At dawn, I found myself sitting in a small copse, adjusting my binoculars, spying on Maya and Osborne. I had a flask of coffee for company, an assortment of wholemeal sandwiches and plenty to think about.
The sun had been up for two hours when, at 7 a.m., Maya emerged from the house. She walked to the stables and disappeared from view. Close on an hour later, Osborne walked past his Ferrari to his Range Rover. He opened the driver’s door, retrieved an item from the vehicle, a small package, then returned to the house. The package might have contained drugs; it might have contained sandwiches – from my position in the grove, it was impossible to tell. With a warm sun shining down, the birds singing in the trees and the smell of cut grass drifting in the air, all appeared peaceful and tranquil; the house exuded an air of domestic bliss.
Around mid-morning, Maya went horse riding. She led Folio to the five bar gate, slipped into the saddle and galloped down the lane. Though I’m nimble and fast, and possess a fair amount of stamina, I cannot outrun a horse, so a fruitless pursuit seemed futile and counterproductive. Therefore, I leaned my back against a tree, sipped my coffee and enjoyed the warmth of the sun’s rays.
When Maya returned, maybe I could intercept her in the lane. However, should Osborne see us that would spell trouble and the end of this particular plan, though to grace my initiative with the epithet ‘plan’ did seem overgenerous.
Maya reappeared at noon when, at the gate, Osborne stepped forward to greet her. They talked and they smiled, Maya swept her silky hair from her face and laughed, but at no time did they kiss or touch.
With Folio in the stables, and with Osborne and Maya in their grand farmhouse, I sat against a tree and nibbled my sandwiches – cucumber with a hint of pickle. I’m no domestic goddess, so I survive on the basics, unless Alan’s doing the cooking. I wondered about Alan and Vittoria; I wondered about the Vanzetti family in general; I wondered how Vittoria felt today.
Should Osborne leave the house and the way clear to Maya, what should I say? Maybe she could help me pinpoint a weakness, a means to bring Osborne down.
However, Osborne did not leave the house. Indeed, apart from occasional walks to the stables and outhouses, the happy couple remained indoors all day.
At 5 p.m., the stench of fertiliser drifted across the fields. The fragrant aroma reminded me that I had to answer a call of nature, the guillotine moment on most stakeouts.
So, twelve hours older and none the wiser, I drove home, did what a gal has to do, then called at my office. At the office, I found Marlowe waiting on the window ledge. I opened the window, let the cat in, then fed him a dish of succulent salmon in natural juices. Marlowe rewarded me with a throaty purr and oodles of feline affection as he sat in my lap, arched his back and rubbed his body against my head.
“What are we going to do about Osborne?” I asked of Marlowe. I lacked a plan, which at the best of times placed me on edge.
I was still thinking about Osborne when the phone rang.
“Hey, chick, it’s Slick.”
I sighed, “Just when I thought the day couldn’t get any worse.”
“We’re opening a new line of business, did ya know that? Chat lines, unadulterated sex. I was wondering if you’d like to audition. I mean, like now?”
I stared at the receiver then said, “Sure your name isn’t sick not Slick?”
“We’re performing a social service.”
“Of course you are,” I said. “Is there a point to this conversation, or should I hang up now?”
“Rudy wants to see ya,” Slick said abruptly. “Urgent. The cricket ground.”
I left Marlowe on my desk, sleeping. After all, a cat’s gotta do what a cat’s gotta do, and sleeping’s what they do best.
All was quiet at Pontcanna Fields when I arrived there – the cricketers were not on parade this evening.
I wandered along a path, lined with tall green trees, planted in regular fashion. The trees stood to attention, like green soldiers in a row, forming a guard of honour. To the east of the river, trees grew in abundance, crowding out a series of woodland trails. The trees offered a buffer, a barrier to the urban scars of the city. From parkland to metropolis, all within a stone’s throw. Beauty and the beast, hand in hand, offering the eternal contrast of our fair land.
At the end of the path, beside a narrow bridge, a suspension footbridge, which spanned the River Taff, I found Rudy Valentine. Thankfully, Valentine had left Slick in his grotto.
Valentine caught sight of me. He smiled then bowed graciously. “Good evening, my lady.”
“Good evening,” I said, my gaze taken by the foaming waters of the turbulent Taff as the river ran over a weir and a line of jagged rocks.
“Congratulations, my lady, I understand that you’ve found Vittoria Vanzetti.”
I nodded, “Word travels fast.”
“Sherri,” Rudy Valentine smiled. He raised a crooked index finger then placed a dot above that finger, signifying the letter ‘i’. “Sherri has a wide circle of social media contacts. Naturally, we have our own people amongst those contacts.”
We walked on, along the riverbank, eyeing the grassy islands within the river, passing a man in a leather coat and a leather hat, and a woman resplendent with mauve hair. The man and woman walked and talked as a couple. He had red varnish on his fingernails while she had a dragon tattoo on her neck. She also wore a tee-shirt, which proclaimed that ‘Tom Jones is God’.
While eyeing the woman, Valentine steepled his fingers together, placed them against his chin and said, “I understand that Vittoria has been through something of an ordeal.”
“To put it mildly,” I said.
“Sherri didn’t go into detail, but reading between the lines it appears that Grant Osborne was Vittoria’s tormentor.”
I frowned. “What if he was?”
“Osborne’s out of order,” Valentine said. With his jaw set firm, he gazed at the foaming water, his body arched, his eyes still, a light film of perspiration forming on his proud forehead. “A man who behaves like that loses my respect.”
“I don’t think I’ll add him to my Christmas list either,” I said.
“But you’re on Osborne’s list,” Valentine said. He steepled his fingers again then eyed me with a look bordering on concern. “Word is, he wants to cross you off that list, permanently.”
“What’s this to you?” I asked.
Valentine paused. He smiled at a young woman clothed in a skimpy summer dress. The dress was white, matching Valentine’s suit; despite the pleasant weather, Valentine wore a three-piece suit and a heavy overcoat, which probably accounted for the fine specks of perspiration beading his brow.
“I’m willing to offer you protection,” Valentine said. “You remember George?”
I nodded. “How could I forget?”
Gorgeous George was Rudy Valentine’s hit man. He was into bondage and flagellation sessions and, on one occasion, I’d had the misfortune to gatecrash him in search of answers to a set of urgent questions; that was one interview I’d never forget.
“George is a good man with a gun,” Valentine said. “He could look after you.”
“Why?” I asked. “Why this interest?”
Valentine smiled pleasantly. “Sometimes it’s good to offer a little charity, to do things for others, not just yourself.”
I nodded then surmised, “And when the dust has settled and Osborne’s been confined to the trash, you’d like to muscle in on his financial scams.”
Valentine’s lips parted to reveal an easy, genial smile, the smile of a favourite uncle. “That idea did cross my mind,” he confessed.
“Thank you, Mr Valentine, but I can look after myself.”
Valentine nodded. He placed his hands in his overcoat pockets. With the sunlight glinting off his gold neck chain, he said, “Allow me to warn you, my lady; Osborne has no conscience, no respect for anyone, especially fine ladies. He is a barbarian; he has no principles or scruples. He is morally bankrupt, little more than a creature from the cesspit. He is despised by many, and feared by many more. If a misfortune should befall Mr Osborne, no one would shed a tear. If he should approach you, my lady, and you should feel a need to defend yourself, do it, without compunction. I provide a line in, er, after-confrontational services. Do I make myself clear?”
I nodded then said, “You’ll get rid of his corpse.”
Valentine smiled. He nodded. “Look after yourself, my lady.”
Then, with his body slightly bowed, he walked towards the avenue of green trees dispensing bonhomie to the passersby, offering civil greetings and good cheer. He was a friendly uncle, yes, but one who could sleep easy with murder on his mind.