Frame-Up (32 page)

I call his cell phone. He answers after the first ring.

"Signorina, I was just about to call you," he says without any
preamble.

"Fausto, you can talk to me in person. I’m just next door, room 414.
Will you come over, please?"

"But why? What happened?"

"Come over, and I’ll tell you. Room 414'

Twenty seconds later, he knocks at the door. I let him in.

"Why are you here?" he questions again.

"When I drove home from the airport, I noticed a police car in front of
my building. I drove on and then called my land line. Sure enough,
Detective Sergeant Somes, the woman who arrested me the first time, was
in my apartment. That can only mean one thing. There is a new arrest
warrant out for me."

"And obviously, you didn’t go up," he responds, smiling. "What are
you going to do?"

"Hide, until I have uncovered the evidence that will clear me."

"Yes, London is big. It is like a jungle and easy to hide. Do you have
a suspicion why the police tried to arrest you again?"

"There is no evidence that indicts me. So it must be something else —"

"— such as your ex-boyfriend making a false statement,’

I’m intrigued. Does he draw the same conclusion as I? "Such as?"

His answer confirms it. "Trying to pay you back, as he promised in
that café? A report to the police that Carlo signed that bank application
would do. All he has to do is to also state that Carlo is a druggie. The
police will then treat anything your brother says as suspicious."

"Yes, Fausto, that very same reasoning has occurred to me too."

"Maybe I should shake Buxton a bit to make him retract whatever he
told the police."

"What’s been said has been said. No way to undo it. And the way I
know Buxton, he’ll dig in his heels. He may even accuse me of hiring
somebody to rough him up. No, I think it’s best to let Buxton believe that
he has succeeded. We can always deal with him later on … Something
else has cropped up. I’m afraid that my brother has given me the slip. If
this is so, you immediately see the implication."

"Yes, he will go back to Garland to demand money."

"Exactly. I checked with my mother. He has not arrived in Lugano
yet."

"He could have stayed in Milan."

"Yes, but we don’t know. The only way to learn whether he was on
that flight is to call the airline. But they won’t pass out information to a
private person,’

"So, you pretend to be police."

"Right, Fausto. You got it." He gave me a pleased smile. I then
explained why it should be the Italian police and that he should do the
call.

"I think that should work," he responds, "but rather than claim to be
police it may be better to use the
Guardia di Finanza
."

"You do what you think is most likely to work." I write down the flight
details on a piece of paper and then look up the contact number for
Alitalia at Heathrow on the Web browser of my iPhone.

He makes the call. He sounds genuine, starting out in English with just
the right Italian accent and then switching to Italian. They first ask him
to call back Monday during office hours. When he insists that it is urgent,
they pass him from official to official, but finally he gets the information:
a Carlo Walker checked in for the flight, but failed to take his seat.

"So your brother reneged on his promise," he says after disconnecting,
"and if he goes to Garland again, it might interfere with our plans. What
are we going to do?"

I notice the ‘we’. Fausto has taken ownership of our operation. "I don’t
know yet for sure. I’ll sleep on it and we’ll discuss it tomorrow. There is
nothing we can do tonight. But, right now, my stomach reminds me that
I’ve not had a meal since this morning. Will you join me for dinner?"

"Signorina, I would be honored."

"You like Spanish food?"

"I will be pleased with whatever you choose."

"All right, Spanish it is. It’s only a few steps from here, in a little side
street this side of Piccadilly Circus. And Fausto, let’s drop the formalities.
I’m Cecilia, and lets give us the ‘
tu
’."

He smiles, pleased. "Cecilia … It is a beautiful name, but it doesn’t
suit the tough woman you are underneath."

It’s now my turn to smile. "Maybe."

Saturday, 11:15 p.m.

We return to the hotel rather later than I had planned. The paella we
shared was rich with seafood and the Spanish wine heavy. Fausto insisted
on paying. There is no doubt that he enjoyed himself. He even told me
about his
fidanzata.
When we part to our adjacent rooms, we agree to
meet at half past eight for breakfast.

After a minimum of evening toilet, I slip naked between the unfamiliar
sheets. When I did a minimum of shopping late afternoon, I didn’t bother
to buy myself also a nightshirt. The mattress is too soft. The sheets are
rough and the heavy bedcover feels restrictive. I get up again and fold it
away and then I’m cold. I miss my Swedish style eiderdown. Between the
discomfort of the bed and the dilemma Carlo presented me with, sleep
refuses to oblige.

Should I try to rescue my brother once more or should I use him as bait
for trapping Garland? Do I owe it to Carlo to keep him safe or would I do
him a greater favor if I make him face the consequences of his actions?
In the long run, the latter is really the only solution.

What could the police charge him with if I chose to let him confront
Garland and used him to clear my name? He may be charged with
trespassing. He only supplied a signature for opening a bank account, but
had no involvement in its subsequent use for the Sanvino transactions.
Might he get off with just a slap on the wrist on both counts, particularly
if he cooperated with the police? But I also know that he will never do
this voluntarily. He has a childish phobia about the police. He has to be
placed into a situation from which he can’t back out.

Sunday, 9
^th
November, 7:40
a.m.

The night’s sleep has brought the resolution to my quandary about using
Carlo to trap Garland. I gave Carlo a chance. He rejected it in favor of
trying to squeeze more money from Garland. Even if I prevent him once
more and book him on another flight, he might play the same trick on me
again. On the other hand, if I catch them in the transaction, maybe even
record them haggling over how much, I will have the evidence that
Garland arranged for the signature on the bank account, enough to
convince Willis to go after him. Even Garland won’t be able to talk
himself out of the fact that he passed on the bank statement to the police
for an account he opened by proxy. I can then leave it to Carvaggio and
Fausto to recover the money. The only downside is that Carlo could end
up with a conviction, but I doubt that it would lead to a custodial
sentence. It may even shake him up enough to have a serious look at his
life and his future.

I call my mother, telling her that Carlo missed the plane and that we
haven’t yet booked another flight. She wants to speak to him, and I reply
that he slept over with some friends — probably not that far fetched.

Next, I call Silvio.

"
Salve
, Ceci," he greets me, probably having seen my number on the
screen of his cell phone. "I love you."

"Silvio, I love you too. Have talked to your wife?"

"Don’t always refer to Emilia as my wife. She hasn’t been my wife for
four years."

"Sorry, so did you speak to her?"

"Yes, but she flatly refuses to talk about it. She says she’s still my wife
and intends to keep it that way."

"Did you offer her money?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don’t have a hundred thousand Euros to throw after her."

I try again to make him see that Emilia, once made aware of her weak
position, might be willing to settle for far less. I then excuse myself that
I won’t be able to see him today, that Carlo made a runner and didn’t
board the flight, and that I have to find him before he does something
stupid. Not quite the full truth, but I’m not willing to alarm Silvio by
disclosing my plans for the coming evening.

At eight thirty I join Fausto for breakfast. He voices his surprise when
I tell him that I’m not going to rescue my brother again. "Cecilia, you will
be a good mother," he comments, "you care, but you’re tough enough to
impose boundaries, that if a child steps beyond them he has to bear the
consequences."

I respond with a smile. Fausto’s views still catch me by surprise. Yes,
he is right in some respects, except that Carlo isn’t my child, but maybe
I have behaved like a mother to him for far too long.

"So what’s the plan for tonight?" he questions, suddenly more alert. "I
would guess that your brother is likely to show up at Garlands already
this evening."

"Yes, I think you’re correct." I explain my plan for catching Garland
and my brother. "If at all possible, I would like to record them, which
means I have to get a directional microphone, like the ones spies use."

Fausto’s face lights up. "Signorina, I came prepared. I have one in my
suitcase. It has an attachment that allows it to be stuck to glass and so will
capture what’s spoken on the other side. So we’ll again go over the
fence."

"Excellent, Fausto. What would I do without you?"

He beams.

"I think we should be out there before dusk, say around five —" I
continue.

"— to make sure to catch your brother, but we’ll only go across once
we see him or once it’s dark."

"Right. However, we also need a contingency plan, just in case my
brother doesn’t show up, namely to break into the house and search
Garland’s office, get into his safe. It may well turn out to be a long night."

"That’s fine. I’m used to that. I’ll get all the equipment ready. Your
rope is still in my car. What time do you want to start out?"

"It gets dark around five thirty; so say four. Is that all right?"

He nods.

"Fortunately the weather is holding up; it won’t be cold tonight, but
take something warm along anyway, just in case we’ll have to wait until
after midnight." There is no need to tell him to wear dark clothing. "And
I’ll pick up some food and drink for us. Talking about drink, how can you
stomach this awful coffee? It tastes like kerosene."

"It’s disgusting, isn’t it? I’ve tried several places, even Starbucks, but
none serve a coffee like the Italians do, except for that café on Bond
Street, but that’s closed on Sundays."

"I know another café that serves breakfasts where we’ll get a decent
coffee. Are you game?"

"You bet. None of the places you’ve taken me so far has disappointed
me."

"All right, I just tidy myself up a bit. Let’s meet in the lobby in fifteen
minutes.

Sunday, 9:40
a.m.

The café I have in mind is just on the other side of Piccadilly Circus. I’m
wearing the same outfit I did for taking Carlo to the airport, a zip-up,
light-brown cardigan over a cream blouse, gray pants, and comfortable
brown shoes — simple but elegant. I’m not worried that I may have an
encounter with the police. My large, dark sunglasses provide sufficient
disguise.

By the time we get to the square, the sun offers a welcome warmth.
There is little or no wind. It feels balmy for this time of year. I expected
that the city would still be empty so early on a Sunday, but there is a
crowd already, different in their behavior than during the week. Few are
hurrying along with seemingly a clear destination in mind. Most look like
tourists, eastern Europeans, Spaniards, Indians, Chinese, with a sprinkling
of British, ambling in small groups, with the occasional large tour party
following a guide. Amused, I watch one Chinese guide hold up her sign,
only followed by a flock of pigeons, while her group remains glued to a
street vendor who is twisting a balloon into the shape of a squirrel.