I telephoned the police. Within half an hour, they arrived on the scene and mounted a search for Osborne’s body. However, they could not find him. They would extend their search, though experts ruled that the ground was unsafe, that the area was too unstable to support the specialist equipment, the scaffolding and machinery required to mount a retrieval operation; it seemed likely that no one would ever recover Osborne’s body.
In the early hours of the morning, I gave my statement to the police, explained the background to the case then retreated, aware that they would ask more questions, later. For now, I was free to go; free to talk with Alan, free to soak in a warm bath. There, I tried to wash away the dirt and the bitter memories. I knew from experience that the dirt would disappear down the plughole while the memories would take longer to fade.
With the afternoon sun warming my face, I met up with Vincent Vanzetti. We walked through his garden, over the buttercups and daisies, to an area reserved for croquet. In my mind’s eye, I could see Vanzetti hitting people with a croquet mallet, though I found it difficult to imagine him enjoying the game. Maybe that said more about me than the mobster; in truth, I was too tired to care.
“My contacts told me what happened,” Vanzetti said. He paused beside a garden bench then ran a finger over the lichen and weather-beaten paint. “I owe you.”
“Osborne fell,” I said, “I didn’t push him.”
“But you did the job,” Vanzetti said. “And I won’t forget that, ever.”
I nodded.
We walked along a path decorated with garden features: bronzed, boxing hares, a small fountain and a single, reflective fairy.
“And if Osborne was still alive?” I asked while eyeing the fairy.
“I’d take care of business.”
“For Vittoria.”
“Of course.”
“And to prove that you’re not past it.”
Vanzetti fingered his moustache, caressed its corners. He narrowed his eyes and offered me an intense stare. “Sometimes,” he said, “you have to show the world that you mean business. I would have topped Osborne. No one messes with a Vanzetti.”
A commotion on the patio captured our attention; high-pitched, female voices, shrieking; Sherri and Catrin arguing with each other, bitching.
“What are you going to do about Sherri?” I asked, aware that she was the sort of person who believed in fairies at the bottom of the garden, a person I had grown to like, despite her foibles and peculiar ways.
“She’s already made a statement, to get V.J. off the hook. She has her story all prepared. She met Osborne for sex. The gun was part of a sex game. It went off by accident. Her story might cause me some embarrassment, but I can live with that. It might go to court; if it does, I’ll call in a few favours.”
“She’ll walk free,” I said.
Vanzetti grinned. He tapped the side of his nose. “It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.”
And I knew that Vanzetti had at least one government minister in his pocket. I anticipated that if the attempted murder charge should land at Sherri’s feet, she’d enjoy her day in court, as a performer.
“And what about Catrin?” I asked.
Vanzetti shrugged. He gazed across the garden to his ex-wife. She was sitting on a garden chair, and so was Sherri, though they had their backs to each other. Both were sipping drinks: Catrin from a tall glass, Sherri through a long straw.
“Maybe we can come to an arrangement,” Vanzetti said. “Catrin can take up residence in the guest suite; lend a hand with the business.”
“She’ll agree to that?”
He nodded. “At the end of the day, Catrin and Sherri will agree to whatever I say.”
“You sure of that?” I asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Sherri loves me; Catrin loves being the power behind the throne. We’ll come to an arrangement.”
Another sound cut through the air, the sound of a car engine. We glanced along the drive to the sight of Mac’s Bugatti.
Mac parked his car next to Vanzetti’s Bentley. Then he opened the passenger door and offered a helping hand to Vittoria.
Like a baby taking its first steps, Vittoria set foot on the stone chippings. Haltingly, she walked towards her family. Catrin saw her first. She abandoned her drink and ran from the patio. She swept her daughter up in an emotional embrace, kissed her hair, her face, hugged her tight to her body.
Then Sherri stepped forward and embraced Vittoria. Her embrace was genuine, natural; the actress was not on display today.
Finally, Vanzetti walked along the drive to greet his daughter. He enveloped her then sobbed, placed his head on her shoulder. Tears streamed from his eyes; he made no attempt to brush them away.
Vanzetti took hold of Vittoria’s hand and led her to the house. As Vittoria walked past me, she offered a look of thanks. Then she extended her right arm and presented me with a shell bracelet. I accepted the bracelet with a smile and placed it around my right wrist.
We were standing on the patio, about to enter the house, when a car arrived at the main gate. The driver, unknown to me, pulled away to leave V.J. Parks stranded at the gate, gazing at the drive, his look uncertain. V.J. took a cautious step towards Vittoria. She took a cautious step towards him. Then they ran to greet each other, to shed tears and embrace.
While V.J. kissed and hugged Vittoria, Mac turned to me and said, “This is a family occasion, and we’re not family.”
“Point taken,” I said, so we climbed into our cars and pulled away.
We drove to the waterfront.
As we walked past the Pierhead building and the Senedd, the National Assembly for Wales, Mac muttered, “So, I’m on thirty-three per cent, am I?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Except, I’ve decided to donate my salary to charity; a shelter for battered and abused women; it’s badly in need of funds.”
Mac scowled. His huge ginger moustache bristled, took on a life of its own. “So, I get thirty-three per cent of nothing.”
“Yeah; that’s the deal.”
Mac leaned against a rail. He stared at the bay, gazed at the tranquil water, then pursed his lips in pensive fashion. “Remind me to take a rain check when you whistle next time, okay, Missy?”
I smiled then asked, “Have you decided about your lover?”
Mac nodded. He eased his huge frame away from the rail. Then with me in tow, he strode purposefully towards his Bugatti. “Thanks to you, I’m penniless, I’m destitute. Guess I have no option but to move in with him.”