Orsinni Reprisals , livre ebook

Title Page
THE ORSINNI REPRISALS

Bill Cariad



Publisher Information
The Orsinni Reprisals
Published in 2014 by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
The right of Bill Cariad to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998
Copyright © 2014 Bill Cariad
Cover Design and Illustration copyright © 2014 Haydn
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.



Prologue
Suspended Sentence
County of Sussex, England, March, 1991
Maria Kennedy watched impassively as her husband’s killer vibrated with life. Over recent weeks she had learned a great deal about Sir Harold Morrison. He shook hands with his smug looking lawyer now before dislodging the mask of remorse as he smiled his thanks to a back-slapping well-wisher. Maria saw the shoulders, freed from their burden of doubt, lift and square in readiness for their triumphal return to dealings in the city; contemporaries at the club, and the cocoon of family ensconced on the country estate. Money and connections, reflected Maria, both once more proving to be excellent conversationalists.
The more seasoned of the remaining onlookers had brought their own cushions, upon which they perched wearing disgruntled facial expressions. Perhaps hoping, thought Maria, the next attraction on the County Court list would provide more in the way of entertainment than a simple run-of-the-mill contested drink-driving offence. The by-product of a fatality mildly shocking but, given the times they lived in, insufficient to satiate palates regularly jaded by more salacious fare.
Maria’s quick visual scan of the cut-price coliseum confirmed that Lady Holbrook had heeded her request to stay away. She also noted, but didn’t acknowledge in any way, the man called ‘Old Jock’ as on preparing to leave he caught her eye. Her own court-appointed legal knight, who had dismally failed to impress with his feeble presentation of events leading up to her husband’s death, was murmuring into his mobile phone and she half-listened to his pleased acceptance to something, somewhere, for the coming weekend. Finally, he turned his obviously reluctant attention back to her and she heard the scratch of impatience across his voice as he feigned interest in her understanding his summary of the verdict.
Maria Kennedy, nee Orsinni; twenty-seven year old daughter of Sicily; three months old widow of Tommaso Kennedy, understood only too well. Her husband was morto (dead) while his killer preened himself before her eyes. Throughout the past three years of married tenure; she had regularly felt the erratic pulse of her adopted country, often scarcely able to believe the reports she had read of lawlessness and the countless horror stories relating to man’s inhumanity to his fellow man. She had been repeatedly dumbfounded by the response of the British judiciary; governing, so far as she could tell, a so-called justice system whose only consistency seemed to be its inadequacy.
So she had chosen not to further line the pockets of an over-priced legal voice today, and instead had endured this charade in the full expectancy of an unsatisfactory outcome. Refusing him the reply she turned away from the ineffectual lawyer, dismissing him from her presence and her thoughts, and began her dry-eyed passage through the throng of people still entering and leaving the courtroom building. An explorer of the fanciful phrase might have described her as a deserted island of grief in a swelling uncaring sea, but, as any explorer of nature could tell you, a deserted island can be a deadly place.
West London, England
Currently enjoying a boom of bad news, the tabloids had been spoiled for choice. So coverage of Sir Harold Morrison’s court appearance had been sparse, but the reproduced wedding photograph of Tom and Maria Kennedy had been instantly recognized by Donald Stanhope’s wife, Joy. She and Donald had only just met when he’d invited her to accompany him to ‘the wedding of an old colleague.’
Even now; Joy could remember the strikingly attractive young Italian woman who had clearly been in love with her new husband. But she hadn’t seen them again until her own wedding day, which Tom and Maria had attended. Donald’s subsequent retirement from the insurance business had so transformed their social life that she hadn’t seen the couple again until spotting the photograph and reading of Tom’s death.
When she showed the newspaper to Donald, normally an even-tempered man, his eyes narrowed with what she surprisingly recognized as anger.
“Unbelievable! Morrison refuses to pay their bill for services rendered. Tom threatens to take him to court and is then conveniently killed by Morrison’s car, evidently driven under the influence of drink, and Morrison walks! ”
“We read of one unbelievable thing after another these days,” Joy reminded him.
“She’ll never lie down for that verdict,” stated Donald, quietly emphatic.
“What else can she do?” challenged Joy.
“She’s a Sicilian,” Donald enigmatically answered.
Whilst registering in his wife’s facial expression the inadequacy of his reply, Donald’s thoughts were already casting him back in time. To his previous life before regular games of golf with the chaps and cosy candlelight dinners with Joy. To the high-risk world of kidnap insurance. He was remembering the adrenalin rush of Sicily’s kidnap industry, and his first encounters with Tom and Maria. His sudden recall of his then company’s maxim for that time and place, prompted the recital he now delivered to his once more surprised looking wife.
“When examined rationally, the equation follows common sense to its logical conclusion. Successful industries are run by professionals, and professionals will be capable of ruthlessness in pursuit of success. So to compete successfully against a ruthless professional, you need the other side of the professional coin. Someone who can be even more ruthless towards achieving an opposing objective.”
“What brought that on?” queried a now bemused looking Joy.
“Just reading aloud a remembered passage from the old company bible,” explained Donald with an apologetic smile. “Kidnapping in Sicily,” he continued, “was very definitely an industry, and probably still is, I imagine. A very profitable industry, run by ruthless professionals. So in my day, whenever an industrialist client, or the sibling of a wealthy family client, was abducted in Sicily a well-oiled recovery machine was set in motion.” He stopped to offer Joy a mock-bow, “Your humble husband,” he resumed, “occasionally played the part of a small cog in such a machine, but, regardless of how professional the other members of the team might have been, we sometimes ran into seemingly insoluble situations. Which was when we needed to call in someone local. Someone who could command respect, and literally pull out the proverbial chestnuts from the fire.” Donald paused, his narrative taking him back to nail-biting deadlines and ultimatums, “In those days,” he continued, “we sent for Maria Orsinni.”
“ Our Maria...?” exclaimed Joy, eyebrows lifting in further surprise.
“The very same,” acknowledged Donald, “She used to say that in such a macho place, her gender was her biggest edge. Anyway she brought Tom out of a pretty hairy scenario once. Saved his life probably. They fell in love, and some people said it wouldn’t last.”
Donald’s silent stare back to the past prompted Joy to reach out and clasp his hand, wondering what she should say at this point. Then her husband rose to his feet and she anxiously watched as he paced the floor. She had never seen him like this before, had never envisaged such a reaction, and a part of her suddenly wished she hadn’t brought the newspaper to his attention. But his disclosures had been fascinating enough to arouse her interest.
So Joy was now looking at this normally affable man she had married and trying to imagine him in the kind of situations he had so tantalisingly described. Then Donald suddenly snapped her attention back, venting a heavy sigh as he began speaking again.
“So now the widow Kennedy has been denied justice.” His tone was bitter as he finger-tapped the newspaper he still held, “The price of a life: The old-boy network slaps this Morrison on the wrist, gives him a driving ban which simply guarantees his chauffeur regular work, and he gets a fine he can pay from petty cash. Whilst Maria...,” he trailed off.
“Whilst Maria ... what?” queried an enthralled Joy.
“As I said,” responded Donald, his tone now sombre, “she’s a Sicilian.”
County of Sussex, England
The station platform was crowded with home-going commuters and several male heads turned to take a second look at her. Some of the looks were covert; others quite open, all of them drawn to the physical presence of the tall woman who made them think of Mediterranean moonlights and margaritas. Whilst admiring the dark hair which gleamed and fell to her shoulders, from what could be seen of her legs the watchers imagined a good figure to be concealed under the long cape she wore. Some thought the eyes too large for the pale high-cheek-boned face, immediately rejecting the opinion when her gaze chanced upon them. Ultimatel