The Madeiran Double Cross

by Sally Spencer

  Look at those legs!

  Look at that arse!

  The woman turned and he realized that he knew her. Not only knew her – had slept with her. No wonder the legs looked familiar – they had spent enough time wrapped around his body.

  He was just about to go over and grab her around the waist when he was hit by a thought that froze him in his tracks.

  Why was she there at all? What was she doing back so soon?

  He remembered the comments in the bank, less than an hour earlier:

  “They certainly struck lucky when they chose this bank.”

  “Yes, they wouldn’t have got half so much anywhere else. Think they were tipped off?”

  “Of course not! Who would have tipped them off? We’re all honest men here.”

  And then he remembered further back, to last summer.

  Linda lying naked on the bed, and him leaning over her.

  “Oh yes,” he remembered saying, as he kissed her glorious breasts, “I’m only the Chief Cashier, but that’s better than being the manager of most banks in Funchal. Most of them are small-time when compared to us. We handle most of the hotels. A lot of the businesses as well.’

  She had seemed so impressed that he had told her even more. And now, today, the day the bank had been robbed, she was back again. It couldn’t be by chance.

  Linda turned around and looked across the road. For a second, Reis was afraid that she had seen him, but when she crossed the street she went straight into the gift shop three doors up.

  She emerged again ten minutes later, a large parcel under her arm, and headed along the Avenida Arriaga. Reis followed her. He could not explain to himself exactly what he hoped to achieve from this, but his mind was in a panic and it seemed to help to be doing something.

  At the end of the Avenida Arriaga, Linda took the Avenida do Infanta up to the Savoy Hotel. By the time Reis entered the hotel, she was already at the reception desk, with her back to him. He moved quickly across the lobby and hid behind the rotating newspaper rack, only a couple of meters away from her.

  “Room Two-O-Seven,” she said, and he could tell by the look of ecstatic confusion on the clerk’s face that she had favoured him with one of her sexiest smiles.

  She took the key and walked slinkily towards the lift. Most of the male eyes in the place followed her progress.

  And then she was gone.

  Reis went straight to the bar and ordered himself a brandy. He now not only knew she was on the island, he had found out exactly where she was staying. The big question was – dare he tell the police?

  *

  The sun was getting hotter, the rucksack heavier. It seemed to Pedro as if some malevolent god had, overnight, moved the hiding place he’d selected another ten kilometres up the trail.

  It was only fear that kept him going. The robbery had been easy, shooting the policeman just like aiming at a row of ducks in a fairground booth. But ever since then – ever since he had been alone – the fear had been growing until now it almost engulfed him. In his mind, his heavy footsteps beat out the rhythm of a solemn judge summing up.

  “Ped-ro Gom-es you have been found guil-ty of murd-er and ro-bb-ery …”

  “They can’t prove a thing if they don’t have the money,” he chanted, obliterating the image of the courtroom from his imagination.

  He finally reached the hiding place he had selected. The kitbag went in easily, but when he placed the rucksack in the fissure and pushed, nothing happened.

  “Bloodys bastard rucksack!” he shouted. “Bloodys arse-holes!”

  He pressed down more heavily. If he couldn’t get the rucksack in, then he would have no choice but to take the money out of it.

  But what if it rained and hole wasn’t waterproof? What would that do to the money?

  He heaved again, and the rucksack slid down, landing with a heavy plop at the bottom.

  He reached into the fissure and found that he could not touch the rucksack. He looked down, and saw only darkness. He collected up the small rocks he had gathered the day before and piled them into the hole. The money was perfectly – beautifully – hidden. He felt safe at last.

  The journey back was easier now that he was free of his burdens. Within minutes he had reached the corner of the mountain, and as he rounded the bend he could see the tour buses and a cluster of tiny figures standing at the viewpoint.

  He couldn’t take the Escort back to Funchal – the police would be looking for it – but it would be easy enough to make up a story about his car breaking down, and hitch a ride with another motorist. In an hour or so, he would be lying in a hot bath, soaking his aches and pains away.

  He thought it was the sun reflecting off the car roofs at first – but the sun did not flash blue.

  The police had found the Escort!

  The fear returned, but was soon smothered by a familiar, soothing voice.

  “Somebody in Funchal might see the car change-over,” Frankie had said, “so it's always possible that the police will find the second car in the cafeteria park. Right? Don’t worry. There’s a reason I’ve chosen that particular place to hide the money.”

  There was a back-up plan. With Frankie, there was always a back-up plan. Pedro turned and started to walk back up the trail.

  The police constable, one leather-booted foot resting on a large rock, passed the binoculars to his sergeant.

  “He’s not dressed for hiking,” he said, “and when he got close enough to see our cars, he turned around. It has to be the man.”

  *

  Silva was jabbering away in Portuguese on the telephone. Gower could not understand the words, but he knew that the Inspector was being placatory – wet.

  It was frustrating not knowing exactly what was being said, and he wished somebody would force all the foreigners to learn a decent, civilized language.

  Silva placed the phone back on its cradle.

  “That was our Director of Tourism,” he said. “He wants me to open the airport again.”

  “And you told him to piss off.”

  “I … I asked him to give me a little more time.”

  “A little more time!” Gower exploded. “Listen, I think I know who did this job, but I can’t be sure. And even if it is them, what’s to stop them putting on some sort of disguise, using fake passports, and slipping out on the first available flight?”

  “I could have men at the airport, looking out for them.”

  “Ah yes,” Gower said. “The elite Portuguese CID – clowns, idiots and dickheads. They couldn’t catch a bleeding cold. The only chance you’ve got of nabbing these bastards is to keep them bottled up. You can’t open the airport again.”

  Silva shrugged helplessly.

  “I may have to,” he said. “Look, Ron, we are expecting ten planes today – ten planes full of passengers. They will demand the rooms they have booked, and they will get them. But what will happen to the people who are vacating their rooms today? Where will they sleep?”

  “But a serious crime has been committed!”

  “This I know, but tourism is very important to the economy of this island. If we get a bad name, we are in big trouble. I could hold off the Director for a while, but eventually he will complain to the authorities in Lisbon. They will instruct my superiors to unlock the airport, and there will be nothing I can do.” Silva put his hands together almost in prayer. “Our only hope is to catch the robbers soon.”

  As if by divine intervention, the phone rang again. Silva’s jabbering was very different this time – excited and hopeful.

  “We’ve got them,” he said, “or one of them, anyway. The man in the Escort has been seen on the mountain track leading from the Pico do Arieiro.”

  Gower examined the map. The trail went on for miles without any side tracks or any way of escape.

  Silva was right for once. They did have the bastard.

  “Call out the helicopters,” he said.

  They could be there in ten minutes, and in less th
an half an hour the Escort driver could be back in the police station, having his knackers crushed.

  “We … er … don’t have any helicopters,” Silva said.

  No bloody helicopters!

  “There’s an army base here, isn’t there?” Gower asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, use theirs.”

  “I don’t think they have any either,” Silva said apologetically. “The base here is mainly for training local conscripts. What do farm boys need flying machines for?” He brightened. “There is a real army base on Porto Santo. They could probably come.”

  A real army base! Nothing was real in this bloody country.

  “All right,” Gower said, “but get the army out searching the mountains anyway – on foot, if need be. If they’re all local boys, they should know how to bleeding well handle themselves up there.”

  Gower's own phone rang. It was Scott calling from London – at last.

  “Mason didn’t hire a second car in Madrid, sir,” the sergeant said. “He was much cleverer than that. He got one of the local lowlifes, a Victor Vidabaja, to hire it instead. Then Victor drove Mason’s car to Barcelona, and he used Victor’s to get to Portugal. They only found it an hour ago, and even then it wasn’t the Portuguese police who discovered it.”

  Well it bloody wouldn’t be, would it?

  “Who did find it?” Gower asked. “The car-hire firm?”

  “Yes, sir. Avis. They noticed it because it had Spanish plates and it was parked …”

  “Outside Lisbon Airport,” Gower interrupted. “And then the police finally got off their arses and found out that Mason had taken a flight to Madeira. Correct?”

  “Er … yes, sir,” Scott said lamely.

  “Sorry to spoil your surprise, but thank you anyway, sergeant. You’ve been a great help,” Gower said sarcastically. The line crackled. “Have we been cut off?”

  Anything was possible with bloody Portuguese telephones.

  “No, sir. I can still hear you.”

  “I want photographs of Mason, Horton and Portuguese Pedro faxed here immediately. There’s another scumbag involved, but I don’t know who he is yet. And delegate that particular job, because I’ve got a more important one for you. I want you to pick up Arnie Hebden – Arnie the Actor. He was here yesterday, hiring the cars for a job Mason pulled this morning.”

  Scott whistled softly. “Can you prove that, sir?”

  “No, of course I can’t bloody prove it. That’s your job. Put him through his paces. Tell him we’ve got the rest of the gang and his only chance of a light sentence is to come clean now. Rough him up a bit. Do whatever you have to get results – but get them quickly.”

  He slammed down the phone.

  A secretary entered and handed a note to Silva. The Inspector scanned it, and then smiled broadly.

  “The Portuguese police are not so bad after all,” he said. “We have found out where another one of your gang – the one you say drove the getaway car – is staying. He is not there now, but he and his wife have a room at the Sheraton.”

  The Portuguese police were not so bad after all! They were a bleeding joke!

  Tony was not married, and even if he had been, did Silva really think that he’d take his wife along on a job, as if it was a works’ outing? Silva’s men had obviously pounced on the first man they came across who vaguely resembled the description he had given them.

  “What makes you so sure you’ve got the right man?” Gower asked.

  “I am so sure because he is registered under the name of Antony Horton,” Silva said, with a smirk.

  FIFTEEN

  Private Henrique held the rifle by its barrel, making sure that the stock was pressed firmly against the floorboards of the truck. The gun was not loaded yet, but once they reached the Pico de Arieiro, they would be issued with live ammunition. And not just to shoot at a stupid target on a range – they would be hunting a man, a desperate criminal who had used a shotgun earlier in the day, and might still be armed.

  The trucks stayed in convoy until they hit the main road, then some went one way, some of them the other. The conscripts had not been briefed on the overall plan – nobody ever told conscripts anything – but Henrique, who knew the mountains well, could work it out for himself.

  The trail from the Pico de Arieiro ran straight to the Pico Ruivo, so if they could get men to both ends in time, all they had to do was close in on the robber, like the two arms of a nut-cracker.

  Ah, but what if he got to the Pico Ruivo before they did? Then he had the choice of several trails.

  So the Major, in his wisdom, had decided to cover all contingencies. Squads would be sent to Santana, San Roque and Curral das Freiras. Henrique was delighted that his truck was going to the Pico de Arieiro. The conscripts heading for the north of the island had a three-hour journey in front of them, up narrow, twisting roads cut out of the mountainside. He would be in action in only half an hour. It was like being a real soldier.

  *

  Pedro knew that speed was the only thing he had on his side.

  “Push harder, push harder,” he told himself, as the trail climbed first sharply up then slanted giddily down.

  But he was out of condition, and his stops to catch his breath became more and more frequent. Nor was he properly shod. He could feel the sharp stones poking through the thin soles of his shoes and he knew that he was getting blisters. When he reached the first tunnel, crudely hacked through the living rock, he realized that he should have brought a torch. He had a box of matches in his pocket, but the wind blew out the first two or three, and he had no choice but to grope his way – agonizingly slowly – through the total blackness.

  At Pico Ruivo, he turned north. He had gone less than a kilometre when he met a group of German hikers, dressed in lederhosen and carrying stout walking sticks. They nodded to him amiably enough, but looked questioningly at his clothing, which was more appropriate to a stroll in Funchal than a hard trek in the mountains.

  “Frankie didn’t think of that,” Pedro thought angrily. “Bloodys bastard!”

  The Germans would be bound to tell the police in which direction he was going, so he was forced to give them time to get clear, and then turn round and head for Curral. It was the only intelligent thing to do, but he still fretted over the fact that it had cost him half an hour.

  It was past one o’clock, and he was still a long way from safety.

  *

  The harbour was full of angry fisherman who had planned to go in search of sharks, and furious sailors who were missing a favourable wind. Passengers who had disembarked from a cruise liner early in the morning were now being told that before they could return to the ship, they must submit to a thorough searched – and the ship itself would not be allowed to keep to its schedule, but instead must remain anchored off Funchal.

  The airport was not exactly a happy place, either. There were over eight hundred people waiting to leave, and some of them had been there since seven-thirty in the morning. They felt crowded in, tired and angry. There was no longer a queue which stretched right out of the airport cafeteria, because the cafeteria had run out of both food and drink, and fresh supplies had not arrived. There was no longer a queue outside the toilets, either – they had become so foul that only the most desperate were using them.

  And to make matters even worse, all these frustrated people could see planes – the ones that were supposed to take them back home – leaving empty.

  Anyone in any kind of uniform was accosted by complaining passengers. A postman, who had come only to empty the airport mailbox, found his way blocked by a man who opened his suitcase and flung the contents into the air.

  “See, I’m not a bank robber,” the demented would-be traveller shouted, as his shirts and trousers swirled round him. “No money at all. I spent it all on your lovely bloody island. Can I go home now, please?”

  Two or three fights started for no other reason than that tempers were frayed and people wanted to
lash out at something – anything.

  And the airport officials, surveying the scene but helpless to do anything about it, knew that things could only deteriorate.

  *

  Gower had all the registration slips from all the hotels spread out on the desk in front of him.

  Tony Horton had used his real name – Christ alone knew why. If they could furnish Arnie with a fake passport, surely they could have done the same for Mason’s right-hand man. But given that Tony hadn’t employed an alias, it was possible that some of the others hadn’t either. And the only way to find out was to work laboriously through the cards.

  It had been a long time since Gower had done such menial work himself, but there was no one else he could delegate the task to, since he alone on the island would recognize the name of an English criminal when he saw it.

  The phone rang, and Silva jumped nervously. He picked it up, and listened intently.

  “My men at the Pico have talked to two English hikers,” he said, holding the phone away from his mouth. “They passed the man we are looking for on the trail. He had a large rucksack and a big bag.”

  “The money,” Gower said excitedly. “How heavy did the bags look?”

  Silva spoke into the mouthpiece again.

  “Very heavy,” he said. “The hikers commented on it. He told them he was a geologist.”

  Gower studied the map.

  “We know when he crashed through the roadblock,” he said, “and we know when your men spotted him returning to the cafeteria. He can’t have got that far in the time in between. Put some of the army on the job of searching the first couple of miles of the trail – every bloody inch of it. The money’s got to be there. Tell them you’ll have their balls if they don’t find it.”

  Things were happening very fast indeed. Gower returned to his registration cards, and the next name on the list was Harry Snell’s.