Unfinished Business...
WHEN Alfonso Romano hit the ‘play’ button, Sandra and I held our breath. If what we were about to see wasn’t what I wanted us to see, we were in it up to our necks.
Then the images of Walter Onslow receiving money from the Romanos sprang into life, and we relaxed somewhat. We watched the sordid transaction wordlessly, Sandra and I and the Romanos, until the picture dissolved into snow.
Alfonso Romano thumbed his remote and the screen went black. No-one moved. We sat in silence, a silence made all the more ominous by the ticking of the grandfather clock out in the hall.
We were in Alfonso Romano’s sitting room, a gloomy barn of a place with a five-metre ceiling, three ornate chandeliers and an expanse of brocaded drapes that would’ve covered every wall in my flat. Furniture was abundant – nests of side tables, enough leather-upholstered sofas and armchairs to seat a platoon, standard lamps everywhere and a sideboard against each wall, each loaded with knicknacks decorated in white tulle – teddy bears, flowers, fairies, you name it. Plus silver-framed portraits of Pietro’s forebears going back God knows how long. Most of the furniture was carved or cut from Italian oak – dark, ornate and polished to a gleam. The rest of it was glass, wrought metal and marble. It all sat on a mulberry carpet that came up to my ankles. As with the rest of Alfonso’s estate in the hills overlooking the Flinders shoreline, a lot of money had been spent on this room. I suppose it was Alfonso’s way of emphasising his rise in wealth since his boyhood in Footscray. A pity his taste hadn’t risen similarly.
Sandra and I shared a sofa facing the video screen. Pietro sat in an armchair on my left; Alfonso occupied a matching armchair to Sandra’s right. He just sat there, staring at the blank screen, his eyes narrow and unblinking. Talk about impassive. Over the ticking of the damned clock, I could hear the occasional burst of laughter from Angela, who, on the promise of good things to eat, had hustled off to the kitchen with Alfonso’s missus, an effusively kind woman who probably had no idea how her husband made his money. Finally, he thumbed his remote again and a wooden panel slid across what might once have been a fair-sized fireplace but now was a recessed entertainment unit. If I were paranoid, I’d have thought he was preventing me from reclaiming the tape.
“Mr Mason,” he began, “there are other copies of this tape, perhaps?”
Romano’s words were not so much spoken as fired, staccato fashion. It was disconcerting because it reminded me that here was a bloke who was ruthless with his enemies, not to mention anyone he thought was trying to shake him down.
“To the best of my knowledge, no.”
For the first time, Alfonso looked at me. Trust didn’t loom large, I reckoned.
“But we have only your word for that.”
“Which is worth a great deal. I wouldn’t have a problem with that if I were you.”
The old boy blinked at my temerity. He went to say something but I was on a roll. “Look. If you’re asking for a solid gold guarantee you have the only copy, I can’t give you one. All I can tell you is that the person who taped it didn’t have the skills to copy it and probably didn’t have the time anyway.” I stabbed a forefinger in the direction of the video machine. “That is the only known copy.”
Alfonso’s Mediterranean skin flushed and his eyes narrowed even further. For a moment, I thought I’d overdone the vehemence thing but Pietro stepped in. Not that he was much help.
“One thing worries me. The tape starts very suddenly – in the middle of the...ah, dealings. I would’ve thought it would start at the beginning.”
Good grammar. Good question. One I’d anticipated.
“That struck me, too. I reckon she was using el cheapo equipment; a recorder without a preview screen. She had the camera set up but couldn’t see what was going on in the room. Had to guess when to turn it on. Obviously, you got down to business before she did.”
Plausible, but bullshit As I said before, I can tell a porky with the best of them. What the Romanos had just watched was a truncated version of the tape. The piece showing Onslow screwing Jodie Aston was missing, removed by me in the front seat of the Land Cruiser as I’d waited for Pietro to fly in to our rescue. I’d reasoned that it was fine to bargain our way to safety, but there was no point in leaving ourselves empty-handed.
The task hadn’t been too demanding – the car’s toolkit and first aid kit provided all the necessary implements. What had been difficult was judging just where to cut the tape. I’d replayed the thing in my mind until I was pretty sure how long the screwing scene was, then translated that into metres of tape. I added ten per cent for safety, hence the abrupt start to what was left in the cassette. The removed tape was secured around my right ankle, hidden by my sock.
Pietro considered my explanation and concluded it had merit. “Obviously.” He turned to the old man. “Papa?”
I think Alfonso was still smarting from my smartarse hostility. He resumed the black stare, allowing the ticking of that damned clock to wear away at my composure like Chinese water torture. It was a good thirty seconds before he responded.
“Mr Mason,” he growled. “Do you know who killed the two policewomen?”
“Not yet.”
“You think perhaps I had something to do with it?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because Connie O’Brien was killed by someone she knew, someone she let into her house. No offence, but neither of you blokes, or any of your hired muscle, would’ve got your feet past the doormat.”
A glimmer of a grin made its way across Alfonso’s features. He turned to Pietro. “Bring the little one.” Then he nodded to Sandra and me. “You may leave.”