Lawless (14 page)

‘Go on up,’ said one, grinning and grabbing a loaf out from under the cover, pulling it apart, eating. Then he paused. ‘Hold on,’ he said, and he went around the back of the truck and poked hard at the covers. Then again and again, each poke more vicious than the last.

Lattarullo’s heart was in his mouth.

‘You’ll damage the goods,’ he warned, his voice trembling, sweat pouring down his brow as the day’s heat intensified.

The guard drew back with a grin. ‘Go on. Up you go.’

Lattarullo drove up to the house, parked in his usual spot outside the kitchen door. He switched off the engine with a shaking hand, took his basket and threw back the cover at the rear of the truck. He piled bread into the basket, his eyes furtive as they moved left and right. Another guard holding a rifle lingered by the door, watching him.

‘All right, my friend? Hot day, uh?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Lattarullo unsteadily.

He took the basket filled with bread into the kitchen. There was the cook, smiling a welcome, her fat black lapdog at her feet as usual. The dog got up at Lattarullo’s entrance and hobbled bow-legged toward him.

And here came Corvetto, bustling in from the hall, slapping the baker on the shoulder, taking up a loaf from the basket. Lattarullo felt so terrified now, so overwhelmed at what was required of him, that he thought he might faint.

‘These are fresh today, huh?’ Corvetto asked, his gaze teasing and offensive to a craftsman such as Lattarullo. Of course the bread was fresh. It was the finest in Napoli.

‘Yes, fresh,’ said Lattarullo. His mind was full of Luisa, his beautiful girl; he was doing this for her.

Corvetto tore a hunk from the loaf and popped it into his grinning mouth. He chewed thoughtfully. Then he coughed. The cook poured water from the carafe and pushed it towards him, on the kitchen table. Corvetto coughed again, swigged some of the water.

‘Are you—’ started the cook, but she didn’t finish the sentence.

Lattarullo drew the knife out of his pocket. He’d honed it last night, for just this purpose.

My lovely Luisa, he thought. After he did this, he would be dead, but she would be safe at least. He had Astorre’s word on that.

With a desperate shriek, he drove the knife in an upstroke into Corvetto’s fat neck. Lattarullo had strong hands from his work in the bakery, and he used that strength now to pull the blade across. Blood spurted out in an arterial jet from the rapidly opening wound and Corvetto fell back, his mouth gaping wide, the remnants of Lattarullo’s bread falling out of it. Blood poured from his mouth and drenched his clothes. Lattarullo was spattered in blood, so was the cook and her dog, the walls, the table, the ceiling.

The cook screamed. The dog started barking, a high panicky sound. Corvetto fell to the floor, gasping uselessly, his windpipe sliced in two, his eyes wide open in terror. He could see his own life ebbing away as the blood pulsed out of his throat. His hands pawed at the wound, as if he could stop the flow; he couldn’t. The cook said afterwards that you could see in his eyes that he knew it.

The guard ran in from outside the kitchen door, alerted by the woman’s screams and the dog’s wild barking. He saw Lattarullo standing there with the bloodied knife in his hand.

Luisa, thought Lattarullo.

The guard raised the rifle, and shot him in the head. The baker fell dead across Corvetto’s body.

Soon, Corvetto let out one last wheezing groan. He was dead too. Finally, Astorre’s revenge was complete.

31

Simon was in the small sitting room at the front of the Victorian villa, and the look on Ruby’s face when Daisy entered told her that Ruby wasn’t sorry for the interruption at all.

‘We have the Dubai contract now, so we’re rammed right up to next year,’ Simon was telling Daisy’s mother in his usual bragging tones. ‘Oh – Daisy,’ he said, getting to his feet. He came over and kissed his ex-wife’s cheek.

She
hated
him kissing her cheek. She wished he would just vanish from the planet, but he was the twins’ father.

He was still an attractive man, actually rather sexy – short, squat, powerfully built, with his thick russet-red hair and sharp hazel eyes. But his too-quick temper was betrayed by his high facial colour.

The Red Dwarf, people called him, and it suited him: he could kick off in spectacular style. A late order, a missed dinner, a mistake on an invoice, a misheard conversation. Anything would do it.

‘How are you, sweetheart?’ he asked.

I’m not your damned sweetheart
, thought Daisy, teeth gritted.

‘Fine,’ she said.

Ruby shot her a sympathetic look. Ruby knew exactly how Daisy felt about her ex.

‘I was telling your mother about the new contract,’ he said.

‘Yes, I heard. Well done for that. Has Jody taken the twins upstairs, Mum?’ asked Daisy, wanting an excuse to get away from him.

When Ruby nodded, Daisy said: ‘Good, I’ll go on up.’

Jody was getting the twins into the bath, and for a while the misery of Daisy’s day was forgotten amid the splashes and laughs as the babies were bathed, fed and then put to bed. When she heard Simon’s BMW being driven away, Daisy headed downstairs. Ruby was closing the front door. She smiled at Daisy and linked her arm through her daughter’s as they went back into the sitting room.

‘It’s always so quiet the minute he’s gone,’ sighed Ruby. ‘He seems to suck the air out of a room, doesn’t he? What an exhausting man. Drink, Daisy?’ she offered. Ruby always had a sherry after work: she’d earned it, after all.

Into Daisy’s mind came a vision of Kit, spark-out drunk on the sofa. She’d never been an angel: her youth had been full of reckless rebellion, so much so that she’d scared herself. Only when she’d been reunited as an adult with her mother had she found any peace.

‘No thanks,’ she said.

‘How’s Kit?’ asked Ruby.

‘He’s going to take a break,’ she said. ‘I think he needs it.’

‘Good for him,’ said Ruby. She was hurt that Kit hadn’t phoned to let her know what he was doing, but at least a break would get him clear of Vittore, and that was a good thing. She stood up. ‘Come on, I’m starving. Let’s sort out dinner.’

‘Mum?’ said Daisy.

‘Hm?’

Oh what the hell. Best to just come out with it.

‘I’ve quit the store.’

Simon drove to his home deep in the pitch-dark Berkshire countryside, his mood lifting as he turned the BMW into the drive. He loved his house. It was big, white, impressive. Daisy had hated it, called it The Mausoleum, said it was miles from anywhere and cold as the Arctic tundra. No matter. Daisy was the past, anyway. Of course he would like to meet someone new, someone who could be a
proper
mother to his twins, not like her. Some lovely docile woman who adored being at home, who would be there waiting for him at the end of the day with the house all warm and welcoming, a hot meal cooked, ready to listen to his woes; that was his dream.

As he pulled up outside the garage block he gave a sharp sigh, seeing the house in total darkness. No warm, accommodating woman waiting for him. He’d heat something up himself, or maybe not bother, just grab a whisky and a sandwich. In the headlights he could see that the damned gardener had left one of the garage doors open again; he had
told
the bloody man about that on more than one occasion; there were thieves even out here, and some valuable stuff was stored in the garage. Why didn’t the fool listen?

Simon switched off the engine and all was suddenly blackness and silence but for the ticking of the engine as it started to cool. He got out, locked the car, stalked over to the open garage door, muttering in annoyance.

‘Hey,’ said a voice to his left.

He literally jumped. The shock of hearing someone in this place, in this dense dark country silence, was immense. He whirled around, his heart in his mouth. Saw a shadowy shape moving.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Simon demanded.

Then the strip light that hung from the beams inside the garage flickered on. He saw two men inside, big burly men in black coats. One of them, older and taller than the other, had a long puckered purple knife scar running the length of his left cheek. It was hideous. The scarred one was pushing an old chair into the centre of the concrete floor. The other one . . .

Simon felt his bowels contract as he saw what the other one was doing.

He turned to run.

The man who had spoken on his left moved in, grabbed him; another one came from the right. He started to resist, but to his shock one of them drew a gun and held it to his head.

‘Shut up,’ he said, and Simon instantly stopped struggling.

They nudged him towards the garage, towards the scarred one with the chair – and the other one with the rope that he had thrown over one of the beams after tying it into a noose.

32

Daisy woke to the sound of knocking. Her first thought was
Matthew and Luke.
With a mother’s instant alertness, she sprang up in bed and reached for the bedside light, turned it on. Blinking, she checked the alarm clock. Seven thirty in the morning. Outside, it was still dark and raining steadily. She couldn’t hear a sound from the nursery.

An owl hooted in the woods. Nothing else could be heard.

Had she dreamed it?

Then it came again. Knocking. Someone was at the front door. Her heartbeat picking up, she grabbed her robe and put it on, shuffled her feet into slippers and went out onto the landing to find her mother at the top of the stairs, flicking on the light. Ruby’s face was anxious.

‘Should I call Reg?’ asked Daisy. Maybe Reg, who was staying in the flat over the garage that was usually occupied by Rob, hadn’t heard a car pull up. But Daisy peered down into the gloom of the hallway and could see flashing lights,
blue
lights. ‘I think it’s the police,’ she said, and hurried down there, switching on lights as she went, Ruby following close at her heels.

Daisy was unlocking the door when Ruby stayed her hand. Ruby was thinking of Vittore, threatening Kit.
You and yours
, he’d hissed. She didn’t think Rob had relayed the full version to her, but she knew enough to be wary. What if these
weren’t
real policemen?

‘Who’s there?’ she called out.

‘Police, can you open the door please?’

Ruby hesitated. Where the hell was Reg when you needed him? She wished Rob was here instead. Rob would have been on the spot the instant anyone showed up. Then she heard other voices outside: Reg was out there. Better late than never. There was another knock at the door.

‘Open up, Miss Darke, police are here,’ said Reg’s foghorn voice.

Ruby glanced at Daisy, who looked as alarmed as she felt. Nothing good could ever come of a police visit at this early hour, they both knew that. She unlocked the door and opened it.

Reg was standing there in pyjamas and dressing gown, his white hair standing on end, with two uniformed police, one male, one female. Their patrol car was on the drive, lights still flashing, a radio blasting out intermittent, undecipherable words.

‘You’re Miss Darke?’ asked the woman. Ruby didn’t think she looked big enough or old enough to be a girl guide, let alone a police officer.

‘Yes, I’m Miss Darke,’ she said, swallowing hard.

‘Is there a Mrs Collins here? A Mrs Daisy Collins?’

‘I’m Mrs Collins – or I was,’ said Daisy. ‘What’s this about?’

‘Can we come in, please?’

Ruby led the way into the sitting room, followed by Daisy, Reg and the two officers. They all sat down.

‘There’s been an incident,’ said the male police officer.

Kit
, thought Ruby in sudden terror. She knew how low he’d been the past few months. ‘Oh God,’ she said.

‘Do you know a person who lives at . . .’ he got out his notebook and reeled off the address of the white house in Berkshire, where Daisy had spent her brief and unhappy marriage with Simon.

Daisy stared open-mouthed at him. She felt the colour drain from her face. Felt her head start to hum. She looked at Ruby. ‘That’s Simon’s house. My husband’s,’ she said, forgetting about calling him her ex.

The female officer cleared her throat. ‘Your name and this address were in a notebook we found on him. I’m sorry,’ she said gently. ‘I’m afraid your husband is dead.’

33

Kit checked into a hotel overlooking Brighton seafront, then unpacked the essentials, opened the minibar, looked inside, closed it. He phoned Rob and told him about the Bentley.

‘Shit,’ said Rob.

‘Yeah,’ said Kit, looking out of his window and the rolling grey white-flecked breakers roaring in, driven by a fierce wind. Time off in sunny England, he thought. Should have taken himself off to the Costas.

‘I’ll see to it,’ said Rob. ‘You think it was Vittore?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Mm.’

‘Watch your back.’

‘You watch yours, Kit.’

‘I’ll phone again in a couple of days, OK?’

‘Yeah. Or you want me to phone you?’

‘No, I’ll be moving around.’

Kit had another look at the contents of the minibar after he put the phone down. Then he picked up his jacket and went out into the rain to play tourist. He’d never been to Brighton before. Who knew? Maybe he’d enjoy it.

He joined a bunch of people trailing a guide around the Pavilion, and heard all about George IV and his mistress. Then he got a bite to eat and wandered the Lanes, browsing the antique shops. Maybe he should take Daisy something, and Ruby . . . nah. Why should he bother with her? He thought that it might be nice to have a normal relationship with your mother, a real close mother-and-son bond, but they didn’t have it and he wasn’t about to fool himself that they ever would.

Far too much water had flowed under
that
particular bridge.