The following morning, while driving to Newton, I reflected on recent events. I’d passed the hot potato of the attempted murder on to Vanzetti; either V.J. Parks or Sherri would have to take the rap. In their own way, I reckoned that both were innocent. However, a crime had been committed, and we couldn’t ignore that fact.
Sweets had passed the match fixing allegations on to his superiors, though with only V.J. Parks’ statement to call on, he wasn’t optimistic of seeing a result. Furthermore, Parks was hedging his bets, contradicting his statement, not wishing to become embroiled in a case of international standing; he’d defied Osborne once, but had no wish to enrage the monster and his cronies again. I guess that boiled down to fear, that four-letter word that all tyrants rely upon, the foremost four-letter word in the English language. No doubt, V.J. centred his fear on Vittoria and a desire to protect her, and I could well understand that.
All this left me with Osborne and the dilemma of justice for Vittoria. As things stood, the innocent faced the frying pan while the guilty walked away from the fire.
At Newton, I decided to take a leaf out of Alan’s book; I invited Vittoria for a stroll along the beach. Looking more at ease today, she accepted.
With Mac watching from the sand dunes, Vittoria and I removed our trainers. We walked towards the incoming tide then allowed the waves to lap over our bare feet. Vittoria was wearing a sunhat today, to hide her badly cropped hair, not for protection. I sensed that her hair caused her embarrassment, which implied progress; gradually, she was rediscovering herself, coming to terms with her situation.
We splashed around for a while, enjoyed the unblemished view, the peace, the solitude. Then as we stooped to examine the shells, I turned to Vittoria and asked, “How do you feel?”
“Better. The days are becoming bearable now, but I hate the nights. I hate the quiet and being trapped with my own thoughts.”
We selected a handful of shells and dropped them into a bag, which I’d brought along for the purpose. The sun warmed our necks; the seagulls flew high, offered lazy cries, as though afraid to disturb the stillness. Meanwhile, the tide rolled in in somnolent fashion, the gentle waves kissing our feet.
“Your fella is a lovely man,” Vittoria said. She raised a hand to her eyes, gazed at the gentle waves then blinked into the sunlight. “You’re very lucky.”
“He is and I am,” I agreed. “And maybe I fail to show my appreciation at times.”
Vittoria nodded and we walked on in silence.
Our footsteps reminded me of Robinson Crusoe, of the day he discovered Man Friday, of his unbridled joy at breaking the chain of loneliness. However, forget far-off, deserted islands – living alone with your own dark thoughts is the loneliest place on the map.
“Why are you doing this?” Vittoria asked. She fixed her gaze on her toes, on the patterns she’d made in the sand, at the delicate imprints offered by her raised instep. “I mean, you don’t have to.” She glanced over her shoulder, towards the sand dunes, to the imposing figure of Mac. “You’ve put yourself in danger, I know because Mac is concerned about you.”
“I can look after myself,” I said.
Vittoria watched as the tide rolled in, as the sea gathered in small dips and depressions, as the water formed minute pools of brackish beauty. “I thought I could look after myself,” she said, “until I met Osborne.”
Words were superfluous, so we sat on a large rock, absorbed the tranquil surroundings and remained silent for a while.
Then Vittoria repeated, “Why do you do this?”
I picked up a pebble; it was smooth, bright green in colour. The pebble displayed a series of regular ripples, which formed a beguiling pattern. As I balanced the pebble in my left hand, I said, “I drifted into it at first, chasing my ex-husband over an affair. I suppose I developed a taste for it, discovered it was something I could do.”
“But you give a lot of yourself to the job,” Vittoria said, “more than most people.”
I shrugged. She’d made a fair point. That said, I was far from unique in my profession; most of the enquiry agents I knew were committed to their work.
As I dropped the pebble into our bag, I said, “I know what it’s like to suffer, to be alone, in pain, especially to be alone suffering with emotional pain. It just seems right somehow, to try and help people who are in a similar position, don’t you think?”
“I do. But many people wouldn’t agree with you; they’d insist that you should stand on your own two feet.”
“Do your mother and father subscribe to that belief?” I asked.
“Mum does. She’s tough. I guess she had to be, being married to my father. And her upbringing wasn’t a bed of roses either. Dad can be tough, as you know; he can be ruthless. But he’s not an evil man. He doesn’t take enjoyment out of seeing people suffer.”
“But he will make them suffer.”
“If they cross him, yes. Eventually, he’ll make Osborne suffer. When the time is right, he’ll take his revenge.”
“How do you feel about that?” I asked.
“I hate Osborne. I want him dead.”
People filtered on to the beach, eager to take advantage of the morning sunshine. The weather forecasters promised rain later, and the clouds, banking up in the west, over Swansea, suggested that on this occasion the weather forecasters were right.
“I’d like to see V.J.,” Vittoria said.
We paused, to dry our feet on the grass before slipping into our trainers. Our footwear securely tied, we walked towards Mac.
“That might be difficult,” I said.
“Because of the attempted murder charge?”
“Yes. And because V.J. is suffering too. He needs time to come to terms with what happened.”
Vittoria frowned. Her features pinched into a familiar hawk-like gaze. “He doesn’t want to see me?”
“He needs time,” I said, “just like you.”
“I see.”
We walked on, towards Mac, who was standing atop a sand dune. With his greatcoat flapping in the breeze and the sunlight glinting off his bald head, he cut an impressive figure. Even from a distance, he looked intimidating, a cross between a scarecrow, a lighthouse and a Scottish version of the Statue of Liberty.
Before we reached Mac, Vittoria paused. She turned to me and said, “I guess this is the moment of truth, for me and V.J.; I guess now we’ll find out if we’re really made for each other.”