Deadly Intent

by Iain Cameron

  ‘The briefing is finished,’ the Captain said after about fifteen minutes. ‘I want everyone back here at ten-thirty this evening for a final run-through, and to pick up all our equipment. Dismiss!’

  Chapter 33

  Patrick Doherty picked up a lump of wood from the shore. He was about to throw it on the pile in his wheelbarrow when he stopped. He looked at it and smiled. He was sure it was a piece from the rowing boat he’d pushed out to sea. It must have been smashed to bits by a big freighter, or dashed against the rocks. On the other hand, it could all be wishful thinking on his part. It was dark when he stole the boat, so he didn’t really know what it looked like, and one bit of seasoned planking looked like any other. However, thinking about it in this way made him feel better.

  He had only been at the cottage for a couple of weeks, but he was going stir-crazy. He believed, with some justification, that he was a resourceful man and, in the right environment, capable of doing a myriad of things. The thought of spending one or two months on Inishmore hadn’t bothered him when he’d first planned it, but it did now.

  He realised he was more gregarious than he first thought; someone who needed the company of others to bounce ideas off, and to hear their views. It didn’t mean he was a consensual leader, far from it, as he might listen to what they had to say, and just ignore it. He had a television and the internet in the cottage, but viewing a soap opera or crime drama on the box, or reading what was irritating all the middle-aged mums on Facebook, was no substitute for what went on in real life.

  It also didn’t mean he needed his wife or a companion such as Seamus to share the cottage with him. The fuck-up on the boat at Westport was down to him and, in his Catholic way of thinking, it was up to him to serve out his penance. He only wished that he was better suited to spending every waking hour in his own company. He had begun to talk to himself, for God’s sake. He supposed it was fine as long as he didn’t reply or try to start a conversation. If so, it was time to get back to the big city and seek out the services of a psychiatrist.

  He did however, enjoy days like this when the sky was full of big, fluffy clouds, the afternoon sun shining between them and the wind down to a pleasant breeze. It was mid-August, summer to most other people in the British Isles, when they could expect sunny days and warm nights. Here on the Aran Islands, one day could be fine and the next windy as hell. The day following could be fine once again or blowing a bloody gale and the rain pissing down.

  As a keen fisherman, he didn’t mind inclement weather as the fish would be biting more, but here stuck out in the Atlantic, the term ‘inclement’ took on a different hue. Some days he couldn’t sit on his favourite rock for fear of being blown out to sea, and on others, the rainfall would be so heavy even his waterproof gear would start to leak.

  The key to happiness around here, which had taken him a while to learn, was to revel in the good days like today and on the others, stay in bed, paint the kitchen, or bake some scones. There was no point in venturing out. The changeable weather did have one benefit. If he came down to the beach after a stormy couple of days, there were always piles of driftwood lying on the shore for him to salvage.

  The wood came from wrecked rowing boats that had slipped their mooring, packing cases fallen from boats, planks dropped or thrown into the sea by sailors, and numerous tree branches and trunks uprooted by the strong wind. With warm evenings and the occasional use of the central heating, he didn’t need to light the fire in the cottage too often. In fact, the quantity of driftwood had been so great, that when he did light the fire, he used them and wouldn’t need to take logs from his bought-in store until well into winter. That is, assuming he returned to the cottage later in the year.

  He wheeled his barrow along the beach, up the slope towards the cottage. He unloaded the wood and put it into the ‘wet’ side of his store. He found through trial and error that much of the driftwood he collected was ‘seasoned’, it had been cut from a tree many months, or even years before. This period allowed the internal dampness caused by rising sap to dry out. All he needed to do now was wait a couple of weeks for the seawater it had absorbed to evaporate and it would be suitable for chucking straight into his wood burner.

  He walked into the house and made a cup of coffee. When it was ready, he picked up his mug, his cigarettes and lighter, and walked outside. He headed over to the rock where he liked to fish and sat down. There was something so languid and therapeutic about looking at the sea that he was sure it would be something he would miss when he returned to Belfast.

  On days like today with little wind, the waves hit the rocks with no more force than a slap on the back from a well-wisher, and receded like a well-oiled machine. His fascination stemmed from the relentless nature of it all. The waves never tired, never got fed up, and they never had something better to do. He wished the lads at IRM were so blessed.

  He looked up and spotted the yacht he’d been looking at earlier. When he first saw it, it was bearing north; now it was heading south. It was as if they’d lost something, or someone, overboard, or decided they’d had enough and were going back to where they came from. He finished his coffee and lit another cigarette while idly watching.

  Ten minutes later, to his surprise, it turned and sailed north again. This time, instead of plotting a course to take it past the Aran Islands as it had been earlier, it seemed to be heading towards Inishmore. When he’d bought the cottage all those years back, he knew he wouldn’t be bothered by hikers and walkers as there was little to see in this part of the island, and it was situated many miles off the beaten track.

  The only intrusion he believed he might encounter was an approach from the sea. However, it was an unattractive cove, too narrow and shallow for large boats, and with little in the way of amenities to attract the yacht-going crowd. The north, south, and north again movement of this yacht suggested something had gone wrong and perhaps his cove represented the ‘any port in a storm’ mantra of the old-time mariners.

  He strode back to the cottage at a fast clip. He deposited his cigarettes and mug on the worktop. He picked up his binoculars and headed back outside. This time, he headed towards the bit of land on the opposite side of the cove from his fishing spot. It was unfair to call it a hill, more of a rise, but he still puffed his way to the top, all the time vowing to cut out, or at least reduce the number of cigarettes he smoked. He’d given up years before and only restarted recently as everyone in IRM, and most of the young people he met in Belfast, liked to smoke.

  At the top, he knelt for a moment to catch his breath, before lying down on the grass. He trained the binoculars on the yacht, now inexorably heading towards his cove. It was a big boat, meaning it would have a bigger keel than normal. This meant the only place they could berth was in the middle of the cove. They couldn’t come close to the rocks on either side as the water was too shallow. Good. It would keep them a fair distance from the beach.

  The only way they could reach land was if they had a small dinghy and, scanning the length of the yacht, he saw the very thing strapped to the stern. If they did come ashore, it would only take them five minutes to spot his cottage. No way did he want to speak to them or help them, even if they were in trouble. They would soon recognise him, and before he’d finished his evening meal, the bloody Garda would be surrounding the place and training the guns and dogs on him.

  He hoped the problem they’d encountered out at sea was simple to fix and they would be gone before nightfall, due in a couple of hours. No way would he compromise all that he had achieved. If they came ashore and spotted him, he would make sure they never left this cove alive.

  Chapter 34

  It was dark in the back of the van. Matt was dressed in black and wearing a bullet-proof vest, helmet, and boots. It was the same kit the Guardia Civil officers wore, which would not only would protect him if someone opened fire, but also help to identify friend or foe in the heat of battle.

  Rosie was opposite, talking in hushed tones to Capta
in Rodrigo Pérez’s deputy, Diego Cantor. Cantor had spent eighteen months on secondment to Interpol and, for the final six months of the posting, worked in London. This accounted for his excellent knowledge of English, but not his near-flawless grammar or accent. This was down to an English mother, a lady who came to Spain on holiday and never went back.

  Someone who did return home, at least back to his villa in Estepona, was Jack Harris. He’d been tailed into town by undercover officers. He and his female companion, not his partner, as she’d been left behind at his house in London, had dined at an Argentinian steak house. Afterwards, they’d stopped at a bar for a digestif before Harris and friend returned to the villa. The previous night, he’d gone to a casino, this time alone, and hadn’t returned to the villa until three in the morning. His early appearance tonight indicated Harris was either tired following his late-night gambling session, or he and his lady friend, a looker if the watchers were to be believed, couldn’t wait to ruffle the sheets back at the villa.

  If Matt could choose, he would have preferred to take Harris the previous night in the street after coming out of the casino, not waiting until he made it back to the villa. The street would have been quiet at that early hour of the morning and Harris isolated, with no access to weapons or a ready-made escape route. In the villa, he might have constructed a safe room, escape tunnel, or could be armed with as many weapons as a garrison. They didn’t have the same options tonight after the Argentinian meal, as the streets so early in the evening were packed, making even the movement of police vehicles difficult.

  The Guardia Civil van stopped, and two knocks on the barrier between the front seat passengers and the back told Matt and his companions it was time to get moving. They exited the Guardia Civil vehicle without delay. Rather than stand around stamping feet and coughing before listening to instructions as they would do in the UK, Cantor looked at Captain Pérez, who nodded, and he and three others, including Rosie, ran off.

  The Captain, Matt, and two officers ran towards their entrance point. The property was surrounded by a tall, chain-link fence, a temporary measure, Matt, suspected, as pallets of bricks were positioned at strategic points along the perimeter for the building of a new wall. A pair of wire cutters were produced and, when a large hole was cut in the fence, the team entered the grounds of Villa Francesca.

  In the UK at the moment, the sky was probably full of thick clouds obscuring the moon, but here it was a stargazer’s delight. Most of the main constellations were visible to the naked eye, but he could see a new moon, a bright sliver in sharp contrast with the inky blackness all around it.

  The building and furnishing of the villa looked to be more or less complete, with only the grounds outside requiring any further work. At the briefing they’d discussed the probable presence of security measures. Despite the absence of a good road, and little in the way of an established garden, the one thing Matt believed Harris would insist upon being installed at an early stage was an elaborate security system.

  Therefore, they had to assume the worst-case scenario: floodlights, motion detectors, and a sophisticated alarm, although he didn’t think it would stretch to armed guards. Why all this protection? Jack Harris was in the drugs business and not only feared the arrival of law enforcement officers, but also the enmity of other drug dealers.

  If the police showed up, he would be arrested, and the most he would suffer would be a bit of manhandling to get him into the van and a rough ride back to civilisation down unmade roads. If rival drug dealers found out where he lived, they would kill him, anyone else they found in the villa, and set fire to the building for good measure.

  They ran across the poor excuse for a lawn towards the house, Cantor’s team coming in from the opposite side. All around, lights pinged on, lighting up this little part of Estepona like a football stadium. They arrived at the main door, a larger than average entrance made of beech with more wood and small windows running up either side. Very impressive and trendy. Rather than smash one of the panels and reach inside to undo the lock as a burglar would do, the door banger attacked the front door with gusto.

  When the door finally swung open, they positioned an officer to guard the entrance, while Cantor’s team ran in and searched the ground floor rooms. Matt, with Captain Pérez and the others, made for the stairs. It was not a narrow staircase as found in many UK homes, enabling anyone at the top to hold up a large posse of armed officers with only a handgun, but a wide expanse of light-coloured marble. The balustrades were made from wood and ornate wrought iron, and swept around the centre of the villa in a broad semi-circle. More a statement of wealth than an efficient method of reaching the upper rooms.

  The officers ascended at a brisk pace the point man protected by those coming up close behind him. In the grounds outside, the downstairs team, having finished their search, would now be spreading out and taking up positions around the garden to thwart any attempt by Harris to flee. It didn’t look an easy task when they’d discussed it at the briefing earlier, as it was a large expanse of ground, but with the benefit of the security lights turning night into day, Matt believed the job was now a whole lot easier.

  On the landing at the top of the stairs, they found ten closed doors with nothing to indicate what lay behind. It was inconceivable that Harris and his lady friend had slept through all the commotion: the burglar alarm bell, bright lights flooding the grounds, the door banger bashing down the front door. Unless, of course, they were engaged in boisterous sex, or, having done so, now enjoying post-coital sleep while wearing earplugs.

  Starting on the left side of the landing, Matt and the other officers threw doors open and switched on lights. Minutes later, they gathered as a team outside the last unopened door at the far end of the hall.

  Pérez turned the handle and pushed the door open, but they didn’t go in. When the suspected ambush didn’t materialise, they stepped inside and found a huge bedroom, dominated in the centre by a large bed, big enough to accommodate four or five people. The sole occupant of the bed, a woman, aged around mid-twenties with light skin, a pretty face and long blonde hair, looking surprised but not shocked to see so many armed officers in her bedroom.

  Her surprise was matched by the shock felt by Matt, and no doubt the Captain, as there was no sign of Jack Harris.

  Chapter 35

  ‘Where is he?’ Captain Pérez hissed at the woman in the bed. Her face displayed not so much alarm, but mild curiosity, as if something like this had happened before.

  ‘I don’t know. When he heard the loud noises he ran from the bed and didn’t come back.’

  The accent wasn’t British or Spanish. The pale, un-tanned face and blonde hair suggested to Matt she was Scandinavian; at a guess he would say Swedish.

  ‘Which way did he go?’

  ‘I don’t know, just out of the room. It was dark and I was sleeping.’

  ‘Do not lie to me,’ Pérez said, leaning towards her, his tone menacing. He was a big guy and if he did the same to Matt, he would feel intimidated.

  ‘Why would I lie?’ she said. ‘I have not known the man long. I do not need to lie for him.’

  It was a fair point. If she’d only met him a couple of days ago, no way would Harris reveal how he had made his money and how he could afford to live in such a nice villa. He probably told her he was a banker, or yacht broker.

  ‘But,’ she said, a touch more confident than Matt expected, ‘I did not tell you the truth when I said I was sleeping. We were fucking, but it was true, the lights were off and it was dark.’

  They’d heard enough. They knew Harris hadn’t run past them on the stairs, nor jumped out of a window, as the radio held by the Guardia Civil officers hadn’t chirped with any alarming messages from the team outside. ‘Search this floor again,’ Pérez commanded.

  The Captain began looking under the bed of the main bedroom, so Matt and the other officers went back to the rooms they’d opened earlier and gave them a more thorough search. When first looking,
they were searching for people, movement, and some rooms hadn’t warranted entering. Now they were looking for hiding places and escape routes.

  Matt entered a spare bedroom with an en-suite bathroom, bigger than the main bedroom of his flat in Ealing, and bigger than his lounge and kitchen combined. He searched under the bed, in cupboards, and in the bathroom. He also looked for hatches in the roof, walls and floor, the latter not possible in many UK houses with fitted carpets, but a real possibility here with a mixture of tiled and wooden floors.

  He left the room and walked into the one next door. Televisions were installed in almost every room in the villa, but nevertheless Harris had furnished this one as a dedicated television and music room. It was equipped with a comfortable-looking sofa, large screen TV, music system, and drinks fridge. The ideal place for the kids or wife to chill out while Dad is downstairs watching El Clásico.

  He opened a built-in cupboard, expecting to find it full of DVDs and CDs, but it was empty. It was a large space, big enough to convert to a dressing room, if the television room was ever used as a bedroom. He walked inside, looked around and walked out. He didn’t know what made him look back, but he did, perhaps not understanding why this cupboard would be so bare.

  He could now see what looked like a shadow in the ceiling. He first thought it was a repair, the paint used from a fresh batch, or a slightly different shade, from the paint around it. However, its symmetrical shape, about a metre square, mitigated against it, but with no marks or locks to indicate its purpose, he didn’t know why it was there. He’d been lucky to spot it, because when he walked inside the cupboard again and looked up, it merged perfectly into the surrounding ceiling without joins.