That afternoon I found myself in the lane, outside Llancarfan, eyeing Osborne’s farmhouse. Osborne was still under police care, being tended and interviewed, so I decided that it was safe to approach Maya to ‘have a word’.
Understandably, the crime scene was taped off, a no-go area. Indeed, the police were still in evidence, searching the grounds. I didn’t want to clash or interfere with them, so I sat back and waited.
Forty-seven minutes later, Maya climbed into her Range Rover and trundled along the lane. After she’d slipped around a bend, I jumped into my Mini and followed in her muddy tracks.
Maya drove to the outskirts of Cardiff, where she called on a bookmaker. She entered the bookies, no doubt to place a bet. And, given her husband’s criminal connections, she would place that bet on a winner.
Grant Osborne already had more money than sense, so why would Maya place a, presumably, modest bet to win a little more money. Greed; the more money you have, the more money you want; a few years ago a vagrant told me that he was a king because he had the freedom to do anything he wanted, the freedom to roam anywhere he pleased; he had a point.
From the bookmaker’s, Maya drove into the country. She called at a riding school and chatted with a horsey-looking woman, a woman with long blonde hair, then she mingled with the horses. The blonde disappeared into a large stone house carrying a saddle. Maya was dressed for riding, so I thought it best to move in and intercept her before she galloped into the sunset.
“You love horses,” I said, observing as Maya caressed the mane of a chestnut stallion.
“They are so graceful,” she said, rubbing her head against the horse.
I placed a hand up to my brow, to shield my eyes. As I squinted into the sunlight, I said, “Does your husband know that you’re here?”
“He is still with his solicitor and the police.” While Maya talked, she inspected the horse, ran an eye over his general wellbeing, over the stirrups and saddle. Meanwhile, the horse stood by, displaying a placid temperament, though from time to time he did cast a suspicious eye over yours truly.
“How is your husband?” I asked.
Maya shrugged. “His wound is nothing. Only a scratch.”
“But he was howling with pain.”
“Men,” she smiled. “They are babies.”
“You found your husband,” I said, “after the shooting.”
Maya turned away from the horse; she offered me her full attention for the first time. “Yes,” she said, her tone laced with caution.
“You called the police?”
“Yes.” Still the cautious tone and a reluctance to look me in the eye.
“You saw V.J. Parks with the gun?”
Maya hesitated. She frowned, as though concocting an answer. In my experience, the truth came quickly. If people had to vacillate, to think deeply, they were lying, and their body language underlined that fact.
“Yes,” Maya said after a long pause for thought.
“You saw V.J. fire the gun?”
A long silence, then, “Yes.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
Maya hooked her hair behind her ears. She wore pearl earrings, brilliant white, which contrasted with the silky blackness of her hair. “No,” she said while offering me an oblique glance. “I didn’t see anyone else.”
“V.J. said he didn’t do it.”
“He did,” Maya insisted, though her tone was far from firm.
“Did your husband tell you to put the finger on V.J.?” I asked.
Maya frowned, maybe the first genuine gesture or word since the start of our conversation. She shook her head and smiled, “I don’t understand.”
“Did your husband see V.J. fire the gun?”
“I think he did,” Maya said slowly.
“So you were in the room when the gun went off.”
Another long pause while she led the horse to a wooden gate. The gate offered access to a vast expanse of countryside and a bridle path. The horse recognized the path and became frisky, so Maya raised a soothing hand to calm him down.
“I was in the stables,” she said, eventually finding an answer to my question.
“At 7 a.m.?”
“That is correct.”
“Did you get wet?”
Maya paused. She glanced at the sky, at the broken clouds. “No,” she said, “because it had stopped raining.”
“But you were in the stables?”
“Yes.”
“So how did you see the shooting?”
With an easy, lithe movement, Maya slipped into the saddle. She adjusted the reins then patted the horse on his neck. “Through the French window,” she said. “I saw the shooting through the window; it was open.”
I nodded then said, “You know that your husband raped Vittoria Vanzetti.”
She turned away then bobbed her head, “Yes.”
“How do you feel about that?”
She offered a gentle shrug of her right shoulder, which disturbed her jerkin. “He is my husband, I must stand by him.”
“Even though he raped a woman.”
“Yes.”
“Even though he’s a monster.”
Maya turned to glare at me. She raised her whip, held in her left hand. “My husband is a kind man,” she said slowly, patiently, as though talking with a small child. “He gives much money to charity.”
“Your husband is a monster,” I said.
“I must stand by him,” she insisted. “I will stand by him.”
“You feel no hatred towards him, no anger?”
Maya laughed and the horse whinnied, offered a chorus of disapproval. “You think I shot him?” she asked.
“Maybe. And he’s covering up for you. At a guess, it was a professional hit, or a crime of passion. If it was a professional hit, the gunman would have been more proficient, so that suggests a crime of passion. And by definition most crimes of passion are committed by spouses or lovers.”
“I didn’t shoot my husband,” Maya insisted. “If I raised a finger against him, he would kill me.”
“Do you fear him?” I asked.
Before Maya could answer, the horse tossed his head and scratched the ground, eager for action. In truth, the horse was displaying great forbearance, great patience, qualities that were trickling to the bottom of Maya’s sandglass.
“I love him,” she said.
“Even though he’s a monster.”
Maya scowled. She cracked her whip above my head. The horse reacted and she had to circle him to retain control. “Why do you keep saying that?” she asked.
“I’m only speaking the truth,” I said. “I admire loyalty, but there’s a time and place for everything. Maybe you have to decide where your loyalties lie; with a man you fear, or with Vittoria and the other women that your husband has no doubt abused.”
The last grain of sand trickled to the bottom of the hourglass; Maya’s patience ran out. She stood tall in her stirrups, then leaned forward in her saddle. With a word of encouragement, she eased the horse into the field. Horse and rider went galloping across the field, chestnut mane and silky black hair flowing. They were as one; content, free.
Which left the question: who pulled the trigger, who tried to murder Grant Osborne? A man in his position had doubtless made many enemies. However, none of those people had access to Vincent Vanzetti’s gun, and that included Maya Osborne, so the finger of suspicion pointed at the mobster.
After talking with Maya, I wasn’t convinced of Vanzetti’s guilt. Nevertheless, I felt sure that the answer lay at his house.