Hard Place

by Douglas Stewart

  Ratso shrugged. “If that’s his North Face, Jock, I’d hate to see the South.”

  “Don’t go there boss,” Jock replied with a toothy grin. “You reckon he’s up for climbing the Eiger? North Face and all?”

  “With that stomach, Tosh couldn’t climb a ladder, let alone a sodding Swiss mountain.”

  “Ye’re right. The Eiger would crumble under his weight!”

  “Jealous, eh! Just ’cos I’m as warm as toast in this. It’s bloody freezing this morning.”

  “Look.” Ratso pointed ahead. “That’s Chancellor’s Road.” They could now see where the junction with the Fulham Palace Road had been blocked. Two constables stood in front of the blue-and-white cordon beside the flashing blue lights of three patrol cars. Ratso pushed between about ten onlookers with as many dogs and turned to his sergeants. “Forget the textbook, right? This is delicate with a capital D. No room for snafus. I can feel suspension and the AC breathing down my neck already.” He marked two nods.

  Tosh Watson cleared his throat. “Reckon the MIT boys will be here yet?”

  Ratso looked at his no-frills steel watch with its navy blue face. “Yeah. Trying to overcome the snafus made by the local boys with their size-tens everywhere they didn’t ought to have been.”

  The sardonic tone suited the moment. He paused and then turned to face them, slate gray eyes piercing in his rugged face. The wind ruffled the wavy brown hair that was combed forward in a Caesar style with the sides flopping over his ears, something he had long ago decided was a fashion statement worth making. His lugs were scarcely his best feature. Women seemed to prefer his eyes, wide-set beneath hooded eyelids; his nose that was prominent without being beaky; and the designer stubble on his cheeks. He had a mouth that rarely smiled above his firm but narrowing jawline. The overall impression was imperious—something he had found worked to his advantage. He rarely shouted, ranted, or snapped to command respect. There was no need; a withering look got the message across.

  His two sergeants looked at him, awaiting instruction. All three understood they were in dangerous territory. “On no account admit we know the stiff or from where or why. Leave the lies to me.”

  He approached one of the constables at the ribbon and showed his ID. “Morning. D.I. Holtom, SCD7 and these are two of my team, Sergeants Watson and Strang.” He saw the slightly raised eyebrow as the youngster realised that SCD7 was taking an interest, three times over. Ratso’s tone was friendly enough. “Who’s in charge?”

  The constable licked his lips nervously. “DCI Caldwell, sir.” He turned and pointed to a dapper figure about seventy meters down the road, where a white tent was being erected behind the park railings. The officer was waving his arms in every direction as he addressed about eight uniformed officers and three plainclothes.

  With a curt nod, Ratso headed off. Strang and Watson ducked under the line and joined the broad-shouldered figure of their boss as he pulled up his collar against the wind blowing raw from the Thames. “Anyone know Caldwell?”

  It was Tosh who responded. “He’s smart. Ambitious. And he won’t much like us being here.”

  They joined the group getting instructions. It was a moment or two before Caldwell acknowledged their arrival. “Yes?”

  “I’m Detective Inspector Todd Holtom. These are Sergeants Watson and Strang. SCD7.”

  Ratso saw a barrier go up behind Caldwell’s rather piggy eyes. Ratso looked him up and down, took in the highly polished loafers, the razor-sharp trousers beneath a shortie coat that was expensively cut. The yellow silk tie over a paler yellow shirt. He must be smart to be a DCI at his age. That or he’s older than he looks.

  “SCD7, eh?” Caldwell obviously hoped for a response. Ratso said nothing. “What’s SCD’s interest?” His tone was a mix between curious and miffed.

  “None yet. But the preliminary description fitted someone who … was a person of interest. I thought we’d take a look.” With difficulty, Ratso offered his smile. Usually the set of his face transmitted aloofness, as if he were looking at an evil world from a position not far removed from God’s side. “No witnesses yet? Nobody see anything suspicious?”

  “Nothing yet. And there’s no papers, driving licence. Except for one black trainer, the guy’s bollock-naked. Reckon you can ID him?”

  Ratso shrugged. He peered over to the tented area. “What do we know?”

  “I know,” emphasised Caldwell “that the body was probably dumped during the night and before 5:45 a.m. A passerby who works at the Water Board down the road saw a trainer on the pavement. Then he saw the body.”

  “Tipped over the railings?”

  “In to those shrubs. Yes.”

  Ratso looked up and down Chancellor’s Road. The other side was lined with about thirty gentrified terraced properties. Most had lights on. “Before 5:45, eh? Not too many folk round here munching muesli at that time.”

  “Door-to-door is underway.”

  “Just another gangland killing then, sir?” Strang’s Glaswegian rasp was world-weary. His face and voice showed that he had seen it all, the bad years busting Glasgow gangs like the Tongs and Parkhead Rebels.

  Caldwell was not impressed. “Every murder is important.” Strang looked away. “Get togged up and you can take a look. A positive ID would be a good start.” As Caldwell turned away to do whatever he thought more important, the light drizzle turned to sleet.

  Ratso didn’t give a fig for Caldwell’s sniffy tone and quickly got kitted up in his white suit. “Sooner I’m in that tent the better,” he muttered through the railings to a wizened face who seemed to be in charge of the forensic team. His look was intense. “Can you manage scrambled egg on toast for three in there?” The man ignored the remark, simply saying his name was Bahim Prasad and yes, they could take a look at the body.

  As the sleet intensified, Ratso enjoyed watching Watson struggle to get his suit over his generous arse. “You’re such an apple, duckie,” Ratso said in a camp voice.

  “Just as well it was dry till they got the tent up,” Watson panted as his backside wiggled frantically. “This weather won’t help the Sherlock Holmes lot with their specimen bags.”

  Ratso shrugged. “I doubt they’ll get much by the body. Just a quick heave-ho over the railing.” He watched as Watson’s struggle continued. “No more burger and fries for you.”

  “Bollocks! Even Ronnie Corbett would struggle with this suit.”

  Ratso turned to watch as photos were taken of the shoe, still lying where it had been spotted by the passerby. It was black, small, well-worn and probably a Reebok. He had seen Neil wearing it just eighteen hours before. He headed to the park entrance and then doubled back to the tent, which was now lit up by a couple of powerful spots.

  Lying in a contorted position was a naked man, half on his side, half facing up. The remaining black shoe and sock on his left foot seemed incongruous. Ratso knew at once this was not the crime scene. He was pretty sure that was somewhere eight miles further west.

  Ratso could feel Caldwell’s suspicion. Like a poker player, he was watching for tells. But Ratso played possum, crouching down, looking at the face, the open mouth, the well-kept teeth and bloodied fingers. No question it was Neil. He had known at once. Mention of the tattoo on the buttock had been damning. When had he seen it before? Oh yes! That night at the Wheat Sheaf! With the party going well, Neil had leaped onto the bar, lowered his jeans and waggled his bum to the assembled group of friends.

  Now here it was again: the cobra coiled and ready to strike. As the sleet spattered noisily on the tent, Caldwell, Ratso and the two sergeants took in the small black menace of the cobra’s eyes. Ratso looked at his friend, end to end, from the thinning hair to his dainty feet. The victim’s frame was near anorexic—so mighty in life, now so feeble in death. Ratso had always said Neil’s physique was perfect for clambering thr
ough windows or placing bugs in roof voids.

  “He’d fit that white suit ye’re wearing, Tosh,” muttered Strang. “Could do with it and all,” he added. “Catch his death out here in weather like this.” Ratso suppressed a smirk as he glanced sideways at Caldwell. Piss artists was written contemptuously over Caldwell’s face as he chewed his lip.

  Ratso’s eyes took in the blue nylon cord that had finally throttled the life from Neil. “You can get that cord just about anywhere,” he murmured to nobody in particular. But as quickly, like the others, his eyes turned to the todger, or what little remained of it.

  “Jewish circumcision ceremony gone wrong?” Strang’s irreverence would never change. The Scot spotted a frosty glare and more lip chewing from Caldwell but his superior said nothing. Fifteen years working the tenements on Glasgow’s south side had given Strang a rhino’s hide, unless Celtic had beaten his beloved Rangers.

  Ratso turned to the Indian scientist who knelt by the body. “Did you find it? The todger?”

  Before Prasad could respond, Caldwell pointed to a polythene bag. Ratso picked up the small bag. Neil’s manhood lay clearly visible, a flaccid, docile dwarf of a thing.

  Ratso stared at it. It was hard to imagine that this little pink bud had given so much pleasure to so many. Over a few beers, listening to Neil’s tales of his services to women round Belfast, Birmingham and South London, Ratso had often laughed till the early hours. Tall, small, young, old, fat or thin; lying down, knee-tremblers, in a cupboard, down an alley, husband in the next room—Neil was your man. But no more. Now this slightly bloodied relic, barely larger than an acorn, was all that remained of the mighty swordsman’s weapon.

  Prasad looked up. “It fell from his mouth.”

  Nobody spoke. Perhaps even Jock Strang felt humbled at what had happened to a good bloke who had died in their cause. An uncomfortable silence hung for a long moment as his attention turned to Neil’s right hand, where every nail was missing. Ratso for one was praying to a God in whom he did not believe that he would never, ever have to suffer like this.

  The other hand, with surprisingly long slender fingers, had four nails missing. Had that been the pain threshold? Had number nine been the moment when Neil had suffered enough and revealed what he had been doing? But then what had he told Bardici before he was throttled? Ratso looked across to Tosh Watson and Strang in turn and shook his head.

  “Well?” Caldwell was impatient.

  Ratso deliberately decided to piss him off. Jealous of those shiny expensive loafers, am I? More suited for a tea dance at the Waldorf than for a sodding wet morning in Hammersmith. The DCI obviously spent his wad in the likes of Baron Jon’s boutique in Westfield rather than pissing cash against a wall Friday nights. He looked the younger man up and down with something close to insolence, wondering how he would have coped in Tirana. For sure, you wouldn’t catch Caldwell rummaging for boxer shorts in a T.K.Maxx dump bin. At last he responded as if he were doing Caldwell a huge favour. “Get me a photo sent over, can you? And his measurements. Todger apart.”

  He was rewarded with a scowl. “You do or don’t recognise him?”

  “Very familiar but not the guy we were … I dunno whether to say … hoping or expecting. Not the guy we wanted to see on a slab.” Ratso stood up and turned to his sergeants. “Not anybody you wanted to see, is it?” On seeing the shaken heads, he turned to face the yellow shirt and tie. “We’ll leave you to it. We’ll be pretty much dropping out. Nothing for us here. Let us know if you get an ID.”

  Caldwell examined his manicured nails. “You, too.” The words were innocuous but Ratso could tell Caldwell was probing and edgy. But there was no going back now. The die was cast. Ratso’s conspiracy to obstruct the police investigation had started. He imagined himself down the Bailey, courtesy of Caldwell. But I acted in the greater good, M’Lud. He could imagine it now … the judge looking across at the Witness Box. “Setting yourself up above the law, are you, Inspector Holtom? You should take heed of Lord Denning’s admonition to the attorney general—‘Be you never so high, the law is above you.’” The thought was uncomfortable.

  With a come-along nod, Ratso turned briskly and left the shelter of the tent. The sleet slapped his half-shaved cheeks. He knew there would be more and worse slaps to come. And then he saw Watson and the sight cheered him.

  “C’mon, Tosh. Get your white kit off. I need a good laugh.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  West London

  Tosh Watson had spotted Neil’s navy blue Honda Civic as Strang checked his iPad. “Bardici hasn’t moved. Our silent friend’s still at 22 Westbrook Drive.”

  Ratso was flicking through web pages to find Cricinfo.com. “That’s assuming …”

  Tosh Watson blew warmth into his hands. “So drive by number 22, boss?”

  “I’ll go on foot. Alone.” Ratso was talking autopilot as he checked his Blackberry for the overnight cricket news from the Second Test in Adelaide. He grunted with satisfaction as he saw England were 297 for 2. One day, he was going to follow the team to India, Australia and the West Indies, watch every match—enjoy the heat, sink some local brews and see England stuff the opposition. This time of year, early December, his passion for cricket had to make do with TV highlights or sometimes watching live till long after midnight. But last night, with Nadine there, turning on the TV would have been impolite … and physically impossible given what he was doing with his hands at the time.

  “Cricket! Grown men ponsing about in white trousers. Game for woofters,” said the Scot’s voice from the rear seat. “Ham and Egg ties; naff striped blazers and stupid straw hats. Gimme the Ibrox terraces any day. Real people. Real men.”

  “You Scots. Blinkered from a game that really is beautiful.” He paused while Watson accelerated past a truck on the Great West Road. “Fact is, cricket’s too difficult for you to appreciate.”

  Jock Strang was about to reply when Ratso took a call from base.

  “Holtom.” His head nodded occasionally as a dismembered voice let rip. Apart from the occasional yes or but, it was a one-sided conversation. Ratso caught Watson’s glance and winked. Only when it was over did Ratso find his tongue. “Arse-covering time for our friend Arthur.”

  “Tennant? He’ll still be Snow White whenever the shit hits the fan. Always is,” complained Strang.

  Ratso laughed his agreement. “More like one of the dwarves. Dopey. Or maybe Grumpy.” The three men savoured the comparison. “You can guess: Tennant had just taken a call from upstairs. That’s a better laxative than prunes, that is.”

  Watson laughed, coarse but infectious. “Yeah. He was probably sitting on the bog when he phoned you. What’d he say?”

  “Warned me not to screw up any more than I have already.”

  “Nice one. Didn’t he approve Neil going in solo?”

  Ratso shook his head. “That bleeder? Didn’t want to soil his hands.”

  “Or crap his pants.” Strang leaned forward against his seatbelt. He tapped his watch. “I could sink a wee one,” he volunteered.

  Watson looked enthused. “You’re on. The Chequers on Twickenham High Street does a good pie-and-pint deal. Suit you, boss?”

  Ratso checked the time, thought of his trim waistline and looked at Tosh whose stomach was rubbing against the foot of the steering wheel. He had no plans to turn into a fattie any time soon. “You two get stuck in. I’ll head over to Westbrook Drive.”

  After dropping off the two eating machines outside the dreary ochre-painted pub, Ratso headed to the anonymous array of suburban streets between Isleworth and Hounslow. In a variety of vehicles, he had driven past Bardici’s rented property several times over the past couple of months. But today he wanted to take it nice and slow, hoping somehow to get the feel of what had happened just hours before. He parked up and checked the iPad that Jock had left on the passenger seat. Still n
o sign of the Range Rover moving. In theory, it should not be there; typically at this time of day, Bardici would be out on his errands, dropping by the money-changers. If his information was right, Bardici’s boys laundered money through dozens of these outlets.

  He cursed the weather as the sleet slapped his face. He pulled on his Fulham FC beanie and entered Ali’s Corner Emporium. From a diminutive Pakistani, he bought soup, canned spaghetti and mineral water to carry in a plastic bag as he walked past number 22. He caught his fragmented reflection in the rain-spattered glass door of the shop. In a Britain now littered with home-grown fat slobs, scruffs and immigrants from all quarters of the globe, it was becoming increasingly hard not to look like a plainclothes copper, especially when he was over six feet and super fit. But the low beanie, the slouch, the hunched shoulders and the plastic carrier were a help. He set off up Westbrook Drive, keeping on the opposite side to number 22, still feeling as exposed as a pimple on a stripper’s bum.

  There it was. Number 22. The downstairs curtains were drawn but the upstairs ones were both open. There were no lights on and the place looked deserted, unless someone was in the kitchen at the rear. More importantly, the Range Rover was still there. So maybe Neil had managed to plant the bug.

  Ratso had been eighteen years in the force and he still got that weird feeling that somehow just by staring hard enough, evil places like number 22 would give up their dark secrets. For a second, he imagined Neil’s naked body strapped to a chair as Bardici approached with pliers and wire cutters. He could almost see the smirk on Bardici’s swarthy features.

  He shuddered, wishing the job was not such a bitch. Maybe there would be evidence of the murder but it was pretty damned unlikely. The Albanian was too bloody smart for that.

  He rounded the bend farther along and had just passed a broken fence at number 89 when he saw a couple approaching on the other side. It was not Bardici; the man was too short and his shoulders too narrow. Definitely younger than Bardici, who was forty next year–14 June to be precise. The man was mid-thirties, the woman rather less. A nondescript couple probably heading for Ali’s Corner Emporium or perhaps walking home from the bus stop on the main road. They were talking, that much he could tell from the man’s arm waving and her intent look. But only at the last moment could he hear some words. “Nuk e di.”