Viper - Michael Morley [113]
‘I think our meeting is over,’ said the lawyer.
Raimondi was shocked. This wasn’t at all what he’d planned. He stalled for time. ‘I haven’t finished my drink yet.’
The consigliere rose from his chair and gestured to the door. ‘Take it with you. I have plenty of glasses.’
The policeman put the drink down. ‘You promised me the surveillance tapes. I’d like them now.’
‘Lieutenant, you come in here making preposterous suggestions about my employer, most of which constitute defamation of his good character, then you demand a million euros for worthless rubbish. You’re lucky to be leaving without a lawsuit, let alone with testimony of your offensive visit.’
Raimondi stood up, shook the creases out of his suit trousers and in one swift movement grabbed Mazerelli by the throat. He banged the consigliere against the wall. Knocked the breath out of him. ‘Now listen, you sweet-mouthed motherfucker, the price has just gone up to two million. And, unless you give me the recordings, I’m going to pull your balls off, stick them in your mouth and make you swallow a whole lot more than your pride.’ Raimondi thumped him against the wall one more time, then let him go. ‘Don’t piss me around. This is a serious offer, so take it seriously.’
Mazerelli doubled up, red-faced and coughing for air. He was still wheezing when he reached the cupboard in the hallway and ejected the disc from the surveillance unit’s recorder.
‘Thanks,’ said Raimondi as Mazerelli handed it over. ‘Two million. One month. Give your boss the message. And tell him not to even think about trying to get at me. If he does, then everything I told you about will be in my boss’s hands within an hour of such foolishness.’ He opened the front door and was halfway through it when he turned back. ‘One final thing; Antonio Castellani and his family get to stay where they are. No evictions and no further intimidation.’
82
San Giorgio a Cremano, La Baia di Napoli
Freshly showered, smelling of apple and swaddled in a white towelling robe, Sylvia Tomms relaxed at her dressing table and dried her hair before going to bed. She’d always had a brutally honest streak and, as she glanced in the mirror, she had to concede she wasn’t looking her best these days.
‘You are a pig! Look at yourself! How did this happen?’ She squinted at the lines beneath her eyes, then painfully tweezed hairs from a brow that she thought horses might have trouble jumping over.
Having chastised herself for going to seed, she determined to get as much beauty sleep as possible.
Unmade and unwashed for almost a month, her bed had never looked so good. She crawled in and curled up. Pulled the duvet tight so she created the illusion she was being held. Sleep came quickly.
It engulfed her. Wrapped itself around her like the warm musky arm of a man who’d just made love to her. She floated. Drifted far, far away. Floated back to when she was seven years old and with her father in his boat. It was her first sailing trip and she remembered almost crying when he made her wear that ugly orange life jacket. They were on Lake Starnberg. The Wetterstein Alps towered up in the background. Water, distilled from Ice Age glaciers, shone crystal blue beneath a high midday sun. A soft breeze stroked her face. Her father’s hands guided hers up and down the ropes as the sail swung and the craft flew across the lake. She missed him. Missed him so much that she often dreamt that he was still alive. Just a phone call away.
And then the phone rang.
Her heart banged and her eyes blinked open.
Within two rings she answered, ‘Pronto! ’
It was eight a.m. The precious night’s rest had already gone.
‘Sylvia, it’s Marianna. You’d better come by the labs as soon as you can. I have those ballistics and forensics reports you wanted – and I’m afraid they don’t make easy reading.’
83
ROS Quartiere Generale, Napoli
Unlike Sylvia, Jack had not slept well. He was still yawning when the driver dropped him outside Lorenzo Pisano’s office.