I telephoned Vincent Vanzetti. I told him that Vittoria was safe. He wanted to see her, immediately, but I explained that she needed a little time on her own. Vanzetti groaned and grumbled at that. However, he acquiesced when I promised to explain everything once I returned to his home.
I stood on a sand dune, which offered a view of the front and back of the house, and telephoned Mac. I explained the situation and within half an hour, his Bugatti cruised into the close.
“Good of you to drop everything and come running,” I said as I approached Mac’s car.
“I said just whistle, didn’t I. You whistled, I’m here; I’m a man of my word.”
Mac climbed out of the Bugatti. I sensed the neighbours’ curtains twitch as he adjusted his greatcoat, ran a hand over his bald head then licked his huge ginger moustache. Mac would stand out in a crowd of thousands. In this exclusive street, he was as inconspicuous as an alien wearing a G-string.
We entered the house through the back door to find Vittoria sitting in the living room. She had a pile of books at her side – mostly psychology textbooks – and a collection of CDs. She was searching through the CDs, though in absent-minded fashion. Her eyes were glazed, troubled, distant.
“Hello again,” I said. “This is my friend, Mac. You know Mac?”
She glanced up and offered a terse nod. “I’ve seen him around.”
“I’d like Mac to stay with you, until I can sort things out with your father.”
“I don’t need a nursemaid,” Vittoria said, giving the CDs an angry shove. The CDs scattered over the floor, revealing albums by the Stereophonics, Manic Street Preaches, Super Furry Animals and Catatonia. I also spied a CD by folk singer, Dafydd Iwan.
“I can’t leave you on your own,” I said. “If I should walk away from you, and something should happen, your father would never forgive me; you understand?”
Vittoria stared at the CDs. She leaned forward, to tidy them, thought better of it, then slumped back on the sofa.
“A deal,” I said. “If you allow Mac to stay with you, I’ll keep your family off your back for as long as it takes.”
Vittoria hesitated. She fingered her shell bracelet then glanced at Mac. “I need to think about that,” she said.
“You think,” I said. “We’ll wait outside.”
After we’d climbed on to a sand dune, to keep watch over the house, I turned to Mac and asked, “What do you make of her?”
Mac pursed his lips. He lapsed into deep thought, then replied, “She’s not the Vittoria I’ve seen at Vanzetti’s house. I mean, the woman in there is Vanzetti’s daughter, but her personality has changed.”
“You noticed her hair?”
Mac nodded. “Self-inflicted, I reckon.”
“And her arms?”
Again, he nodded. “She probably cut her arms as well. I reckon something’s disturbed her, psychologically. I reckon she’d be wise to talk with the good Dr Storey.”
“I think you’re right,” I said. Asking Alan for his help had already lodged at the front of my mind. “If she agrees, will you keep an eye on her until I sort things out with Vanzetti?”
“I take it I’m on a percentage of your cut,” Mac said, leaning back, arching his back, offering me the eyes of a parsimonious banker.
“I thought you did this job for love, not money.”
“I’m Scottish,” he said, leaning forward again, allowing his feet to sink into the soft sand, “or haven’t you noticed. We Scots know the value of a pound.”
“Okay,” I sighed. “Ten per cent.”
“Ten?” Mac frowned.
“Twenty.”
“Call it forty and we’re moving towards a deal.”
The day was bright and sunny, though a fresh breeze cut across the sand dunes, disturbing my clothes and hair. I reached up, swept my hair away from my eyes, my face, and said, “You’re not going to walk out and abandon Vittoria, so why are we having this conversation?”
“You want to put that statement to the test, Missy?” Mac asked, his gaze fixed on a windsurfer, a young man who struggled to remain upright as he fought the waves and the breeze. “You whistle, I’ll come running, but a man has to eat and find shelter.”
“Thirty per cent,” I conceded.
“Forty.”
“Thirty-eight.”
“Thirty-eight?” Mac’s forehead rippled, mimicking the layers of damp sand on the beach. “What sort of figure is that?”
“It’s a number between thirty-seven and thirty-nine.”
Mac glared at me, so I folded my arms across my chest and tapped my toes on the sand. Taking a leaf from Sherri’s book, I pouted and looked away. Drama queens incorporated.
“Now you’re being stubborn and pedantic,” he complained.
I turned to glance at the sky. An aeroplane had left a vapour trail while, in the distance, a yellow helicopter hovered over the railway line. “You want me to list your traits?” I asked.
Mac gave my shoulder a playful nudge, which almost sent me rolling down the sand dune. “We’re bickering like a married couple,” he smiled, “you know that.”
“Good job we’re not married then. Good job you don’t find me attractive.”
“I didn’t say that, Missy. You’re a very attractive woman, despite your obstinate ways.”
I nodded towards the house and we set foot on the sandy path. It was time to get back to Vittoria. “Thirty-eight per cent,” I said, “my final offer.”
With each heavy stride, Mac sank deep into the sand. So he jumped up to walk on the grass. “Let’s round it down to thirty-three per cent, just to put an end to this conversation. Thirty-eight per cent,” he shook his head forlornly, “I can’t be doing with that figure; no way I’ll remember that.”
“And you’ll remember thirty-three per cent?”
He nodded decisively. “The old long playing records, thirty-three rpm. The first time I had hochmagandy was with a long player playing in the background; how could I forget that?”
“Hochmagandy?” I frowned.
“You want me to draw you a picture?”
I blushed, then lengthened my stride. That’s the trouble with freckles; at the merest suggestion, my face lights up like a beacon. “Would it be X-rated?” I asked.
“Oh, aye,” Mac grinned, revealing a gold filling on his left eye tooth, “triple-X for sure.”
Inside the house, we found Vittoria on the sofa, in the same slumped position. Indeed, to all intents and purposes, she hadn’t moved.
I arched an eyebrow and she replied, “Okay, Mac can stay. But I don’t want to see or talk with anyone from my family.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ll arrange that.”