Family Honour Read online

  “At a presentation, for my father’s rugby team.” Maya glanced at the picture of her father. “That was fifteen years ago, though it seems like yesterday.”

  “You’ve been married fifteen years?”

  She nodded. “We married soon after we met; two months after we met.”

  “The person I’m looking for,” I said, “Vittoria Vanzetti, does she know your husband?”

  Maya frowned. She was on the defensive again. “I don’t know anyone called Vittoria.”

  “Does your husband know her?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied automatically.

  “I’ve heard that Vittoria might be with your husband.”

  Offering her back, Maya turned and stared through the French windows; her back was ramrod straight, firm with tension. “Are you suggesting that my husband has affairs?”

  “Does he?” I asked.

  Slowly, she turned to gaze at me. In a small voice she said, “Sometimes he has affairs.”

  “And he conducts these affairs while away on business?”

  “Sometimes,” she said in the same small voice.

  “Where has your husband gone this time?”

  “America. Boston.”

  “When is he due back?”

  “Soon. He will phone me to let me know.”

  “You have no problem with this, with your husband taking women on business trips?”

  Maya shrugged, a gesture of defeat or indifference. “He is my husband. It is my duty to be loyal, to stand by him.”

  “Even though his behaviour upsets you?”

  “He is my husband,” she repeated. “I do what a good wife must do.”

  “And you’re a good wife in every aspect of your husband’s life?”

  She nodded. “I try to be.”

  I stared at the vine sculpture. Like clouds, the shape could suit your imagination. In my mind’s eye, I saw two people, in a loving embrace. Maybe I was being fanciful; maybe that image sprang from our conversation. However, if Osborne did have a series of mistresses, I was right about Maya – she was lonely. But where did that place Vittoria, in Boston, with Osborne?

  I asked Maya that question, “Could Vittoria be with your husband?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Why don’t you think so?”

  “Because...because I think Gemma is with him this time.”

  “You know Gemma?”

  Maya stared down to the ground, to the highly polished wooden floorboards, to a colourful soft rug, to the tassels on her simple shoes. “I know Gemma, but only by name.”

  “Will you phone me,” I asked, “when your husband returns?”

  I offered Maya my business card and she accepted the card, with reluctant fingers.

  “Will you make trouble for my husband?” Maya asked, her dark eyes studying the details on my card.

  “I’m looking for Vittoria Vanzetti; I’m not looking to make trouble for anyone.”

  Maya continued to study my card. Then she slipped it under her vine sculpture. “I will phone you,” she said, “when my husband returns.”

  I thanked Maya. Then I gazed through the French windows, to the fields, to the stables, to the blue sky, clear again. “It’s stopped raining,” I said.

  Maya gazed at the sky and frowned. She sighed then said, “It is always raining in some part of the world.”

  Chapter Five

  My fiancé, Dr Alan Storey, lived in St Fagans on the outskirts of Cardiff, in a converted sixteenth century manor house. The house was luxurious without being ostentatious, while its surroundings – unspoilt woodland and rolling green fields – spoke of paradise. I felt at home here. The building, and Alan, helped me relax. And I could be mistress of this domain. All I had to say was, ‘yes’. Yet, I hesitated, my thoughts clouded by the past, by concerns about the present, by doubts about the future. By nature, I was a ‘corkscrew thinker’, I could think around corners, and that was an asset in my job. However, convoluted thinking was not conducive to a harmonious relationship and, quite often, I could tie myself in knots.

  Alan was an excellent chef and for dinner, he prepared a Bulgarian dish, a vegetarian version of sarmi – carrots, onions and rice wrapped in grape leaves, seasoned with a hint of paprika, dill, parsley and garlic, all washed down with a bottle of Bulgarian wine supplied by his friends Petar and Pavlina.

  While munching my way through the sarmi, I asked, “How’s Alis?”

  “Fine.” Automatically, Alan glanced to his left, to a sideboard and a picture of his teenage daughter. “She’s enjoying her adventure holiday. She’s been potholing today.”

  “And you don’t mind?”

  Alan paused, no doubt recalling the tragic moment, the painful event when he’d lost his wife to a climbing accident. After gazing at his wine, he asked, “Because of what happened to Elin?”

  I nodded.

  He took a sip of wine then shrugged philosophically. “We have adventurous genes in our family; I guess that’s why I’m attracted to you. In my youth, I was into all the risk-taking pastimes: rock climbing, potholing, rugby...after Elin died, I had to curtail that, for Alis’ sake, but I still get the urge to do something dangerous, sometimes.”

  “And you allow Alis to respond to her adventurous urge.”

  “It’s all part of growing up. In truth, I’d prefer if she stayed at home with me, but for her sake it’s good to allow her as much freedom as possible.”

  After our satisfying meal, we moved on to chess. Alan had taught me the basics of chess and I’d reinforced that knowledge through the study of grandmaster games and chess books. Alan always won our competitive encounters. However, the games were getting longer and I was getting closer to toppling his king.

  “So, what are you working on?” Alan asked as he moved his queen to threaten my rook.

  “Shush, I’m concentrating.” Should I protect my rook with his mate, retreat or advance? It was a difficult choice, a tricky situation...

  “Multitasking...I thought the female mind was good at that.”

  I glanced up and scowled. Alan’s gamesmanship had shattered my train of thought. I would have to rewind and start my calculations again. “Did Spassky talk with Fischer while they played?” I complained.

  “I’m not Spassky,” Alan smiled, “and you’re not Fischer, thank God.”

  “He was a genius,” I said. I would advance and attack. I had a powerful position. I was winning this game.

  “At the chessboard, yes,” Alan agreed. “Away from the board...sometimes, many times, the gifted pay a horrendous price for their talents.”

  I played my move and Alan responded instantly, shunting his king out of harm’s way. “Anyway,” I said, “I don’t multitask...this female has a one-track mind.”

  Alan grinned. He glanced towards the bedroom. “Yes, you can say that again; you certainly do have a one-track mind, as the scratches on my back will testify.”

  I scowled, blushed and moaned, “You’re trying to put me off my game, and succeeding.”

  To move my queen into the attack or to capture his knight with my bishop; how could I decide with a series of erotic images crowding my brain?

  “Check,” Alan said, responding to my queen move with a knight sacrifice.

  I had to take his knight, or it was checkmate. But then what? To move a bishop, my queen, a pawn...the variations blurred into one as they competed with thoughts of carnal delight. This wasn’t fair; it was psychological warfare, not a friendly game of chess.

  “You’ve left your bishop en prise,” I said after we’d made a series of moves.

  Alan merely smiled at me then at the chessboard. “If you want my professional opinion, that bishop is not the only thing en prise in this room.”

  I blushed again then shuffled in my seat. It was no good; I couldn’t concentrate on the game; I played a move on instinct. “I’ll take your bishop.”

  “You really want to make that move?” Alan cautioned.<
br />
  I sat back and studied the board. However, the chess pieces had lost their form, hidden behind images of Alan and yours truly wrapped in a passionate embrace. “Yes,” I sighed, “yes I do.”

  “Then I’ll take your pawn. Checkmate in five moves.”

  Once again, I studied the board and considered the variations. He was right; it was checkmate. Yet, I was winning this game. Alan leaned forward to kiss me. I responded. Our lips met and the kiss lingered for a long, long time.

  When we came up for air, I asked. “How come I feel like I win when I lose?”

  Alan laughed. “One track mind...”

  And without any further ado, I dragged him towards the bedroom.

  Later, in the afterglow of contentment, we lay together with our bodies, minds and souls entwined. The silence, the sense of calm, was blissful, while the moon and stars shone down, shone for us and us alone, or so it seemed. We had the moon, the stars and each other; we had everything we’d ever need.

  “So, what are you working on at the moment?” Alan mumbled.

  In a sleepy voice, I told him about Vincent Vanzetti and Vittoria.

  “You think that’s wise,” Alan asked while propping himself up on one elbow, “working for a hardened criminal like Vanzetti?”

  “As the man said, this is about Vittoria, not about him.”

  Alan lay back on his pillow. He gazed at the ceiling, his expression thoughtful. “Any closer to finding Vittoria?”

  “Ask me that question tomorrow.”

  “And what about the question I asked you the other day?” he replied, his hand reaching for mine, his fingers caressing my engagement ring.

  “Which question was that?” I asked innocently.

  “You’ve forgotten already?”

  “Marriage?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I shrugged. “Where would we live?”

  “Here, your place, on the moon. Maybe we could buy a star. I don’t care where we live. I just want to be with you.”

  “Here would be better,” I reasoned.

  Alan nodded. “Agreed. So, you move in with me.”

  I thought for a moment and tried to picture our future. The perspiration had dried on my skin, so I slipped my naked body under the duvet. “Maybe it’d be better if we just lived together, without marriage.”

  Alan joined me under the duvet. He brushed back my hair and kissed my lips. “If it’ll make you happy.”

  “Or maybe we should stay as we are. We’re good for each other, as we are.”

  In the semi-darkness, he grinned. His fingers wandered over my sensitive skin and I giggled. “We are that,” he said.

  “I don’t want to spoil anything, ruin what we have.”

  “Marriage should enhance, not blemish,” Alan said, his fingers caressing my cheeks, my shoulders, my hair.

  “I can be a very difficult person to live with.”

  Now, he rubbed his cheek, somewhat ruefully. “I’ve had a flavour of that.”

  “And I like time on my own. And I keep unsociable hours.”

  He shrugged. “I can adapt.”

  “I’m a useless cook, a terrible housewife.”

  He shrugged again. “I enjoy cooking; I find it relaxing. Besides, I already employ a maid.”

  The perfect man, the perfect house, the perfect lifestyle. And a maid. I know what you’re thinking, why is she hesitating? The answer to that question was complex and, maybe, beyond my comprehension.

  I stared at the ceiling and said, “You really want to marry me.”

  Alan nodded decisively. “More than anything.”

  “Okay. But give me a few days to think it over. Once I’ve made a decision, I won’t change my mind. But it has to be the right decision. I want to make sure that we do the right thing.”

  Alan hugged me. He kissed me again. “You always do the right thing.”

  I kissed him back then asked warily, “And you’ll still love me, no matter what I decide?”

  “Samantha,” he said while gazing deep into my eyes, “I will love you forever and a day. You are the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with; more than that, I cannot say.”

  Chapter Six

  Three days slipped by with no sign of Vittoria. Understandably, Vanzetti was becoming frantic and his aggressive phone calls to me suggested that his daughter’s disappearance was all my fault.

  While trying to place Vanzetti’s threats at the back of my mind, I continued my search for Vittoria. I repeated the pattern of previous days by calling on Vittoria’s girlfriends again, by visiting the health club, the nightclub, the garage band, the jewellery store and the beach. No one had seen Vittoria; no one had any idea where she might be.

  Back at my office, I checked my phone messages and found nothing from Maya Osborne. Almost certainly, Grant Osborne was back in the country, so I decided to stakeout his office on Lloyd George Place.

  I parked my Mini outside the Liberal Club, which offered a good view of Osborne’s office, a modern, red-bricked building branded with a brass sign bearing the legend, ‘G.O.F.S.’. The sign was screwed to the wall, beside the main door. I read that sign as ‘Grant Osborne Financial Services’, a front for loan sharking if Osborne’s reputation was anything to go by.

  When on stakeouts, it’s a toss-up between various parts of your anatomy – which would go numb first, your mind or your behind. My mind was active, thinking over Alan’s marriage proposal, so on this occasion the pins and needles started in my behind.

  After three hours, I had no feeling in my rear, and my back was beginning to ache. Then a black Ferrari cruised into view, driven by an old friend, Mac. Mac owned a Bugatti, his pride and joy, so presumably the Ferrari belonged to his client.

  Mac was an ‘odd job man’; he’d hire himself out to just about anyone, if the price was right. A tall, powerful, impressive figure, Mac had a bald head, prominent eyebrow ridges, a granite-hard visage and eyes as clear and blue as a Mediterranean lake. He also possessed a huge ginger moustache. As usual, he was wearing a long leather overcoat, blue jeans and a plaid woollen shirt.

  Mac stepped out of the Ferrari to open the passenger door. His passenger was a bear of a man, possessing a mop of blond hair, cold, angry eyes, a full, round face with heavy bags under his eyes, and unusually large earlobes. In his mid-forties, he was at least three stone overweight, and so carried a considerable paunch. He walked with menace, with an exaggerated sense of importance. I disliked the man on sight; you glance at some people, you fall in love; you glance at others and the hairs rise on the back of your neck. With Osborne, the hairs on the back of my neck turned into hackles.

  Osborne was stuffing a burger, greedily filling his face. Risking a shower of breadcrumbs, and possibly more, I decided to approach him.

  “Mr Osborne...”

  He turned, belched then threw the carton containing the burger on to the ground. Never mind, the road sweeper would tidy up after him. People like Osborne always had lackeys to tidy up after them.

  “Who are you?” he frowned.

  Before I could reply, Mac stepped forward and offered an answer, “Her name’s Samantha. She’s an enquiry agent. A very good enquiry agent. I can vouch for her.”

  “What can I do for you?” Osborne snarled. And Maya had married this man; no wonder she’d looked so depressed.

  “I’m searching for Vittoria Vanzetti,” I said.

  “Never heard of her.” Osborne turned to walk up a short flight of steps, which led to his office.

  “But you’ve heard of Vincent Vanzetti?”

  He paused on the top step then slowly turned around. “Maybe.”

  “I heard a whisper that you’ve been spending time with Vittoria Vanzetti.”

  Osborne spat on to the ground, discharging a morsel of burger wrapped in spittle. “You know how it is with whispers...you start off with, ‘send reinforcements we’re going to advance,’ and end up with, ‘send two and four pence we’re going to a dance.’ I never listen to whi
spers.”

  “So,” I challenged, “you’ve never seen Vittoria Vanzetti?”

  “You’re repeating yourself,” Osborne scowled. “I’m a very busy man. This conversation is over. Now fuck off.”

  Charming, I thought; there’s nothing like an uncouth man offering verbal abuse to brighten your day.

  In the event, I didn’t take Osborne’s advice; I didn’t go forth and multiply. Instead, I returned to my Mini to await developments.

  Forty-seven minutes later, Mac reappeared. He walked away from Osborne’s office, so I decided to join him.

  At first, I had to run to catch up with Mac’s long stride. When I did catch up with Mac, I jerked a thumb over my shoulder and asked, “You’re working for him?”

  “Aye, Missy; that I am.”

  “But, he’s a loan shark.”

  “He has sharp teeth and a vicious bite, I give you that.”

  “And you’re his bone crusher.”

  Mac paused on a street corner. As a teenage girl with purple hair walked past he asked, “You mind if I take offence at that remark?”

  We’d strolled away from the high-rise buildings, the office blocks, the hotels, the education centres into a residential area, resplendent with tree-lined streets. Now, we were standing outside a Starbucks, which piqued my coffee craving. However, I resisted womanfully. Though I did take hold of Mac’s elbow to urge him on.

  “You’re his bone crusher, Mac. Or are you going to tell me that you do social work on his behalf?”

  “In a curious way, I do.” Mac paused again, outside a Catholic church this time. The Catholic church was next door to a Buddhist centre. Cardiff – home of religious harmony. “You see, it’s like this, Missy; it’s better for someone like me to do Osborne’s dirty work than someone like an out and out psychopath. I mean, when I do the job I ask nicely; I give people a chance. Whereas your psycho will break a few legs purely for the enjoyment, then ask for the money. You note the subtle difference there? It’s a wee question I ask, but you get my point?”

  I smiled and nodded. “For a brute, you’re very eloquent, Mac.”

  He thrust out his chin, smoothed his monstrous moustache and muttered, “Should have been a poet. I’m wasted in this job.”