Frame-Up (13 page)

I stay with them for a cup of tea. When I leave, Lucy accompanies me
to the door and asks: "Ceci, are you still doing your martial arts?"

I nod.

She smiles and says: "Thanks, Ceci, for coming. Albert told me of
your concern, but he thinks that we should be safe."

How silly of me to think that she wouldn’t see straight through me and
know why I came, nor is she somebody who scares easily. "Lucy, please,
it is serious. Convince dad to take all of you away."

"You really think we should? And what about the girls’ schooling?"

"Yes, I think you should, and it will only be for a week or two, until I
have this whole matter sorted out."

"I’ll talk to Albert when he comes back tomorrow."

I cannot hope for more than a promise.

Tuesday, 5:10 p.m.

I figure that late afternoon will be a good time to catch Silvio at the
restaurant. I have no other phone number to reach him. He answers on the
third ring. His voice reveals his pleasure at my call.

"How curious! I just entered my office, intent on calling you. How are
you,
amore
?" He hasn’t called me ‘love’ before. For a moment I waver.
Should I ask him whether he is married or should I just let it go for the
moment? But then my need for clarity wins.

"I’m fine, Silvio. I have to ask you something."

"I’ll say yes to whatever it is."

"No, Silvio, I’m serious." I pause for a moment, mustering my
courage. "Are you married?"

"What an unexpected question! Why?"

"Because it’s important for me to know."

"Yes, I’m legally married, but —"

My heart sinks. I don’t let him finish his sentence. "Oh Silvio, why
didn’t you tell me?" Tears come unbidden to my eyes.

"It didn’t seem relevant or important."

"But it is to me. I swore never to get involved with a married man —"

"But Ceci, I love you and my —"

"No, Silvio. I’m sorry, I should never have invited you to my
apartment." My throat constricts, breaking my voice. "
Ciao
," is all I
manage and hang up.

The phone rings a few seconds later. I let it ring, each ring tempting
me to answer, each cutting deeper into my pain. I realize that I’ve fallen
head over heals in love. In love with a married man.

Tuesday, 11:25 p.m.

I park the van in the alley behind the building where Lewis have their
offices. As expected, the windows on level 4 are dark. In fact, the
windows on all floors are dark. It seems that everybody is heeding the
power company’s plea to conserve power and turn off lights after work,
rather than let them burn, as was still the case half a year ago.

I sit on a cushion in the cargo hold of the van and switch on my laptop.
A search finds eleven active networks in the area, Lewis’ being one of
them. I log on under Edward Long’s user name with the password I
previously observed: Aussie19. An error message appears. So he changed
his password. I try 23. Still the same error message. If the third attempt
fails, I will be blocked out for four hours, unless the system’s supervisor
clears the blockage, which won’t be the case for me. I hesitate. Should I
try 29, the next prime number, or 20, the next number above 19. Reason
tells me to go for 29. I do and it works. With a few keystrokes, I have
access to his files. My intention is to search first through his past trading
record for any transactions in Sanvino shares. I doubt he would have been
that stupid and execute the sale himself, but then one never knows; some
people have a greater gift for doing more ingeniously stupid things than
others. As expected, the search fails to find a reference to ‘Sanvino’.

The next step is to check through his e-mails. Bank statements may
reveal hard evidence. In any case, they could give circumstantial evidence
through his spending pattern.

I open his e-mail program. He has several ‘old mail’ folders, each
containing hundreds, some even thousands of messages. It would take me
hours to scan through them all. It makes more sense to simply dump the
whole into my computer. I see one folder labeled ‘private’. Curiosity to
take a quick look gets the better of me. I open it and slowly scan through
the sender and subject entries, looking for bank statements. I soon find a
copy from HSBC, dated 24
^th
October. I open it in the Acrobat Reader and
have a quick glance. Then I save it on my computer, and next do the same
for the September and August statements. To my surprise, there is a
second set of bank statements from a bank I’ve never heard of, ANZ. I
open the one dated the 31st of September and discover its full name:
Australia New Zealand Bank. I reckon that he took it along when he
moved from Australia to London. It has only one entry, an opening
balance of several hundred pounds. The statement for August lists two
small debits, while the opening balance for July is the same as for August.

There is a second statement dated 31
^st
July. It turns out to be a foreign
currency account in Australian dollars with a current balance of zero. Its
presence though suggests that at some time in the past he must have
transferred sizable sums that he may have left in their original currency
for some time before converting them into pounds. Given that there is no
statement for this account since then, I figure that they are only issued
every three months. Checking farther back, I find another one dated 30
^th
April. So my guess is correct. It also has a zero balance. I make a mental
note to retrieve the next statement to be issued for the 31
^st
October, only
a few days off.

I check the time on my machine. I have already been in the system for
close to an hour and have barely got started. Since all his e-mail records
are stored on the network server, rather than on his own computer, the
way I do it, copying the whole lot promises to be a tedious task. I can’t
simply locate the file for each folder on his computer and download it.
For that I would need access to the network server. So, I have to
download each message individually. However, I’m really only interested
in the more recent ones, say the last two or three months. Anything before
that is unlikely to be of any relevance.

As I start with the ‘private’ folder, I hear low voices, no more than
murmurs, coming from directly next to the van. ‘
Security?
’ is my first
reaction. Listening more carefully, I conclude that one sounds like a
young male’s with a heavy Liverpudlian accent, while the other is the
unmistakable voice of a girl. I remain perfectly still, so as not to make
movements that might rock the van. A hooded head appears on the
passenger side of the driver’s cabin. The only thing visible is a bit of
nose, the rest of the face remains in the shade of the hood.

"I could try to wire it," a male voice says. "With wheels we’ll be out
of town before your old man wakes up. I’ve wired cars before. It’s easy."

"You think so? Wouldn’t we get in trouble with the police?" The
worried voice of a teenager, probably no more than sixteen.

"This old wreck looks like it’s been abandoned here. Look, the phone
number isn’t even a local one."

"Should we? I’m scared."

"Don’t be daft. The police will never catch us. By the time it’s missed,
we’ll be in Birmingham and there we simply dump it somewhere."

I put the laptop into hibernation and place it at a safe distance on the
floor of the van.

"But it may not have enough petrol to get us there."

"Then we dump it earlier, silly, and I’ve a fiver to buy some."

"But how’ll you get in?"

The guy tests the door. "It’s open," he exclaims. "I bet it’s stolen and
was dumped here. Come Sally, we’re in luck. Get in!" The latter is again
said in a hushed voice.

I rise silently, keeping in the dark shade of the cargo compartment.

When the girl slams the passenger door shut I quickly move into
position to grab the guy by the neck when he enters on the driver’s side.
He opens the door fully, but rather than climb in, he puts his head under
the steering wheel and pulls out several wires. He holds a small knife in
his left hand. There is no way to grab him, unless I wait until he has wired
the van and climbs into the driver’s seat. I don’t like the idea of having
the van wired. I must have moved slightly, or the girl has finally become
aware of me. A frightened scream followed by a cry: "Harry, there is
somebody in here!"

He bolts instantly and runs down the lane. I scramble over the seat. By
the time I’m out, he has already gained thirty yards. I’ve no chance of
catching him.

In the meantime, the girl has also climbed out and clumsily runs after
him on her high heels, shouting: "Harry, wait, Harry!" Her voice sounds
desperate. After a few steps, she kicks off her shoes, but even so I easily
catch up with her. She fights me like a cat. A quick Aikido move and I
have her right arm twisted up her back.

She starts to cry: "You’re hurting me. Let me go. Please, I have done
nothing."

I relax the hold a bit. In the meager light of the street lamp I can see
that she is even younger than I thought. It takes little guessing that she is
running away. From her timid responses, I surmise that it is home. "Hold
still, and it won’t hurt." She does.

"Sally, how old are you?"

"Eighteen. I’m eighteen," she says, sobbing now.

"I don’t believe you. Don’t lie." I tighten the grip a bit, and she cries
out. "How old? The truth!"

"Fourteen," she sobs, "fifteen in a month."

"And how old is Harry?"

"I don’t know exactly."

"Make a guess."

"Over twenty."

"Did he use a condom when you had sex?"

She doesn’t answer, looking away like a cornered animal. Again, I
tighten the grip a bit.

"No."

"Was this your first time?"

"Yes," she murmurs.

"And what did Harry promise you if you went with him?"

"He said he has friends in Birmingham who’ll help me earn money."

"Didn’t it occur to you that he might force you to become a sex
worker?"

Even in the meager light of the street lamp, I can see her go all white.

"Do your parents know where you are?"

"No."

"You’re trying to run away, aren’t you?"

She only nods.

"You tell me where you live and I’ll drive you home, where you
belong."

"No, please, lady, no. Don’t." She is in panic. "My father’ll kill me."

The girl needs help in more than one way. She needs to be checked at
a clinic and possibly given an after-morning pill. And somebody needs to
have a serious word with her father, although the girl might be
exaggerating. The obvious person for both is a social worker, but where
can I raise a social worker at this time of the night. Bringing her to
nearest police station, which happens to be Snow Hill, is the only feasible
choice, and bound to get me into trouble. What will it look like if I report
that Harry tried to wire my van while I was inside? The girl saw me in the
cargo section. What was I doing inside a van parked behind the building
where I worked for the last two years? I can’t afford this sort of
complications, nor am I willing to simply let the girl fend for herself. She
is clearly frightened, and she doesn’t strike me as a streetwise kid, but
rather as a naive, gullible girl who was promised paradise by a hardened
criminal.

"Look, Sally. I want to help you. Trust me. Do your parents know that
you’re missing?" I release the hold on her arm, but still hold on firmly to
her wrist.

"I guess, yes. I told them I was going next door to a friend and would
be back by ten."

"So when you didn’t return they would have checked with that friend."

"Yes."

"So no way to sneak into the house. You don’t have much choice but
to face your parents."

"No, I can’t."

"I’ll take you there and have a serious talk with your father. I’ll tell
him that I will report him to the police if he as much as touches you."