An interview with Alessandro

…

The disguise was almost perfect.  Detective Inspector Johnson was that typical policeman, based in the man who taught me, the suit, slightly crumpled, the while shirt with tie not completely knotted. The sort a wife, if he had one, would have fixed before he left for work.  The shoes, practical, the overcoat, seen better days but well looked after.

All that was missing was the slightly overworked and frustrated look, hair slightly askew, a ritual cup of coffee in a cardboard cup almost drunk.  The man looking back at me in the hotel window was almost the epitome of the Detect Inspector I modelled myself on.

It was just another day at the office.

I got out of the car and told the two officers Anothony had arranged to meet me, ic case there was trouble, to sit tight until I called them.

I went in and crossed purposefully to the reception desk and pulled out my warrant card.  When the clerk looked at me, I showed him the card.  “Detective Inspector Johnson, Metropolitan police. Can you tell me if Alessandro Burkehardt is in the hotel?”

The clerk looked at the warrant card, then excused himself and went into a back room where no doubt the man in charge was lurking.

A few minutes later, a woman came out, the clerk following her.

“What is the nature of your business with Mr Burkehardt?”

“The disappearance of his sister-in-law, the Countess Burkehardt.  You might be able to tell me, when did she check out?”

“I’ve told the police already.”

“Then you’re going to tell me again.  And after that, I would like to know where Mr Burkehardt is, and then a detailed explanation as to why only the CCTV camera in the areas where the Congress would be noticed coming and going were conveniently non-functional.”

“Who…”

“Told me?  I asked the security company that installed your system just how many cameras there were and their locations.  You haven’t been very helpful in our inquiries which is why I’m now here.  Now, if you have any objections, I will have you arrested for obstructing a police officer.”

Then I glared at her.

This was a very high-up manager, used to treating anyone under the status of King like dirt under her feet.  I knew the type.

“Mr Burkhardt is dining in the breakfast room.”

“Thank you.  I’ll be back.”

I had no doubt at some point Rodby would learn of my arrival, and if she was a friend of Mrs Rodby, that would make matters worse.  There was an old boys’ network, but there was also an old girls’ network, and they were not people to cross.

It wasn’t hard to pick him out among the diners, sitting at a table with a cup of coffee and a newspaper.  It was the same man I had seen in the hotel when bringing the countess back.  For a moment I wondered if he had seen me arrive with the countess, and he had asked about me.  This would go badly if he knew I was not a Detective inspector.

Only one wat to find out.  “Mr Alessandro Burkehardt?”

He lowered the paper a fraction and looked at me.  Nothing like the man in the tuxedo the other day, and no recognition in his eyes.

“Who are you?”

“Detective Inspector Johnson, of the Metropolitan Police.  I have come to ask you about your Sister-in-law, the Contessa.  She had been reported as missing.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Then you know where she is?  Thank goodness for that.  People are worried.  Tell me, where is she now?”

“If I knew that, I’d tell you.  But she is not missing as you say.  If she was, my family would know.  She has security you know?”

“I didn’t.  Where can I find them, or at least a representative who could tell me her location.”

“That’s none of your business.  If I say she’s not missing, she’s not missing.  Now go about your business.”

I smiled wanly, as the good Inspector did when he was about to deliver bad news.  “Fine.  But out front there are two officers waiting to take you into protective custody.  The fact you cannot tell me where she is, tells me that there is something going on in relation to her safety.  This will unfortunately create a scene for which I apologise in advance, but it is necessary.  Unless you have a more truthful answer to my question.”

“Are you accusing me of lying?”

He stood up quickly dropping the newspaper on the table and bumping his chair.  People around us were curious, to begin with, but now it had developed into a showstopping event.  All I needed was a newspaper photographer or reporter to be nearby and this would go viral.

“You are not being straight with me, nor were you with the first police responders when they asked if you knew where she was.  Once in protective custody, you will have the opportunity to talk to a superior officer if you feel you have been treated incorrectly.  But I warn you, the fact the countess is missing has caused concern at the highest levels, and they only call me when the situation is serious.”

I was trying to keep calm and the tremor of fear out of my tone, but this was getting out of control very quickly.  I had expected pushback, but not to the extent that he was giving me.  I knew he knew something about her whereabouts and was using bluff to get past me.  If I had to take him back to the office, Rodby was going to have a meltdown.

“Let’s take this to a conference room.”

He too had noticed the furore it was creating.

I had won a momentary reprieve.

© Charles Heath 2023

Vittoria and Juliet

…

What was it that found me finding ways to run into a woman that I really didn’t want to run into or see again?  And yet, it seemed everything I did, since Rodby reappeared in my life, revolved around her.

And it crossed my mind, while I was trying to find where she was living in London, that having a mother like Vittoria might have contributed to her ‘downfall’.  The biography of Vittoria wasn’t that of a society angel, more the pretender who was little more than a petty criminal worming her way into a field of rich pickings.

She’d been in service in the count’s residence, and as much as I hoped wasn’t a continuation of the old practice of masters having their way with their employees, or servants back in the old days, he might have forced himself on her, but I suspect it was the other way around.

If she was a grifter then she would have made him aware of the girl he sired, and if he was good about it, would have adequately compensated her, if only to keep it quiet.  Very adequately and for a long time until he died.  I suspect the countess didn’t know, and like most women in those sorts of marriages, probably didn’t want to know.

The reason why there was no surveillance in Juliet was because no one had found a starting reference point.  In other words, no one knew where she was.  And Cecilia was right, London was a big place if I wanted to pound the pavement looking for her.

The file said an internet search on her was performed, but the only information relevant to her they found was her fall from grace and very little beyond that date range.  It seemed Juliet Ambrose only existed for three years before I first met her.

That meant she had been someone else before that, most likely Juliet, the name of her mother at the time.  That, of course, suggested one of two eventualities, that she wanted to escape her mother, or the Count’s family because of her mother, and changed her own name, or her mother had informed on some fellow criminals to leverage a free ticket and going into a form of witness protection.

Knowing Juliet as I did, the former was more likely than the latter.

Now there was a new possibility that wasn’t a scenario in the file.  Had the count told anyone about the daughter, and the mother’s no doubt incessant demands?  That could be a reason for a hitman to remove the problem or problems.

I looked at the biography for Vittoria Romano again and noted she had a number of aka’s, Gallo, Rossi, and her birth name Moretti.

A quick search told me the Italian version of Juliet was Giulietta, so I put Giulietta Moretti into the search engine and waited all of 35 nanoseconds to get the obligatory 20,000,000 hits.  Popular girl.

But…

There on page three of endless pages on a fading Italian Rock and Roll singer, there was a picture, albeit of Juliet in her younger days, taken on the grounds of a mansion in Sorrento.  The Count had a place in Sorrento, and I looked it up in the list provided.

Yes.  It still belonged to the family.  I tucked that away in the mental notes stored at the back of my mind.  It would be worth a visit when I went looking for the Countess.

A further search through 32 useless pages of items found another.

Giulietta Moretti published a paper in a medical journal about a year ago on the effects on the human body caused by car crashes, and it was getting recognition by her peers.  So much so, that she had been asked by a group of surgeons to talk about it at a conference in Blackpool.

The day after tomorrow.

And…

It had an address where she worked in London, a morgue in one of the larger hospitals.  I now had a starting point.

My curiosity then switched to Alessandro.

I wondered if he knew the background of Vittoria.  Surely his brother would have alerted him to the trouble she was causing him.  Or, and this was a huge leap, had the Count not told anyone about her, thinking he had alone contained the problem.

If Alessandro knew then was he in cahoots with Vittoria in removing the Countess from the playing field.

What bothered me was that I saw Alessandro at the hotel at the same time as the countess, and I had no doubt he was the problem she needed to attend to.  How had he managed to spirit her away, if he did?  If not, why would she sneak out of the hotel and disappear?

Was it something to do with that meeting between her and Alessandro?  All good questions for a Detective Inspector.

It was particularly troublesome that our surveillance on the main players managed to lose two of them for a lengthy period.  No one had thought to stay in the hotel and were relying on the hotel’s own CCTV.  That, of course, showed nothing other than the countess and Alessandro arriving, and nothing after that.

There were a dozen CCTV camera feeds and I had them sent to my phone and that afternoon went through all of them, looking for anomalies, people ridiculously disguised, large crates or cases that could hide bodies, anything to show she had left, albeit disguised.

What she would want to be seen was anyone’s guess, but it may have had something to do with Alessandro.  What bothered me, though, was a report from the people who installed the CCTV system at the hotel.  It was interesting that it found its way to the Department, but not as interesting as the fact the number installed, and locations, didn’t match the number that had returned video for the time.  A second sheet noted that seven of the CCTV cameras were not in operation at the time, with no reason given.

As for Alessandro, he and I were going to have a talk sooner rather than later, and I was going to use my Detective Inspector warrant card for the second time.

Long ago, when developing guises, I got the chance to follow around a real detective inspector and learned the ropes.  He was a good detective and a better teacher.  It was my first item on the list for the next morning.

© Charles Heath 2023

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.