by Dan Fletcher
‘This is not a bloody vacation. Anyway get ready we are leaving soon.’ Happy was, well, not happy. He stormed back into the other room.
‘Looks like we’re finally moving then,’ said Alan. He was actually eager to get going. The waiting was not doing either of their nerves much good. John sat up on the edge of the bed and tried to move his arm to stimulate circulation. The bandages tugged at his wounds causing him to whimper.
‘You sound like a bloody woman,’ Alan said, trying to make his friend feel better.
‘Bugger off! What do you expect me to sound like? It bloody hurts,’ John replied.
‘What do you think my leg feels like? Don’t hear me moaning about it,’ said Alan.
‘You just did, didn’t you?’ replied John.
‘That’s better,’ Alan said.
‘What?’
‘The smile on your face, you must be getting better,’ Alan said, grinning at his friend.
John laughed and hurt at the same time. Not long later Patience and Happy came in.
Patience became Alan’s human crutch again as they made their way to the elevator and down to reception. The same concierge checked them out, doing his usual routine despite their appearance.
‘I hope that you enjoyed your stay, and we look forward to seeing you again soon sir,’ he said, handing Happy a copy of the bill.
‘Thanks,’ Happy replied, snatching the paper from his hand and heading for the door. The Mercedes was already at the kerb outside, with Ghani behind the wheel. John was struck by the heat, only having experienced the air-conditioned interior of the hotel. It sapped the strength from him even on the short walk to the car.
Lieutenant Kehinde watched as they got in and the car pulled away in front of him. He followed shortly afterwards, there was no need to rush. He knew where they were going.
Ghani stopped at the gate to return their security pass, and the guard inspected the boot and occupants of the car. John thought it looked like they were leaving the country not a hotel. Outside the barrier there was a group of beggars who approached the car, hands out, acting a pantomime prayer. Most of them had arms or legs missing, and were using crutches or bandaged up. One had no legs and dragged himself along towards John’s window on his knuckles.
‘These bloody people from the East, don’t they want to work,’ Ghani said, putting his foot down and nearly running over one of them.
John wasn’t sure where he meant but thought it a bit harsh. There were open sewers running alongside the road and the stench managed to enter the car. John held his hand over his nose but continued to take in the strange sights. There was a woman carrying an enormous bunch of plantain on her head that must have weighed half a ton.
‘Bloody hell! Look at that!’ John said.
‘You aint seen nothing mate,’ replied Alan, remembering the torrential downpour the day before.
They pulled up outside the terminal, less than fifteen minutes later, and were escorted to the Customer Service desk to pick up their tickets.
Kehinde watched them walk over and check-in afterwards, on the same flight the Chief had used the night before. He went outside and phoned the Commander-General.
‘They’ve just checked in on the Washington flight sir, leaves at 21.30,’ reported Kehinde.
‘I know what flight they’re on,’ Ibisi said, ‘just stay there and make sure they get on it.’ He cut the line and dialled Mendoza’s number.
‘Hello,’ said Mendoza, after a few rings.
‘They have just checked in at the airport. I’ll call you if there is any change but you can assume they are on their way. Have Dayo and the Chief arrived yet?’ said the Commander, forgetting about the eight hours time difference.
‘No, they arrive early this evening,’ Mendoza said, checking his watch, ‘we’ll be there to meet them. We’ve got four cars ready to tail them and over thirty officers working on it, so take it easy. We’ll make sure your guy is OK.’
‘Thank you. Please keep me informed as soon as anything happens,’ Ibisi replied, worried about his own skin not Dayo’s.
‘I’ll call you when we know where they’re holed up. Speak to you later,’ Mendoza said.
Ibisi put the phone down and held his hands together. He, like Alan and John, would just have to wait and see what happened. Things were spiralling way beyond anyone’s control.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Tunge and the Chief spoke very little during their trip. It was just after 6pm Los Angeles time, but because of the eight hour time difference they had been travelling together for nearly twenty hours. It was the longest, most uncomfortable, period Tunge remembered spending with his father in years. His throat and ribs still ached from the Chief’s beating, and he resented him more than ever. The Chief had humiliated him before, but not as badly, and not in front of so many of the men.
‘There it is,’ said the Chief, breaking the spell.
‘OK, I’ve got it,’ Tunge replied, grabbing their suitcase from the carousel. Going through customs they searched for Santiago in arrivals. A man in a sombrero with a deep tan held a card bearing the Chief’s name, and was looking in their direction expectantly.
‘Mr Akintola?’ he shouted, as they approached.
‘Where’s Mr Martinez?’ the Chief replied, not recognising the voice.
‘He’s waiting out in the truck. He asked me to come in and meet you. Welcome to California, have you been here before?’ he said, heading for the exit.
‘No, this is my first time,’ the Chief replied, annoyed Santiago wasn’t there to greet him in person.
‘You’re gonna love it. The weather’s fantastic, the food’s great, and the women,’ he said, with a knowing smile, ‘the women are out of this world.’
Tunge looked around at the numerous glamorous women, wearing very little or tight fitting garments. No shit Sherlock. There wasn’t a cloud in the hazy blue sky. Parked in front of the exit were two bright red DODGE Durango trucks. Santiago was leaning with his back against one of them, smoking a cigarette. He threw it to the ground, crushed it with the heel of his cowboy boot and walked towards them beaming.
‘Welcome, welcome. Glad you made it OK. How was the flight?’ he said, shaking the Chief’s hand.
‘Fine, thank you, fine. It’s a pleasure to be here. May I introduce my son Tunge,’ the Chief replied.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Santiago said, shaking Tunge’s hand. ‘When you said someone else I didn’t realise it would be your son. I like that,’ he continued, glancing at the Chief. He knew all about keeping things in the family. Tunge kept silent, but almost managed a smile.
‘Come on let’s get going then,’ Santiago said, jumping in the back of the second truck. The Chief got in with him whilst Tunge got in the front with the driver.
The Chief and Santiago started chatting as they headed out of the airport on the 405 Freeway. Not long later they branched left through Santa Monica, joining three lanes of slow moving traffic. Tunge could see none of the city around them, due to the high embankments either side. They hit the coast and turned right, heading out of Los Angeles on the PCH, Pacific Coast Highway. Depressed as he was, Tunge couldn’t help but marvel at the crystal clear turquoise waters and sandy beaches. It went on for miles, in an endless strip of deserted golden sand. Clusters of beach houses on wooden stilts were dotted along its length. They passed a sign for Topanga State park, and Tunge could see thick pine forests to their right.
Mendoza picked up Dayo and they tailed them a few cars behind. There was another car a quarter of a mile behind them, in case they were compromised. It wasn’t hard to spot the trucks and Mendoza kept well back. The other cars returned to base after they left the city.
He and Dayo watched as the trucks turned left by a sign for the ‘Paradise Cove Beach cafe’.
They turned back on themselves, heading under the highway and up Ramirez Canyon Drive.
‘Where do you think they’re going?’ said Dayo, looking up at a small outcrop of
rock, growing out of the valley’s lush vegetation.
‘Probably one of the ranches, there’s a few of them up here,’ replied Mendoza. They still hadn’t received a make on the two vehicles.
They passed a couple of luxurious looking ranches that Tunge thought looked nothing like the ‘OK Corral’. They were lined with hedges and perimeter fences. Guard dog warnings and security cameras on the gates. It was a Beverley Hills version of the Wild West.
Mendoza’s hunch was correct, and he pulled over as the two vehicles turned into some gates on the right. They were opened by two men boasting rifles, held at the hip. Wagon wheels were embedded in the white washed walls, either side of the gate. They watched them drive in, and the gates were shut behind them.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Detective Pickles was dropped back at Scotland Yard feeling perplexed. He grabbed another coffee from the vending machine and headed for his desk. He still hadn’t slept, and wasn’t planning to until he found Mrs Shorey and the children.
He started making enquiries, starting with trying to find any next of kin. Pickles found nothing in their records other than Alan’s tarnished past. This raised an eyebrow, but didn’t deter him from his cause. Children were involved. Getting nowhere he decided to go and do a thorough search of Woodside Gardens. He took PC Thompkins with him for support. She was a bright, enthusiastic, analyst who would go far in the force. Pickles had no doubts that he would be taking orders from her one day.
‘What are we looking for sir?’ she said, as they headed towards Tottenham in Pickles’ clapped out FORD Escort.
‘Anything that might lead us to them, phone numbers, address books that kind of thing. They might even have left some clue as to where they’ve gone,’ he replied hopefully.
‘That’s highly unlikely, isn’t it sir? I mean they were either abducted or left in fear of their lives. Hardly likely to leave a note, are they sir,’ said Thompkins.
‘I suppose not...but it’s the best we can do at the moment,’ Pickles replied, realising his appraisal of her was correct. She was one of the new breed, with a first class degree and impeccable dress sense. Approaching retirement Pickles was on the way out. He didn’t know what he’d do when he left the force. Probably end up in a boring security job like most of his colleagues. He would miss the adrenalin of days like today.
There was a squad car parked outside the house when they pulled up. One of the officers got out to greet them.
‘Good Morning sir,’ said the tired looking officer.
‘Morning, any news?’ replied Pickles, checking the time, the man was right just before twelve. Somehow it felt later.
‘No. Nobody’s been round sir. I’ve been in to use the loo, nothing’s moved. I hope you don’t mind sir,’ said the PC.
‘Forensics haven’t been in yet you idiot. What were you thinking?’ replied the shocked Pickles.
‘I was bursting sir, been out here for hours.’ said the PC, examining the shine on his shoes.
‘Well don’t go in there again, and make sure you tell forensics when they get here. Don’t want you going to jail for a crime you didn’t commit, do we?’ said Pickles, heading for the house.
He broke the police tape across the door and went in. It was such a gloomy day he was forced to turn on the light. The room was in disarray with signs of a struggle. There were overturned chairs and broken plates. They split up and started to search for a clue. They were only looking for five minutes when PC Thompkins found Caitlyn’s diary in the drawer beside her bed.
‘Sir, I think I’ve got something!’ she shouted, returning downstairs, showing him the open diary. ‘There’s an address for Mrs Mary-Anne Coleman living in Enfield. That’s not far away. We might as well go and check it out. See if she knows anything.’
‘Might as well, I suppose,’ Pickles said, ‘let’s take a more thorough look around first though. See if we can find anything else.’
They searched for another fifteen minutes but found nothing, not a single telephone number. The age of cell phones being the death of the little black book.
‘Come on then,’ Pickles said, giving in, ‘let’s take a drive up to Enfield.’
When they arrived Mary-Anne answered the door, with the chain left on.
‘Hello. Who is it?’ she said.
‘Detective Pickles and this is PC Thompkins,’ he replied, holding his ID to the gap. ‘Sorry for the inconvenience. We’re here to talk to you about the disappearance of someone you may know, a Mrs Caitlyn Shorey.’ Mary-Anne was too shocked to reply.
‘Do you know Mrs Shorey, Mrs Coleman?’ said Pickles.
‘Yes. Yes I do, she’s my sister,’ replied Mary-Anne.
‘May we come in for a moment Mrs Coleman? We have news that may be distressing, best we come in off the street,’ he said, looking around as if the neighbours might hear. The net curtain in the window of the house to the right was twitching.
‘I suppose so...,’ Mary-Anne replied, ‘just a minute.’ She closed the door and turned to Caitlyn.
‘I’ve got to let them in. Anyway they might have news about Alan,’ she whispered. Caitlyn nodded.
‘Let them in,’ she said, backing away slightly.
Mary-Anne opened the door and let them in. Pickles was confronted with Caitlyn standing behind Mary-Anne, who had gone a ghostly white, and Vanessa sitting on the sofa, mid-way through watching a TV programme, with the two girls.
‘Mrs Shorey?’ he said incredulously.
‘Err...yes,’ she replied.
‘Thank God! We’ve had people looking for you everywhere. Why didn’t you call us?’ he asked as Caitlyn sank onto the arm of the sofa.
‘Have you got him?’
‘Got who, Mrs Shorey? If you mean your husband then no, it’s a bit complicated. Why don’t we sit down and I can fill you in on the details,’ Pickles replied.
‘He’s OK though, isn’t he?’ said Caitlyn.
‘As far as we know he’s alive and well. Like I said, why don’t we all make ourselves comfortable and we can have a bit of a chat,’ replied the Detective, trying to soothe her. Not worth telling her about the room at the warehouse with bloodstained sheets and bandages.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Tunge admired the orange groves as they drove up towards Santiago’s mansion. It was a spreading single storey building, with a second floor above the central part. The impressive arched doors were over eight foot in height. In front was a covered terrace, supported by four gleaming white pillars. Above was a triangular designed frontage with a portcullis in the centre.
The lead truck carried on around the circular fountain, allowing them to park in front of the house. Santiago’s wife and the house-maid opened the door to greet them.
‘This is my beautiful wife Selena,’ Santiago said, striding from the truck and giving her a lingering kiss. ‘This is the guest I was telling you about.’ She pushed him back and hid her feelings with a smile. She drew her beach gown together, covering the cleavage that was protruding from a white bikini.
‘Hello Mr Akintola, we’ve been expecting you,’ she said offering her cheek. The chief held out his hand politely.
‘Thank you for allowing us to stay in your wonderful home, Mrs Martinez. Especially at such short notice,’ the Chief said, smiling, ‘I hope it isn’t too much trouble.’
‘No, not at all. No trouble for me,’ Selena replied, looking at the house maid. ‘Please come in and make yourself at home. And who’s this handsome young gentleman?’ She curled her golden locks in her finger and tilted her head to one side. Her green eyes brimming with mischief.
‘I’m Tunge, pleased to meet you,’ he said, following behind the others. He took her outstretched hand and kissed her on both cheeks.
‘Come with me Tunge, I’ll show you around,’ she replied, looping her arm through his. Tunge felt the hairs on his arm prickle with excitement. She was his type, blonde, athletic and oozing sexuality.
‘Thanks,’ he said. She put her fr
ee hand on his bicep, squeezing gently, her touch was electric.
‘Come on Selena, I’m sure Tunge’s tired after his journey,’ Santiago said, noticing her behaviour, ‘Mrs Sanchez, please show our guests to their rooms. Give them some time to get changed and ready for dinner.’
Selena reluctantly gave Tunge back his arm. The housekeeper marched up one side of the double swan-necked staircase, followed by Tunge and the Chief. They were shown rooms next to each other, in one of the enormous wings overlooking the octagonal pool. Each had its own balcony, separated by a stretch of terracotta roof tiles. The sea glimmered in the ragged v-shape created by the canyon. Tunge hardly noticed, he was thinking about the woman.
He showered quickly in the en-suite bathroom and got changed into some cotton slacks and a short sleeved shirt. Slipping on his loafers he wandered downstairs.
The others were already seated, drinking cocktails on the terrace next to the pool. Selena let her eyes stay on him a little too long as Tunge took a seat next to her on a wicker sofa.
‘Joining us in a glass of champagne to celebrate our new business venture?’ said Santiago.
‘Yes...sure I’d love one,’ Tunge replied.
They toasted each other and later dined on a huge rack of beef. Tunge felt Selena’s hand touch his thigh numerous times during the meal and felt himself stiffen in response. He was too embarrassed, under the scrutiny of Santiago, to do anything in return. Afterwards Selena made her excuses and went off to bed, leaving the three men at the table with a decanter of brandy.
‘Did you manage to get what I asked you for?’ said the Chief, staring into Santiago’s eyes intensely.
‘Yes, I’ll get it for you when we’re done. I’m afraid I could only find six rounds for it,’ replied Santiago. He had to balance the risk somehow.
‘That will be more than enough, thank you,’ the Chief took a sip from his glass, ‘do you have somewhere quiet we can take the delivery boys when they arrive?’