Martin Dixon
Author
THE DESENZANO LAUNDRY WAR
An intriguing story of three women, love, money and murder
SYNOPSIS
Who would expect a laundry war on the idyllic shores of Lake Garda. That’s what Emily Beech, runaway wife of London crime boss Charlie Beech, walks into.
Charlie is determined to find Emily but is distracted by a deal with the Japanese and Italians that may be slipping away from him.
Hiding not only from Charlie but his Italian crime associates Emily becomes involved with a struggling laundry and its owner Rosa. Rosa’s partner and lover Carla continually causes problems. When Emily and Rosa become romantically involved war breaks out.
DI Dave Simmonds desperately wants to persuade Emily to give evidence against Charlie, almost jeopardising her life in the process. But Emily is smarter than anyone gives her credit for having spent the last two years putting all the pieces in place for a plan she needs a little more time to bring to fruition.
Will she succeed before Charlie finds her or the Italian crime syndicate makes all her hard work a waste of time?
An absorbing drama that will keep you reading to the last word.
FIRST CHAPTER
It was ten-fifty Monday morning, at least that’s what Emily Ellis’s watch told her as she curled back the cuff of her cream blouse. The six-forty-three from Desenzano rattled and rocked through a multitude of point changes as it passed endless rows of houses and warehouses finally approaching Roma Termini platform twenty-one. The express was twenty-five minutes late but of course that didn't matter, the important thing was she had escaped, so far without any consequences other than most of her possessions still enjoyed the view across Lake Garda. She snatched a glance at the sour-face sitting next to her. Emily was not normally a vindictive person but that bitch; she was sure her ankle would suffer for days.
The sun had woken her that morning. Too much Bardolino the night before and the gap in the sloppily drawn curtains had saved her. The bedroom window faced east and it was close to six when the sun had cascaded onto her closed eyelids. It stalled her dream of being swept into the arms of the smiling woman with the long black hair. Rubbing her eyes she threw back the light sheet, her nakedness prompting recollection. All the others had left together around midnight, finally leaving the two of them alone until an hour ago when Rosa had slipped away to prepare for work.
It was the sudden brightness that had stirred her, not the sound of the car drifting through the open window as it pulled up outside her apartment. That had been a few minutes later as she shuffled back from the bathroom frowning at the dishevelled apartment. The bottles, the red stained glasses, plates with dregs of tomato sauce and pasta now a solid mess. Last night’s debris marred the normally pristine coffee table.
As usual she passed the front window to satisfy a desire, an endless need to wonder at the sheer beauty of sun sparkling on water and misty mountains, framed between tall trees neatly spaced along the lakefront. A view that had captivated her since arriving what seemed an age ago, although it was only six months since she had dragged a small suitcase out of Verona airport to hop into a taxi and give the driver the address of a small hotel in a quiet road behind the main street.
That was when she had panicked, as she had looked out of the window through foggy eyes. She had always known it was going to happen but even so her involuntary gasp shook her out of her lethargy, the shock still weirdly unexpected. Instead of staring over the water, all she concentrated on was the car, the creak of the door, the grey suit, a foot planted onto the pavement to stand and take a moment to adjust his jacket. Suspecting what he would do next she slipped back from the window before his head turned to glare up through dark glasses as the passenger door opened and a similar grey suit moved to stand by the first. Not much thought at that particular point though, she was way too absorbed with rapidly repeating one short word under her breath. Then, as if to underline to herself exactly how she felt, she slapped her thigh with a clenched fist making her flinch into reality and return to the bedroom, to stoop and reach under the bed.
Lurking there the small soft fabric sports bag suggested an underlying insecurity being secreted in anticipation of such an inevitable moment. Packed and ready to go. Essentials, things for a quick flight. Only a few clothes and the necessaries: passport, important documents, temporary residency and the like. Anything else was easily bought and she was certainly not short of money, she’d made damn sure of that. A few treasures. Mostly jewellery and she did not want to forget Rosa’s purple bougainvillaea flowers pressed between the pages of the Lake Garda travel guide, sweetly given with a light brush of lips on hers and a slight stroke against her left breast where Rosa’s right hand gently held her side.
Back to the front window she risked a quick look. The first grey suit leant on the driver’s door as he slowly pushed it shut, staring over the passing cars on the lakeside road, across the still water looking through the dappled shade lining the shore. That would give her time. Back to the bedroom to throw on yesterday’s clothes. Underwear frantically removed with kisses and caresses randomly lined the floor. Skirt and blouse taken off with more care but still untidily draped over the easy chair next to the ornate frame of an ormolu wall mirror. The mirror showing confirmation of her overindulgence. She pulled her hand through her long untidy blonde hair. A futile gesture. She sighed at the drab look, simple cream and grey, grabbed the bag and her handbag from the floor next to the bed and snatched her purse off the dressing table, slipped feet into flat soles, took one last look around and rushed her dishevelled self through the door.
The wide hallway held the sound of the main door clicking shut. Footsteps on the stairs. The slow slap of leather soles on tiled treads. Echoing words. Thankful she had paid attention when she had rented the second-floor apartment, she sprinted to the end of the corridor. Through the door with the green exit sign and bar handle, down the narrow metal staircase to the rear yard across which she rushed, past terracotta pots, past the purple bougainvillaea spreading over the tall rear wall, to disappear through the back gate silently letting it swing shut.
Briskly moving through the slowly waking backstreets Emily made her way towards the station. Quickly past the ruin of the ancient Roman Villa with the near intact mosaic floors, somewhere she would normally dally and catch a mesmerising peek through the gaps in the bush lined wire fence. Then a right and all the way up the long gentle slope past silent shops and bars beginning to open for the early coffee drinkers, the aroma already percolating onto the street. As she walked her thoughts whirred. Who were they? There were several options, one bad enough to make her think she definitely should not be caught. Fishing her phone from her bag she turned it off. Her Italian phone. She had left her London phone behind when she had fled to Italy six months before.
Fifteen minutes was a long time for a naturally impatient person to wait and for Emily the extra ten minutes were tense. Imagining pursuit, she repeatedly glanced at the entrance as she waited, melding into the crowded platform keeping a close eye on the information screen still showing the late arrival time. Suspecting it would be difficult to get a seat, with a minute or so to go, she shuffled forward to form the front of a group beginning to congregate where they expected a door would appear when the train stopped.
First on board, she thought about upstairs but instead looked along the lines of downstairs seats and quickly moved halfway along the carriage before it became congested. The woman sitting on an aisle seat ignored her by staring out of the window, maybe pretending she was not there, her bags packed onto the window seat. Emily asked once quite nicely then, not receiving any reaction, nudged the lady’s arm and pointed at the seat.
A scowling face stared as she huffed and took her time complaining while she shuffled over to sit with a soft bag on her lap and one by her feet. The hard leather one the woman kept vindictively ramming against Emily’s ankle until Emily jammed her bag against it. But the woman persisted pushing so Emily stared at her and leant close, “Basta,” she quietly snapped with force and a look and a flash of white teeth. One thing she had learnt during her life in London married to Charlie was how to use the tone of her voice to make a point. Not only to Charlie but also to some of the crew who worked for him. Dressed in their smart suits and loosely knotted ties with their discreet groping hands, they seemed to be always there, lingering in her luxurious kitchen or slouched on plump feather filled cushions on the garden room sofas, drinking coffee, farting and swearing and laughing at lewd jokes while waiting for instructions. All the time watching, their eyes running over her every detail every time she entered.
Rocking to a halt, the doors thumped and the platform rapidly filled. Emily did not rush. Make the bitch wait, she thought. After a few moments she stood, stooped to pick up her bag and went to move towards the door behind her then stopped. The lady was in the aisle heading the other way. A long cotton dress swished as she struggled with her cases in the cramped space. Emily followed her onto the platform. Followed her, dragged along by the heaving mass, towards the exit. Followed her until she could barge her way right up close behind. The exit slowed the crush with some bunching and shoving. Emily looked down, measured her stride perfectly and ran her heel down the back of the lady's ankle causing her shoe to slip off with a hiss of pain. The lady spun and Emily grinned. She would not describe her action as spiteful; it was simply that an ankle for an ankle was perfectly justified, after all, the principle was cast in stone. Book of Exodus 21:23-27, something that had made enough of an impression, from her religious education lessons, to stick in her head.
Through a turbulent concourse onto the street, she paused suddenly realising she was thirsty and hungry. Rome had a habit of being filled with multitudes so there was no problem with cafes and restaurants. She had once heard that waiters sang with operatic voices as they worked, much like gondoliers, but that was long ago before she grew up, and had been quickly dispelled on her first visit on her engagement fifteen years ago, after she had been swept away by promises that failed to materialise. That was the first time she had stayed five stars, with personalised guided tours and fine dining and long, slow dancing into the small hours. She had never questioned Charlie and had assumed he worked hard for his obvious wealth. How naive, but she had only been twenty-two.
All the servers in the main street cafes hovered expectantly, no slouching, lots of smiling, plenty of suggestions. This one, a hopeful gigolo type, with charm and so much creative knowledge of how beautiful and desirable particular ladies could be, spoke unwanted words as he directed her to a table close to the street but she declined and pointed to one at the rear. One in the corner with the fresh white tablecloth and sparkling glasses, where the charmer waited patiently while she decided what to order. She checked her watch, eleven-thirty-one; thirty-one minutes past the perceived cappuccino deadline so she ordered a double macchiato and a ciabatta, her favourite mozzarella and Parma ham with fresh rocket, then sat back to watch the activity on the wide pavement and take stock. How likely was it that she would have been followed? She thought very low at the moment so felt she could take a few days to decide whether it would be safe to return to Desenzano or if she would have to move on. Thinking she had a bit of time to make up her mind, the first priority would be to find a place to stay, but as she left the cafe the first thing she did was turn on her phone, send a one letter text M and wait for the call. Also funds had to be transferred.
The area between the station and the Tiber was familiar to her. She had made two trips to Rome during the past six months. Only for a few days and mostly for financial reasons but there had been time to see some sights. The first time she came to open a non-resident bank account and transfer money. One and a half million, the second of her three intended payments. The second visit, to arrange for investment for the laundry. Why Rome and not Desenzano was a reasonable question and like most reasonable questions the answer was simple. Leaving was always likely to be necessary so best to flee to her most important consideration, the money. It would always be accessible in Rome. The transfer to arrange funding for an investment residency, the so-called Golden Visa. The smart four-star hotel she stayed on those occasions was the obvious choice now but if they didn’t have a room there were plenty more nearby that hopefully would. As it happened the hotel she had stayed in remembered her. The first thing she did when she had settled in her room was to risk a simple text. She had to let Rosa know she was safe.
It was that time of day, ten-thirty and the tourists were on the move, wandering around the foyer queuing for reception with their concerned faces to ask endless stupid questions. Sitting, filling all the chairs waiting for tour guides chatting exuberantly in the many languages of their eclectic mix. It was now, eight days later, that Emily thought about returning to the lake but decided the risk was too great. She felt she should stay hidden a while longer, at least until everything became clearer. She would move down south instead. Puglia had a great look about it. Quieter, maybe an easier place to disappear. Driving was the best option so she intended the car rental to be her first stop of the day. As she left the hotel, she did not notice the man wearing a dark blue polo and light-coloured chinos, carrying a brown folio case, change his mind and not enter the hotel but followed her instead.
Fifteen minutes later, mixed up with Japanese tourists near the museum, as she overtook the lady with the red umbrella held high, familiarity suddenly struck. The same feeling, the one from eighteen months back when she had been followed by that detective inspector. He had questions about Charlie’s activities which, of course, she denied knowing anything about. But here it was again. Call it sixth sense or her insecurity fuelling her imagination or whatever you wanted, it didn’t matter, Emily was positive she was being followed.
Taking a quick furtive glance behind, she suddenly swept from the street through double doors into the museum hoping to hide amongst the crowds but immediately became distracted by the near naked lady standing solidly towards the back of the gallery. Emily’s stride slowed as she gazed at the face. Was there something familiar? The lady’s right hand rested on her left shoulder loosely clutching some light fabric, silk most likely, with the impression of some subtle movement, a breeze maybe, as the cloth appeared to swirl to drape, subtly concealing one part of her modesty. It was the lady’s pose and her coy expression that was reminiscent of a recent memory. Pushing through the crowd she abruptly halted. The suggestion of virtue was extraordinary and immediately reminded Emily of Rosa, giving her such a sudden feeling of guilt. It was probably now safe to call her. If she did head south, she would ask Rosa to come with her but suspected the laundry would make that unlikely.
Staring for a moment longer, unable to refrain from gently stroking her hand down the smooth white marble thigh, she turned to be engulfed by an intense moment of panic. The dark blue uniform of one of the many attendants was pushing through the admirers and quickly heading her way. Absent-mindedly she rubbed her hand down the pale blue fabric of her skirt trying to expunge her guilt and snatched a glance at the stern face approaching. Emily’s expression betrayed her fragile disposition and in a natural reaction her eyes swept around the gallery desperately searching for the nearest exit. The uniform was almost upon her when a hand from behind resting on her shoulder made her gasp. In her high state of anxiety even such a gentle touch held the expectation of stern reprimand but a soft voice simply said, “Mrs Beech?”