Tosca
by Brenda K
“Ahi! Attenzione!”
The crash is deafening and followed by a shrill scream.
“Accidenti! Ma cosa fai, stupido! Madonna…”
Suppressing a grin, I carry on polishing wine glasses with vehemence. That's the third time in one hour that poor Luigi got in his boss's way, but this time he's obviously managed a disaster. Mamma Maddalena - nobody calls her anything else - is now warming to her topic, although I can't understand a word of the enthusiastic tirade that is pounding down on the boy's meekly hanging head. Honestly, she could give even Cowley a run for his money when she's really got her eye in.
“Ma dì, questo maledetto ragazzo non è buono a nulla! ”
Spent, but still muttering to herself, la mamma now trots out of her kitchen to join me at the counter.
“Do me a favour, per carità, e fammi un caffè - eh, piccino? ”
“Subito. ” Great. One of the estimated thirteen Italian words I can pronounce halfway correctly.
La mamma watches me brew her espresso with sharp eyes that hardly ever miss anything. I realised soon enough why everybody makes sure to stay on the smooth side of her tongue. Her tantrums are legendary, and her seemingly infinite repertoire of insults and curses tends to make even the oldest and toughest mafioso blush like a schoolboy and hastily mutter excuses.
This leaves me inordinately grateful that I don't understand a single word of her tongue-lashings and that I am hardly ever on the receiving end. It appears that la mamma is fond of me, or rather of young Mark Davis, the new waiter her son hired a week ago.
Sipping her coffee and chatting about Luigi's latest kitchen calamity, she looks at me with genuine affection, and I wonder once again what she would say if she knew the truth about me. As it is, she seems to like my looks, especially my bum, which she gives the occasional appreciative slap, and my hair, which she keeps ruffling. She has to stand on tiptoes to do that. I'm not all that tall and she reaches up to my chest at most, though what she lacks in height, she makes up in girth. Round and chubby, her face flushed from the kitchen heat, she's still bouncing with energy and surprisingly sprightly for her bulk and age.
I worked often enough in the past in various Italian restaurants and wine bars to fumble my way through the menu and a few bits of conversation, but thankfully this family has lived in London long enough to speak a confused mixture of English and Italian so I get along without missing too much.
Which is a good thing, given why I'm working here.
Domenico Scarpia, business-minded owner and manager of Ristorante La Tosca, is la mamma's pride and joy. In her books, her son comes directly second to the pope, although on occasion, he gets his fair share of dressing-downs like the rest of us. God knows if even the pope would be all that safe.
At the same time, though – and possibly even unknown to mamma Maddalena – Domenico is one of the major players in various business areas that have nothing to do with pizza and pasta, but everything with white powder and bundles of dirty money. He might not be your typical Sicilian Mafioso, but it seems he has the right connections at least. With the mob at its finest, including some faces our fearless leader would sell his auntie for if that would bring them behind bars.
At least that's what Beppo told my partner three weeks ago, claiming he'd personally witnessed his padrone do shady dealings with some well-clad men he clearly recognised as onorabili. The other two waiters are, according to Beppo, also involved. When he gave us the names, Bodie realised he knew one of them, a certain Angelo, so the odds were high that Angelo would recognise Bodie as well.
But Angelo didn't know me, at least not until I showed up at the restaurant to apply for a job. Luck had it that they had a vacancy, although I must admit that Beppo's departure wasn't exactly his own idea, but rather that of George Cowley who convinced him he should urgently visit his family in Manfredonia if he didn't want to go end up in the nick for his sins.
So now I've got the job and am polishing glasses. My boss is happy with me, the other waiters are friendly, and mamma Maddalena likes me – a good start, and I hope that over time they'll trust me enough to let me get a glimpse of their other activities as well. Without offering too much insight, Beppo hinted at being involved in that, too, so there's a good chance that sooner or later, they need someone to replace his other services as well.
Preferably sooner, I decide yet again, since I've just started an affair with a fantastic red-head named Cindy whom I have now left behind, however reluctantly, with merely a few vague explanations about having to go away on business for a while.
I sincerely hope she won't turn up at this popular restaurant one day to find me serving spaghetti bolognese: she doesn't live all that far from here and loves Italian food. To make sure or at least be warned in time, I asked Murphy to keep an eye on her. I purposely did not ask my partner, for obvious reasons.
Bodie would certainly find it hard to pass on the opportunity, Cindy being gorgeous to say the least. Although, come to think of it, he's been pretty subdued ever since it turned out that I was the lucky sod to go undercover. Well, he couldn't do it, could he? Angelo knows Bodie's face and would have blown the whole op in thirty seconds. He'd never met me before, though.
The back door opens with a bang, startling mamma Maddalena as much as me. With her usual panache, la mamma sails back into her kitchen to give a piece of her mind to the new arrival and, for good measure, also to Luigi who has by now re-emerged from wherever he escaped to after his little accident with a few plates.
Ah, it's Giuditta, la mamma's daughter-in-law and widow to Domenico's brother Cesare, sadly passed away from lead poisoning administered by some rival mobster family a couple of years ago. She and her daughter still live with la mamma, and little Nicoletta often comes in after school. She's a nice girl, and pretty. Bet she'll be a real looker like her mum once she grows up.
Yeah, beautiful Giuditta with her long black hair, shapely bottom and her sensuous lips, cherry-red today. Entirely kissable, and, judging by the looks she gives me, this is not at all a hypothetical idea.
Down, boy! I scold myself. You've got Cindy back home, and provided Murphy sticks to his promise to leave her alone, she'll be waiting for you, all hot and ready, once this is over. Hopefully soon. So far, I'm bored out of my skull. Cleaning glasses and playing waiter really isn't my idea of an inspiring job. Wonder what Bodie's up to and if his day is a little more exciting right now.
Ah, the first client of the day.
“Yes sir, we're open. I'll be right with you.”
Angelo and Peppino should be here any minute. I put on my long waiter's apron and reach for the menu.
“Prego, signore.”
"So what's the idea?" Cindy says over her Pimms. It doesn't help that she's licking the strawberry they've skewered to the top in a way that… well…
"Idea?" I say in mock innocence. "Like I told you, Ray asked me to keep an eye on you while he's away. Make sure you didn't need anything. So I thought there'd be no harm in a quiet drink. I mean, he might want progress reports."
She snorts faintly. According to the story I've dutifully stuck to, but one that was arranged extremely rapidly and is a little lacking in the finer points, Doyle's busy out of town on some boring research stuff for his equally boring job in some obscure Ministry. What sort of Ministry employs people with long hair and tight jeans isn't something I'd like to try and explain, mind.
"And he trusts you? You married or gay or something?"
Oh Jesus. The stupid bugger said she was 'unusual', but let's say she's a shade on the blunt side, not to mention the fact that she's rather aware of her charms.
"Neither," I say, my tone a little sharper than I intended, as I'm a little offended and particularly about the 'gay' part. "Unattached. But Ray's a mate."
"So you both said. And he's not been calling me much. Don't they have pay phones where he is or something?"
Damn. Think, Murph.
"Probably all been vandalised."
Oh, clever.
"Vandalised? At some sort of Government place?"
"Don't suppose they let him call from there, love. And apparently his digs are a bit seedy."
"So you know where he is?"
Shit. This is worse than an interrogation, and I'm not used to being on the wrong end of one.
"Well no, not exactly. He just said it was… not a great area he was living in. Actually," I have a flash of inspiration, "I think he's doing something rather hush-hush."
"Oh my," she says, suitably impressed and files that away, looking a bit happier. "Must be more fun than selling used cars. That's what Ray said you did…"
I'll kill the sod for that one when he gets back. I'd already promised him that much when he told me that was my 'role'. There are times when Doyle's sense of humour gets the better of him.
"Yeah," I say tightly.
"Must come to see you," she says. "Particularly if you could organise some sort of deal?"
I hate you, Ray Doyle.
"Not unless you're in the market for a Roller or a Bentley, love."
God, I'm brilliant. I knew CI5 hired me for something.
"Wow!" Her eyes light up. "Must say you looked incredibly smart for some sort of car salesman. I'd love to come and try one out, mind."
"Sorry," I sigh, sliding quite happily into all this after my stroke of inspiration. "We don't actually have showrooms. We just do the special stuff – ordered by VIPs, bulletproof windows and special features - that sort of thing. One-off models. So that'd be a bit hard."
"Mmmmm," she murmurs. "I can just imagine myself draped in a limousine with a champagne bar, telly…"
Well, Doyle, this might put a strain on your CI5 pay my lad, if she's got that sort of expensive tastes.
"Refill?" I ask, rather proud of myself for rising a few notches in her esteem. "They've called last orders."
"Love one," she nods, giving me a particularly delightful smile. I watch her unobtrusively as I go up to the bar, and have to admire Doyle's taste. She's petite, slim, but rather well endowed. Dresses nicely if a shade revealingly. As for the hair, it's a dark, coppery red: he always did like redheads. Although this one is nothing like that Holly woman who looked like she put makeup on with a trowel. Cindy's definitely a bit less heavy-handed with the warpaint.
"So," she says brightly as she comes back. "To get back to you. Unattached, you said."
"Yes," I say honestly. "But extremely honourable. Which is why Ray…"
"Asked you to do the honours," she finishes for me. "Just didn't realise he was the jealous type, or not until he said a mate of his would be keeping an eye on me. I was curious about who it would be, but heaven knows I'm not complaining."
What am I supposed to say to that?
"No?" I try not to make it sound like a come-on, but I think it probably sounds rather like one.
"Definitely. But the thing is, you see…" she pats me on the knee, "I can't stand jealous men. Nor people trying to tie me down. And I only agreed to meet you to see exactly who he'd lined up. I expected you to be short and fat."
"Gee thanks," I manage.
"And it's a real shame you're honourable, Patrick, because you're frankly very much my kind of guy. Corny but true. I suppose you're going to be all shocked and horrified now, and tell me you wouldn't dream of seducing me. Right?"
I swallow.
"Right."
Liar.
"Shame," she says cheerfully. "Because if Ray's really going to be away for weeks, I'm not guaranteeing I can be half as honourable. And if I know him, he'll already be screwing some stupid secretary anyway."
"Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't…"
I'm certain he would, that's the trouble. Doyle tends to consider all women fair game, just as Bodie does. I strongly suspect that even if he's sufficiently attached to Cindy to have me keep an eye on her, he wouldn't turn down any opportunities that arose elsewhere, either.
"Don't be daft," Cindy says a little scornfully. "Ray enjoys me because I'm dynamite in bed. To hell with false modesty. He's not bad himself, for that matter. But I've got him sussed, believe me, and he's not really got me figured out at all, or he wouldn't have let you anywhere near."
Oh hell. Now if I was Bodie, I'd grin, steer her out of the door and be in bed with her within half an hour.
"Look," I say awkwardly, "this is a bit…"
"Surprising?" she says with a cheeky grin. "I like to surprise people. In fact with Ray, I play all demure, ladylike, no low necklines and then turn into something else entirely in bed. Am I shocking you?"
"No," I lie once again. She's shocking me all right but in a way that's playing hell with my groin.
"Good," she chuckles. "Well, are you going to report back to Ray that I'm an utter tramp? Wouldn't blame you."
She would have to go and ask that.
"Of course not," I find myself saying. "I think you might need to talk to him at some point, though. Sort of set things straight about… um… how you both think about each other," I say lamely. "It might not be fair to let him think you're waiting for him if you're… er…"
"I could do, yes," she says demurely. "But sexual politics are such a pain, aren't they? I suppose I am a fool for playing little miss faithful and leading him up the garden path a bit. It started out as a bit of a joke and I got carried away. But yes, I'll set him straight. If you don't do it first."
"I won't," I say, watching her sip from the long straw and wondering what the hell we're both playing at.
"But in the meanwhile, I can think of another solution."
"Which is?"
"You could keep me happy while he's away. Then we'll give it some thought when he does get back. And he did say you should see if I needed anything."
Jesus Christ. I'm supposed to be here instead of Bodie dragging her off by the hair and having his way with her, and she's trying to do exactly that with me.
"I don't think that's quite what he had in mind," I say primly, trying not to stare at her boobs. "Neither do I. But at this moment, he's away doing heaven knows what. We're both here, consenting adults, and I find you extremely attractive. It's Ray's own fault, really."
It is, I admit to myself. Definitely.
The pub's nearly empty now, and she gets up, taking my hand. I wish she hadn't done that as I have the feeling I've just taken a rather irreversible step.
Our cars are the only two left in the car park. I just hope the Granada's what a Rolls Royce expert would drive, as she's looking at it.
"We don't get to drive the goods," I say a little defiantly.
"Shame," she says, licking her lips and turning towards me. "Warm night though, isn't it."
It is. And there are parts of me that are downright hot. When she pulls me closer, I shudder, trying not to let her get close enough to realise how hot.
It doesn't help that she kisses like a dream, and she's not only homed in on my lips but also on my erection, caressing it through the thin, summer weight trousers. I should take her hands away, but my own hands are rather busy. One's sliding up inside her top and the other's on her bum.
We totter over to the Granada, parked underneath a tree, by which time she's panting and I'm feeling a whole lot less honourable still. She's an expert in undoing trouser buttons and zips with one hand, and I'm doing pretty well with the single-handed approach to bra hooks. She's very well endowed indeed.
Her hand… the one that isn't exploring my underpants… pulls my fingers where she wants them. As in between her legs.
Then she pushes me away, which throws me completely for a second, but it's only to pull her panties off and renew her efforts with my now open fly and what's now jutting out from it.
"We could get arrested," I say. It's my sensible side coming out, in direct contrast to what I really want. Well, that and the thought of explaining this away to Cowley if we're caught. Or Doyle. Christ. The trouble is, I'm already exploring under her skirt, which at this precise moment means sensible is fast becoming a memory.
"Don't like living dangerously?" she says.
"I think… I could live with it," I murmur, probing a little more. "In the car?"
"I love doing it standing up," she says firmly, and braces herself against the side of the car. "Now, Patrick.
I don't wait to be asked twice, and she reaches for me, guiding me inside her skilfully, getting the balance rapidly. God, it's good.
She was absolutely right in the bit about no false modesty concerning her abilities either, because as quickies go, this is about as erotic as it gets. She's probably a bit bossy about it, telling me exactly how to pinch her nipples as I ram into her, but who's complaining. She even tells me to let go and come – not that I need much encouraging – and rapidly introduces her own fingers into the mix as soon as I stop shuddering and climaxes in turn, even before I'm out of her.
"Nice," she says, picking up her panties because, as she says, she doesn't want to leak onto the upholstery.
I'm a bit surprised by her matter-of-fact attitude as well, I suppose. Most of all, though, I feel torn between being surprised, happy and just a bit guilty as I rearrange my own clothing.
"Don't start feeling guilty," she adds, reading my thoughts. "It was my idea. So where do we go from here?"
I must look blank, and she grins.
"Not as in true love, mortgage and kids, Patrick. This is about sex. I was thinking your place or mine, for round two."
Christ. Does Doyle know she's a bloody nympho or something? And was that my mouth that said 'mine's closer'?
Along with all the other feelings, another one creeps in. One that says that it's not too bad a feeling to have been tested and found a good substitute for one of CI5's resident Casanovas. Even more, it really is Doyle's fault if he decided that good old reliable Murphy was too honourable to pinch his bird, and after all, she's turned out to be the predatory one, hasn't she? What's more, I don't think he'd have thought twice about pinching one of mine whether she was predatory or not - I know full well he's already done it to Bodie.
Poor bugger, though, if he thinks she's demure. Or faithful. But we'll worry about that later – after round 2. Or three. Or whatever.
“It's close to Firenze, you know, Fiesole. High up on the mountain, very nice view.”
“Oh yes, la Madonna di Fiesole,” I say casually.
She looks up sharply from her pasta dough. “You know that?”
Folding another napkin into a Bishop's mitre, I nod and tell her I remember it.
It's true. Luca della Robbia, Ghiberti, Donatello, the lot. I remember very well even. A teacher from art school had some business to see to in Florence between terms, and knowing I couldn't afford the grand tour, she offered to take me along so I could get to see some genuine early Renaissance art in the flesh.
I grin. Oh yeah, it was quite a bit of flesh I got to see, and by no means all of it in polished marble and five hundred years old.
Miss Suzanne cared very much for her students and was very eager to round off young Ray's education in every respect. And that part of our journey definitely proved to be highly educational, there's no other way of putting it.
Yet that was only half of it. She was an art expert, but also loved what she saw and had the knack of opening my eyes as well.
I find myself telling la mamma about all those palaces, statues, paintings and the Florentine goldsmiths' craftsmanship that made such a vivid impression on my mind, and I realise it not only deepens her affection for me, but also gives my cover substantial background that could prove very useful.
It seems safe enough to tell her. A young boy from the heart of England who studied art but somehow never got round to using his skills and ended up as a humble waiter. Quite believable, I'd say, judging by what has become of some of my mates from those days.
Who would associate that art stuff with a copper's life? Nobody, not even my own partner did when we first met. I remember that look Bodie gave me when he found out that he was to work not only with an ex-plod, but also an ex-art student. He never stopped teasing me about the live classes and all that for months. Until I saved his life for the first time, I muse. I suppose that's what clinched it.
Anyway, la mamma's really smitten with “Marco” now. She even tells me about her youngest son who is called Marco as well and still lives with his wife and kids in Fiesole, in the house the Scarpia family owns there.
He's a musician – they all love music, she tells me. Her late husband – Dio l'abbia in gloria! – loved the opera more than anything, and that's why they called the restaurant Tosca when they started out here in London decades ago. And that's why they are playing opera music all the time, she beams.
“Much better than that horrible modern chiasso, eh, Francesca?”
I have to agree. Most of the crap other Italian restaurants play is horrible indeed. And to me, most of the melodies and the fine voices they play here even sound eerily familiar. My mum loved that kind of music, along with Barry Manilow, of course. As kids, we used to scream when she turned up the volume of her kitchen radio in a useless attempt to drown out Chuck Berry blaring out of our transistor upstairs with Nessun Dorma.
Francesca also nods fervently, and I smile. I've heard her hum along with the tunes most of the time while she's washing dishes or even scrubbing the floor.
She's roughly my age, but looks a lot older and sort of submissive, as if life is constantly dragging her down. Maybe it is. La mamma confided to me that the slightly hunchbacked girl was disowned by her family because of the one lapse she committed in her life – an illegitimate daughter called Mimi, now six and best friends with la mamma's grand-daughter Nicoletta.
I finish another mitre and look at the pile of immaculately ironed napkins in front of me. Don't go too fast, I admonish myself, for I need to drag my work out a bit.
All this talk about past times is all very well, and it's certainly intriguing to listen to la mamma's confidences, but what I really want to know right now is what's going on behind that closed office door.
I've barely caught a glimpse of Domenico walking in with visitors, two unobtrusive men in unobtrusive grey suits and expensive Italian shoes, both carrying elegant executive cases. You could easily take them for some kind of well-to-do merchants or perhaps lawyers, if it hadn't been for the slight bulges underneath their armpits and the big black Roller parked in the back alley with two heavies in it.
There's clearly some business going down in there, and right now I'd give an arm and a leg to know exactly what it is.
Just my bad luck that there's no way of listening in without technical assistance, and even the ground plan is unfavourable to obbo work. I can barely see the office entrance from the kitchen, let alone from the counter where I usually work.
I'll have to get bugs installed, but first of all, I need to obtain them. I mentally kick myself for not bringing them in the first place, but you never know who'll be going through your things when you start out on an undercover job, especially if you're staying in a room right above the restaurant, wall to wall with one of the other waiters.
No, I need to report in and ask for someone to deliver the bugs. Should be easy enough to smuggle them in. Maybe they can even send Murph so I can ask him how Cindy is holding up, provided I get a chance. That part, however, wouldn't be all that easy given the way Giuditta has seemingly decided not to leave certain parts of my delicate anatomy unobserved for any length of time.
Well, I've got Cindy at home now and I'm damned well aware where my loyalties lie.
“Oh yes, la Madonna di Fiesole,” I say casually.
She looks up sharply from her pasta dough. “You know that?”
Folding another napkin into a Bishop's mitre, I nod and tell her I remember it.
It's true. Luca della Robbia, Ghiberti, Donatello, the lot. I remember very well even. A teacher from art school had some business to see to in Florence between terms, and knowing I couldn't afford the grand tour, she offered to take me along so I could get to see some genuine early Renaissance art in the flesh.
I grin. Oh yeah, it was quite a bit of flesh I got to see, and by no means all of it in polished marble and five hundred years old.
Miss Suzanne cared very much for her students and was very eager to round off young Ray's education in every respect. And that part of our journey definitely proved to be highly educational, there's no other way of putting it.
Yet that was only half of it. She was an art expert, but also loved what she saw and had the knack of opening my eyes as well.
I find myself telling la mamma about all those palaces, statues, paintings and the Florentine goldsmiths' craftsmanship that made such a vivid impression on my mind, and I realise it not only deepens her affection for me, but also gives my cover substantial background that could prove very useful.
It seems safe enough to tell her. A young boy from the heart of England who studied art but somehow never got round to using his skills and ended up as a humble waiter. Quite believable, I'd say, judging by what has become of some of my mates from those days.
Who would associate that art stuff with a copper's life? Nobody, not even my own partner did when we first met. I remember that look Bodie gave me when he found out that he was to work not only with an ex-plod, but also an ex-art student. He never stopped teasing me about the live classes and all that for months. Until I saved his life for the first time, I muse. I suppose that's what clinched it.
Anyway, la mamma's really smitten with “Marco” now. She even tells me about her youngest son who is called Marco as well and still lives with his wife and kids in Fiesole, in the house the Scarpia family owns there.
He's a musician – they all love music, she tells me. Her late husband – Dio l'abbia in gloria! – loved the opera more than anything, and that's why they called the restaurant Tosca when they started out here in London decades ago. And that's why they are playing opera music all the time, she beams.
“Much better than that horrible modern chiasso, eh, Francesca?”
I have to agree. Most of the crap other Italian restaurants play is horrible indeed. And to me, most of the melodies and the fine voices they play here even sound eerily familiar. My mum loved that kind of music, along with Barry Manilow, of course. As kids, we used to scream when she turned up the volume of her kitchen radio in a useless attempt to drown out Chuck Berry blaring out of our transistor upstairs with Nessun Dorma.
Francesca also nods fervently, and I smile. I've heard her hum along with the tunes most of the time while she's washing dishes or even scrubbing the floor.
She's roughly my age, but looks a lot older and sort of submissive, as if life is constantly dragging her down. Maybe it is. La mamma confided to me that the slightly hunchbacked girl was disowned by her family because of the one lapse she committed in her life – an illegitimate daughter called Mimi, now six and best friends with la mamma's grand-daughter Nicoletta.
I finish another mitre and look at the pile of immaculately ironed napkins in front of me. Don't go too fast, I admonish myself, for I need to drag my work out a bit.
All this talk about past times is all very well, and it's certainly intriguing to listen to la mamma's confidences, but what I really want to know right now is what's going on behind that closed office door.
I've barely caught a glimpse of Domenico walking in with visitors, two unobtrusive men in unobtrusive grey suits and expensive Italian shoes, both carrying elegant executive cases. You could easily take them for some kind of well-to-do merchants or perhaps lawyers, if it hadn't been for the slight bulges underneath their armpits and the big black Roller parked in the back alley with two heavies in it.
There's clearly some business going down in there, and right now I'd give an arm and a leg to know exactly what it is.
Just my bad luck that there's no way of listening in without technical assistance, and even the ground plan is unfavourable to obbo work. I can barely see the office entrance from the kitchen, let alone from the counter where I usually work.
I'll have to get bugs installed, but first of all, I need to obtain them. I mentally kick myself for not bringing them in the first place, but you never know who'll be going through your things when you start out on an undercover job, especially if you're staying in a room right above the restaurant, wall to wall with one of the other waiters.
No, I need to report in and ask for someone to deliver the bugs. Should be easy enough to smuggle them in. Maybe they can even send Murph so I can ask him how Cindy is holding up, provided I get a chance. That part, however, wouldn't be all that easy given the way Giuditta has seemingly decided not to leave certain parts of my delicate anatomy unobserved for any length of time.
Well, I've got Cindy at home now and I'm damned well aware where my loyalties lie.
Ruthie's a nice girl. And here, I mean nice, despite a taste for sarcasm and a bit of an attitude. I somehow can't imagine her doing the whole seduction scene let alone a quickie in a car park.
God, I was stupid.
And God, she was good. Cindy, that is. Doyle's bloody girlfriend.
"… cow," I catch from the other side of the table.
"Sorry Ruthie?"
"You will be sorry if you call me Ruthie again. Sounds like some sort of mentally deranged bag lady."
I try to look apologetic and wonder why she's talking about our beloved leader in here, but in fact she isn't. My bistecca arrives and it is indeed a little like half a cow, as she finally repeats. As in cows with four legs and a tail.
Doyle's grinning as he picks up the oil and vinegar for the insalata verde with a most convincing flourish and slaps it down on our table, accidentally knocking over my napkin.
He bends down, I bend down, and hey presto, one small consignment of bugs is quickly slipped into the pocket of his apron along with his notepad.
Good things, those aprons, I think to myself. The way he wears his jeans he probably couldn't get more than a credit card in his pocket.
I've been trying to avoid his eyes ever since we came in – just call me a coward – but I meet them now as we both finish scrabbling around on the floor.
"Ta," he says levelly, in an undertone. And "so sorry, sir," a little louder. "Enjoy your meal." He looks amused more than anything else, I decide. Good. Daft sod always did like all this undercover stuff.
Ruth cocks her head on one side and asks if I'm going to sit and look at my meal all night, and I remember what I'm ostensibly here for. I take a long gulp of Valpolicella and slice off a piece of steak.
It tastes wonderful, but I'm not really hungry. I keep thinking that if Doyle knew…
Things improve after a while though, and when Doyle comes over to ask if everything's all right I cheerfully tell him it's excellent. Ruth says the saltimbocca is perfect too. Doyle grins and shimmies off to another table.
"Looks like he's enjoying himself," Ruth mutters. "Oh, and you seen the vampire queen over there?"
I've been looking at all the staff, wondering who's who and trying to put names to faces from the little information Doyle provided. The woman Ruth's eyes were following has only just come in, but she's part of the restaurant judging from a few curt comments she makes to another of the waiters.
"The sister-in-law," I say quietly. "At a guess, although I imagined her more…"
"Widow-like?" Ruth asks. "Well, she is wearing black, but apart from that…"
"Quite the glamour-puss," I agree. She's dressed even more provocatively than Cindy was, in fact.
"If you like them on the showy side with too much lipstick," she snorts.
You can always count on women for comments like that.
"I don't," I say almost automatically. It's true, anyway. Usually. Doyle's girlfriend with low-cut blouses and a penchant for sex excluded, perhaps. I make a silent vow to stick to nice, demure, unattached females for the rest of my life. Soon, anyway.
"Could be Doyle's type though," she muses absently. "Remember that Holly woman? She was rather generous with the heavy-duty foundation and mascara as well."
"Didn't know you met her," I say, amused that she's come to the same conclusion as I have about the make-up.
"Briefly. Doyle brought her to the pub once. Now, speaking of cows with small Cs, she was one all right. Looked down her nose at Anson, spoke to Jax like he was just out of the jungle…"
"Ouch," I agree. "Only saw her in passing myself but I know Bodie wasn't over-impressed. He got a bit cut up over it though – Doyle did – from what I gather."
"So I heard. But he's got a new girlfriend now, right?"
"Grapevine's working then," I chuckle.
"Of course it is. You met her?"
Damn.
"Briefly, yes."
And fucked her three times in one night. But you don't need to know that, Ruthie.
"And?"
"And what?"
"What's she like?"
"Oh… ordinary," I lie. "Pleasant enough."
"Ah," she says, realising I'm not going to expand on the subject as I'm pretending my steak is demanding all my attention. "Wonder how long this one'll last? Or if she'll wait for him if this job drags on a bit?"
Women are infuriating. I don't comment on that and stab viciously at a leaf of salad.
"It's not easy, is it," Ruth continues, sipping at the wine. "Finding somebody who understands about the sort of life we lead. It drives me nuts."
"You too?" I say, surprised. Funny, I'd never really thought about the women in the squad having the same sort of problems as we do on that score.
"Machos one and all, you are," she shakes her head, doing that irritating mind-reading thing. "And yes, me too. And Susan. Even Betty. You mean it never occurred to you that we also like the idea of a social life? And much as society might have progressed, it's still not that easy for a woman to pick up a guy. Although I heard Doyle's new one did precisely that."
"She did? Blimey."
"Apparently." Ruth giggles, and drinks again. I think her tongue's getting a little loosened with all this. "Maybe I should try it myself sometime. Picking a bloke up."
"Maybe," I agree, picking up the bottle. "More?"
"No, really. We are supposed to be working."
"Can't hurt," I encourage her, anxious to know more about Cindy's tactics with Doyle. She's not playing though, and in any case Doyle in person comes over to take our plates.
"Dessert?" Doyle asks.
Personally, I'd be glad to get out of here but Ruth takes the menu. Doyle's saying something about tirami su or panna cotta, or maybe the zuppa inglese. Ruth opts for that and I point at something at random. The vampire woman's at the next table and studying Doyle carefully, which is worrying me a little.
"Zabaglione, " Doyle says politely. "That will take a little while, sir."
"No problem," Ruth says smoothly. "We're not in a hurry, and we're enjoying ourselves."
If this is enjoyment, the next time we do a muddy obstacle course it'll be bliss in comparison. What if Doyle's cover's broken? What if Doyle manages to ask me how I'm doing with Cindy?
Dammit, the widow-woman's coming over here now, smiling sweetly. Are we happy?
"Ecstatic", Ruth says with feeling. "And such wonderful service."
Doyle grins at this. Don't overdo it, kids, I feel like saying.
"Good," the woman nods. "We hope you'll come again then. Your first time here?"
"Yes," Ruth says. "But not the last."
This is useful, really, as we most certainly will be back if the case takes long enough.
"Young lovers," she purrs. "You are always welcome. Marco… bring them a sambuca on the house."
Doyle rushes off, the vampire sails off too, and I roll my eyes slightly. Like the good little agent I am, however, I manage to get things back on course a bit by turning the conversation to food and wine, both of which apparently Ruth appreciates greatly. Like I said, she's a nice girl. Light years away from Cindy, and probably from Miss Vampire too.
"Oh this was fun," Ruth says, as she polishes off the dessert and looks up at me with a cheeky smile and a very strange expression in her eyes. "And on expenses as well. I just hope I was reasonable company at least?"
Oh hell. If I wasn't mistaken she's not only slightly tipsy but…
No, not Ruthie. She can't be coming on to me, can she? I mean I might have scored with Cindy and had my ego (and a lot else) well and truly stroked, but Ruth?
"Well… of course…" My stuttering isn't very convincing.
She grimaces slightly, and then amazes me by taking one of my hands and leaning over.
"Oh, don't worry, this is all for show," she says, her mouth inches from mine. "But look over there. To my right, over by the bar. Quick. "
As fast as I dare, half-expecting to see Doyle, cover well and truly shattered, being led off at gunpoint, I glance over and just catch a long, slim hand with bright red nail varnish straying over Doyle's bum as he leans over to pick up a bottle.
"Well, well," Ruth murmurs. "Looks like the lad's made quite an impression, wouldn't you say? And he's not exactly fighting her off."
Well yes, I agree. Typical bloody Doyle. Suddenly, I feel a bit better about the whole Cindy episode.
Doyle comes over with two tiny glasses, looking just slightly smug.
"There you go, young lovers."
Ruth manages to smile gracefully, and I realise we're still hand in hand.
"It's… we're…" I start.
"No worries," Doyle grins. "I'm a great believer in perks."
"So we saw," Ruth shoots back, which only gets us another self-satisfied smirk.
Doyle can be infuriating.
After that, though, Ruth removes her hand and is rather subdued as I drive her home.
"Sorry," she murmurs as she gets out of the car. "I'm not really a tart, you know. Blame the wine."
"It was fun," I assure her, dredging up my manners from somewhere. "Thanks, Ruthie."
"Next time," she says, back to her normal self, "you call me Ruthie, I'll kick your balls under the table."
Thirteen point nine, fourteen point one – fourteen point two. Done. Tap very carefully on counter surface. Seal. Lay aside with the others.
Take another small plastic bag. Peel open. Lay on scales. Take bowl with powder, insert spoon, shake a little, spoon into bag. Look at scale, compare with note to make sure you've got the figure right. Fourteen grams and a bit – getting better at estimating the correct amount. Well, not an Olympic record after some thirty-five so far. Makes more than one pound of glistening, snow-white powder. Fiddle with sliding weights. Fourteen point one. Fourteen point two. Done.
I watch Giuditta cut open the next bag and mix the powder with corn flour. Each bag contains 250 grams, ten packages on the whole.
Makes 2.5 kilo of uncut, finest coke with a street value of what? A hundred thousand quid at least, probably more. And that was just one carton. Peppino said they get a consignment almost every three months, sometimes more often. Makes ten kilos of uncut a year, for crying out loud.
Who'd have thought Ray Doyle would be preparing this kind of goods for sale? Except that it isn't. Ray Doyle, I mean.
It's Marco who's finally on the inside, and that's what counts. I've been lucky, but you have to be in a situation like this, don't you? Seems the shipment came earlier than planned, and their contact was edgy for whatever reason. I overheard them talking about new customs regulations, didn't get what it was exactly, but it obviously did the trick.
Domenico had been eyeing me for a couple of days already before beckoning me over to his office after a shift and quietly asking me if I was interested in making a few more bob. I pulled the old number of 'dunno, what would I have to do', and he admitted they did a little on the side.
I hesitated a bit to keep up appearances and then told him I could really use the money, having been a bit down on me luck recently, and he bought it.
So when I arrived for work today, the boss told me to stay after the lunch shift while the restaurant was closed, ostensibly to stow away a consignment of coffee and wine just arrived from Italy – and pointed at a carton marked zucchero in polvere, icing sugar.
Giuditta would show me how to cut it and refill it into small bags of fourteen point two grams each, meaning half an Imperial ounce for the British market. Retail quantities, Domenico added with a nasty chuckle.
I just smiled indifferently, doing my “what do I care” bit, knowing all too well that the street peddlers would cut the coke again and fill it into those small wraps of one eighth of an ounce that their petty clientele could usually afford.
“One more thing,” Domenico added, sobering. “Make sure you're finished before my mother comes back for the evening shift. We have to make sure the stuff is gone before she decides to make tirami su with it. And in no circumstances must she know anything about this. Capito? ”
I nodded firmly, secretly a little relieved that la mamma apparently has nothing to do with her figliolo's dirty little hobby.
Giuditta, though, seems to be well into it, which is no surprise really, given that her late old man's picture is still hanging at a prominent spot on the wall of Domenico's office. He was the elder of the two, so probably Domenico took over as padrone only after the opposition offed his brother.
Seems he's been trying to take over the onorabile Cesare's place in Giuditta's bed as well. Domenico isn't married, much to la mamma's grief, and she would be all too happy to see him tie the knot with the fiery beauty and finally proceed to produce a suitable heir to the family throne, possibly along with a whole pack of further pretty bambini.
Giuditta, however, doesn't play ball. She's stringing him along, at least for the moment. I get the impression once she's had enough of larking around and firmly established her role in the family business – both legal and sideline – she will eventually condescend to yield to Domenico, if only for the sake of little Nicoletta who still misses her father dearly.
Anyway, for the time being, Giuditta doesn't show a particular interest in domestic bliss, quite the contrary, it appears. On the quiet and accompanied by lewd glances, Peppino and Angelo have told me quite a few juicy stories about their giovane padrona. Seems the lady isn't such a lady after all. Realised that myself, didn't I? All those looks she gives me – and not all of them directed at my smiling face.
Not like Cindy, I drift off while working on. She's a nice girl, and she's really made a change at last. After that crash landing with Ann, I was down a bit, in one of my sulks, Bodie complained, but I guess it wasn't all that easy for me. Bodie never seems to let things get to him, although I'm certain it's merely a façade, most of the time anyway.
I knew damn well I had to put her out of my mind, and quick. As usual, the job didn't leave me much time to wallow, which probably was a blessing. Still, the prospect of chatting up a girl at random and all that wining-and-dining didn't appeal to me for a while.
Cindy was the first to catch my eye, and boy did she catch it when I finally noticed her. Funnily, for once, she was the one to take the initiative. Not that she'd stoop so low as to chat me up, but she was definitely interested and I caught on very quickly.
She's all I liked so much about Ann, and then some. Cool, eloquent, well-educated – a lady from head to elegant shoes – in daytime, that is, because in the dark of the night she's red-hot dynamite, no other way of putting it.
Merely thinking of her pert, petite body and the incredibly arousing things she does with it makes my jeans uncomfortably tight around the groin.
Hope Giuditta doesn't – oh shit, judging by the knowing little smile, she's noticed all right. She gives me one of those looks, a come-hither if I've ever seen one. And she most definitely makes an impression on my cock, which is getting ideas of its own.
Nah. No can do. Not with Cindy waiting for me, not with all this coke lying around and not with Domenico and his goons coming back God knows when, but predictably at the wrong moment.
I'm saved by the bell, so to speak, for the phone rings and I go to answer it. I note down a reservation, watching from the corner of my eye as Giuditta disappears into the loo.
Tight jeans forgotten, it strikes me that this is the moment I've been waiting for to place those bugs Murph, good lad that he is, slipped into my eager hands when he came over last night, ostensibly to enjoy our much praised bistecca alla fiorentina and a bottle of Valpolicella with Ruthie acting as his bird. Dunno where Murph hid the bugs, given the way he wears his jeans.
Our young lovers, I chuckle. Ruthie played her part damned well – or was that gleam in her eye more than just a well-practiced role? They did look convincingly like a pair of moon-struck adolescents – you never know, maybe the wine just worked its magic and they did end up in bed.
You have my blessing, kids, if it means old Murph leaves his dirty paws off my Cindy, I grin to myself as I place the bugs.
One's already slotted away in the phone on the counter, and while Giuditta's in the loo and I have a pretext to be in Domenico's office, I make a quick job of planting the second in Domenico's phone and the third under the–
Oh shit, she's back, and she comes in to find me kneeling under the desk. Desperately, I'm fumbling for an excuse and gratefully find a pen on the floor, which I hastily grab. I get up and lay it on the desk with exaggerated care, but she doesn't even realise.
Her eyes are wild, and not at all with fury, oh no, and fastened onto my groin. I gulp as she approaches, giving a convincing impersonation of a slick black panther about to pounce.
And she does. Her lips are ruby today, like Murphy's wine last night, I think incoherently as her mouth latches onto mine. Her hands cup my face then slide down my arms to take hold of mine and firmly push them over her boobs. By God, this wild cat sure doesn't stand on ceremony.
Neither do I as my groin reports back to active status, and then some. She makes little purring noises while we're kissing, or is it me? No idea. I briefly think of Cindy, but then again, this is a job, for crying out loud, I need to maintain my cover, don't I? All in the line of duty. God, she feels good. I'm really getting into the spirit now.
Our hands are urgently exploring, our lips glued together as we're devouring each other with tongues, lips and teeth. Her blouse is already open, as suddenly are my belt and the zip of my jeans. Much more comfortable, I must say. And definitely inspiring, I decide as her fingers glide up and down my length, her nails scratching lightly over the sensitive skin.
Looking around for a suitable location for the next stage, I spot Cesare's photo on the wall in front me, complete with black ribbon, and momentarily wonder whether this is such a good idea after all, but the thought of her late husband evaporates in the same rosy cloud of body heat as Cindy's elegant image while Giuditta hoists her skirt and peels off her lacy pants. Ruby-red, I notice, just like her lips, and I mutter something about moving over to the sofa on the far wall.
But no, she has ideas of her own. Loves doing it standing up, she murmurs breathlessly, and I have to smile. Like Cindy, who gets all hot and bothered when we do it against the wall, so Giuditta's suggestion is highly appreciated to be honest.
She bends over the desk, exposing her neat rounded bottom, leaving no doubt what position she has in mind. Si, signora, too pleased to oblige. I take her from behind, and she moans approvingly. I pause for a moment, shuddering, as pleasure ripples through me. Boy, this is good. Then I start to thrust, getting into a rhythm. The lady likes it fast and strong, it turns out. Fine by me, cara, most definitely fine by me.
Then, in mid-thrust, I almost choke on a moan and nearly lose my stride. The bugs! Dammit, I just planted them, they can't be listening in already, can they? Oh yes they can, I decide ruefully, Murph's note said they'd be standing by and switch on soonest, given the urgency of the matter.
Urgency, however, currently has quite a different meaning for me, for she's making keening noises now, moaning my name. She's close, and we've made too much noise already, so I decide it doesn't matter any more.
Growling, I pound into her and feel her clenching me in response as she starts to shake and pant. With a heartfelt groan I follow her over the edge.
There. Hope you enjoyed the show, whoever you are in the buggy-boo. The two of us certainly did.
Take another small plastic bag. Peel open. Lay on scales. Take bowl with powder, insert spoon, shake a little, spoon into bag. Look at scale, compare with note to make sure you've got the figure right. Fourteen grams and a bit – getting better at estimating the correct amount. Well, not an Olympic record after some thirty-five so far. Makes more than one pound of glistening, snow-white powder. Fiddle with sliding weights. Fourteen point one. Fourteen point two. Done.
I watch Giuditta cut open the next bag and mix the powder with corn flour. Each bag contains 250 grams, ten packages on the whole.
Makes 2.5 kilo of uncut, finest coke with a street value of what? A hundred thousand quid at least, probably more. And that was just one carton. Peppino said they get a consignment almost every three months, sometimes more often. Makes ten kilos of uncut a year, for crying out loud.
Who'd have thought Ray Doyle would be preparing this kind of goods for sale? Except that it isn't. Ray Doyle, I mean.
It's Marco who's finally on the inside, and that's what counts. I've been lucky, but you have to be in a situation like this, don't you? Seems the shipment came earlier than planned, and their contact was edgy for whatever reason. I overheard them talking about new customs regulations, didn't get what it was exactly, but it obviously did the trick.
Domenico had been eyeing me for a couple of days already before beckoning me over to his office after a shift and quietly asking me if I was interested in making a few more bob. I pulled the old number of 'dunno, what would I have to do', and he admitted they did a little on the side.
I hesitated a bit to keep up appearances and then told him I could really use the money, having been a bit down on me luck recently, and he bought it.
So when I arrived for work today, the boss told me to stay after the lunch shift while the restaurant was closed, ostensibly to stow away a consignment of coffee and wine just arrived from Italy – and pointed at a carton marked zucchero in polvere, icing sugar.
Giuditta would show me how to cut it and refill it into small bags of fourteen point two grams each, meaning half an Imperial ounce for the British market. Retail quantities, Domenico added with a nasty chuckle.
I just smiled indifferently, doing my “what do I care” bit, knowing all too well that the street peddlers would cut the coke again and fill it into those small wraps of one eighth of an ounce that their petty clientele could usually afford.
“One more thing,” Domenico added, sobering. “Make sure you're finished before my mother comes back for the evening shift. We have to make sure the stuff is gone before she decides to make tirami su with it. And in no circumstances must she know anything about this. Capito? ”
I nodded firmly, secretly a little relieved that la mamma apparently has nothing to do with her figliolo's dirty little hobby.
Giuditta, though, seems to be well into it, which is no surprise really, given that her late old man's picture is still hanging at a prominent spot on the wall of Domenico's office. He was the elder of the two, so probably Domenico took over as padrone only after the opposition offed his brother.
Seems he's been trying to take over the onorabile Cesare's place in Giuditta's bed as well. Domenico isn't married, much to la mamma's grief, and she would be all too happy to see him tie the knot with the fiery beauty and finally proceed to produce a suitable heir to the family throne, possibly along with a whole pack of further pretty bambini.
Giuditta, however, doesn't play ball. She's stringing him along, at least for the moment. I get the impression once she's had enough of larking around and firmly established her role in the family business – both legal and sideline – she will eventually condescend to yield to Domenico, if only for the sake of little Nicoletta who still misses her father dearly.
Anyway, for the time being, Giuditta doesn't show a particular interest in domestic bliss, quite the contrary, it appears. On the quiet and accompanied by lewd glances, Peppino and Angelo have told me quite a few juicy stories about their giovane padrona. Seems the lady isn't such a lady after all. Realised that myself, didn't I? All those looks she gives me – and not all of them directed at my smiling face.
Not like Cindy, I drift off while working on. She's a nice girl, and she's really made a change at last. After that crash landing with Ann, I was down a bit, in one of my sulks, Bodie complained, but I guess it wasn't all that easy for me. Bodie never seems to let things get to him, although I'm certain it's merely a façade, most of the time anyway.
I knew damn well I had to put her out of my mind, and quick. As usual, the job didn't leave me much time to wallow, which probably was a blessing. Still, the prospect of chatting up a girl at random and all that wining-and-dining didn't appeal to me for a while.
Cindy was the first to catch my eye, and boy did she catch it when I finally noticed her. Funnily, for once, she was the one to take the initiative. Not that she'd stoop so low as to chat me up, but she was definitely interested and I caught on very quickly.
She's all I liked so much about Ann, and then some. Cool, eloquent, well-educated – a lady from head to elegant shoes – in daytime, that is, because in the dark of the night she's red-hot dynamite, no other way of putting it.
Merely thinking of her pert, petite body and the incredibly arousing things she does with it makes my jeans uncomfortably tight around the groin.
Hope Giuditta doesn't – oh shit, judging by the knowing little smile, she's noticed all right. She gives me one of those looks, a come-hither if I've ever seen one. And she most definitely makes an impression on my cock, which is getting ideas of its own.
Nah. No can do. Not with Cindy waiting for me, not with all this coke lying around and not with Domenico and his goons coming back God knows when, but predictably at the wrong moment.
I'm saved by the bell, so to speak, for the phone rings and I go to answer it. I note down a reservation, watching from the corner of my eye as Giuditta disappears into the loo.
Tight jeans forgotten, it strikes me that this is the moment I've been waiting for to place those bugs Murph, good lad that he is, slipped into my eager hands when he came over last night, ostensibly to enjoy our much praised bistecca alla fiorentina and a bottle of Valpolicella with Ruthie acting as his bird. Dunno where Murph hid the bugs, given the way he wears his jeans.
Our young lovers, I chuckle. Ruthie played her part damned well – or was that gleam in her eye more than just a well-practiced role? They did look convincingly like a pair of moon-struck adolescents – you never know, maybe the wine just worked its magic and they did end up in bed.
You have my blessing, kids, if it means old Murph leaves his dirty paws off my Cindy, I grin to myself as I place the bugs.
One's already slotted away in the phone on the counter, and while Giuditta's in the loo and I have a pretext to be in Domenico's office, I make a quick job of planting the second in Domenico's phone and the third under the–
Oh shit, she's back, and she comes in to find me kneeling under the desk. Desperately, I'm fumbling for an excuse and gratefully find a pen on the floor, which I hastily grab. I get up and lay it on the desk with exaggerated care, but she doesn't even realise.
Her eyes are wild, and not at all with fury, oh no, and fastened onto my groin. I gulp as she approaches, giving a convincing impersonation of a slick black panther about to pounce.
And she does. Her lips are ruby today, like Murphy's wine last night, I think incoherently as her mouth latches onto mine. Her hands cup my face then slide down my arms to take hold of mine and firmly push them over her boobs. By God, this wild cat sure doesn't stand on ceremony.
Neither do I as my groin reports back to active status, and then some. She makes little purring noises while we're kissing, or is it me? No idea. I briefly think of Cindy, but then again, this is a job, for crying out loud, I need to maintain my cover, don't I? All in the line of duty. God, she feels good. I'm really getting into the spirit now.
Our hands are urgently exploring, our lips glued together as we're devouring each other with tongues, lips and teeth. Her blouse is already open, as suddenly are my belt and the zip of my jeans. Much more comfortable, I must say. And definitely inspiring, I decide as her fingers glide up and down my length, her nails scratching lightly over the sensitive skin.
Looking around for a suitable location for the next stage, I spot Cesare's photo on the wall in front me, complete with black ribbon, and momentarily wonder whether this is such a good idea after all, but the thought of her late husband evaporates in the same rosy cloud of body heat as Cindy's elegant image while Giuditta hoists her skirt and peels off her lacy pants. Ruby-red, I notice, just like her lips, and I mutter something about moving over to the sofa on the far wall.
But no, she has ideas of her own. Loves doing it standing up, she murmurs breathlessly, and I have to smile. Like Cindy, who gets all hot and bothered when we do it against the wall, so Giuditta's suggestion is highly appreciated to be honest.
She bends over the desk, exposing her neat rounded bottom, leaving no doubt what position she has in mind. Si, signora, too pleased to oblige. I take her from behind, and she moans approvingly. I pause for a moment, shuddering, as pleasure ripples through me. Boy, this is good. Then I start to thrust, getting into a rhythm. The lady likes it fast and strong, it turns out. Fine by me, cara, most definitely fine by me.
Then, in mid-thrust, I almost choke on a moan and nearly lose my stride. The bugs! Dammit, I just planted them, they can't be listening in already, can they? Oh yes they can, I decide ruefully, Murph's note said they'd be standing by and switch on soonest, given the urgency of the matter.
Urgency, however, currently has quite a different meaning for me, for she's making keening noises now, moaning my name. She's close, and we've made too much noise already, so I decide it doesn't matter any more.
Growling, I pound into her and feel her clenching me in response as she starts to shake and pant. With a heartfelt groan I follow her over the edge.
There. Hope you enjoyed the show, whoever you are in the buggy-boo. The two of us certainly did.
Bodie can be the most irritating bastard in the world at times, and one of those times is now.
I know full well Cowley's trying to keep him busy with some sort of routine case, but I think he's wasting his battery because the idiot's constantly poking around everything to do with the Italian Job, as he cheerfully calls it. The old man's busy himself, which is keeping Bodie out of too much danger of being found out, and that isn't helping me either.
"Don't tell me you just happened to be driving past the buggy-boo," I say a little acidly. "And I'm not going to believe it if you tell me Captain Kirk's lent you the beaming-down equipment either. You're supposed to be in Somerset."
"Delegation, my lad," Bodie says airily. "Got the plods up there working on it. And speaking of plods…"
"Which we weren't," I retort. "But yes, one bug's in place and the others should be soon. Yes, Doyle was still alive and making cappuccino half an hour ago, and yes I have enough tape to cover every eventuality."
Bodie has the grace to look a little embarrassed. He's brought peace offerings, though, in the form of sausage rolls. Not complaining about that either, although the steak from last night could have staved off a famine.
"So how was last night?" Bodie enquires politely, around mouthfuls and as though he's reading my mind. "Good food?"
"No complaints," I nod. "And before you start on the company…"
"Oh yeah, Ruthie," Bodie grins. "Bless 'er."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just… nice girl. Not really my type, actually."
For some reason I feel I have to defend the poor woman.
"So what is your type, Bodie? Always thought it involved anything with boobs and under fifty."
"Roughly," Bodie agrees. "But I make exceptions now and then. Ruthie's… well… not my type."
"Turned you down, did she?" I tease, although I think I could be right.
Bodie doesn't answer this, mainly because he's heard Doyle's voice on the channel I'm switched to and he's listening intently.
"Test for number two, phone in office, if anybody's listening yet. About to go for number three under the desk."
Good lad, I think to myself and see Bodie grinning to himself as well.
It's amazing, really, with those two. When they're separated they're both on edge, and particularly Bodie. Never thought he'd have such a protective streak. When they're together, though, they spent half their time on arguing and one-upmanship and on pinching each other's girls…
No, we won't go there. I have the distinct feeling that although Bodie would quite happily pinch Cindy, he'd probably thump me if he knew what I'd been up to and if he thought Doyle really cared about her.
I catch the sound of a voice I think belongs to the vampire queen, which gives me an idea.
"Tell you what," I say casually. "There is somebody your type at the restaurant. Trouble is, she fancies Doyle."
"Yeah?" Bodie's interest is aroused and he tears himself away. "Some people have no taste. You met this Cindy of his yet?"
"Grapevine's working then," I say, remembering Ruth knowing about her from the gossip as well. "And yes. Briefly. Doyle asked me to do the honours as you were supposed to be in cider-country."
"Bullshit," Bodie says with a grin. "He just knows she wouldn't be able to resist me."
"And she would me?" I snap. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, mate."
"Nah. You're just too honest and upstanding and…"
"Boring?"
"Did I say boring?" Bodie picks up another sausage roll. "Besides, I think Ruth rather likes you. Apparently she was quite excited about last night. You didn't…?"
"Didn't what? Dammit, Bodie, we were working."
"At the restaurant, maybe. I'm talking about afterwards. What you need is to seize opportunities."
"With somebody who isn't your type, which is as good as saying she's repulsive?"
Bodie shakes his head sorrowfully but a snatch of conversation from the newly placed bug saves him from trying to wriggle out of that one.
It's Doyle all right, with the vamp whose name appears to be Giuditta. Doyle sort of groans it out, which makes Bodie frown at first, then he starts rolling his eyes.
I can hardly believe my ears. Did she just ask him to…
Blimey. Shades of Cindy all over again. Anybody'd think they'd been comparing notes.
This is… rather embarrassing in a way. Unless you're into the voyeur stuff.
"Now there's a tape we could blackmail 'im with for years to come," Bodie says thoughtfully as both of them start getting more vocal. I watch the tape go round and round and can't help thinking of Cindy.
"We could… probably wipe that one," I suggest. "It's not exactly evidence, now is it?"
"Depends on what you mean by evidence," Bodie murmurs against a background of Giuditta obviously getting what she was after. "You do know he'd do the same if it was me in there and him in here?"
"I can believe it, but you're not," I inform him, reaching for the tape. "And once again, it's work. He can't exactly refuse her if he's going to get well in with them…"
Doyle roars at this point, and is told he's an amazing lover followed by a few bits of Italian and some clothes-adjusting-type sounds.
"Suppose so," Bodie says mildly. "Not that I'm jealous or anything."
"Much."
"I don't need to be jealous, my dear boy. Not when I have half of London panting for me."
"And modest with it," I add, rewinding the tape and pressing 'delete'.
"Now you –" Bodie jabs at me with the last sausage roll, "you're not a bit jealous at hearing that and at playing Mr. Integrity with 'is bird so she'll wait for 'im?"
"This might surprise you, Bodie," I say, irritated. "But I do have a sex life, thanks."
"So you and Ruthie…" Bodie's eyes gleam.
"I took Ruthie home like the perfect gentleman. But you don't have a monopoly on the irresistible stakes, much as this might surprise you. This was somebody else."
"Well, well," Bodie winks at me. "When do I get an introduction?"
"Not any time soon," I say airily, wishing I hadn't brought this up just to prove a point.
"She good?"
"Nosey. But yes, as a matter of fact she is."
"Got a friend, 'as she?"
"You that desperate?" I snort. "I thought you had 'em lined up. And no, Bodie, I'm not going to play that sort of game. I'll let you and Doyle play pinching each other's birds…"
Hypocrisy is now my middle name.
"Fair enough," Bodie says easily, and switches the microphone to the other channel. "Did Doyle seem all right last night?"
Phew. Thank God he's gone back to protective mode.
"Yep. Looked like he'd spent half his life as a waiter."
"He's good undercover," Bodie says with a touch of pride. "But I hope we soon get all we need, wrap it up, get back to normal."
"Mmmm," I say absently. I'm not quite so sure I do, considering I have a date with Cindy tonight.
"Right," Bodie sighs, licking greasy fingers. "I'll go and see what the Somerset plods are up to. You'll let me know if anything interesting happens?"
I nod without thinking, and only realise it's got nothing to do with him, this case, I mean, when he's set off at a speed that isn't really designed for a small side road.
I settle back into the seat and allow myself a small grin all the same, though. Considering the way those two behave, they're both only getting what they deserve: Bodie's being deprived of a chance to blackmail Doyle with the tape and of fooling around with his partner's girlfriend on the one hand, and Doyle deserves all he gets for turning that bug on so damned early. Anybody'd think he'd done it on purpose… and much as I defended him he wasn't exactly sacrificing himself too much by the sound of it.
Yes, I think I'm doing Doyle a favour, really, because even if he does care for Cindy, she's basically a tart. In fact I hope to do her several favours before Doyle hangs up his pinny because I rather like the idea of Murphy the Sex God, admired by both Cindy and Ruthie – who isn't half as uninteresting as Bodie makes her out to be.
I'm almost sorry I didn't play the game with her a bit more last night now, particularly if she did turn Bodie down. One-upmanship is a very fine thing.
When will those pills finally start to work? Dammit, this isn't funny at all. I've taken four already, but they don't seem to live up to the promises on the package.
Still, I'm glad to be up and about now, after almost two days flat on my back. Or rather, to be precise, curled up on my side alternatively spitting blood, throwing up and doing my best not to. Lovely.
God, I'm really an idiot. Deserve every single punch I got. Should never have touched that minx in the first place.
Awkwardly, I get up and limp over to the cupboard to fetch the onions. Damn, my knee hurts like hell, and it's still so swollen I hardly managed to put on my jeans earlier today.
Yet it's nothing compared to my ribs. Poor buggers got more than their fair share this time. I'm pretty sure at least one or two are cracked. Francesca assured me they're not dislodged so not truly broken. Can't feel any difference, though. I make damn sure not to move too quickly. Deep-breathing exercises are definitely not on the menu right now. Neither is coughing, which I've valiantly managed to suppress so far, although it gets harder.
I've been lucky, though. Thankfully, Francesca turned out to be a qualified nurse, and when I told her she was doing an excellent job, she confided to me that she had indeed been a sister until her Catholic hospital kicked her out when she got pregnant. Her words were clipped and matter-of-fact, yet her eyes told another story: one of grief and guilt and desperation.
She was the one who found me on her way home – luckily for me, Luigi had managed to get the sauce béchamel burnt and she'd stayed longer to scrub the pan and remove the evidence so the boy wouldn't get punished.
Once she spotted me, she called la mamma who, in accordance with local custom, favoured me with a good tongue-lashing despite my deplorable state.
Can't blame her. It was my own fault, although I didn't tell her that it's simply a downside of my job. Getting caught in the act, that is.
Two days ago, I stayed after the lunch shift, ostensibly to refill bottles and other routine work. Domenico was away and had taken Angelo with him so we were a bit understaffed that day and I had a good excuse to stay behind – and search the padrone's office in peace and quiet.
I got lucky. Just before leaving, Domenico had seen those two visitors again. With the help of the bugs and McCabe's very discreet job with a zoom lens, we knew that one of the sleek men was actually a big number in the mob, one Giacomo Benfatto, well-known Godfather of many a loyal mobster, and the other his personal consigliere Giorgio Valerio.
Now all we needed was solid visual proof, and I was pretty sure I'd find something as my temporary boss couldn't have time to hide any documents properly. And I did find them, shipping papers, addresses and all, and got them on microfilm good and proper.
The only problem was that I found something else which made a much deeper impression on me. It was a photo of a very young girl, and it took me a minute to register it was Francesca's little daughter, Mimi.
Yet the moment I spotted the picture the door banged open and I hurriedly made sure to slip everything back. No time for anything except snatch up the receiver and pretend to be taking a call when Domenico ambled in, followed by Angelo and startled to find me in his office.
I tried to keep up a casual air, but I could tell he was suspicious. I didn't want to make more of it than necessary and was just about to slip out with a muttered excuse, but for once, fate was against me.
Domenico spotted the door to one of the wall cupboards was slightly ajar. I hadn't even noticed it, but I could hardly tell him I hadn't been the one to open it.
What I didn't know then and found out only later was that Domenico kept his personal stock of coke – for special friends – behind that door. He suspected me at once, of course.
And he wasn't the only one, as it turned out, for at that moment, Giuditta turned up. Seemed that family not only loved the opera but also had a damned fine feeling for dramatic timing.
She grasped the situation instantly – or what she thought the situation was – and came to my rescue, telling her brother-in-law I'd been waiting for her for a fling before the evening shift. Tough. Just what I needed, although it did save my neck at that particular moment.
Domenico let it go, obviously reluctant to get into a tiff with his in-law and inevitably his mother, but giving me a distinctly evil eye as I trudged off in Giuditta's wake, relieved to get off lightly, at least with my cover still intact.
But, as they say, everything has its price. The one I paid was Giuditta's insistence that I had in fact been after the coke and why hadn't I simply told her? She liked a pinch of the white stuff herself now and then, especially while fucking, and she did have some coke she'd taken from Domenico's little stash and was more than willing to share it with me in recognition of my more than satisfactory exploits in bed.
Shit.
Hoisted with my own petard, my boss would say.
If there's one thing I hate more than drugs it's fucking a bird who's high on them. I can't deny it does have a certain… booster effect, but I still prefer the natural thing, so to speak. I certainly don't need artificial sweeteners to enjoy that kind of candy with every fibre of my body and soul.
The things I do to keep up my cover.
The problem was, however, that Domenico was obviously well aware of all this and the thought didn't make him happy.
Giuditta left my room so late that I barely found time to slip the microfilm into an envelope, together with a note telling Cowley about what I'd found, but I didn't make it to the post-box before I was due back for work.
During the evening shift, I noticed Angelo and Peppino exchange furtive glances and was half convinced something was up, but didn't expect them to be so thorough, I must admit.
They did wait for mamma Maddalena to march off to her flat a little further down the street, which gave me time to go for a refreshing walk before turning in. When I came back, however, they were waiting for me.
Cigarettes in hand, they were both leaning ever so casually by the back entrance. I had to pass through the narrow passage between them.
The first blow got me in the stomach and doubled me up. Others followed, and I retaliated, but tried not to give my training away. There was still a distinct possibility this was merely the revenge for me having it off with Giuditta, judging by Angelo's cutting remarks and the vicious looks Peppino had given me during our shift.
And I wasn't wrong, for when they finally stopped beating me into a pulp, Angelo bent over me and hissed into my ear:
“Remember, stronzo, that's what you get if you can't leave your dirty paws off that lady's honourable behind, capito?”
Oh, I understood perfectly well. Once I managed to stop panting and the rushing in my ears settled down, that is. By then, Francesca had spotted my crumpled carcass next to the dustbins and had rushed off to fetch la mamma.
The two of them somehow got me upstairs to my room to patch me up, accompanied – at least in mamma Maddalena's case – by further priceless bits of colloquial Italian of which only porca miseria imprinted itself into my rather befuddled mind.
When she started to talk about calling the police I hastily confessed that Peppino and Angelo were the ones who'd done the honours, on Domenico's orders. This shut her up for a moment. Then she muttered something unintelligible, which was probably my luck because it made Francesca blush deeply. The only words that I could make out of that particular tirade were putana and stupido – the latter quite obviously designating the deprived state of my mind.
Given the impartiality that la mamma exercises in giving those around her a piece of her mind, I was pretty sure, however, that Domenico hadn't heard the last of it either. Not that I cared at that particular moment. I was too busy getting my tender anatomy sorted.
For almost two days both women looked after me, God bless 'em. La mamma rustled up some painkillers, which I gratefully took once my stomach decided to talk to me again, and Francesca did a thorough job of strapping my busted ribs so I could at last get up and move about.
So here I am chopping vegetables instead of playing waiter. Well, no good scaring off patrons with that bugger of a black eye, not to mention swanning around in a long apron if I can hardly keep upright, let alone walk properly with that knee.
Seems the tablets are finally taking effect for my mind starts to get a bit cloudy. Grateful for the numbness, I keep my hands busy and let my thoughts wander off.
Garlic, onions and carrots, finely chopped for the battuto that la mamma will convert into soffritto, which is the basis for her world-famous ragu – better known on these fair isles as Bolognese sauce.
I've always liked Italian cooking, but for the first time I'm actually working in a restaurant where the cook loves what she's doing and takes pride in doing it right. No industrial foodstuff for la mamma, and the only tins she uses contain pelati and carciofini – peeled tomatoes and artichokes. She makes everything else herself, even the pesto.
When I wondered aloud why she didn't simply open a jar, she was outright indignant.
“No good using that porcheria, Marco. Cooking is not just to feed people, sai, it can be an art – and you know all about art, eh piccino?”
I've learned a lot from her, I ponder while I'm chopping away. Next time I set out to impress a bird, it won't be just spaghetti alla Benny, I promise myself, smiling ruefully. Although Ann certainly didn't complain about that. There were other things she found fault in, plenty of them.
Suppressing another bout of coughing, I shake off the mental image of her disappointed, tear-filled eyes and her neatly painted lips condemning me. No use crying over spilt milk anyway.
I have work to concentrate on, and I suddenly realise how fervently I want this job to be a success. I can't afford to give up now just because of a little bodily harm. My body has been harmed too often for this to make any difference.
Not when I think of what we're dealing with. The microfilm of the documents should by now have reached its destination courtesy of her Majesty's post, and Cowley knows there's more going on.
Yet I still have to get hold of that photograph, or possibly others if there are any. Deep down, I'm silently praying that there aren't, but my mind already knows all too well what we will find in the end.
I have to stop working for a minute as my hand clenches around the knife hilt.
It will be much, much worse than just a photograph of a six-year-old girl chained to a king-sized bed, her eyes wide and glazed. Mimi. Naked except for a studded dog collar around her delicate neck.
Still, I'm glad to be up and about now, after almost two days flat on my back. Or rather, to be precise, curled up on my side alternatively spitting blood, throwing up and doing my best not to. Lovely.
God, I'm really an idiot. Deserve every single punch I got. Should never have touched that minx in the first place.
Awkwardly, I get up and limp over to the cupboard to fetch the onions. Damn, my knee hurts like hell, and it's still so swollen I hardly managed to put on my jeans earlier today.
Yet it's nothing compared to my ribs. Poor buggers got more than their fair share this time. I'm pretty sure at least one or two are cracked. Francesca assured me they're not dislodged so not truly broken. Can't feel any difference, though. I make damn sure not to move too quickly. Deep-breathing exercises are definitely not on the menu right now. Neither is coughing, which I've valiantly managed to suppress so far, although it gets harder.
I've been lucky, though. Thankfully, Francesca turned out to be a qualified nurse, and when I told her she was doing an excellent job, she confided to me that she had indeed been a sister until her Catholic hospital kicked her out when she got pregnant. Her words were clipped and matter-of-fact, yet her eyes told another story: one of grief and guilt and desperation.
She was the one who found me on her way home – luckily for me, Luigi had managed to get the sauce béchamel burnt and she'd stayed longer to scrub the pan and remove the evidence so the boy wouldn't get punished.
Once she spotted me, she called la mamma who, in accordance with local custom, favoured me with a good tongue-lashing despite my deplorable state.
Can't blame her. It was my own fault, although I didn't tell her that it's simply a downside of my job. Getting caught in the act, that is.
Two days ago, I stayed after the lunch shift, ostensibly to refill bottles and other routine work. Domenico was away and had taken Angelo with him so we were a bit understaffed that day and I had a good excuse to stay behind – and search the padrone's office in peace and quiet.
I got lucky. Just before leaving, Domenico had seen those two visitors again. With the help of the bugs and McCabe's very discreet job with a zoom lens, we knew that one of the sleek men was actually a big number in the mob, one Giacomo Benfatto, well-known Godfather of many a loyal mobster, and the other his personal consigliere Giorgio Valerio.
Now all we needed was solid visual proof, and I was pretty sure I'd find something as my temporary boss couldn't have time to hide any documents properly. And I did find them, shipping papers, addresses and all, and got them on microfilm good and proper.
The only problem was that I found something else which made a much deeper impression on me. It was a photo of a very young girl, and it took me a minute to register it was Francesca's little daughter, Mimi.
Yet the moment I spotted the picture the door banged open and I hurriedly made sure to slip everything back. No time for anything except snatch up the receiver and pretend to be taking a call when Domenico ambled in, followed by Angelo and startled to find me in his office.
I tried to keep up a casual air, but I could tell he was suspicious. I didn't want to make more of it than necessary and was just about to slip out with a muttered excuse, but for once, fate was against me.
Domenico spotted the door to one of the wall cupboards was slightly ajar. I hadn't even noticed it, but I could hardly tell him I hadn't been the one to open it.
What I didn't know then and found out only later was that Domenico kept his personal stock of coke – for special friends – behind that door. He suspected me at once, of course.
And he wasn't the only one, as it turned out, for at that moment, Giuditta turned up. Seemed that family not only loved the opera but also had a damned fine feeling for dramatic timing.
She grasped the situation instantly – or what she thought the situation was – and came to my rescue, telling her brother-in-law I'd been waiting for her for a fling before the evening shift. Tough. Just what I needed, although it did save my neck at that particular moment.
Domenico let it go, obviously reluctant to get into a tiff with his in-law and inevitably his mother, but giving me a distinctly evil eye as I trudged off in Giuditta's wake, relieved to get off lightly, at least with my cover still intact.
But, as they say, everything has its price. The one I paid was Giuditta's insistence that I had in fact been after the coke and why hadn't I simply told her? She liked a pinch of the white stuff herself now and then, especially while fucking, and she did have some coke she'd taken from Domenico's little stash and was more than willing to share it with me in recognition of my more than satisfactory exploits in bed.
Shit.
Hoisted with my own petard, my boss would say.
If there's one thing I hate more than drugs it's fucking a bird who's high on them. I can't deny it does have a certain… booster effect, but I still prefer the natural thing, so to speak. I certainly don't need artificial sweeteners to enjoy that kind of candy with every fibre of my body and soul.
The things I do to keep up my cover.
The problem was, however, that Domenico was obviously well aware of all this and the thought didn't make him happy.
Giuditta left my room so late that I barely found time to slip the microfilm into an envelope, together with a note telling Cowley about what I'd found, but I didn't make it to the post-box before I was due back for work.
During the evening shift, I noticed Angelo and Peppino exchange furtive glances and was half convinced something was up, but didn't expect them to be so thorough, I must admit.
They did wait for mamma Maddalena to march off to her flat a little further down the street, which gave me time to go for a refreshing walk before turning in. When I came back, however, they were waiting for me.
Cigarettes in hand, they were both leaning ever so casually by the back entrance. I had to pass through the narrow passage between them.
The first blow got me in the stomach and doubled me up. Others followed, and I retaliated, but tried not to give my training away. There was still a distinct possibility this was merely the revenge for me having it off with Giuditta, judging by Angelo's cutting remarks and the vicious looks Peppino had given me during our shift.
And I wasn't wrong, for when they finally stopped beating me into a pulp, Angelo bent over me and hissed into my ear:
“Remember, stronzo, that's what you get if you can't leave your dirty paws off that lady's honourable behind, capito?”
Oh, I understood perfectly well. Once I managed to stop panting and the rushing in my ears settled down, that is. By then, Francesca had spotted my crumpled carcass next to the dustbins and had rushed off to fetch la mamma.
The two of them somehow got me upstairs to my room to patch me up, accompanied – at least in mamma Maddalena's case – by further priceless bits of colloquial Italian of which only porca miseria imprinted itself into my rather befuddled mind.
When she started to talk about calling the police I hastily confessed that Peppino and Angelo were the ones who'd done the honours, on Domenico's orders. This shut her up for a moment. Then she muttered something unintelligible, which was probably my luck because it made Francesca blush deeply. The only words that I could make out of that particular tirade were putana and stupido – the latter quite obviously designating the deprived state of my mind.
Given the impartiality that la mamma exercises in giving those around her a piece of her mind, I was pretty sure, however, that Domenico hadn't heard the last of it either. Not that I cared at that particular moment. I was too busy getting my tender anatomy sorted.
For almost two days both women looked after me, God bless 'em. La mamma rustled up some painkillers, which I gratefully took once my stomach decided to talk to me again, and Francesca did a thorough job of strapping my busted ribs so I could at last get up and move about.
So here I am chopping vegetables instead of playing waiter. Well, no good scaring off patrons with that bugger of a black eye, not to mention swanning around in a long apron if I can hardly keep upright, let alone walk properly with that knee.
Seems the tablets are finally taking effect for my mind starts to get a bit cloudy. Grateful for the numbness, I keep my hands busy and let my thoughts wander off.
Garlic, onions and carrots, finely chopped for the battuto that la mamma will convert into soffritto, which is the basis for her world-famous ragu – better known on these fair isles as Bolognese sauce.
I've always liked Italian cooking, but for the first time I'm actually working in a restaurant where the cook loves what she's doing and takes pride in doing it right. No industrial foodstuff for la mamma, and the only tins she uses contain pelati and carciofini – peeled tomatoes and artichokes. She makes everything else herself, even the pesto.
When I wondered aloud why she didn't simply open a jar, she was outright indignant.
“No good using that porcheria, Marco. Cooking is not just to feed people, sai, it can be an art – and you know all about art, eh piccino?”
I've learned a lot from her, I ponder while I'm chopping away. Next time I set out to impress a bird, it won't be just spaghetti alla Benny, I promise myself, smiling ruefully. Although Ann certainly didn't complain about that. There were other things she found fault in, plenty of them.
Suppressing another bout of coughing, I shake off the mental image of her disappointed, tear-filled eyes and her neatly painted lips condemning me. No use crying over spilt milk anyway.
I have work to concentrate on, and I suddenly realise how fervently I want this job to be a success. I can't afford to give up now just because of a little bodily harm. My body has been harmed too often for this to make any difference.
Not when I think of what we're dealing with. The microfilm of the documents should by now have reached its destination courtesy of her Majesty's post, and Cowley knows there's more going on.
Yet I still have to get hold of that photograph, or possibly others if there are any. Deep down, I'm silently praying that there aren't, but my mind already knows all too well what we will find in the end.
I have to stop working for a minute as my hand clenches around the knife hilt.
It will be much, much worse than just a photograph of a six-year-old girl chained to a king-sized bed, her eyes wide and glazed. Mimi. Naked except for a studded dog collar around her delicate neck.
"Of course I've been damn well listening," I tell Bodie. "So have the others. There's been virtually nothing going on in Domenico's office, which is first priority. The telephone on the counter hasn't given us much except people who make reservations, and before you start…"
"They're making a list at HQ in case they're interesting," Bodie says miserably and proving he's got his ear very much to the ground. "But you've not heard Doyle. You sure he's still in there?"
"We assume so. It could be that he simply doesn't usually take reservations or answer the phone. Not in his job description."
"Very funny," Bodie snaps. "But at first…"
"At first we heard him shagging. Then we heard him get into a bit of trouble with Domenico but he rode that out pretty well."
"And rode something else afterwards," Bodie sighs with a tiny grin. I might have known he'd have homed in on that transcript – the one where Doyle's new admirer stepped in neatly and saved him from blowing his cover. Or at least blowing it where the Italians are concerned – I'm pretty sure that typing that up, and all it clearly indicated, raised a few female eyebrows.
"Yeah," I chuckle.
"Still wish we knew if he was actually in there."
"Bodie," I explain patiently. "You know as well as I do that we can't post people at both the main entrance and the staff entrance. They'd notice, or at least if they're worth their salt in the criminal world. I'll be going in there as soon as they're open, and I'll report back. Right?"
"Right," Bodie mutters, absently twiddling with the channel switch. "And you're sure they didn't mention…"
"Bodie…"
"Sorry." Bodie's apology is both unexpected and sincere. "I just…"
"Worry about the daft sod," I agree, softening a bit.
"That, yeah. And can't understand why he hasn't just walked out of there. We've got what we wanted."
"Maybe he thinks there's something else? Maybe he's waiting for me to confirm that Cowley's happy?"
And, I add to myself, once he knows that Cowley is happy and has said he can abandon his new career, he'll be rushing back to Cindy. Even tonight, if he downs tools and walks straight out of there for good. Somehow I can't see Doyle's devotion to duty stretching to him waiting on people any longer than he has to. Well, unless he decides to have one last fling with his new ladyfriend. Speaking of which…
"The others don't like Giuditta much," I tell Bodie. "That much we did pick up from some of the chatter near the counter. Think that gave the translators quite a blast. Some of the kitchen staff have quite a… picturesque way of describing her. "La putana" seems to be the favourite – even my Italian stretches that far."
It's funny, really, I think to myself. Doyle having a fling with one lady who's a little free with her favours and me doing the same.
"How's Cindy?"
Ah, now that's interesting. Bodie connecting putana with Cindy. Or worrying, if he's tumbled me…
But no, I decide. He's just thinking about Doyle and women and being jealous. Apparently the bit of Somerset he's been stuck in wasn't exactly populated with buxom young wenches, as he's complained several times about that.
"She's fine," I say, as casually as I can manage but still needing reassurance. "Had a quick drink with her the night before last, like I already told you. What made you think of her? She's not exactly the same type as the Italian woman, surely, just because she asked him out. Don't tell me you missed that little detail from the grapevine?"
Bodie shrugs, admitting nothing.
"So she's…?"
"Fine," I repeat, not prepared to give any more details or rise to the bait, much to Bodie's frustration.
'Fine', she certainly was: my bedsprings can probably attest to that. And my settee.
"Typical," Bodie says. "Doing the honest, upstanding stuff again. I was just wondering when I'd get to meet her. Doyle seems to think she's pretty hot."
Hot, definitely. I try not to think about just how hot.
"Knowing Doyle, not any time soon," I tell him. "Unless he's decided to keep the Italian bird, that is, although she's likely to end up behind bars, that one."
"Don't go for 'is cast-offs," Bodie says wickedly. "No challenge there. You thinking of offering her a shoulder to weep on if and when he does ditch her?"
I can't see Cindy weeping, somehow. In fact to be perfectly frank with myself, she's way too much of a handful, and I can't see me staying around for long after Doyle's back on the scene anyway, whatever he decides to do. Although another couple of nights would be… fun.
We both turn our attention to the loudspeaker again, but it's just a few words of Italian. Ah yes, stronzo. It seems to be one of the guys' favourite expressions, rather primly translated by our linguists as 'idiot' but according to Jax, who speaks a bit of the lingo, it's a little stronger than that.
"Dammit," Bodie grumbles. "We really should have had a bug closer to the kitchen."
"What, in case Doyle had his evil way with his new conquest among the vegetables?"
Bodie just sighs and jumps as somebody taps on the van door. It's just Khan, one of the squad coming to take over, and Bodie glowers at him when he dares ask why he's here.
"Social call," Bodie says neutrally, although I don't know who he's kidding.
"Still boring as ever in there?" the young Pakistani asks, tactfully not questioning Bodie's presence although he must be aware of the standing joke about Bodie and Doyle being joined at the hip.
"Yup," I say. "But you're about to get lucky."
"Lucky?"
"I'm going in when they open to get pizza. For those officially on duty," I add. "As in you and me, Khan."
"He eats pizza?" Bodie eyes the newcomer with dangerously narrowed eyes.
"Certainly do, mate. Or would you prefer me to be bringing my own chapatis?"
Nice one, Khan. I'm used to Bodie and his rather peculiar attitude to any of our 'coloured cousins', but it looks like this lad can handle himself.
Fortunately for us all, Bodie doesn't pursue that line and just does the 'poor suffering me' thing. Khan squeezes himself into the remaining jump seat, unruffled.
"They've finished going through this morning's tapes," he informs us. "The Italian bits we couldn't figure out ourselves, anyway. Mostly odd bits from the kitchen staff – stuff you hear when people are going in and out."
"Such as?" Bodie interrupts. "Anything about Doyle?"
"Nah, mostly the old woman yelling at the others - she sounds like quite a tyrant. She did mention Marco once, but we didn't hear the rest."
"So he's still there?" Bodie asks.
"I said," Khan says patiently, "she said something about Marco, which we presume was Doyle, but that was all. The other bits we had weren't clear. I do love it when the Italians start on "piano piano" though. The mamma's obviously got a soft spot for somebody at least as that came up a couple of times."
"Piano means?" Bodie asked. "Quietly, right? As in music?"
"Think the translators put 'take it easy'. And never knew you had a knack for languages, Bodie. Want a few basics of Hindi while I eat my pizza? If you're staying, that is?"
Bodie doesn't come up with a snappy reply to that on, which surprises me a bit, and I wonder what he's thinking. Sometimes it's almost as though he's got a sixth sense when Doyle's in trouble, but I can't think the odd 'piano' is enough to draw any major conclusions.
The time crawls, though. We all seem to have little to say. Bodie's obviously on edge, so I'm starting to be tempted, if Doyle's not going to leave there and then, to give Cindy a call rather than hanging around here any longer than necessary. I could take her a pizza round and make a grande finale of our short-lived adventure, couldn't I?
Now and then we flick channels, but Domenico's office is still quiet. The bug on the counter reveals little more than Giuditta, the putana in person, taking reservations. She's charming with some and condescending with others, saying that the restaurant is very busy and they are very fortunate to find room.
Khan chuckles and says he'll have to tell his uncle, who runs a curry house, to try that approach sometimes. Bodie makes some sort of half-hearted comment about Indian restaurants needing to pay clients to go in, but once again Khan doesn't rise to the bait.
"They'll be open now," Bodie says eventually, and I glance at my watch. It's about thirty seconds after six. I know better than to make him wait any longer and climb out of the van.
"Back in a bit," I say. "Any preferences? For the pizza?"
Khan says no anchovies, and I start to go and then catch Bodie's expression again. He looks as miserable as sin, and I'm the world's biggest softie.
"Bodie?" I ask. "You?"
This gets me a faint grin.
"The works, Murph. And ta. Oh, and I'll pay. Even for 'is." He jerks a thumb at Khan.
He really is worried, then.
Giuditta eyes me up and down as I go in, obviously deciding whether or not I'm worthy of appreciation.
"Saw you did pizzas to take out when I was here the other night with my girlfriend," I say politely.
She studies me a bit more, and nods superciliously. Ah yes, the bistecca, she says graciously.
Charming. Well, I suppose if doctors can refer to 'the broken leg' instead of the patient's name it's logical enough for clients to be identified by what they eat.
She hands me a menu, again displaying blood red nails a bit like Cindy's and snaps her fingers. One of the waiters comes over, fills a glass with something and pushes it over to me disinterestedly.
"For while you wait," he says.
I'm not complaining. It means I can take my time to study the menu and look around for Doyle, who isn't in evidence although two other pinafore-clad waiters – those I'd seen the other night – finish off preparing the tables for the evening's diners.
"You new?" I say conversationally.
"Usually in the kitchen," the guy says.
"Really? Difficult to get waiters, is it?"
Careful. Mustn't overdo it by sounding too nosy.
"Nah. Not here. This is good restaurant."
"Oh definitely," I agree enthusiastically, studying the various types of pizza diligently. By the looks of it, he's replacing Doyle, but why? And is Doyle replacing him?
"I mean," I add, hoping that he's simply swapped and Doyle's slaving over a hot stove because they've discovered he can cook spaghetti, "It's a good idea to rotate staff, of course. If that's the idea."
"Rotate?" the Italian frowns, probably wondering if I'm thinking of making him stand there and spin round and round or something.
"Yeah, as in do different things. Sometimes cooking, sometimes the bar, waiting tables…" I decide to help out. "Worked in a restaurant myself when I was younger."
Nice, Murphy. Not that I ever have, but if I can be a car salesman I can be an ex-maître d'hotel if I feel like it. Will he bite?
"Right," he says, not very helpfully.
"So you prefer being in the kitchen or here?" I prompt, afraid I'm going to get a look that says 'order the bloody pizza and leave me alone'.
"Kitchen," he says eventually, warming to his subject a little. "I know what I'm doing in there."
"Oh dear… and the guy who's in the kitchen in your place doesn't?"
"Slow," I'm told with a sigh, and my glass is refilled. "Very slow, not good. No talent. Too busy with the ladies, too."
Ah, now that does sound like Doyle, and we're getting quite chummy here. I just hope we're not going to get too technical about the chef-type stuff, as I don't know my flambé from my brûlée if I'm honest.
"Not a problem for the food, though", my new-found friend adds. "He's just doing vegetables. Can't even chop a zucchino properly, if you ask me. He's not Italian."
Of course, I feel like saying. I mean only Italians can chop zucchini. It also strikes me that being sent to the kitchen is probably his penance for that little scene in Domenico's office.
I'm relieved, I admit, and order four pizzas in the hope that Doyle will be too busy making minestrone to abandon ship right now and I can go and get busy with a lady (although I'm not certain Cindy qualifies for that description) myself. Serves him right.
My new friend disappears with the order, and I sit back where I can see the kitchen doors. As they swing open, I catch a glance of a curly head and grin to myself. So far, so good. Still need to see him, though.
Being brilliant, I have an idea, and call after the waiter who pauses at the entrance to the kitchen.
"Sorry, forgot to say no anchovies on the quattro stagioni. And where are the toilets?"
The other side of the restaurant, by the big flower display, I'm told, and bingo: Doyle's head nods slightly. Good lad.
I take myself off there, and sure enough the door opens only a couple of minutes later.
The sight of him's a shock, and he's limping. From being pretty glad I've got one over him I'm concerned – he looks like shit. Pinching his bird's one thing, but Doyle's still a mate and he's obviously hurting.
"What the…"
"Daren't be long," he says. "But listen…"
"No, you listen. You can get out of here. Right now would seem like a good idea, in fact. What the hell happened?"
"Ran into a fist or three after the little episode in Domenico's office. But that's just it: I found some stuff in there that we need to follow up. Photographs – child porn. Didn't know they were into that but it looks like they are. So I'm staying for a bit."
"Ray…" I study his face, and the bruises on it, and definitely don't like what I see. "Drop it – we'll get it out of them when we move in. We'll have it all set up for when that special consignment comes in, thanks to the film you took."
"But that's only in a couple of days, Murph. And from what I gather from gossip in the kitchen, Domenico's got some sort of meet with somebody for his 'other sideline' before that, so maybe I can find out more – that could be the child porn stuff. I'd like to see if we can get some of the others involved in that, in case what we get over the drugs stuff doesn't lead back to the bastards."
There's a glitter in Doyle's eyes that tells me he's off on one of his crusades.
"Ray… you're nuts. You sure?"
"Certain," he says. "Look, I've got a photo hidden up in my room. I'll go and get it and give it to you outside the staff entrance in – say – ten minutes. Only got it this morning, and it wasn't easy, believe me. Didn't have time to send it over yet. I'll nip out - say I need a breather. Maybe it'll be a start. And you need to get going or the owners of the fists might start wondering. I think Luigi – the guy standing in for me – is probably pissed off with me as well so watch it."
Suddenly, I'm not quite as fond of the rotating waiter as I was, but I do as I'm told. If Bodie ever gets his hands on any of this lot, I think, they won't be chopping any zucchini or pouring Valpolicella for a while.
Phew! That was a close shave. Talk about precise timing. Cowley should be proud of us.
Murphy was waiting by the back entrance all right when I came back from my room, ostensibly to fetch the pills I'd forgotten to bring down earlier. Good old Murph, precariously balancing his pizza cartons while I slipped the photo between two of them. Just what he bought four of them for is beyond me. I have a pretty good idea of who was with them in the buggy-boo, regulations or no regulations. But four?
There wasn't much time to talk, anyway, which was a shame. I was so impatient to find out how Cindy was keeping, but there was hardly a chance to get a proper answer even though I did manage to ask him briefly. Still, he could have been a little more forthcoming, damn him. Just hope he hasn't… I mean, she is pretty passionate when she wants to…
All right, I know I wasn't exactly in danger of being qualified as a saint as far as my fling with our giovane padrona is concerned, but what was I supposed to do? Anyway, it's over now, even though she seems to regret it a little. So do I in a way, but I'm also relieved. Very.
On all accounts, I want this to be finished, get the lot of them busted and then go right back to my own life – and Cindy. God knows I've been missing her badly, despite the distinctly three-star menu of sex lavished on me by the dowager mafiosa until the shit hit the fan.
That woman sure knows which side her toast is buttered. She's all smiles and giggles for Domenico and him alone now, even lets him fondle her arse. Putana – that's what they secretly call her, and I must say they're not altogether wrong.
Mamma Maddalena's really worried about me. Every few minutes she's by my side asking me if I'm okay and telling me to take it easy if I'm not feeling well, God bless the good old soul. Piano piano piccino – if I've heard it once, I've heard it a few dozen times by now.
Just like Bodie, I grin. My partner can be a real mother hen at times, although I suppose I'm not all that much better where he's concerned. It's just more striking to see tough, wanna-taste-my-fist-sunshine Bodie going all mushy because his equally tough partner's physique gets ruffled.
Can't have that right now, or Bodie might feel inclined to do his Save the Whales bit. So I told Murph in no uncertain terms what he was to tell Bodie – and what not. And what fate he's looking forward to if he doesn't, once I'm back in shape, that is. Which will certainly be a little while still. Right now, I could already use my next dose of pills: I'm hurting all over, especially as that damned cough is getting worse.
Maybe I should just let it go, like Murph said. Stamp 'case closed' as far as I'm concerned on it all, and sink down on my settee for a good long convalescence. Thing is, however tempting this scenario may be, there's also that ice-cold knot in the pit of my stomach that's bothering me more than any of the bruises or scrapes. I need to get those bastards. And I'll do anything to stay close to them while the trace is still warm and pungent.
I've been looking for an opportunity to gather evidence ever since that near-disastrous encounter in Domenico's office, but basically kept a low profile, given my poor shape.
Yet when I started my shift this morning, Peppino phoned in to say he'd had a puncture and would be late. I knew Angelo was away with the padrone and realised I'd be all on my own for a few minutes until la mamma and Francesca turned up.
The office door wasn't locked, and the desk lock yielded easily to my experienced fingers.
I found what I was looking for. And then some.
Photographs. Not only the one I'd spotted a few days ago, but a whole bundle of them. Professionally made, glossy, perfectly focused, some black-and-white, some in tasteful colours. Downright artistic. Exquisite eye candy for discriminating clients with refined tastes and money to match their sophisticated desires.
It was little Mimi all right, I recognised her without doubt. I've seen her more than a few times in the kitchen, along with Nicoletta. The two of them are best friends, two cute little lasses. Too cute for their own good, it seems. Come to think of it, Mimi has been a little downcast just recently, although I haven't exactly paid attention.
There she was, her eyes glassy and empty, her painted mouth hanging a little open. The obscene collar cut deep into her throat as she lay on the glossy pink satin sheets slumped against the bedpost, kept from sliding to the floor only by the gleaming chain.
I wince, and this time it has nothing to do with the state of my ribs. I need to nail those bastards, I think yet again. Nobody who does things like that to kids will be allowed to walk the streets if I can help it, whatever the cost.
I took the photo, knowing full well about the risk that implied, because I knew it might be my only chance to get it, and I didn't have time to fetch the micro camera from upstairs. I'm glad Murphy came in so I could hand it over, as I could hardly pretend I was going for a walk while I was still limping about like Cowley on his worst days. I'd even considered using the bugs to tell them to send someone round to collect the photo, but there wasn't a single moment when I was alone at the bar, now I was exiled to the kitchen.
It would have been tricky anyway, and I couldn't risk any more near misses now they were already ogling me with suspicion. Just now I could swear Angelo was giving me the evil eye. Nah. Just nerves. No wonder I'm jumpy as hell. Bet the guy's still pissed off because of Giuditta. Probably thought she'd take comfort in him now that I've been hauled over the coals good and proper, but the lady doesn't even spare him a look. Aw, poor baby.
La mamma's sprightly as ever, but Francesca appears somehow subdued tonight. Dunno what's up with her sometimes, but she's all grumpy and silent, not her usual style at all, and she doesn't hum along to the music although they're playing that tape that she likes so much.
Oh, well, who could claim to understand what's going on in a woman's mind, eh, Doyle? And don't chuckle, it'll only make you cough again, I admonish myself as my ribs pull. God knows I've had my bellyful of the female of the species for this week.
Murphy was waiting by the back entrance all right when I came back from my room, ostensibly to fetch the pills I'd forgotten to bring down earlier. Good old Murph, precariously balancing his pizza cartons while I slipped the photo between two of them. Just what he bought four of them for is beyond me. I have a pretty good idea of who was with them in the buggy-boo, regulations or no regulations. But four?
There wasn't much time to talk, anyway, which was a shame. I was so impatient to find out how Cindy was keeping, but there was hardly a chance to get a proper answer even though I did manage to ask him briefly. Still, he could have been a little more forthcoming, damn him. Just hope he hasn't… I mean, she is pretty passionate when she wants to…
All right, I know I wasn't exactly in danger of being qualified as a saint as far as my fling with our giovane padrona is concerned, but what was I supposed to do? Anyway, it's over now, even though she seems to regret it a little. So do I in a way, but I'm also relieved. Very.
On all accounts, I want this to be finished, get the lot of them busted and then go right back to my own life – and Cindy. God knows I've been missing her badly, despite the distinctly three-star menu of sex lavished on me by the dowager mafiosa until the shit hit the fan.
That woman sure knows which side her toast is buttered. She's all smiles and giggles for Domenico and him alone now, even lets him fondle her arse. Putana – that's what they secretly call her, and I must say they're not altogether wrong.
Mamma Maddalena's really worried about me. Every few minutes she's by my side asking me if I'm okay and telling me to take it easy if I'm not feeling well, God bless the good old soul. Piano piano piccino – if I've heard it once, I've heard it a few dozen times by now.
Just like Bodie, I grin. My partner can be a real mother hen at times, although I suppose I'm not all that much better where he's concerned. It's just more striking to see tough, wanna-taste-my-fist-sunshine Bodie going all mushy because his equally tough partner's physique gets ruffled.
Can't have that right now, or Bodie might feel inclined to do his Save the Whales bit. So I told Murph in no uncertain terms what he was to tell Bodie – and what not. And what fate he's looking forward to if he doesn't, once I'm back in shape, that is. Which will certainly be a little while still. Right now, I could already use my next dose of pills: I'm hurting all over, especially as that damned cough is getting worse.
Maybe I should just let it go, like Murph said. Stamp 'case closed' as far as I'm concerned on it all, and sink down on my settee for a good long convalescence. Thing is, however tempting this scenario may be, there's also that ice-cold knot in the pit of my stomach that's bothering me more than any of the bruises or scrapes. I need to get those bastards. And I'll do anything to stay close to them while the trace is still warm and pungent.
I've been looking for an opportunity to gather evidence ever since that near-disastrous encounter in Domenico's office, but basically kept a low profile, given my poor shape.
Yet when I started my shift this morning, Peppino phoned in to say he'd had a puncture and would be late. I knew Angelo was away with the padrone and realised I'd be all on my own for a few minutes until la mamma and Francesca turned up.
The office door wasn't locked, and the desk lock yielded easily to my experienced fingers.
I found what I was looking for. And then some.
Photographs. Not only the one I'd spotted a few days ago, but a whole bundle of them. Professionally made, glossy, perfectly focused, some black-and-white, some in tasteful colours. Downright artistic. Exquisite eye candy for discriminating clients with refined tastes and money to match their sophisticated desires.
It was little Mimi all right, I recognised her without doubt. I've seen her more than a few times in the kitchen, along with Nicoletta. The two of them are best friends, two cute little lasses. Too cute for their own good, it seems. Come to think of it, Mimi has been a little downcast just recently, although I haven't exactly paid attention.
There she was, her eyes glassy and empty, her painted mouth hanging a little open. The obscene collar cut deep into her throat as she lay on the glossy pink satin sheets slumped against the bedpost, kept from sliding to the floor only by the gleaming chain.
I wince, and this time it has nothing to do with the state of my ribs. I need to nail those bastards, I think yet again. Nobody who does things like that to kids will be allowed to walk the streets if I can help it, whatever the cost.
I took the photo, knowing full well about the risk that implied, because I knew it might be my only chance to get it, and I didn't have time to fetch the micro camera from upstairs. I'm glad Murphy came in so I could hand it over, as I could hardly pretend I was going for a walk while I was still limping about like Cowley on his worst days. I'd even considered using the bugs to tell them to send someone round to collect the photo, but there wasn't a single moment when I was alone at the bar, now I was exiled to the kitchen.
It would have been tricky anyway, and I couldn't risk any more near misses now they were already ogling me with suspicion. Just now I could swear Angelo was giving me the evil eye. Nah. Just nerves. No wonder I'm jumpy as hell. Bet the guy's still pissed off because of Giuditta. Probably thought she'd take comfort in him now that I've been hauled over the coals good and proper, but the lady doesn't even spare him a look. Aw, poor baby.
La mamma's sprightly as ever, but Francesca appears somehow subdued tonight. Dunno what's up with her sometimes, but she's all grumpy and silent, not her usual style at all, and she doesn't hum along to the music although they're playing that tape that she likes so much.
Oh, well, who could claim to understand what's going on in a woman's mind, eh, Doyle? And don't chuckle, it'll only make you cough again, I admonish myself as my ribs pull. God knows I've had my bellyful of the female of the species for this week.
"So explain. What d'you mean he's had a 'bit of trouble'," Bodie says, smelling a rat and not even grabbing for the pizza boxes. I made sure my first sentence was 'I've seen Doyle' to avoid him shaking the details out of me, but he looks like he's about to do so now I've given them the quick run-through.
"Like I said, Bodie, a bit of trouble. Black eye… apparently that's not ideal for the image of the place. So he's in the kitchen, chopping vegetables. Quite an art, apparently."
Bodie doesn't seem to give a flying fuck about the artistic side of preparing courgettes at first, but then seems to pull himself together, probably for young Khan's benefit.
"So he thinks they're into child pornography as well as all the rest, you said? And they're not onto him or anything?"
"Apparently not and it was just to warn him off the putana. So maybe you could make yourself useful, Bodie, and take the photograph in? Once you've had your pizza, of course."
I hand Doyle's precious piece of evidence over to Bodie, who shudders. Khan, mid-bite, puts his slice of pizza down abruptly, swearing softly.
"Nasty, that," Bodie agrees. "And apparently she's the daughter of somebody in the kitchen, so it's pretty clear there's a connection."
"Exactly what Doyle said, which is why he's staying around to see if this contact of Domenico's shows up."
"So he's all right?"
"He says he is," I tell Bodie honestly, like Doyle's made me swear to do but I'm not entirely easy with the whole thing.
"He'd say he was if he was at death's door," Bodie says, frowning. "Daft sod. Mind, Khan, it's better than being a wimp."
Khan cocks his head on one side, starts to say something and then thinks better of it. Sensible lad. I happen to know that 'wimp' isn't a good way to describe our Pakistani friend considering he's got a black belt in karaté and spent a few years with some sort of special intervention force. He's obviously figured out that Bodie's worried sick at well but is diplomatic enough not to mention it.
Bodie's so frustrated, though, that he's spoiling for a fight of some kind and starts glaring at me instead.
"Khan can take the photo. I'll stay here."
"No," Khan says evenly. "And if something happens in there and you decide to show your ugly mug and blow the lot? I mean at a pinch if there's a fight I can go in there and play the friendly neighbourhood do-gooder in search of a pizza and probably get Doyle out without busting the whole case open. That, Bodie, is one very good reason why you aren't part of the surveillance team, remember? Officially, at least."
There's a pause where I wonder if the buggy-boo's going to turn into a boxing ring but in the end Bodie concedes defeat and nods. I notch up another point in Bodie's favour: he's good at the job and knows Khan's right. Khan, I'm rapidly deciding, will go far. I just hope they don't come to blows at some point tonight if the Pakistani blows his cool or Bodie makes one racist joke too many.
"Murph…"
"Murph what?" I say, deciding I don't want to stay around much longer in case Bodie starts digging for details and I have to lie on Doyle's behalf any more than I already have. "I'm off. No doubt I'll see you in the morning. Both of you, probably."
Khan conceals a grin, but Bodie's finally reaching for his pizza, and then points at the other two as I pick them up.
"Said I'd pay for 'em, but didn't know you were intending on double rations?"
"I paid," I tell him calmly. "And no, I have no intention of eating both thanks. Name's not Bodie. You can go and get something from Khan's uncles' curry house tomorrow if you're still hanging around."
"Can't stand curry," Bodie mutters. "Worse than liver paste, curry."
"Double chapatis then," Khan says calmly. "Think of 'em as Indian sausage rolls without the sausage."
I leave while Bodie's thinking up a suitable retort for that one.
Cindy, it turns out, eats pizza with almost as much gusto as she puts into sex. In fact she grabs a slice even before she puts the rest into the oven to heat up a bit.
"I'm so glad you were free after all, Patrick," she purrs. "I just love impromptu stuff."
I've noticed, I tell her, deciding that she's done a pretty good job in the ten minutes between my phone call and arriving, as she's lit a couple of candles and is obviously fresh out of the shower. The loose robe's not concealing much either.
Blimey… as she slides plates out of the cupboard I also get a glimpse of what little is underneath it, and it looks very much like black… leather. Oh my.
Suddenly, I'm not that hungry any more – or for food, anyway. She realises where I'm looking, and gives me an extremely saucy grin.
"Wonderful pizza," she says, licking her lips. "Really good, these. Where'd you get them?"
"Oh, an Italian place," I say intelligently.
"Never. I thought they'd be from the China Diner," she grins, looking at the boxes. "Oh, Tosca. A ristorante, eh? Never heard of it. You eaten there?"
"Yeah," I say casually, then realise the last thing I want is her suggesting we go, or even dragging Doyle in there at some point in the future – if it hasn't been closed down because the owner's in the nick – because that would bring all sorts of problems.
"Good?"
"Terrible," I tell her. "Except for the pizzas, that is. Not somewhere to go for an evening out."
She shrugs her shoulders, which reveals a little more of what she's wearing. My groin does predictable things and I'm extremely glad I've skipped round the Tosca issue before my brain turns to mush.
"Have a bite," she says. "Of the pizza, that is… and then find the corkscrew, would you? It's over there somewhere. I'll go and get some wine."
I start looking but don't find it immediately. What I do find is her pinboard, which is several layers thick in Post-Its and other stuff, pinned rather precariously. So precariously, in fact, that as I start fishing around in a big jar full of spoons and spatulas, a few of them come off and I absently start shoving them back until an unmistakable logo catches my eye. The curly letters in a deep burgundy are all over the place: I've seen them on the napkins, the menus, over the door…. Tosca. This, I realise, is their takeaway menu, and it's fairly well thumbed at that.
Job-type instincts take over from more basic ones and I slide it back under the nearest, biggish sheet of paper on the board at the speed of light, and scrabble frantically for the corkscrew, which I finally identify. I barely take in the fact that it's in the form of women's legs with the screw part between them, I'm so stunned that she's lied to me. I mean… why?
She's forgotten the name, I persuade myself as she comes back into the kitchen. That must be it, right?
"So," she says as I attack the cork and fumble it a bit. "How about a little aperitif?"
The way she's looking at the tool in my hand and stroking my chest tells me she's not thinking only of the wine.
If the aperitif was good, involving me getting acquainted with the distinctly risqué underwear and satisfying her if not myself, the main course surprises me even more. Do I like a little fun, she asks? A little… naughty?
Before I've even answered, she slides open her bedside draw and points at it with a giggle. My mouth dries as I see the handcuffs and I think she feels me flinch slightly.
"Don't fancy it?" she says lightly. "I thought it was every man's dream, to chain a woman to her bed?"
"Well…"
"Don't worry," she says. "I'm not going to ask you to reciprocate if you don't want to. It just excites me. Go on…"
So help me, I do. And it sure as hell does excite her as well and I've no complaints at all in many ways although I'm not sure I get quite into it as much as she'd like: submissive women aren't really my cup of tea.
I undo the cuffs eventually, absolutely knackered, and slump down on the bed beside her deciding that she is most definitely too much for me to handle.
"Ray's not really into that," she pouts. "Shame, really."
I didn't want that piece of information, I feel like telling her. It's one thing pinching Doyle's bird, but I'm not really up for a blow-blow blow account of how they do it.
She's lying there fiddling with her toys, grinning faintly. I feel somewhat queasy for some reason. Suddenly, the massive bed and satin sheets seem tacky rather than sexy.
"Mind you," she adds, "I never give up hope. You sure you don't want to try it? Apparently it's incredibly arousing for a man as well. I keep telling Ray so but he won't do it either. I was really hoping you were more adventurous."
Did she, indeed.
"Dildos, now, they can be really…" she starts, and I can't stop myself frowning but cover that up by pretending I can smell burning.
It takes me a huge effort to eat some of the pizza, which she insists we take to bed. Even before she's brought it, though, I've decided that I'm not up for any more games, or in fact anything else at all. Doyle, I decide, is welcome to her although I'm almost sorry for him because I don't think the poor bastard's realised she's such a tramp. Can't exactly tell him so, can I? And neither can I decently escape before I've forced some of Tosca's best down me.
When Cindy gets up, licking her fingers and saying she's going to take a quick shower, I decide I'll get dressed and invent some sort of pretext for leaving rapidly. This isn't that easy unless I can think of some good reason, such as a potential buyer of a Rolls Royce needing a salesman at ten o'clock at night.
I start reaching for my clothes as I think, grabbing my shirt from where she's dropped it and then find myself staring at the drawer she took the handcuffs from. She's got quite a little treasure trove in there, in fact. Nipple clamps… ugh. And some sort of studded collar. A couple of dildos, a tube of K-Y jelly… and something else. I poke around a bit and pull out a tiny whip, almost…
… child size.
No, that's because of the photo I saw before. It's just small and I'm jumping to conclusions because I'm thinking about Doyle. I can't resist picking it up though, in a kind of revolted fascination.
There's a sort of tiny cat embossed on the handle, I notice but then decide it's time to push the stuff back in the drawer. As I sit up, shit in hand, I realise Cindy's standing there staring at me. Shit.
I mumble apologies, but she's laughing. Tells me she knew I'd be interested after all.
Desperation, however, kicks my brain into gear and I manage a theatrical sigh.
"Have to save that for another time, love. Got some sort of weird client from Saudi in tomorrow really early, and I want to make some extra commission from him. Then maybe we can go and celebrate somewhere really nice – better than any Italian place. And then play with some of your toys afterwards."
She looks a bit disappointed, but doesn't argue too much. I manage to kiss her goodbye but getting out of her flat and into my car, I breathe a huge, heartfelt sigh of relief. I haven't the slightest intention of seeing her again, let alone play with her toys. Kinky's one thing, but not when you're just a substitute for some poor bugger who's been beaten up and has no idea what she's really like.
I'm almost tempted to poke around a little, see exactly what this job of hers is just for the hell of it and if we've got anything on her, as well. She says she works at some sort of trading company, which 'isn't really interesting', but I'd be interested to see what she trades in. Whips and handcuffs, maybe?
Right, I decide as I head for home. I'll get Ruthie onto that. She's discreet enough not to give the game away with Doyle, or at least I hope so. I'll say it's because I've heard a couple of rumours about her being married or something and don't want to see Doyle hurt – or rather any more hurt.
That thought cheers me up a bit at least as I get home. I even call the buggy-boo to find – as I expected – Bodie's still there and still getting up Khan's nose although they seem to have called some sort of truce, Khan assures me.
So everything will be fine.
The door bangs open and in bounces little Nicoletta, her black hair all tousled from running home after school. All excited and cheerful, she tells her granny about some prank they played on their teacher. La mamma grins indulgently. Bambini – what can you do?
Yeah, bambini. I like kids, I really do. As long as they're other people's kids – those you can hand back after a few hours and say 'that was nice, I'll be pleased to take them again in a month or so'. Like my sister's brats – lovely kids, but after half a day I could happily wring their tiny necks.
No. Don't say things like that. Don't even think them. Those photographs I saw are still glued to my inner eye like those ads they say you don't consciously notice yet remember all the more clearly in your subconscious. Pictures of kids, young kids, that make your stomach churn. The one with the dog collar wasn't even the worst by far.
“… where's Mimi been today if she wasn't at school?” I hear Nicoletta finish the question she's obviously directed at Francesca – who bursts into tears and runs off to the loo, leaving Nicoletta and la mamma equally puzzled.
Now that's interesting. However much I'm personally touched by all this, my professional mind instantly picks up on the lead. Last night, Francesca was clearly worried, but this? I don't like it one little bit.
Something very fishy is on the menu right now, and I am not talking about the huge coda di rospo la mamma is trimming, although it's probably at least as ugly. If my copper's nose hasn't suddenly gone to seed, it all comes down to the fact that little Mimi is missing – and her mother's not only upset, but obviously knows she's got very good reason to be.
Christ - does she know about the porn stuff?
Nah. Can't imagine that, however often I've come across kids who'd been abused not by some nameless, faceless nutter, but by their own beloved uncles and daddy's best friends.
Now Francesca is back, her eyes red and puffy, but outwardly composed as she resumes her work under the concerned scrutiny of la mamma who, however, doesn't comment. I wonder if they're all aware of what's going on, but somehow can't convince myself this is really the case.
As the shift ends, Giuditta sails off to her hairdresser's – obviously a matter of utmost importance and bound to last quite a while. At least that's what I gather from la mamma's acid comments as she ushers Nicoletta out of the door to some dentist's appointment, accompanied by the girl's petulant whines.
The rest of the staff is off to make the most of their afternoon break, but Domenico is holed up in his office so I haven't got a chance to snoop around some more. On the other hand, it's an opportunity to ask Francesca to check my bandages. The one on my neck where Angelo's sharp signet ring left an ugly deep scratch is thoroughly soaked and stuck, and the rib strapping proves not to be overly compatible with kitchen work.
She sits me down close to the window and helps me take off my shirt, tutting about the impressive shades of my now fully developed bruises. She is working expertly while I try not to flinch and divert my mind by concentrating on the pleasant warmth of the fine autumn day. As if by magic, the low, golden rays of sunshine make the seedy back alley look compellingly like some mediaeval vicolo far away from the frenzy and filth of this monstrous city.
Francesca is still quiet, kind of reticent, and I find myself debating for a moment whether I should really break through her silence. She's not a pretty girl, with her plain, slightly sour-looking face, long nose and uneven teeth.
La mamma told me she's a distant relative of the Scarpias, and that's why they took her in when her family kicked her and the baby virtually into the gutter. I'm sure she'll think she owes them, so whatever's going on it will be difficult to make her tell me anything even though my instincts tell me she is a crucial link in the chain.
Just as I'm about to open my mouth to give it a careful try, I suddenly hear hushed voices nearby. I instantly recognise Domenico, but the other one doesn't register at once.
Something must be afoot for I didn't even hear Domenico leave his office and go to the staff entrance, the same place I met Murphy yesterday. It's pretty well hidden from the restaurant and the alley and therefore well suited for a quiet little chat without witnesses. Yet by the open kitchen window I have a fairly good vantage point, even though only acoustically.
The two men are talking rapidly in Italian, and even though I catch at most one word in ten, I get the distinct impression they are both rather distressed. I make out a few titbits, common words like bambina, and piccina, which both seem to mean the same. I've heard la mamma call me piccino often enough to know it means “little one”. But what little girl?
Damn, what if they're talking about Mimi…? Suddenly I feel cold as I recognise another word out of context: incidente, then another: sfortunato. Something has happened, and it must be bad – or do they mean fortunate? Nah, they're too serious, too concerned, and the one with the silky voice keeps repeating mi spiace – now that's one expression you learn very quickly if you work as a waiter, for it conveniently covers each and every disaster from tomato sauce down someone's Armani lapel to sending a pizza margherita flying like a frisbee.
He's sorry about something, and obviously gets an earful from Domenico –
With a start, I realise that Francesca hasn't moved for minutes now. As if frozen into place she bends over my chest, her hands on the bandage, her unseeing eyes fixed on my throat. Her body and mind seem to be focused entirely on her hearing. I grasp both her arms with my hands, maybe to prevent her from keeling over, I don't know myself. But she doesn't even notice.
Now the silky voice continues to whine, obviously trying to explain something away. I catch droga and errore – error? Someone has made a mistake with whatever drugs?
Then Domenico asks a question so clearly and loudly that even I get all of its ugly meaning: “È sicuro dunque che la piccina è veramente morta?”
As the silky voice is meekly confirming he's sure the little one's dead, I suddenly feel the tension double, then the muscles explode into action beneath my hands. All I can do is hold onto her with all the strength I can muster, which isn't all that much given my present state and my awkward position with one buttock parked on the edge of the kitchen counter.
Francesca stiffens again, then looks at me, her eyes huge and wild. Her mouth opens, but I quickly put one hand over it and shake my head vehemently. She struggles a bit, but slumps forward, relying on me to catch her before she crashes into my poor ribcage.
We stand like that, silently, unmoving, listening to them talk. At this point, I don't understand very much, except the odd word and then a place: Tower Hamlets. What on earth…
At last, we hear the two voices mutter an unfriendly ciao and fast steps move away through the alley towards the main street. Domenico shuffles back to his office, then out of the back door and slams it shut. A minute later, a car is started and quickly drives off.
Releasing a gush of air, I finally let go of Francesca who is now shaking pitifully as tears start to flow. I steady her and catch her as she makes to escape my grasp, but she seems to have no strength left. I make her sit down and wait until she's ready to talk, which is quite a while.
Then we puzzle together what I have heard and what she has heard, and it appears I was right. There's been an incident involving a little girl and drugs, and the kid is now dead. Her body needs to be disposed of, and that's why the silky one has come to Domenico, for he knows what to do if you want to get rid of someone. Those were his words, Francesca repeats, as fresh tears well up.
“Where are they going to dispose of the body?” I ask her once she's go herself under control again.
“Un grande cantiere,” she says. “I don't know where.”
“They said Tower Hamlets – is that it?”
“I don't know, but I think that was the place.”
I can piece together that grande means big, but as for the rest…
“Francesca, what is a cantiere? Some kind of pub, or canteen?”
“No, no, not that. A cantiere is a place where they build something… ships, for example.”
“A shipyard? Near Tower Hamlets?” I'm baffled. “There are no shipyards in that area. Can it be somewhere else?”
“Senti, non solo navi – un cantiere can also be a place where they build a house, or a road.”
“A building site? Ah.” Now that would be a much more convenient place if anyone intended to provide someone with a pair of cement shoes.
“All right. so we know the place. Have they said how they're going to proceed?”
“Il padrone told him to take the dead girl there and he'd then make sure of the rest. What are we going to do, per carità? Madonna, if that girl is dead my Mimi may be in danger too, and if the police find out we will all be in trouble…”
She's about to jump to her feet, but I manage to get her seated again.
“Wait. We'll think of something, Francesca, but first I need to know the details. First of all: who is the man the padrone was talking to? Do you know him?”
She shudders. “Si. It is signor Valerio, he works for signor Benfatto. They do business with il padrone…” She looks at me sharply. “… but mamma Maddalena must not know about that.”
Ah. L'onorabile signor Valerio, it all comes together now. Although…
“But you know about their… business?” I ask her very cautiously.
“Yes,” she admits and hangs her head. “It was for Mimi, you know, I wanted her to have a better life one day.” She looks at me pleadingly. “All they did after all was to take pictures of her in pretty clothes, you know like… un indossatrice, what do you call that – a model? I know she is much too young, but she loves pretty clothes so much and they always gave her nice new dresses and shoes and all the things I could never buy her…”
Is that what they told her? That they were taking her daughter to have her pose for fashion photos?
Prompted by my careful questions, I finally get the whole story, or at least a good part of it. Haltingly and weighing every word, she tells me what Domenico has told her: With the help of Benfatto and his consigliere, he's going to launch a children's fashion line, moda italiana per bambini. Yet they need to do it quietly because of the competition in that market – everybody knows, after all, that the fashion industry is all corrupt and rotten, so there was good reason to start first and tell about it later.
La mamma was not supposed to know because she wouldn't have approved. She doesn't think much of fashion, it appears, and would not approve of her son's new sideline. Her heart is in the restaurant she and her late husband built up with hard work and love. All she wants is for her children to take over the family business and carry on.
So when Domenico approached her and asked if he could “borrow” little Mimi to pose for photos designed to feature in fashion magazines and brochures, Francesca reluctantly agreed – and kept her mouth shut, even when she realised that Mimi came home after those “sessions” all downbeat and sometimes even sick – too much ice cream, Domenico had explained.
I sit for a minute and try to digest all this. Now comes the worst part of it.
“You said your Mimi might be in danger as well. Why?”
She shrugs impatiently, an obstinate pout on her face, but doesn't answer. I do it for her.
“I think they took her for another photo session last night and she didn't come home. Is that it?”
She looks at me, suddenly furious. “It is all right. Il padrone told me there were technical problems with the camera and it took longer than they thought, so she stayed over night with his friends where they take the photos. She's fine there, they give her pretty clothes and nice food and ice cream…”
She rambles on, visibly trying to convince herself everything is okay. I grab both her shoulders and hold her tightly, willing her to look at my face.
“Listen, Francesca. This is very important. Did they mention the dead girl's name? Did they say who she was?”
She shakes her head, and I can see she is unable to acknowledge one horrendous possibility. “No. A little girl. And we have to do something to get Mimi back because if the police find her there they might get il padrone and all of us into trouble.”
I know when to give up, and I silently think maybe she's better off this way for the moment. In my own mind, there's not a trace of a doubt who the little girl will turn out to be once they've found her body. Speaking of which…
“Listen, Francesca, let me take care of this. I'll think of something, but until then you must keep your mouth shut and not speak to anyone, not even la mamma. Do you understand?”
She nods, looking at me with wide eyes and a blank face.
“Do you trust me, Francesca?” I ask, and she nods again. I smile reassuringly.
“Good. Listen. You go to your place now and leave everything to me. I'll stay here and tidy the first-aid stuff up and then see what I can do, va bene?”
She manages a tiny smile. “Va bene, si.”
She shuffles off, and I hastily ponder my options. I find Domenico's office door locked and thus head for the counter, pick up the phone and deliver an urgent message to the bug in the receiver. Someone in the buggy-boo will hear me and make sure CI5 finds the broken little body before Domenico's personal jerrybuilders do.
Yeah, bambini. I like kids, I really do. As long as they're other people's kids – those you can hand back after a few hours and say 'that was nice, I'll be pleased to take them again in a month or so'. Like my sister's brats – lovely kids, but after half a day I could happily wring their tiny necks.
No. Don't say things like that. Don't even think them. Those photographs I saw are still glued to my inner eye like those ads they say you don't consciously notice yet remember all the more clearly in your subconscious. Pictures of kids, young kids, that make your stomach churn. The one with the dog collar wasn't even the worst by far.
“… where's Mimi been today if she wasn't at school?” I hear Nicoletta finish the question she's obviously directed at Francesca – who bursts into tears and runs off to the loo, leaving Nicoletta and la mamma equally puzzled.
Now that's interesting. However much I'm personally touched by all this, my professional mind instantly picks up on the lead. Last night, Francesca was clearly worried, but this? I don't like it one little bit.
Something very fishy is on the menu right now, and I am not talking about the huge coda di rospo la mamma is trimming, although it's probably at least as ugly. If my copper's nose hasn't suddenly gone to seed, it all comes down to the fact that little Mimi is missing – and her mother's not only upset, but obviously knows she's got very good reason to be.
Christ - does she know about the porn stuff?
Nah. Can't imagine that, however often I've come across kids who'd been abused not by some nameless, faceless nutter, but by their own beloved uncles and daddy's best friends.
Now Francesca is back, her eyes red and puffy, but outwardly composed as she resumes her work under the concerned scrutiny of la mamma who, however, doesn't comment. I wonder if they're all aware of what's going on, but somehow can't convince myself this is really the case.
As the shift ends, Giuditta sails off to her hairdresser's – obviously a matter of utmost importance and bound to last quite a while. At least that's what I gather from la mamma's acid comments as she ushers Nicoletta out of the door to some dentist's appointment, accompanied by the girl's petulant whines.
The rest of the staff is off to make the most of their afternoon break, but Domenico is holed up in his office so I haven't got a chance to snoop around some more. On the other hand, it's an opportunity to ask Francesca to check my bandages. The one on my neck where Angelo's sharp signet ring left an ugly deep scratch is thoroughly soaked and stuck, and the rib strapping proves not to be overly compatible with kitchen work.
She sits me down close to the window and helps me take off my shirt, tutting about the impressive shades of my now fully developed bruises. She is working expertly while I try not to flinch and divert my mind by concentrating on the pleasant warmth of the fine autumn day. As if by magic, the low, golden rays of sunshine make the seedy back alley look compellingly like some mediaeval vicolo far away from the frenzy and filth of this monstrous city.
Francesca is still quiet, kind of reticent, and I find myself debating for a moment whether I should really break through her silence. She's not a pretty girl, with her plain, slightly sour-looking face, long nose and uneven teeth.
La mamma told me she's a distant relative of the Scarpias, and that's why they took her in when her family kicked her and the baby virtually into the gutter. I'm sure she'll think she owes them, so whatever's going on it will be difficult to make her tell me anything even though my instincts tell me she is a crucial link in the chain.
Just as I'm about to open my mouth to give it a careful try, I suddenly hear hushed voices nearby. I instantly recognise Domenico, but the other one doesn't register at once.
Something must be afoot for I didn't even hear Domenico leave his office and go to the staff entrance, the same place I met Murphy yesterday. It's pretty well hidden from the restaurant and the alley and therefore well suited for a quiet little chat without witnesses. Yet by the open kitchen window I have a fairly good vantage point, even though only acoustically.
The two men are talking rapidly in Italian, and even though I catch at most one word in ten, I get the distinct impression they are both rather distressed. I make out a few titbits, common words like bambina, and piccina, which both seem to mean the same. I've heard la mamma call me piccino often enough to know it means “little one”. But what little girl?
Damn, what if they're talking about Mimi…? Suddenly I feel cold as I recognise another word out of context: incidente, then another: sfortunato. Something has happened, and it must be bad – or do they mean fortunate? Nah, they're too serious, too concerned, and the one with the silky voice keeps repeating mi spiace – now that's one expression you learn very quickly if you work as a waiter, for it conveniently covers each and every disaster from tomato sauce down someone's Armani lapel to sending a pizza margherita flying like a frisbee.
He's sorry about something, and obviously gets an earful from Domenico –
With a start, I realise that Francesca hasn't moved for minutes now. As if frozen into place she bends over my chest, her hands on the bandage, her unseeing eyes fixed on my throat. Her body and mind seem to be focused entirely on her hearing. I grasp both her arms with my hands, maybe to prevent her from keeling over, I don't know myself. But she doesn't even notice.
Now the silky voice continues to whine, obviously trying to explain something away. I catch droga and errore – error? Someone has made a mistake with whatever drugs?
Then Domenico asks a question so clearly and loudly that even I get all of its ugly meaning: “È sicuro dunque che la piccina è veramente morta?”
As the silky voice is meekly confirming he's sure the little one's dead, I suddenly feel the tension double, then the muscles explode into action beneath my hands. All I can do is hold onto her with all the strength I can muster, which isn't all that much given my present state and my awkward position with one buttock parked on the edge of the kitchen counter.
Francesca stiffens again, then looks at me, her eyes huge and wild. Her mouth opens, but I quickly put one hand over it and shake my head vehemently. She struggles a bit, but slumps forward, relying on me to catch her before she crashes into my poor ribcage.
We stand like that, silently, unmoving, listening to them talk. At this point, I don't understand very much, except the odd word and then a place: Tower Hamlets. What on earth…
At last, we hear the two voices mutter an unfriendly ciao and fast steps move away through the alley towards the main street. Domenico shuffles back to his office, then out of the back door and slams it shut. A minute later, a car is started and quickly drives off.
Releasing a gush of air, I finally let go of Francesca who is now shaking pitifully as tears start to flow. I steady her and catch her as she makes to escape my grasp, but she seems to have no strength left. I make her sit down and wait until she's ready to talk, which is quite a while.
Then we puzzle together what I have heard and what she has heard, and it appears I was right. There's been an incident involving a little girl and drugs, and the kid is now dead. Her body needs to be disposed of, and that's why the silky one has come to Domenico, for he knows what to do if you want to get rid of someone. Those were his words, Francesca repeats, as fresh tears well up.
“Where are they going to dispose of the body?” I ask her once she's go herself under control again.
“Un grande cantiere,” she says. “I don't know where.”
“They said Tower Hamlets – is that it?”
“I don't know, but I think that was the place.”
I can piece together that grande means big, but as for the rest…
“Francesca, what is a cantiere? Some kind of pub, or canteen?”
“No, no, not that. A cantiere is a place where they build something… ships, for example.”
“A shipyard? Near Tower Hamlets?” I'm baffled. “There are no shipyards in that area. Can it be somewhere else?”
“Senti, non solo navi – un cantiere can also be a place where they build a house, or a road.”
“A building site? Ah.” Now that would be a much more convenient place if anyone intended to provide someone with a pair of cement shoes.
“All right. so we know the place. Have they said how they're going to proceed?”
“Il padrone told him to take the dead girl there and he'd then make sure of the rest. What are we going to do, per carità? Madonna, if that girl is dead my Mimi may be in danger too, and if the police find out we will all be in trouble…”
She's about to jump to her feet, but I manage to get her seated again.
“Wait. We'll think of something, Francesca, but first I need to know the details. First of all: who is the man the padrone was talking to? Do you know him?”
She shudders. “Si. It is signor Valerio, he works for signor Benfatto. They do business with il padrone…” She looks at me sharply. “… but mamma Maddalena must not know about that.”
Ah. L'onorabile signor Valerio, it all comes together now. Although…
“But you know about their… business?” I ask her very cautiously.
“Yes,” she admits and hangs her head. “It was for Mimi, you know, I wanted her to have a better life one day.” She looks at me pleadingly. “All they did after all was to take pictures of her in pretty clothes, you know like… un indossatrice, what do you call that – a model? I know she is much too young, but she loves pretty clothes so much and they always gave her nice new dresses and shoes and all the things I could never buy her…”
Is that what they told her? That they were taking her daughter to have her pose for fashion photos?
Prompted by my careful questions, I finally get the whole story, or at least a good part of it. Haltingly and weighing every word, she tells me what Domenico has told her: With the help of Benfatto and his consigliere, he's going to launch a children's fashion line, moda italiana per bambini. Yet they need to do it quietly because of the competition in that market – everybody knows, after all, that the fashion industry is all corrupt and rotten, so there was good reason to start first and tell about it later.
La mamma was not supposed to know because she wouldn't have approved. She doesn't think much of fashion, it appears, and would not approve of her son's new sideline. Her heart is in the restaurant she and her late husband built up with hard work and love. All she wants is for her children to take over the family business and carry on.
So when Domenico approached her and asked if he could “borrow” little Mimi to pose for photos designed to feature in fashion magazines and brochures, Francesca reluctantly agreed – and kept her mouth shut, even when she realised that Mimi came home after those “sessions” all downbeat and sometimes even sick – too much ice cream, Domenico had explained.
I sit for a minute and try to digest all this. Now comes the worst part of it.
“You said your Mimi might be in danger as well. Why?”
She shrugs impatiently, an obstinate pout on her face, but doesn't answer. I do it for her.
“I think they took her for another photo session last night and she didn't come home. Is that it?”
She looks at me, suddenly furious. “It is all right. Il padrone told me there were technical problems with the camera and it took longer than they thought, so she stayed over night with his friends where they take the photos. She's fine there, they give her pretty clothes and nice food and ice cream…”
She rambles on, visibly trying to convince herself everything is okay. I grab both her shoulders and hold her tightly, willing her to look at my face.
“Listen, Francesca. This is very important. Did they mention the dead girl's name? Did they say who she was?”
She shakes her head, and I can see she is unable to acknowledge one horrendous possibility. “No. A little girl. And we have to do something to get Mimi back because if the police find her there they might get il padrone and all of us into trouble.”
I know when to give up, and I silently think maybe she's better off this way for the moment. In my own mind, there's not a trace of a doubt who the little girl will turn out to be once they've found her body. Speaking of which…
“Listen, Francesca, let me take care of this. I'll think of something, but until then you must keep your mouth shut and not speak to anyone, not even la mamma. Do you understand?”
She nods, looking at me with wide eyes and a blank face.
“Do you trust me, Francesca?” I ask, and she nods again. I smile reassuringly.
“Good. Listen. You go to your place now and leave everything to me. I'll stay here and tidy the first-aid stuff up and then see what I can do, va bene?”
She manages a tiny smile. “Va bene, si.”
She shuffles off, and I hastily ponder my options. I find Domenico's office door locked and thus head for the counter, pick up the phone and deliver an urgent message to the bug in the receiver. Someone in the buggy-boo will hear me and make sure CI5 finds the broken little body before Domenico's personal jerrybuilders do.
Why, I ask myself as I toss and turn, didn't I ask Cindy where she worked? As in exactly where? I mean that smart camera of hers that was lying around could be just a hobby of hers, and she might be heavily into soft-focus sunsets rather than…
Oh, stop it. She might even be a company photographer. Do trading companies have those? To take photos of anything from sacks of coffee beans to… whatever they trade in.
Why, why, why?
Well, sunshine, because first you were too randy to care and then too shocked to think about it. Very professional, all that.
Maybe I'm just getting suspicious for nothing. My mind's just putting two and two together and making five.
Of course I am. She's just an over-sexed bimbo.
Or is she?
She lied about knowing Tosca, didn't she?
By the time my clock says quarter to six, I've had enough of all this, so I get up and drink too much coffee and then call Khan as I set off. Nothing's happening there, he says, and why am I awake as I'm only supposed to take over at seven?
"Couldn't sleep," I say wearily.
"Too much pizza?"
"Something like that. Bodie still there?"
"Nope. Finally kicked him out when the restaurant closed. Why?"
"Just wondered. Look, is there any chance of you staying there for a bit? There's a couple of things I need to look into at work. About the case. It's a bit early to clear it with Cowley, I know, but…"
"No worries, mate. Got a couple of hours' kip anyway. Thought you were in for an evening off, not chewing it over?"
"So did I," I say grimly. "Thanks, Khan. No doubt you'll have company before long anyway."
"Can't think who you mean," he chuckles. "Take your time. And if he gets in touch, tell him to bring breakfast."
"Will do."
Right. Now to see if Cowley still keeps strange hours.
He does. I take a deep breath, ask if he minds sending somebody else to look after the bugs and say I've got something I need to do – check out some details about child porn.
"Miss Pettifer is handling that," he says abruptly. "And what with Bodie trying to pull the wool over my eyes and Doyle refusing to return, I would rather like to think that a few people still realise who is in charge here."
Damn. Cowley in this sort of mood isn't easy, and I know better than to try and budge him, or at least much. Compromise time.
"I do, sir. I'll give Ruth what I know and see if she can follow it up, then. Is that all right?"
"Very well," Cowley says shortly, then sighs and looks up at me. "Very unpleasant business, Murphy, child pornography. It will, however, ultimately be handled by the vice squad. Miss Pettifer is just putting some of her former knowledge to work to see if we can make any more links between that and those involved the drug business."
"Exactly. I…"
"Fine, then see Miss Pettifer and don't waste too much time over it. Understood?"
You have to love George Cowley when he's in 'get on with it' mood. I do pick up one thing, though. Miss Pettifer must be another early riser. What's more, my luck's holding so far because Cowley doesn't bother asking exactly what I know. Not sure if Ruthie'll be quite as uncomplicated though.
"Patrick," she says as I find her in Archives, "you're early".
"So are you."
"Yeah, well… Cowley's waiting for results and as touchy as hell thanks to Bodie and Doyle cheerfully ignoring instructions as usual. So I thought I'd make a start. Gain a few Brownie points. What do you want, anyway? I presume you haven't come to declare undying love, and I thought you were due to relieve Khan?"
"I was, but he's also being selfless and staying on for a bit. I came to pick your brains, actually, to see if you remember anything about… shall we say kinky equipment suppliers from the old days."
She stares at me, but I've already come up with a good smokescreen. I didn't miss the touch of irony about 'undying love', though, but decide it's not a good idea to react to that.
"Just some information I remember from way back," I say airily. "But it would be helpful if you could check the photo Ray gave us to see if the – um – equipment comes from a particular manufacturer. See if there are any… distinguishing marks on it. Like… "
"Could do," she says. "So far I've been trying to see if the location or the child tells us anything. Comparing the studio it was taken in with other stuff I've coaxed out of everybody from my old section to Interpol. It's not exactly fun stuff, and there'll be a lot more coming during the day."
"I bet," I sympathise, but she's staring at me, frowning slightly.
"But even if we found out who supplied the collar that isn't going to help much. There's nothing illegal in that. And there are dozens if not hundreds of makers."
"I know," I admit. "It's just that I… well…"
"Well what? And what sort of information do you mean?"
I knew this was going to happen. I take a long, deep breath as she watches me expectantly.
"I know somebody who's… well… into that sort of thing a bit. It's a fairly thin link and she probably doesn't have anything to do with these photographs…"
"Just a minute, Patrick." Ruth has launched into highly professional mode here and my smokescreen is suddenly fading rapidly. "Who are we talking about? I'm not trying to pry into your personal… affairs, but…"
"I'm – look, Ruth, I'm not into that stuff. It's just not a good idea to – er – involve this… person. Believe me."
"Put it this way – if you give me a name I can try and make connections. Or at least something to go on."
"Does a sort of cat logo mean anything to you?"
"On what?"
"On… whips and things," I say miserably. The reproach in her eyes is evident, but she's obviously thinking hard.
"I'll look," she says curtly. "Although at some point I'll need to know who has the whips in question if it's not going to be just another wild goose chase."
She's right, and my idea of keeping this quiet just won't wash.
"Doyle's girlfriend," I say quietly. "I was at her place last night and… poked around a bit. She had some pretty weird stuff."
"Poked around," Ruth says coldly. "I see."
"It's not…"
"I don't care what it is or it isn't, or even what sort of 'poking' was involved, Patrick. I also accept that you're trying to protect yourself – even Doyle, I suppose, but why suddenly think she's connected to all this just because she has rather bizarre tastes?"
I tell her about the camera, about the lie about Tosca, and about the trading company, which gets me a brief nod. Then I give Ruth her full name and address, which she notes.
"Look…"
"It's all right. If I don't come up with anything I'm not exactly going to broadcast it from the rooftops that at least Doyle if not both of you have rather strange taste in ladyfriends. Maybe the vampire queen's pretty tame in comparison."
Her tone's pretty cutting, so there's not much point saying anything else.
"Thanks, Ruth."
"I'm not going to say you're welcome," she shoots back.
Cowley chooses this precise moment to appear, with a face like thunder. This is all I need – particularly if he's suddenly decided to ask me exactly what I'm playing at.
But no. Apparently the Minister's decided that CI5 can take up the pornography side of it all as well, which considering we're short-handed (as usual) does not please the Cow one little bit. McCabe has been dispatched to take over from Khan, he adds, and where's Bodie?
I hesitate a little, and Cowley grimaces.
"If he's where I think he is, tell him to get back here and get the bloody Somerset case wrapped up instead of trying to play truant any longer. There are limits to my patience."
Oh, I know that, I feel like saying. Instead, I ask why McCabe's been sent to the buggy-boo.
"Because you can assist Miss Pettifer until further notice, Murphy. I expect results, and fast."
With that, Cowley turns on his heel and slams out again.
"Right," Ruth says. "Better get down to business then, and believe me, you aren't going to enjoy it."
I believe her. A finger points to the table, piled up with files next to a microfilm reader. I sit down meekly, but first incur Bodie's wrath when I phone him just as he's about to head out. I just hope he doesn't defy Cowley once too often.
"First," Ruth commands, "you go through all those photographs and the films and see if you can find any with a similar setting or if the same child is in them. That would be of particular help because you can't prosecute the people behind this unless you can put a name to the kids, and in this case we have one."
"But that's…"
"Ridiculous, but that's the law. And, of course, it would tell us who's behind it if the photo of Mimi matches any we've got from known sources. The people at the restaurant might just be dealers, not the people who actually take the photos and films."
It sounds horrible. In fact it is horrible, I see as I open the first file.
Ruth and I both sit there and pore through the stuff, which makes my stomach churn to the point I get up, unable to take it any longer.
"You all right?" she says, speaking to me for the first time in hours.
"It's…"
"It's revolting. One reason why I left the vice squad. They're monsters, these people."
There's a tiny catch to her voice, and I'm tempted to squeeze her shoulder.
"I can understand Doyle wanting to nail them," I agree, shuddering at the photograph in front of me.
"So what's Doyle doing with a girlfriend into… that?"
"I don't know," I sigh. "I don't honestly think he knows just… how much she is into it. Although it's not quite the same as this."
"Not quite, but there are connections. People who like the kinky stuff aren't always paedophiles, but some are."
Jesus. This hardly bears thinking about. My eyes are tired – in fact after so little sleep I'm knackered, and I'm still torn between thinking the stuff with Cindy's a coincidence born of my over-fertile imagination or suspecting her of something revolting.
"She did approach Doyle," Ruth says, thoughtfully. "So…"
"She was… pretty… forthcoming with me as well," I admit on impulse. "And no, it's not an excuse, but let's say she's a little loose with her favours and not exactly shy about it."
"Ah," Ruth says neutrally. "Well, I suppose if you're offered something on a plate…"
That's one way of putting it, although I don't comment on that.
"Look," she says, sighing. "Let's go and get a sandwich. Then I'll start looking into manufacturers and so on afterwards. We're getting nowhere here and it could be worthwhile."
It's a small truce, but a welcome one.
Bodie's up in one of the offices, attacking a typewriter with very little enthusiasm.
"What, no friendly typists?" I ask him.
"No friendly anybody this morning," he says mournfully. "Why's McCabe at the buggy-boo?"
I explain, leaving out my own little investigation and thankfully Ruth doesn't mention it either.
"Ah," Bodie nods. "So where are you off to?"
"Sandwich. Want one?"
"Two," Bodie says. "No liver paste, though."
When we get back, I put the curried chicken specials on his desk and disappear back to Archives before he opens them.
When Bodie arrives downstairs a couple of hours later, looking almost as thunderous as Cowley did earlier, I get ready for the outburst but it's nothing to do with sandwiches.
Bodie's curt and to the point. Apparently Doyle's got a message through to Mac about the kid in the photograph, and it isn't good news either. Cowley's even pulled him off his report and told him to grab me and get over to Tower Hamlets, fast, and to look for building sites. They'll radio more details in to us as we drive once they've tried to find out just how many sites we might have to look at.
"Look for what?" I ask.
"Looks like they've got a dead kid somewhere – maybe the one in the photo," Bodie says.
I grab my jacket. Ruth's on the phone, as she has been on and off ever since lunch, and she's been getting more frustrated by the minute as apparently she's getting nowhere with the 'Cindy connection' and I think she'll soon abandon that avenue. The news makes her face cloud over, and she sh