by Tim Stevens
RATCATCHER
Tim Stevens
To Pippa
One
His world turned on its head for the second time at precisely ten eighteen p.m.
He’d been taken into custody a little under ninety minutes earlier, but that had nothing to do with it. They did the job efficiently, boxing him in, two in front and two behind. Four men, swift and grim, clearly plainclothes law enforcement officers.
One of the men in front of him stepped close, said something. He shook his head.
‘Non parlo Croato. Solo Italiano.’
The man nodded as if unsurprised, tipped his head: come with us. He followed the front pair to the unmarked saloon parked up on the kerb ahead.
Before he got in the back he glimpsed the glitter of light off the restless water of the bay, the masts of the boats shifting in the embrace of the marina at the bottom of the hill. He glanced at his watch. Five past nine. Fifty-five minutes to go.
The room was a cliché: ivory linoleum curling at the edges, dusty fluorescent lighting strips with one bulb flickering like an eyelid with a tic, cheap wooden tabletop with metal legs bolted to the floor. The smell was of tobacco and sour sweat.
He sat facing the door, alone. After seventeen minutes, at nine forty-four by the clock on the wall, the door opened. A woman came in, dark-haired, with glasses like an owl’s eyes. Two of the men who had picked him up followed her in. One seated himself in the chair. The other leaned against the wall, arms folded.
She stood across the table from him, his passport grasped loosely between her fingertips like a soiled rag. Without introduction she said, her Italian accented but fluent, ‘Alberto Manta, of Lugano, Switzerland. Arrived in Zagreb on September second. Checked in at Hotel Neboder here in Rijeka the same day.’ She paused. ‘Why are you here?’
He said, ‘I’d like to use my phone call now.’
‘But you’re not under arrest. Were you told that you were?’
She held up a finger. The man leaning against the wall came forward and handed her a folder from which she drew a sheaf of photographs. She dropped them on the table, fanned them across the surface. There were four, a series taken on a street with a long lens, showing him, neat goatee beard and hair a little longer than was fashionable for a man of his age, grinning and slapping the back of a shorter man whose nose was distorted sideways.
‘This man,’ she said, tapping the top photo, which showed just the man with the deformed nose.
He said: ‘Drazan Spiljak. A business associate. Imports and exports. I sell luxury hand-woven carpets, he’s helping me break into the Croatian market.’
‘He’s a drug dealer. One of the big players here in Rijeka. Cocaine from Colombia, heroin from Afghanistan. Poison that ends up in the streets and the playgrounds of my country and yours, Mr Manta.’
He spread his hands. ‘What can I say? Of course I condemn it. But Mr Spiljak is free, walking the streets. He runs a legitimate business. I can’t turn my back on a good opportunity just because of some rumours about a man.’
‘Rumours.’ She half turned, looking down, then glanced up at him, eyes narrowed. ‘You’re looking at the clock, Mr Manta?’
Had he been? Sloppy. ‘I’m late.’
‘For what, might I ask?’
‘A meeting.’
Nine fifty.
She paced, to her right and back, then placed her hands on the table top. She leaned forward and lowered her face to his.
‘It would be better if you left, Mr Manta. Left Rijeka, and Croatia altogether. We have scum enough with Spiljak. We do not need any more.’
‘I’m free to go?’
She straightened without a word and left. The men followed, one signalling him to remain seated. The door closed.
He kept his face impassive, aware of the spyhole in the door. Nine fifty-five, his watch told him.
Ten o’clock.
Time had run out.
At three minutes past ten the door opened and one of the men came in and tossed his phone and passport on the table. He stood, checking the display on the phone. Five missed calls. He followed the man out.
To a clerk at the reception desk he said, ‘Taxi rank?’
‘Turn right, then again after two blocks.’
He stepped out into the night, walked quickly but unhurriedly up the road, raising the phone to his ear. The first message had been left at nine thirty-two.
‘Thought we said half past. He’s here, they’re having drinks on deck.’
Kendrick.
The next, at nine forty-six: ‘They’ve gone inside now. Get a move on, sunshine.’
He turned the corner and strode straight past the taxi rank, picking up the pace. The crowded streets would slow any taxi to a crawl. He’d get there more quickly on foot.
Message number three, at nine fifty: no words, just a muttered sigh.
Ten o’clock, and Kendrick again, a snarl: ‘Where are you, for Christ’s sake?’
And at ten oh three: ‘Fuck this. I’m going in.’
Manta – whose real name was John Purkiss – closed his eyes for an instant. Then he began to run.
Purkiss had worked his way into Spiljak’s confidence over the previous month. He wasn’t, as it happened, particularly interested in Spiljak or his operation. The prize was instead one Nicholas Hoggart, retired officer of the British Secret Intelligence Service, who ran a private security firm in Rijeka. Suspicion had arisen that Hoggart was involved with Spiljak’s outfit and was using to their mutual advantage the knowledge of the local criminal scene and of local law enforcement he had gathered while an active agent. Retired or not, Hoggart was an embarrassment to SIS. That was where Purkiss came in.
Purkiss had chosen the guise of an Italian Swiss, knowing Spiljak spoke the language, as did many Croatians in this part of the country. He’d presented himself as having access to Swiss bank accounts Spiljak couldn’t afford. They had agreed on a deal granting Spiljak and his unnamed partner the use of these accounts in return for a cut of their profits. The unnamed partner was, of course, Hoggart, and Purkiss was supposed to meet them both on Spiljak’s yacht tonight to seal the deal. It would be the only opportunity he’d have to get Spiljak and Hoggart in the same place together, and obtain recorded proof of Hoggart’s involvement in criminal activity. Kendrick’s role was to act as lookout, and to provide backup if needed.
The meeting was scheduled for ten p.m.
Thirteen minutes ago.
He was wearing a light linen suit, was towards the lower end of the normal weight range for his height, and hadn’t smoked a cigarette in his life, yet Purkiss felt as though the marina was receding from him as quickly as he approached it. He sucked in the salt air coming off the bay and spewed it back harshly, the sweat slick on his face and sodden in the creases of his clothes where they bunched against the skin. He weaved and dodged and barged through the crowds filtering down the streets between the restaurants, trailing angry cries behind him.
The phone hummed against his hip. Purkiss slipped it out and glanced at the display as he ran. A text message, with an attached photo.
The message was from Vale: Finish up and get back here ASAP. This picture was taken this morning.
He looked at the picture.
Purkiss stopped running.
He was in the middle of the road and a car bore down in a yowl of brake and horn. He leaped forward onto the pavement.
He stood, staring at the picture, his thoughts cold as sweat.
Impossible.
The bustle around him took on a detached quality, as though he were the observer of a documentary film showing on a wrap-around screen.
Vale had it wrong.
At the top of the phone’s screen the time display flicked to ten nineteen.
Purkiss drew a breath and closed his eyes. He shrank the picture and the thoughts and the feelings it evoked into a tiny box in his mind’s eye. Then he sealed the box shut and buried it deep. He felt for the adrenaline wave in his blood, caught it and began to coast on it.
The final run to the water’s edge, and the ground began to level out. Ahead he saw the pier and Spiljak’s boat, a fifteen-metre German model, beginning its slow turn out of its berth towards the open sea.
Purkiss put everything he had into it, palms stiff and straight and arms whipping alternately past his sides and legs pumping, his mind already there and commanding his body to catch up. The end of the pier was twenty metres away, fifteen, five. The boat had turned its back on him and he could see the spume churning at its base. He reached the end and leapt, legs cycling at the air and arms lunging. For an instant he was suspended between pier and boat. Then his torso slammed against the fibreglass of the boat’s stern and his palms slapped the slick surface. He began to slide but caught the upright of the rail, and he gripped it and and hauled himself up on to the deck.
Zagorec brought the gun up as Purkiss stepped through the doorway into the cabin. It was a VHS assault rifle, one of the ugliest weapons Purkiss knew. Beyond Zagorec stood Spiljak himself and another man in his fifties, squat and florid with a ginger tonsure clamped to the back of his head. The Englishman, Hoggart. Through the cabin at the top of the steps in the steering deck Purkiss spotted another of Spiljak’s henchmen at the helm.
From a hook in the centre of the ceiling of the cabin hung a length of rope, the end of which was knotted in a hangman’s noose around the neck of a fifth man. There was a slight slackness to the rope above his head. His hands and ankles were trussed and his feet teetered on a tiny stool. His lank hair and stubbled face were bloody.
‘Where’ve you been?’ said Spiljak.
‘The police pulled me in. Showed me photos of us hanging out together, warned me to back off.’
‘You’re lucky.’ Spiljak’s distorted nose was the result of a knife wound. He had chosen not to have it fixed as a badge of distinction, he’d told Purkiss once. ‘Zagorec saw you jumping after the boat and was going to pick you off in midair.’
Purkiss raised his eyebrows at the man at the end of the rope. ‘Who’s this?’
‘We caught him trying to get close to the boat, just before we’d given up on you and were about to set off. He hasn’t said anything yet.’ Spiljak ran an eye down Purkiss. ‘Know him?’
‘Should I?’
‘Your phone,’ said Spiljak, arm extended. Purkiss took out his phone and handed it over, then raised his arms and let Spiljak frisk him. Previously the phone wouldn’t have been an issue. Spiljak wouldn’t have asked for it, and Purkiss would have used it to record their conversation surreptitiously. Now, Spiljak’s suspicions were up.
The plan had been for Spiljak to introduce him to Hoggart with hearty endorsement. The dynamic was utterly different now. In the confined space he could taste the malice and mistrust. Spiljak had produced a handgun himself. It hung loose and ready by the side of his leg.
Purkiss moved close to the suspended man. ‘He was approaching the boat?’
‘Crouching by the side, looking for a way to get on board without being noticed,’ said Spiljak. ‘I was having a last look around when I spotted him.’
‘Armed?’
‘No. No ID on him either.’
Kendrick had done a crazy, foolhardy thing, but at least he’d left his ID behind. He’d been hit around the face and across the head. Otherwise he looked unharmed.
‘You guys have no idea about interrogation. None whatsoever. What you do is, you hurt them badly, first, before you ask any questions. That removes all doubt from the word go.’ Keeping his eyes on Kendrick, Purkiss reached his hand back. ‘Give me a gun.’
Spiljak moved behind him and he felt the butt of a handgun slap into his palm. He hefted and glanced at it. A Bulgarian Arsenal, cheap and stubby.
Kendrick glared at his eyes but showed no recognition.
Purkiss stepped back, aimed straight-armed at Kendrick’s left knee, and pulled the trigger.
The hammer cracked on an empty chamber. Purkiss turned, sighed. There was a shift in the atmosphere because he hadn’t turned the gun on one of them as soon as he’d been given it, had instead fired at the prisoner whom they’d suspected of being in league with him. They were off-guard. It was the perfect time to make his move.
He transferred the Arsenal to his left hand and in a spinning backhand strike lashed Zagorec across the face with it. He felt the nose crack and Zagorec was down without a word. Purkiss completed the turn and used the momentum to bring his right leg snapping across in a roundhouse kick which caught Spiljak in the shoulder, sending him staggering back into Hoggart who had risen, his own gun emerging. Purkiss headbutted Hoggart between the eyes, hard frontal bone meeting bridge of nose. As he sagged, Purkiss seized his arm and twisted the gun free and fired at the steps where the helmsman had appeared, catching him in the chest and flinging him back. He crouched and sighted down the length of his arm at Spiljak, who was standing upright, his gun aimed at Purkiss, one foot propped on the stool on which Kendrick was balancing.
From across the water the shouting had started up.
Purkiss had time to notice the gun he’d taken off Hoggart, a Heckler & Koch P30. To Purkiss’s right, on the steps leading up to the steering deck, the man he’d shot was groaning.
More shouting, and, distantly, sirens.
Over the guns, Spiljak’s eyes mocked him. He tapped his foot on the stool, making the implication clear. Shoot me, and I’ll knock the chair away. Your friend will hang.
Purkiss glanced up at the rope above Kendrick’s head.
His first shot caught Spiljak in the right shoulder, jerking his arm upward so that his own shot would go high if it came, which it didn’t. His second smashed into Spiljak’s left knee. Spiljak dropped with a shriek.
And kicked the stool away with his other leg as he fell.
The rope snapped taut and Kendrick swung. Purkiss kicked the gun away from Spiljak’s hand and caught Kendrick. He righted the stool, propped Kendrick’s feet on it, and prised loose the noose around Kendrick’s neck. Moving behind him he slipped out a Swiss Army knife, cut the cords binding his wrists and ankles.
Kendrick dropped off the stool, stumbling but keeping his feet. In a voice like a sheet of ice plummeting into an Arctic gorge he said: ‘Bastard.’
‘We’re even. You shouldn’t have gone in without me.’ But by delaying the departure of the boat he’d allowed Purkiss to get aboard. There’d never been any danger of his neck breaking. Spiljak had committed the novice hangman’s error of making the rope too short. In a few more seconds he’d have strangled to death, but Purkiss hadn’t been planning on waiting that long.
Purkiss glanced out of the window. Flashing red and white lights were massing on the shore. Spiljak was rolling on the floor clutching his wrecked knee, too shocked to scream. On the steps the other thug Purkiss had shot was on his back, whimpering, his breathing not laboured. He’d survive. On the floor of the cabin, Hoggart and Zagorec were out for the count.
Purkiss retrieved his phone from Spiljak’s pocket and took the man’s own handset. He thumbed through the various menus until he found what he wanted, then bent and grabbed Hoggart and hauled him so that he slumped against one of the cabin’s seats. He twisted the man’s ears until he howled awake, held up Spiljak’s phone, played the recording.
Hoggart’s eyes were slivers of white between the lids, his tongue lolling at the blood around his mouth. From the phone came snatches of English dialogue. Hoggart’s voice, then Spiljak’s, naming places, substances, prices. At the end Purkiss wrapped the phone in an oilskin bag and stowed it in his pocket.
He said, ‘You insisted I surrender any recording devices I might have, but you didn’t consider that your friend here might be keeping his own record for insurance purposes. Been a bit of a chu
mp, haven’t you?’
Purkiss straightened, looked down at Hoggart.
‘Tell the police whatever you like. They might charge you and Spiljak and the rest of this sorry crew with disturbing the peace or whatever. Or, you might escape without a blemish on your name. I couldn’t care less. But understand this, Hoggart. You’re finished. Crawl away and bury yourself where nobody can see you. SIS doesn’t need its dirty knickers washed in public. But you’ve let the side down. And the side won’t forget. If you’re heard from again, anywhere in the world, the Service will put an end to you.’
The sirens were getting louder. The police boats were close enough that their lights were strobing against the cabin’s walls. Purkiss said to Kendrick, ‘Time we were off.’
They clambered over the moaning man on the stairs and ran at a crouch across the deck towards the rail. Then they were airborne. Purkiss felt the shock of the water, surfaced, and glanced back to see the boats swarming round the yacht, the men crowding aboard. He located Kendrick’s head a few metres away. They struck out for the shore.
Kendrick’s car was in a side street just off the marina. They reached it by stealth, two sodden figures skulking through the alleyways. In the boot were enough dry clothes for both of them.
Purkiss climbed into the passenger seat. Kendrick started the engine but didn’t move off. After a moment he said, ‘That gun.’
‘Yes.’
‘It felt lighter than it should’ve. That’s why you took a chance and pretended to shoot my leg.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you were certain the magazine was empty. Rather than just not completely full.’
Purkiss, one of whose guiding principles was that you could never be certain of anything, said, ‘Yes.’
‘Fuck off, Purkiss.’
Purkiss leaned his head back, closed his eyes, breathed deeply while Kendrick drove, letting his body find its own way down from the heightened level of alertness at which it had been cruising. Then he fumbled out his phone and looked at the impossible picture Vale had sent him.