Frame-Up (28 page)

"I’ll make it clear that I will now file divorce papers, and tell her to
leave."

"Where is she staying?"

"At my place. I’m sorry. As usual, she has no money. But I’ll sleep on
the sofa."

"I’m not worried about that. I’m worried that it may not be as simple
as you think. What if she refuses a divorce? And what if she refuses to
leave? You can’t just kick her out."

"I’ll put her on a plane back to Milan, even if I have to force her. And
all her refusal to grant me a divorce means is that it will take a bit longer
to go through. Please, Ceci, stick with me now."

Emilia is slowly ambling toward us, swinging her hips provocatively.
I have to admit, she is a gorgeous woman. I notice that Silvio eyes
followed my gaze and rest on her until she is only two steps away from
us.

"So, are you two finished with each other? Can I have my husband
back now?"

I’m sure, the double meaning of her first question is intentional. I don’t
want another confrontation. Silvio needs to settle with her first before we
can be fully back together as before. "Silvio, I’m sorry, but right now,
you need to sort things out with Emilia, and I would simply be in the way.
Ciao
. Call me tomorrow, please." I turn to leave.

"She’s very sensible, your mistress, or is it ex-mistress?" I hear her
saying.

"Shut up. Go to my office," he growls and talking somewhat louder,
he says: "Ettore, no more drinks for her."

"Sure, boss."

The door closes behind me. I can’t make out Emilia’s jeering retort. As
I drive home, I’m once more in turmoil. Have I assessed Silvio correctly?
How strong a character is he? I believe that he loves me and only me, but
is that enough to cut the ties with his wife. Will he find the resolve to
push the divorce through, to suffer all the aggravation she will dish out,
or will he give in to her if she refuses? She may be a bitch, but she is a
gorgeous bitch. And then there is the question of the child. If she
threatens to file for sole custody, how will he react? She doesn’t have a
strong case, having deserted the family for four years, but then neither
does Silvio, having left the child in the care of his parents. So it is by no
means certain he will get custody if she contests it. I see my dreams of
becoming Silvio’s partner, of being that little girl’s surrogate mother, of
having another one or two children with him, I see them fade into the
dusk settling in around me.

Maybe I should fight for Silvio. But that goes against my grain, against
my vow never to step between a married couple. He has to sort things out
with her first. The resolve is back. But I won’t cut my ties with him. I will
support him if I see that he is certain to want a divorce and fight for
Teresa’s custody.

Friday, 8:55 p.m.

As we are driving out to Hampstead Heath, I’m quieter than usual.

"Is something wrong, signorina," Fausto queries.

I assure him that all is well, that I’m maybe just a bit apprehensive
about the gravity of what we plan to do. This seems to satisfy him. I’m
not going to tell him about my worries over the sudden appearance of
Silvio’s wife. But it reminds me that I need to set that aside for the time
being and concentrate fully on the tasks ahead.

The mailbox of the house next to Garland’s is still overflowing, telling
us that nobody has returned in the last three days. Fausto parks the car
next to the garage, out of sight from the Garlands. I’m dressed in my old
dark running outfit. I even wear dark shoes. Fausto also wears dark. He
procured some burglary tools, where and how, I don’t know, nor do I
want to know.

I turn off my iPhone. Better to miss a call than having it ring at the
wrong moment. Then we pack our gear and track toward the back of the
property. What I vaguely glimpsed while we drove along the fence gets
confirmed. Several lights are on: outside over the entrance, in the salon,
and in an upstairs room, presumably one of the children’s.

"You think they are in? Would they leave that many lights on while
away?" questions Fausto.

"No way of telling. Shall I go in to check?"

"No, I should go. I have more experience for this."

"Right."

Once more, I rig the rope around the overhanging branch, and Fausto
clambers across. Three minutes later he reappears. I guess that he saw
people in the house. When he is back, he whispers: "There is somebody
loitering along the entrance. I heard the bell ring several times. Nobody
answered, so I guess nobody is in the house."

I vaguely remember seeing a lone man walk along the road before we
reached Garland’s property. No Garland means our operation is off. "So,
we leave and try again Sunday night."

"Yes, but I suggest we wait until that guy disappears. It may be a
burglar. One of the ways to determine if nobody is home is to ring the bell
several times."

"If he tries to scale the fence, he will trigger the alarm, unless he
knows about that. If that happens, we shouldn’t be around. Why should
it be suspicious if a car comes out of an adjacent driveway?"

"Yes, you are right."

Thee minutes later we turn into the road. As we approach the gate to
Garland’s property, our car lights illuminate a man balancing on top of
the gate. He turns his face toward us. It hits me like lightening. For a
moment, I hope that I’m mistaken. But no, it is Carlo.

"Oh, no. My brother. Stop the car," I shout, already opening the door
and jumping out before Fausto has brought the car to a complete
standstill.

"What’s the matter," he calls after me.

I rush across the street. Carlo is frantically trying to untangle his pants
that are caught in the spikes atop the gate.
What’s he doing here?
races
through my mind.

"Carlo, come down," I shout in Italian.

He recognizes my voice. "Oh Ceci, it’s you. Fuck, you scared the shit
out of me."

Using swear words liberally is a sign that he is either on a high or on
withdrawal. I don’t like the thought of either.

"Come down now, before another car drives by. You may have
triggered the alarm."

He finally manages to free his pants and gingerly climbs down. By
then, Fausto has joined us. "Who is this guy?" he questions, an edge to
his voice.

"Carlo, my younger brother."

"What’s he doing here?"

"I don’t know." Turning to Carlo, I order: "Into the car, now, and then
you’ll tell me what this is all about."

"Don’t be pushy, sister."

"Do as she says," snarls Fausto, ready to intervene.

Carlo raises both hands, palms facing forward. They are trembling
slightly, another sign of withdrawal. "Fuck man, hold it. All right? I’ll
come. No need to bite, all right?"

He picks up a sports bag, his usual baggage, climbs into the back seat,
and I follow after him. "Fausto, park somewhere else, please."

Fausto drives us past the roundabout at the end of the road and parks
in a side street under trees, shaded from the streetlights.

"Now Carlo, what were you doing there? And no lies." Do I really
expect that in his fragile state he will even be able to distinguish between
truth and lies?

"I have the same question, sis. What are you doing here with this guy?
Your new boyfriend?"

Fausto reaches back, grabs him by the top of his jersey and pulls him
closer. "Answer her!" he growls before letting go.

I almost intervene, but then decide against it. Maybe my brother needs
a bit of stern encouragement.

"Who is this guy, sis?"

"Just answer the question. Why are you here?"

"I was going to pay somebody a visit." He hiccups several times, the
way he usually does when coming off drugs. "Any law against that?"

"The guy who lives in that property?"

"Yes."

"What’s his name?"

He raises a trembling hand to his face. "What the fuck is it to you?"

"What’s his name?" I repeat more forcefully.

"I don’t remember. Something like Garlick … no Garland. What does
it matter?"

"And why do you want to see this Garland?" questions Fausto.

"Man, that’s none of your business."

Fausto reaches back again, grabbing his jersey. "It so happens that I
make it my business. Answer?"

Carlo turns to me. "Sis, call him off."

"No, answer as he tells you!"

"He owes me money, lots of money and I need it now."

"Why does he owe you money?"

"I did him a favor, a big favor."

"Carlo, I’m losing my patience too. What favor? Spill it, all of it,
now."

"I signed some papers for him, an application form to a bank, I think,
or maybe it was something else. I don’t remember. I don’t want to
remember. How could I refuse, sis? He offered me a thousand pounds for
my signature, fuck, just for a signature, and promised me more. I needed
the money. I need some now, badly."

As he speaks, pieces of the puzzle fall into place. Carlo’s handwriting
is similar to mine, particularly the way he writes ‘Walker’, a bit feminine.
So the ‘C. Walker’ signature on the application form to open the I-Consolidated account with UBS is his. And the windfall he mentioned
last time he came to dinner was the money Garland paid for it.

"Carlo, do you realize that I got arrested because of that signature?"

"No, you wouldn’t. Why should you be arrested because I signed some
papers, just some fucking papers?" He slumps back in his seat, eyes
closed, racked by the occasional hiccup, retreated into a sort of catatonic
state. I know it takes another hour or two before he will be more coherent.
The trembling will take a day or more to disappear.

Fausto intervenes: "Signorina, will you please explain what this is all
about?"

I do.

"So, that proves that Garland is the one who pulled the scam on
Ventura. Our problem is solved."

"Is it?"

"Yes. I can now put the screw on Garland; make him refund
il capo
."

"And how does that clear me? The police accuse me of being the
perpetrator. Even if Carvaggio gets his money, that does not exonerate
me. No, Garland has to do more than refund the money. He has to admit
that he did it. Only then will I be cleared for good. Unless he does, even
if I’m not convicted, the suspicion of fraud will continue to hang over me
for years to come."

"All your brother has to do is to go to the police and tell his story. That
will get you clear."

"Fausto, you seem to be a man who values loyalty to family highly.
Would you go and force your brother or sister to confess a crime or
felony to the police in order to get yourself cleared? … No, you wouldn’t
and neither will I."
Unless it were rape or murder
, I add silently.

"Yes, signorina, you are right. I’ve always seen you as a woman of
honor."

The faint sound of a police siren can be heard in the distance, gradually
getting louder.

"Your brother triggered the alarm, signorina," Fausto comments.

"Carlo, you realize that if we hadn’t stopped you, the police would
probably have caught you inside the property?"

"Fuck the police," he mumbles. "Anyway, I doubt that. No, I would be
talking to Garland and he would explain that it was a false alarm. He’d
better do."

"Except that the Garlands aren’t at home. They’re often away over
weekends in their house on the coast." Turning to Fausto, I say: "Fausto,
please take us to my apartment. My brother needs food to settle him and
then a bed, and we must talk strategy for what to do next."

During the trip home, I attempt to question Carlo about how he got to
know Garland.

"Your boyfriend, Gary, he introduced us."

"My ex-boyfriend. We split a while ago."
It’s not that long ago
, the
internal voice that insists on truth reminds me. "When was that?"