned, as Bernard’s ways aren’t well-known outside of the company, we hold no power in the scheme of things and as such, we should be no real threat.

  I’m not scared; and I’m not acting the hard man when I say that. I just see no reason to be afraid. It’s a disturbing situation and that’s something I won’t deny. Even with my own chequered past, I’ve never come across such an abominable act. Seeing that hand, well, it featured in a nasty dream or two last night, but that’s only to be expected. It doesn’t mean I’m frightened. More than anything, I just want this situation to be cleared up. I want to get on with my work here and do what has to be done.

  It could be argued that the longer we’re here and the longer we procrastinate, the more time I get to spend in Italy. A working vacation as it were. But with some freaks wandering about with machetes, chopping off various limbs as and when he fancies it… it’s not my idea of a brilliant holiday resort!

  It’s strange how police stations are always pretty much the same, wherever you go. Be they in Britain or in Italy, they’re all bland as toffee inside and have a faint smell of pee about the vestibules. Must be from dragging tramps and drunks into the cells. In comparison to the London stations, this one here seems small but it has a certain panache to it. Colonnades decorate the front, adding a certain grandeur to what is in effect, a dumping ground for the dregs of society. But then, the Italians always do it in style.

  Even when they lop off a guy’s hand, they have to adorn it with a
diamond ring.

  “How long are they going to keep us waiting?” I can’t help but sound grouchy. This trip has not started how I thought it would. This is the first leap in my career move towards Bernard’s seat, when the old man eventually takes his retirement. I’m hungry for success and pissing around in a police station, because some sick fuck has decided to get nasty isn’t my idea of fun.

  On top of that, Marco and Brigida are a few steps away. Brigida has either grown accustomed to the stench emanating from her husband, or she wears something to block her nose. As it is, I’m wishing that the hay fever I suffer with in the UK hadn’t left me as soon as I touched down on Italian soil.

  Christ, what I wouldn’t do for a loss of smell!

  “However long they want,” Cass retorts, her voice sullen and strangely thick.

  A horrible thought drifts my way and I immediately back away from it. If I even suspect that Cass is crying then I have to confront her and ask her how she is and why she’s crying. Call me selfish, but I don’t particularly want to know.

  Getting close to Cass is a dangerous activity. As a kid, I remember trying to taste the ice on a lamppost. Stupid, I know. Disgustingly unhygienic, but that crazy shit is all part and parcel of childhood. I ended up stuck to the lamppost and having to wait, stood there, tongue attached to the streetlight as my mum pressed a hot teabag on to the piece of ice that connected us.

  That’s what a friendship with Cass entails.

  Hazards aplenty.

  I don’t know why, but it’s an instinct and my instincts have taken me far. I never ignore them.

  The sun glares down into one of the windows in the vestibule. In the early morning rays, the station seems even bleaker and feeling restless, I jump up and begin to walk around the room. Studying various posters that are supposed to induce the average criminal into ceasing their criminal activity. Like that ever works, but the civil servants have to keep trying, I guess. I can’t speak Italian, but I can speak police stations.

  Don’t drink and drive, you won’t die, but someone else will and you’ll rot in jail.

  Don’t take drugs; they’re bad for your health.

  Snorting at the thought, I turn around and notice a new face at the desk. This one is dressed in plain clothes, whereas the other cops I’ve come across have all been dressed like the British Bobbies of old, save their uniforms are navy blue rather than black. And they wear a peaked cap and not a custodian helmet.

  At the same time, a woman bursts into the station. Her eyes dart about and once they lock on me, she rushes over and holds out a hand. “Signor Steel? Joseph? Signor Rustin has arranged for me to sit in with you and if required, translate. I’m Monica Alessi; your attorney.”

  Considering her English is as good as mine and that she isn’t flirting with me like a prostitute does her John, I immediately take a liking to Signorina Monica Alessi. She’s dressed with the flair of a modern Italian woman. I’m metrosexual enough to admit my liking for clothes and I easily recognize the designer cut to her skirt and the neat tailoring of her taupe jacket that cuts in at her waist and flairs out in a slight peplum. With heels on, she’s a tall, striking creature. Combined with a face that could launch a thousand ships, it’s a wonder she managed to finish her degree without being snapped up by some guy looking to handcuff her to the kitchen and have ten kids clinging at her heels.

  She has that look about her.

  Sex goddess and mother material.

  A very peculiar combination but one that I’m not averse to admiring.

  Accepting her hand, I warmly greet her. “Pleasure, Monica. Call me Joe. Over there, behind the shades, is Cassandra, Bernard’s PA.”

  She nods and starts to move towards Cass, who merely turns her head away rather than hail her in welcome. Spying this, she hesitates and makes the wise decision to stick to my side. I’m seeing a side to Cass that I don’t particularly like.

  Not that I like her that much anyway. We’re not friends and never will be. At least, I doubt it. But her going all weird, as though she’s in state mourning, hasn’t endeared her to me. I saw exactly the same thing she did, but am I wandering around in sunglasses, sniffing and sobbing into my café latte? No! And it’s not because I’m a man. Cass has plenty of balls.

  “I’m sorry I’m late; there was a lot of bad traffic.”

  “Better late than never. Ignore Cass; this has really shaken her up.”

  “That’s understandable, Joe. It’s not something you find every day.”

  “No, I suppose not.” I shrug and turn to the plain-clothed copper behind the desk. When he spots my glance, his jaw firms and he steps forward.

  Monica frowns. “What’s he doing here?”

  “Who?”

  “Gianni Ali. He’s on the Guardia di Finanza. I expected someone from that force to be here, but not such a high ranker.”

  “What is the Guardia di Finanza?” I ask, watching as Gianni stares at Monica, who stares back.

  I’m not a romantic man. I’ve found a hidden streak of romance in me ever since I met Juliet. But still, cynicism rules me. That being said, the instant the gazes of Signores Ali and Alessi clash, even I can feel the heat.

  “It’s a law enforcement agency that deals with smuggling and financial crimes.”

  My surprise at her reply disappears as I watch Gianni’s face turn hard.

  There’s history here. I doubt if it’s important to our situation, but that being said, it’s interesting to watch. Monica doesn’t flush, blush or turn coquettish. She just stares at Ali and holds him down. The man’s jaw turns to brick and he breaks off the glance and steps forward towards the counter.

  “If you could step this way please, ladies and gentlemen?”

  The words encompassed myself and Cass, as well as Monica. Not Marco or Brigida.

  Cass, still in sulky brat mode, takes an age to wander over to the counter. Monica and I reach it and are shown to a side room, just off the vestibule and Ali waits at the doorway for my erstwhile colleague.

  It’s very odd to see Cass behaving this way. I’ve never known her to be anything but ice cold and standoffish. The top level of Bernard’s company all know that while Cass might be termed as something as unimportant as a PA, she’s far more than that. She has more power than a huge chunk of the directors. So to see her like this is actually disturbing.

  Why she’s being so affected by something that doesn’t really affect us, is beyond me.

  In the side room, a table stood in the centre and on it, was the paraphernalia required to take our fingerprints and DNA. Swabs of cotton wrapped in plastic and a mass of technology that all looked complicated, but I could in fact recognize it from memory. A vice of mine are detective shows. The more gruesome the better.

  By the time Cass reaches us in the nicotine-yellow room that has seen thousands of criminals pass through it, my fingerprints are being collected and my mouth denuded of genetic material.

  Within five minutes, Cass has been through the procedure and all four of us are seated around the table.

  “Can you tell me why you’re here, Gianni? And what your presence here means for my clients.” Monica speaks in English and then turns to me, because Cass has once again retreated behind a wall of indifference. “Don’t let him make you believe he cannot speak English. His level is as high as mine; we both studied in the US. It is the reason for his position in the Guardia di Finanza.”

  In my humble opinion, they did far more than study in the US. Although together was not uttered, I manage to infer that the taut as cheese wire relationship stems from this period of their lives.

  When Gianni’s jaw merely hardens, but he doesn’t snap at Monica, my inference is set in concrete. If this guy is as important as Monica says, then he wouldn’t take her bullshit. Unless he wanted to and unless he wanted her.

  Recognizing a fellow sufferer of a man being led around by the short and curlies by a woman he cares about, my smile is more sympathetic than it would have been.


  Having never thought Gianni would pretend to not speak English, Monica’s statement does come as a slight surprise. How can it not? That sort of behaviour is for suspects. People involved in crimes. The whole good cop, bad cop routine. But in this case, good and bad cop is one guy and he’s trying to trap us with the ‘lost in translation’ act? Maybe I’ve misunderstood. Maybe not.

  My smile of sympathy disappears though as I turn to Gianni and ask, “Are we under suspicion here? As far as I’m concerned, we arrived a night ago in Milan. I don’t think that gives us a lot of time to select a random man and butcher him! I was in bed before ten, for God’s sake!”

  Gianni shot a glare at Monica. “I never intended to suggest that you were in anyway involved with the evidence discovered at your residence yesterday morning. We know that to be impossible, as your planes landed on Italian soil two days after the victim’s time of death. Preliminary reports indicate that the victim has been dead for at least forty-eight hours. As we’ve established your whereabouts, you’re under no suspicion as your defence indicated. Indeed, no legal defence is required.”

  “My clients are corporate businesspeople. There is far more at stake for them, than an interview with the polizia.”

  “It cost a good man his life, Monica. So yes, there’s far more at stake for all of us.”

  “Who did the hand belong to?” Monica and my voice unite as we ask this question.

  “Giuseppe Calvetti. One of my taskforce.”

  Monica sits back and her brow pinches with strain. Her rigid spine of earlier has crumpled with this news; she slouches a little and leans forwards, resting her elbows on the table. I know it’s a big deal when a policeman dies, I’m not being heartless, but her reaction is unusual. “So they’re back?”

  “They never went away. But we all knew that.” Gianni stands as a knock sounds at the door. He opens it and returns with a tray of coffee and cups. Pouring three of us a drink, as Cass had refused upon being asked, Gianni continued, “We’ve been working on the assumption that the factory your company recently purchased, Mr Steel, is still actively laundering monies obtained illegally and transporting stolen and illegal goods in and out of the country.”