I spent the early hours of the morning touring the nightclubs and park benches, to no avail. Despite scanning the seedier sides of the city, I was no closer to locating Vittoria. So, I decided to ask an expert; I arranged to meet up with my old friend, Detective Inspector ‘Sweets’ MacArthur.
The weather had turned chilly and showery, so I’d reverted to my trench coat. I was standing outside the law courts, in King Edward VII Avenue, sheltering under a tall, leafy tree, waiting for Sweets to arrive.
Sure enough, just after noon, Sweets strolled out of the law courts, not looking best pleased. He adjusted his trilby, sighed and said, “A lawyer buys a farm as a weekend retreat. While walking around the fields he sees that his feet are sinking into a cowpat. He yells, ‘Oh, my God...help me! Help me!’ His wife runs up and says, ‘What’s the matter, dear?’ The lawyer stares at the cowpat and moans, “I’m melting! I’m melting!’ Or try this one...A woman drives home with the front of her car covered in mud, leaves, branches, and lots of blood. ‘I’m very sorry about the car,’ she says to her husband. ‘But I hit a lawyer on the way home.’ The husband nods and says, ‘Well that explains the blood, but what about the other stuff?’ The woman grimaces and admits, ‘Well I had to chase him through the park first.’ Or this one...If a lawyer and a politician were both drowning, what would you do...go to lunch or read a magazine?”
I smiled and said, “You sound bitter, Sweets.”
He removed his trilby, scratched his balding crown then whistled through the gap in his two front teeth. “I tell you, we had him, bang to rights. Yet his lawyer spots a minor technicality, the judge supports him, and the villain walks free. I ask you, why am I doing this job?”
I shrugged then asked, “You reckon the villain’s connected?”
Sweets groaned then sighed, “Aren’t they all?”
We walked north, along the avenue, towards the central police station. At a road junction, Sweets remembered that he was walking with me, and that he didn’t like his colleagues to see that he was fraternizing with me, so we turned east instead and entered the picturesque grounds of Alexandra Gardens.
The gardens contained a war memorial and a memorial to those killed during the Falklands conflict. Samuel, my mother’s husband – but not my father – died in that conflict. In many respects, Sweets was a father figure to me, someone I looked up to and respected, someone who offered guidance and commonsense.
As we strolled towards the war memorial, I said, “I’m working for Vincent Vanzetti.”
Sweets offered me a double take. He almost fell over his own feet, in his indignation. “Have you lost your marbles, Sam?”
“I’m looking for his daughter, Vittoria.”
Sweets puffed out his cheeks. I sensed that he wanted to yell, but there were people in the park, enjoying their lunch break, so instead he hissed, “Vanzetti’s a big time crook, heavy duty.”
“I know. But his daughter isn’t.”
“Who says?” Sweets demanded.
“The people I’ve talked with.”
“And they’re telling you the truth?”
“Some of the time,” I conceded. We paused while an elderly couple strolled towards the war memorial. Unveiled on the 12th June 1928, the memorial commemorated the servicemen who died during the First World War. A plaque honouring those who died during the Second World War was added in 1949. As the elderly couple studied the plaque, I continued, “I don’t picture Vittoria as a villain. She’s a villain’s daughter true, and maybe that’s landed her in trouble. Equally, something might be worrying her and that’s why she’s on the run.”
The elderly couple muttered a polite ‘good afternoon’ to Sweets, who smiled, doffed his hat, and replied in turn. Then the couple continued their stroll through the park, heading towards the memorial that honoured Samuel, amongst many others.
When alone again, I turned to Sweets and asked, “Have you heard anything about Vittoria’s disappearance?”
“Not a whisper.”
“Has Vittoria been in trouble before?”
“She doesn’t have a record; she’s clean.”
“No issues with drugs?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
“Have you seen Vittoria, in your dealings with Vanzetti?”
“A couple of times,” Sweets admitted, “at Vanzetti’s palace.”
“How did she strike you?”
He shrugged, grimaced, then placed a hand to his right shoulder, as though to ease a pain. “As an ordinary kid, I guess.”
“You talked with her?”
“Only to say hello.”
“Never questioned her?”
Sweets shook his head. “Never had a need to. But I’ve still got a hundred questions for her old man.”
A young woman entered the park. She was carrying a sketch pad and pencils. She eyed the war memorial, studied its circular colonnade and the three bronze sculptures arranged around a stone pylon. The sculptures represented the three main branches of the armed services: the air force, the navy and the army. All three were holding wreaths above their heads. Then the artist glanced up to Victory, a winged male nude, who crowned the structure.
The artist was carrying a small canvas chair. She unfolded that chair, sat, and began sketching. As her pencils danced across the paper, I said to Sweets, “Vittoria’s studying to become a child psychologist.”
He nodded. “That figures. She struck me as the studious sort.”
“So not a typical Vanzetti then.”
“I guess not,” Sweets conceded. “But you take money off him, Sam, and you’re taking blood money.”
I resented that accusation; it rubbed against my moral code and sense of propriety. In response, I scowled, “And all my other clients are saints, I suppose.”
“Maybe not,” Sweets sighed. “Probably not. But you know Vanzetti’s crooked, up front.”
As my mind cooled, I had to admit that Sweets had made a fair point. “Maybe I’ll donate my fee to charity,” I said with a hint of repentance.
“You do that,” Sweets said. He studied his trilby, flicked an imaginary speck of dust from its crown, then plonked the hat on his head. “Better still, tell Vanzetti to take a hike; there are other private eyes in the phone book.”
“He could even contact the police,” I said somewhat tartly.
“If he’d like to talk, we’re here.” Sweets strode towards the exit, glancing at the artist and her embryonic drawing en route. Meanwhile, I scurried behind him only to receive a further lashing from his tongue. “You’re walking a tightrope, Sam, working for Vanzetti. You be careful you don’t fall off.”
“If I do,” I smiled, “you’ll catch me.”
“Not with Vanzetti in the frame,” Sweets scowled. “You stumble on this one, you’re on your own.”