by Iain Cameron
It was too high for him to reach and he couldn’t see a ladder nearby. Given the ‘money no object’ look and feel of the villa, it wouldn’t surprise him to find it was a hatch operated by remote control and Harris had taken the unit with him. He searched the room, looking for something like a remote or something not in keeping with the style of the room. He pulled out the settee and, behind, found a long steel rod with a small, square, padded end.
He went back inside the cupboard and prodded the ceiling shape with the rod. Nothing. He tapped it all around the edges not knowing which side it was hinged. He stopped and gave the task a little thought. He offered a harder prod on the middle of each of the four sides. On the last thrust, Hallelujah! The hatch sighed open, its progress slow and dignified. When finally open, he heard another noise, movement directly above him.
He jumped back and dropped into a kneeling position, his gun pointing into the void of the loft, expecting a trap, or Harris. Instead of a lump of metal falling towards him, or the face of Harris leering down and spoiling for a fight, the noise was caused by the movement of the loft ladder as it glided downwards as if on hydraulics.
If climbing stairs was perilous, climbing loft ladders was twice as bad. It was impossible to enter a loft with any speed or stealth, allowing an attacker to kick him in the face or blow his head off. When his head approached the opening, he squatted down. He climbed the next two stairs in a crouched position before standing rapidly. With his head and shoulders now exposed, he held the gun in front of him, moving it quickly to left and right, panning the space, seeking movement.
The dropping of the hatch and ladder had switched on the loft light. Not a bare swinging bulb for this house, but two long banks of LED lights. It was also unfair to call what lay before him a loft, suggesting a dusty space with a hot water tank and boxes of old clothes. This one was floored, the same wood as he’d seen earlier, with lined walls and ceiling, giving it the look of a spacious playroom or a teenage den. Unlike most of the other rooms in the villa, it was empty: no furniture, no games, and no Jack Harris.
Matt stepped on to the loft floor, resigned to having to look elsewhere for the man he sought. He began a cursory search, but with no cupboards to hide inside or sofas to sit behind, it didn’t take long. At one end, over the gable-end of the house, he spotted another hatch. This time it had a handle. He pulled it and felt a rush of warm, night air.
Looking down, he could see a ladder and, mindful of his caution on entering a loft, he descended now worried about receiving a bullet in the groin. The ladder didn’t go all the way to the ground, like the fire escapes in apartment blocks, forcing him to jump the last few metres. It wasn’t as bad as it sounded because when he reached the lower rungs, he let his legs drift into the open air and climbed to the bottom rung hand-over-hand. That way, the gap between his feet and the ground was only about a metre. ‘Dreeping’, as a Scottish pal used to call it.
He was now standing in a courtyard, cut-off from the officers at the front and back of the villa by brick walls either side. In front of him, another wall with a tall wooden gate in the centre. He hoped it opened, otherwise he would be stuck in this small space with no way out, as he doubted he could reach the ladder again. He tried the handle of the door and to his surprise, it swung back. He found himself in a street at the side of Villa Francesca. In common with the other roads around this area, it was a dusty, unmade track and further up the road he could see by the light of the moon, idle cement mixers and bulldozers.
He’d been convinced he’d just navigated Jack Harris’s escape route; it couldn’t be anything else, but with no fugitive in sight, he now harboured some doubts. Perhaps it had been installed by the previous owner, if there was one, and it was something Harris knew nothing about. He was about to jog around to the front of the villa to join the rest of the team, when he heard a noise behind him. He couldn’t see what caused it at first, but then a motorbike came racing out of an open garage door. Harris. By the time Matt pulled out his gun, Harris had zipped around the corner and raced away.
Matt ran up the road towards the garage and dived under the rapidly closing door. Using the torch on his phone, he found the light switch and switched it on. It contained two motorbikes, one a trail bike, just like the one he saw Harris riding, and a large road bike. It was as clean as the workshop at a main car dealer; nothing loose or dirty on the floor, everything parked in its place or hung up.
With more time to search the place, he imagined he would find lots of equipment and supplies useful to a man intent on fleeing at the first sign of cops or rivals. Instead, Matt jumped into the seat of the trail bike. Conveniently, the key was in the ignition, but he expected nothing less from a man prepared for a quick getaway. He reached over and pressed the ‘door open’ button, and sat there impatiently waiting for the automatic garage door to rise.
When it did, he raced down the road and turned the same corner Harris had done a minute or so before. This time, Matt was determined Harris would be stopped, dead or alive.
Chapter 36
Matt was riding a trail bike, similar to the one he’d seen Jack Harris riding. In Matt’s mind, Harris had ignored the road bike because he intended making his escape across open country. This made sense, because if he was being pursued by police units, even riding a powerful machine like the 600cc Yamaha he’d seen in the garage, there was a good chance he would be stopped by a road block, or rammed by police cars.
Matt couldn’t hear if Harris’s bike was up ahead; the racket made by his own bike’s high revving engine drowned out all ambient noise. When he cleared the area being developed by builders and re-joined civilisation, or at least a tarmacked road, he spotted the lights of Harris’s bike in the distance. They were heading north, not that Matt knew much about the countryside around Estepona, but he did know they were heading in the opposite direction from the town, which lay to the south.
Harris was still travelling on the road and Matt was gaining on him, which struck him as odd. Why wouldn’t he scarper as fast as the bike could carry him? Thinking about it, Harris perhaps didn’t realise he was being followed. When he’d roared out of the garage, he wouldn’t have seen Matt, further down the road and being shielded by the shadow of a wall. In addition, trail bikes like these were noisy and weren’t equipped with handlebar mirrors, which could easily be knocked-off when travelling cross-country. Nor would it be easy for Harris to look round; a risky manoeuvre on a road which he perhaps didn’t know well.
A few minutes later, Harris turned off the road and stopped in a parking area, maybe unsure of his route in the dark. All around were gentle hills, but in the distance, Matt could see mountains, their huge shapes looking ominous in the dark. Harris glanced round and couldn’t help but see Matt’s headlight, less than fifty metres away. He seemed indecisive for a second or two, before the back wheel spat up a small cloud of dust and he set off into the countryside. Matt made the same turn a few seconds later.
Matt expected to be riding across virgin landscape, with all the shudders, shakes and dips this usually entailed, but no, they were on a narrow track. It looked to be one used in daytime by hikers and mountain bikers, dusty with loose stones, but better than it might have been. Harris chanced a glance round and saw Matt only ten metres or so behind. His indecision at the turn-off had cost him.
Matt was still wearing the kit he’d put on for the raid on the villa. He’d felt hot earlier inside the Kevlar jacket and metal helmet at the villa, but he was thankful for all the extra protection now. Not only if he took a tumble from the bike, but Harris’s back wheel was spitting little stones in his direction, pinging off the helmet and the metal frame of the bike. Harris, by way of contrast, wore only a t-shirt and shorts, with no helmet or leathers. It was a tad more than his girlfriend was wearing, and more than he would have had on, if the raid team had arrived at his front door a little earlier, but wholly inadequate for a night-time motorbike ride over rough ground.
Harris’s bike wobbled
for a second and Matt soon found out why, when the glint of metal appeared over his shoulder. He fired several shots, but Matt held his nerve and didn’t swerve. Making a sudden manoeuvre on such an uneven surface could have catastrophic consequences. In any case, the chances of being hit were minimal; both bikes were bouncing around like crazy, and even if Harris got lucky, Matt hoped his extra layer of protection would do its job.
Harris soon realised the folly of what he was doing and the detrimental effect the distraction was having on his riding. Seconds later, the gun disappeared. The ground was rising, heading as they were into a belt of hills. He didn’t imagine Harris had prepared a bolt-hole up here, a creaky hillbilly cabin replete with running stream and a relaxing hammock, a place to live out his exile in splendid isolation. He suspected this was an off-road route to a neighbouring town or village and, given the vast amount of money at his disposal, Harris could have the choice of any number of houses and apartments.
Matt couldn’t tell how high they were or what lay ahead beyond about ten metres, the reach of the bike’s headlights, as even though it was clear night, the path they were on was shrouded by tall trees, blocking any moonlight. At a guess, judging by how long they had been travelling and the incline of the bike, he thought they had climbed about one hundred metres.
A few minutes later, the sight of the sky through the trees convinced Matt they were nearing the top of the hill. Harris’s lights picked out a sharp bend up ahead. Harris had either spotted it too late, or was determined to take it fast, because part-way around, he braked hard, locking the wheels of the bike. They lost traction on the loose surface and the bike started sliding towards the bordering trees and bushes.
This was the chance Matt had been waiting for. He revved his bike and smacked into Harris’s own unbalanced bike side-on. Matt sailed over the handlebars into the gorse. He thumped to the ground and rolled down the slope before coming to a halt at the side of a prickly bush.
He lay there for several seconds, the pain ebbing and flowing. The protective gear had saved him from being scratched to bits by the rocks and vegetation, but it wasn’t designed for falling off bikes. The Kevlar chest protector had whacked him in his lower ribs, and his head was ringing after the helmet struck something hard.
He pushed himself upright and stood there, moving his hands and feet, feeling for any broken bones or torn muscles. He found nothing amiss and felt thankful not to have suffered greater injury. What had saved him was the low speed; both bikes had slowed for the steep corner. He pulled out his gun and climbed the slope towards the track.
He soon came across the tangle of bikes, but no Harris. In the moonlight, he spotted a stain in the dust. It didn’t look like oil or petrol and more like blood. Matt scanned the trail ahead, thinking an injured Harris couldn’t have gone far. If he was right, Harris’s only option was to take cover and try to shoot Matt when he approached. About fifteen metres distant, he could see a large rock. It looked a good place for someone to hide behind.
He stood for a few moments and looked hard. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he could see a shadow at the side of the rock that didn’t look part of it. He looked again to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him, not uncommon in low light. Something moved. Matt dived into the bushes as a shot rang out, the bullet pinging off the frame of the tangle of bikes behind him. Harris fired again; this time the bullet was nowhere near and zipped off through the trees.
Matt crept into the bushes. He got up and retraced his steps down the slope. It was a steep incline; they’d climbed higher than he realised, and he was being careful not to fall and give his position away. He walked about fifteen metres across the slope and from his position downhill, could see the rock Harris was hiding behind. Keeping well out of sight and careful not to make too much noise, he moved a couple of metres past the rock and took up a position behind a tree.
A few moments later when his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he saw movement at the side of the rock. Harris was periodically leaning out to look along the trail, making sure Matt wasn’t trying to sneak up on him. Matt raised his gun and fired. A screech indicated he’d hit something, but the sound was more animalistic than human. For a moment he thought he’d shot a fox, or did they have bigger animals in this area, maybe wolves? He liked wolves well enough, but didn’t wish to shoot one, or meet his brothers and sisters, annoyed at what he’d done to one of their buddies.
He edged closer to the rock and could see the heap lying behind it was indeed human. Harris was such a slimy character Matt wouldn’t put it past him to be faking it, so he resolved not to drop his guard. He walked towards him, his gun at the ready, prepared to fire another bullet into him at the first sign of aggression.
He could see Harris had been injured by his fall from the bike, as he was bleeding from a head wound and his arms and legs were full of scratches. Matt’s shot had hit him on the thigh, and possibly severed a major artery, if the large quantity of blood on his leg was anything to go by. He could also see Harris’s gun, lying a couple of metres away in the dust.
Matt pulled out his phone and, despite the remoteness of the location, was pleased to see he still received a signal. He called Rosie.
‘Matt, where the hell are you? We’ve been looking for you everywhere. The Captain wants to return to base. He’s pissed you’re not here.’
‘Calm yourself, boss, it’s all in a good cause. I’ve got Harris but you’ll need to come and get me. No way am I taking this slimy bastard back to Estepona on a bike.’
Chapter 37
Matt yawned and stretched, but the sharp pain that accompanied his movement forced him back into a supine position. More gingerly this time, he slid out of bed. He knew about the bruises, as he’d seen them last night, after he, Rosie, and few of the Guardia Civil had left the bar where they were celebrating some time in the early morning. The muscle pain was new, but not surprising; after all, he’d ridden a trail bike along a bumpy mountain track and crashed into Jack Harris’s bike. Something was bound to hurt.
Last night in the bar, whenever he felt tired or a bit flat, a common occurrence after the conclusion of a successful operation, he thought of Harris. It wasn’t with any degree of sympathy, he didn’t have any, but the satisfaction of knowing he was in custody never failed to lift his spirits. The charges the police would throw at him: kidnap, drug dealing, money laundering, attempted murder of a law enforcement agent, and a few he hadn’t yet thought of, would stick, of this he had no doubt. It was his involvement in Emma’s killing that still required some additional work.
Matt took a shower, the hot water injecting energy back into tired limbs and bones. He dressed and, after unplugging his phone from its charger, headed downstairs for breakfast. He was ravenous. The Spanish lads last night managed to conjure up a plate of food even at such a late hour, but due to the booze, or the high he felt at catching their runaway, he hadn’t eaten much.
In the dining room he was about to be shown to a table when he saw Rosie eating alone. He walked over to where she was sitting.
‘Morning Rosie. You’re looking too fresh for someone who didn’t get to bed until after two.’
‘I didn’t drink as much as you last night, or your bosom buddies.’
Matt sat down and spotting a passing waiter, ordered a pot of coffee.
‘Hardly my buddies,’ he said, ‘but if I’m being honest, I didn’t think they were that comfortable having a woman involved in the operation. They sort of focussed on me.’
‘I hope you put them right.’
‘Don’t you worry, I did, but it’s a hard attitude to change.’
She sighed. ‘Tell me about it. I used to hear it all the time in the Met. I’d be a senior detective in a meeting with ten or fifteen guys and it was, ‘Rosie, go and pour the tea,’ or ‘what’s she doing here? She should be upstairs filling in forms’.’
‘What’s the food like?’
‘Not bad. It’s a buffet. Cold foods are over there,’ she said poi
nting. ‘There’s breakfast cereals, meat, cheese, and bread. To the right is the hot stuff if you fancy a full English, but avoid the sausages.’
‘No good?’ he said as he raised himself out of the chair with some difficulty.
‘Verging on inedible, I would say.’
Matt went first to the cold section, hot food would follow later, and loaded a plate with a couple of bread rolls, ham, and cheese. He returned to the table to find the waiter had left a fresh pot of coffee.
‘Suffering from the effects of last night?’ Rosie said as she watched him pour a cup and take a big sip.
‘The obligatory hangover, but I still haven’t come down from cloud nine after nabbing Harris.’
‘I meant, are you in any pain from your exertions on the bike?’
‘Lots of bruises and pains I’ve never had before, but nothing broken. As long as you’re not planning a trip to a theme park, I should be fine.’
‘No, not a theme park. I thought we’d go back to Villa Francesca. See what else Harris has got stored there, and later, head to the hospital and see if our fugitive is up to a flight back to the UK.’
‘Did I not suggest a more interesting alternative last night?’
‘Which was?’
‘We could lie on the beach and get drunk.’
‘If you did, I don’t remember. Anyway, I didn’t bring a bathing costume.’
‘Villa Francesca it is, but first I need to eat this. I’m starving.’
**
They arrived at Villa Francesca in bright sunshine and without an armed platoon beside them. Matt didn’t think there would be a problem gaining access. It was Sunday and the chances of finding a carpenter to come and repair the damaged front door was as likely as Jack Harris becoming a priest.