Family Honour Read online

  FAMILY HONOUR

  FAMILY HONOUR

  Hannah Howe

  Goylake Publishing

  Copyright © 2016 Hannah Howe

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Goylake Publishing, Iscoed, 16A Meadow Street, North Cornelly, Bridgend, Glamorgan. CF33 4LL

  ISBN: 978-0-9933827-1-0

  Printed and bound in Britain by Imprint Digital, Exeter, EX5 5HY

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  The Sam Smith Mystery Series by Hannah Howe, available in print, as eBooks and audio books

  Sam’s Song

  Love and Bullets

  The Big Chill

  Ripper

  The Hermit of Hisarya

  Secrets and Lies

  Family Honour

  To my family, with love

  Chapter One

  A gentle breeze wafted through the open window, disturbing the papers on my desk. Marlowe, my office cat, sat on the windowsill, pondering whether to stay in or jump out. He gazed at me, meowed then offered his paws a thoughtful lick. As usual, Marlowe was sporting a split ear, the legacy of an alley fight. The swagger in his walk suggested that he wore his wounds with pride, as badges of honour. Without doubt, Marlowe felt at home in the alley, in the seedier side of town, much like yours truly.

  After another lick of his paws and a further moment of contemplation, Marlowe decided to jump on to my desk, where he curled into a purring ball, ready for a nap. I closed the window, smoothed the creases from my slacks then sat at my desk, where I proceeded to type up a report.

  I’d been hired to play store detective, to discover why shoes had been ‘walking’ from a shoe store. I’d established that a one-armed war veteran had been stealing the footwear, much to the store owner’s annoyance. The store owner was mustard keen to prosecute, but after a protracted conversation and some bartering, I’d made him see sense. The bartering took fifty per cent off my fee and expenses, but I considered that money well spent.

  With the report complete and Marlowe snoozing, I stood and stretched my legs. For some bizarre reason, I felt the urge to perform a handstand. As a child, I’d had the ability to walk on my hands, which greatly amused my friends. So, with no one watching, I succumbed to the urge and stood on my hands. Then I walked across the room, my long auburn hair sweeping the vinyl floor, my face turning red. Still, not bad for a thirty-four-year-old who’d taken a bullet in the shoulder and various blows to the body and head.

  I was still walking on my hands, contemplating turning a cartwheel, when a heavy hand rapped on my office door. “Enter,” I said, and before I could straighten, he was in my office, viewing me with a fair measure of bemusement.

  “So, this is where, and how, you ply your trade,” Vincent Vanzetti said.

  I sprang to my feet, smoothed my hair, smiled and nodded.

  “Compact,” he growled, his hazel eyes flicking around the room, “not much bigger than my desk.”

  I shrugged. The office was small, but it matched my budget. I sat and said, “You here to offer me your desk?”

  Vincent Vanzetti growled again. He remained standing. Of medium build and around six foot tall, Vanzetti had large, soft hands with his fingernails neatly trimmed and polished. He was carrying a smart leather briefcase, black, without a blemish. His hair was grey and wavy, swept back to reveal a high forehead, while a firm chin, a menacing moustache and a series of pale moles distinguished his face. Vanzetti was dressed in a smart business suit, dark grey. His shirt was pristine and white while his tie was neat and straight. A gold pin adorned his tie, matching his gold wristwatch and a gold signet ring. Vanzetti looked like a cross between a businessman and a mobster, highly appropriate because he was a mixture of both.

  “What’s that?” Vanzetti frowned, his suspicious gaze trained on Marlowe.

  “That’s a stray from the alley, now my office cat.”

  “An office is no place for animals,” he said, taking half a step back.

  “You want to tell him that?” I asked, aware that Marlowe took a backward step for no one, regardless of their reputation. With a smile on my lips, I added, “No need to be afraid, he’s a cat, not a lion or a tiger.”

  “I’m not afraid,” the mobster said, though now he stood closer to the door than my desk. “It’s just that I don’t like cats.”

  “I don’t like boats,” I reasoned, “but whenever I want to talk with you, you force me aboard the Esmeralda.”

  Vanzetti shrugged, conceding my point. He added, “The Esmeralda’s up for repairs.”

  I nodded. “And I hope she’s feeling better soon.”

  Our banter had disturbed Marlowe, who arched his back, meowed and stretched. He gave Vanzetti a mean, don’t mess with me, glare then jumped on to the windowsill again, where he rubbed against the windowpane until I opened the window and let him out. With a sigh of relief, Vanzetti sat in front of my desk, on my wicker-framed client’s chair.

  “You know what this street is famous for, don’t you,” he said while leaning back, placing his briefcase in his lap. “Prostitution.”

  I nodded. “I’m a professional sleuth, Mr Vanzetti; my neighbours’ activities have not escaped my attention.”

  Vanzetti adjusted his tie. He glanced to his right, to a second, small desk. “Your assistant isn’t with you today.”

  “Faye’s away on manoeuvres,” I said, though I failed to elaborate. My colleague, Faye Collister, was in North Wales, touring a series of hotels as a mystery guest. Mystery guest assignments were bread and butter work, the sort of tasks that paid the rent. Furthermore, Faye’s whereabouts were none of Vanzetti’s business.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked, leaning forward, getting down to business.

  “I want to hire you.”

  In a reflex gesture, I sat back and held out my right hand. “Sorry,” I said.

  Although we had a good working relationship, and a fair amount of respect for each other, I wasn’t keen to ease on to Vanzetti’s payroll.

  “Hear me out,” he insisted, “I want to hire you to find my missing daughter.”

  “Her name?”

  “Vittoria.”

  “How long has she been missing?”

  “Five days.”

  “You’ve contacted the police?”

  Vanzetti rolled his eyes and scoffed. “With my background?”

  “You’ve searched for your daughter?”

  He nodded. “My men have been looking around, yeah.”

  “No joy?”

  Vanzetti shook his head. He viewed me through sad, hooded eyes. His face carried an expression I’d not seen before, with deep worry lines creasing his forehead. “No joy,” he said.

  “Any idea where she might be?”

  “None at all.”

  “Any idea why she’s gone on the run?”

  “No.”

  “Has she run away before?”

  Vanzetti shook his head.

  “Do you have a good relationship with your daughter?”

  He nodded, “Yes.”

  I glanced at my computer, at my screensaver, a picture of my handsome fiancé, Dr Alan Storey. Alan was a psychologist, a leading member of his profession and, at times, I reckoned that he needed all his training and years of experience to put up with me, to understand the thoughts that ran
through my head. Years of abuse at the hands of my mother and ex-husband had left more than physical scars.

  Returning to more pressing matters, to Vittoria Vanzetti, I said, “There are other enquiry agents in the book.”

  “True,” Vanzetti conceded. “But no one I can trust.” He leaned forward, the gentle curve of his abdomen touching my desk. “I trust you. You keep your word. You’re not out to scam people, you’re not out to bullshit people, you’re not out to con, and that’s rare in this world. Forget who I am, what you think of me; think of my daughter. I’m asking you to help my daughter, a twenty-two-year-old woman who might be in danger.”

  In truth, I felt sorry for Vanzetti, and his daughter. Nevertheless, he was a mobster, after all, one of the foremost villains in the country. For all his urbane charm, he was a very dangerous man. Against my better judgement, I said, “I charge...”

  “I’ll quadruple your fee. With a five figure bonus when you find my daughter.”

  I nodded. The money should have been my prime motivation, but it wasn’t. Vanzetti’s body language told me that he feared for his daughter, that she might be in danger. And despite her family background, I couldn’t turn my back on that.

  “I’ll need a photograph,” I said, “and a list of contacts to interview.”

  Vanzetti tapped his briefcase. He opened the briefcase, removed its contents and placed them on my desk. “Already prepared, in this folder.”

  “You’re very efficient, Mr Vanzetti.”

  He nodded. “I run an efficient business.” His fingers flicked through the paperwork, revealing photographs, maps and copious pages of neatly typed notes. “I suggest that you start with my ex-wife, Catrin; my wife, Sherri with an ‘i’; and with Vittoria’s boyfriend, V.J. Parks.”

  “The boxer?”

  “Yeah.”

  I glanced at a photograph of Parks, a rugged, handsome young man crouched in a typical boxer’s pose: gloved hands raised high, jaw set firm, keen eyes looking straight ahead. The photograph of Catrin suggested that she was a hard woman too, a woman not to trifle with. If she donned a pair of boxing gloves and went three rounds with Parks, the boxer would emerge as the winner, after a hard-fought contest.

  “I appreciate your suggestions, Mr Vanzetti, and I will commence with the people you mentioned. However, you should understand from the start that I must do this my way.”

  “Whatever.” Vanzetti waved a dismissive hand. He straightened his jacket then gazed up, to a point of no significance on the ceiling.

  “And if I do find your daughter and she doesn’t want to come home, I won’t force her.”

  “You find her,” he said his tone assertive, hard and confident, his eyes now fixed on me, “and she’ll return to papa.”

  “What about your rival,” I asked, “Rudy Valentine; you annoyed him lately?”

  Despite himself, Vanzetti lips twitched into the suggestion of a smile. “No more than usual.”

  “Would Rudy make a move against Vittoria?”

  Vanzetti thought for a moment. He steepled his fingers then placed them against his chin. “Rudy’s slippery; I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “Where does Vittoria normally live?” I asked.

  “At home; with me and Sherri.”

  “With an ‘i’.”

  Vanzetti shrugged. He turned away, as though embarrassed. “She insists on that, yeah.”

  “Does Vittoria get on with Sherri?”

  “They’re about the same age,” Vanzetti confessed; “some of their interests overlap.”

  I glanced at a photograph of Sherri, a cutie-pie with bottle-blonde hair, an outlandishly curvaceous figure and incredibly long legs. Her smile was wide and generous, yet somewhat vacuous. She’d look amazing on the cover of a magazine, or as a centrefold in a magazine, but her immature, empty-headed appearance did hint at a basic level of intelligence. On the other hand, maybe I was being catty, because I had to concede that Sherri was far better looking than me.

  “You married a woman your daughter’s age,” I said while nodding towards Sherri’s photograph.

  “Anything wrong with that?” Vanzetti growled.

  Freud would have enjoyed a field day, but Alan didn’t rate him anyway, so I just smiled and shook my head. “I’ll look, but what if I can’t find Vittoria?”

  “I only hire the best. I only hire people who deliver. You’ll find her,” Vanzetti said.

  Later, when alone in my office, I mulled over Vanzetti’s parting words: were they a vote of confidence, or a veiled threat? Vanzetti took no prisoners. His reputation went before him. On this one, I had to deliver, or else...

  Failure was not an option.

  Chapter Two

  I read Vanzetti’s notes, which were detailed, listing names, dates and addresses. However, none of the people interviewed had seen Vittoria recently or had any idea where she might be.

  The photograph of Vittoria exuded youth and contentment. In the photograph, she was smiling, revealing her dark, Italian ancestry. Her Roman nose, firm chin and dimpled cheeks spoke of character, rather than great beauty, while her hazel eyes, her father’s eyes, hinted at intelligence.

  I sat back in my faux-leather chair and studied the photograph. I thought about the notes, written by Vanzetti’s henchmen. The notes offered a clue to Vanzetti’s character and his deep concern for his daughter. However, they took me no closer to Vittoria, so I decided to get up off my backside and talk with her mother, Catrin.

  Catrin Vanzetti lived in a ten-storey apartment block overlooking the waterfront. The apartments were swish and luxurious, the location highly prized; whatever the terms of Catrin’s divorce settlement, the apartment suggested that she had walked away with a fair chunk of the swag.

  A lift eased me up to the seventh floor and Catrin’s apartment. I knocked on her door, ignored a suspicious neighbour and waited for Catrin to answer. Eventually, her door swung open to reveal a woman in her mid-forties with dark, intense eyes, a determined face and a figure easing into middle age. Her hair was cut short; red, it glowed like a warning beacon. I sensed that not many people got the better of Catrin Vanzetti.

  “Mrs Vanzetti?” I asked. “My name’s Sam, Sam Smith...”

  Catrin inclined her head. “I’ve been expecting you. Vince hired you?”

  I nodded then adjusted the strap on my shoulder bag.

  “Come in,” she said.

  With Catrin leading the way, I wandered into her apartment, a spacious, open-planned affair. The walls and ceiling were beige and they toned harmoniously with the luxurious brown carpet and the chunky cream chairs. I spied a square, glass coffee table, a wall-mounted television and a series of tall, ornate sculptures. Two mannequins and a drawing board stood in the far corner of the room, positioned to take advantage of the generous light offered by the French windows. The mannequins were naked, though flamboyant sketches of frocks, dresses and ball gowns covered the drawing board.

  “Lovely apartment,” I said with a smile.

  “Not as nice as Vince’s mansion,” Catrin replied with a scowl.

  “You’re into fashion,” I said, glancing at the drawing board.

  “I design. I run a boutique.”

  I nodded. “I know of it. In the city centre.”

  Catrin appraised me through narrow eyes, her gaze scanning my attire. “You should call in sometime,” she concluded, “maybe we could fit you up with a new outfit.”

  I straightened then flattened the lapel on my trench coat. True, my coat had seen better days and maybe it was time to refresh my wardrobe.

  “You trying to hide your figure or something?” Catrin asked. “Take your coat off,” she demanded and, meekly, I complied with her request. Catrin draped my coat over a mannequin then she appraised me again. “Short leather jacket, figure-hugging blouse, tight pants, very tight pants,” she suggested. “You’ve got the curves, honey; show them off.”

  My trench coat did offer a degree of anonymity, an asset in my business, a
nd it did hide my femininity, which I found desirable during the early years of my agency. However, experience, and my life with Alan, had transformed my outlook, so maybe it was time to heed Catrin’s advice and offer sartorial expression to my inner feelings. Faye had a good eye for the latest fashions; when she returned from North Wales, we’d go on a therapeutic shopping spree.

  Broaching the reason for my visit, I said, “I’m looking for your daughter, Vittoria.”

  Catrin walked over to a cocktail cabinet. She splashed three fingers of whisky into a glass then waved the bottle at me. I shook my head and she sipped the whisky, neat. “Vince told me you’d call.”

  “So the two of you are still talking?”

  After a terse nod, Catrin sat on a large, leather armchair. She sipped her whisky, crossed her legs and stared at me. “If you can call monosyllabic grunts talking, yeah.” She reached across to the glass coffee table and a packet of cigarettes, shaking one of five cigarettes loose from the cardboard. “We talk, when Sherri allows us to get a word in edgeways.”

  “You dislike Sherri.”

  “She destroyed my marriage; what do you think?”

  “And your feelings towards Mr Vanzetti?”

  “At first anger.” She lit her cigarette with a marble cigarette lighter, flicking the flint three times before obtaining a spark. “Now I’m through anger and out the other side.”

  “Do you still love him?”

  “Filthy habit,” she said, waving the cigarette at me. “I quit, but started back, after the divorce.”

  “Do you still love him?” I repeated.

  “What are you,” Catrin scowled, “a marriage guidance counsellor?”

  At Catrin’s invitation, I eased myself on to a second armchair, nudging a leather cushion to one side. Absentmindedly, I adjusted my engagement ring. “Not exactly,” I said, “though through the course of my work, I’ve done a fair bit of marriage guidance counselling.”