Hard Place

by Douglas Stewart

  “Not a picnic after all, Jock. More of a barbeque. Tosh could grill his burgers a treat.”

  “Torched it, did they?” The Scot heard Ratso’s grunted yes. “Ye got them?”

  “No. Probably whisked away in a Beamer saloon—a Three Series. Or maybe an Audi.” He checked the map on screen. “My guess—and it is a guess—is they must somehow be getting back to the M40. No, wait one. The A40 first. This piddling little lane eventually winds to it. Where are you?”

  “Tosh is chatting to the Duke about the rising price of deer-stalker hats. Hang on, guv. I’m checking.” Strang ran his finger along the routes. “Shit and buggerrr-ation!”

  “Spilt tea on the corgis, have you?”

  “We’re too far north. We’re just turning off the M40 at Stokenchurch.”

  “You’ll still spot them. Take the A40 doubling back to London. The lane from Kingston Hill joins it after about a mile. Look out for a saloon with either one or three occupants. Probably two males, one female heading for London … but it might go your way. Get the number.”

  “Intercept?”

  “No. Follow if you can. Get intel unit back at base to check the number. Get me a forensic team out here. A pickup truck for the remains. I’m staying put so nobody corrupts the scene.”

  “Take care, boss.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  Ratso reversed a few meters and stopped, blocking the road. The Range Rover, almost unrecognisable now, was engulfed by a raging roar of red, yellow, gold and black. Still keeping well clear, he got out and studied the tire tracks on the verge. They could have been caused by one vehicle passing another but hopefully had been left by the saloon parked in the soggy mud and grass. He looked at the muddy track down which the car was blazing. There were footprints everywhere—plenty for the forensic boys to play with but they wouldn’t make it for another hour. At least the sleet had stopped, leaving just the icy wind that whipped over the crest of the Chiltern Hills.

  He settled back to wait, wondering whether his sergeants had been too late. He grabbed his phone. There was much to do; cancelling his cricket nets for this evening, for starters. He felt pissed off about that, missing the banter and the pint afterward. He’d been looking forward to bowling to the new young Aussie who had played Grade Cricket in Melbourne. And he had to fix a meet with Lefty Denholm. And talk to Charlene—once Caldwell had sent a young PC to break the news. But first, it had to be Wensley Hughes.

  Though the Assistant Commissioner had a supercilious look, with a face like an inquisitive and whiskerless gerbil, Ratso liked him. He’d been tagged as a copper’s copper. He’d had the bottle to approve Operation Clam as a totally clandestine venture.

  Wensley Hughes had abandoned his stack of dog-eared files in disgust, convinced that someone—someone high up and well placed—had been leaking to Zandro. Confidential reports to the Home Office were insecure. A piss-poor bucket full of leaks had been his dismissive description of the Home Secretary of the day.

  So now, as an AC, Wensley Hughes remained supportive but Neil’s murder could be the tipping point. Would Hughes hold his nerve? He was less bothered about Arthur Tennant. True, that shit would carp, sneer and look smug in that I told you so sort of way. Always the first to be in his running shoes if any shit was flying. Just the thought of him made Ratso’s toes curl. Slowly he dialled the AC. Would he be hung out to dry? The odds were good. For a thin, gaunt figure, rather frail looking with waxy skin, the assistant commissioner had the balls of a stallion and the courage of a lion

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Freeport, Grand Bahama Island

  Erlis Bardici’s short hop from Miami to Freeport touched down at gone 10 p.m. local time after delays due to operational difficulties—not words the Albanian enjoyed hearing. He hated flying in small planes and operational difficulties conjured up unwelcome images of drunken pilots screwing the cabin crew in an airport hotel, cracks in the wings, leaking fuel pipes, or faulty avionics. Especially in small planes, he always felt uneasy and his blue shirt showed nervous sweat as he exited, carrying his seersucker jacket over his shoulder and striding toward Immigration. But for the breeze, the night air would have been warm but any sense of a subtropical paradise was lost in the roar of turbo prop engines and the smell of aviation fuel.

  He picked up a battered Suzuki Vitara with a dodgy 77,000 on the clock. No point checking for dents in the dimly lit rental zone, as every side had been bumped or scraped on countless occasions. He quite liked that. Nobody could later try to pin a damage claim on him, as had once happened with a rental in Paris.

  Though he had learned the direct route to his hotel, on leaving the airport he drove in the other direction. During the flight he had changed his plans. Now he was heading for the Pink Flamingo. According to the map, it was easy. But he quickly found that maps take no account of reality. A road closure from a burst water pipe, for starters. The badly signed diversion threw him completely, so that the twenty-minute journey took him over an hour through parts of Freeport he had no wish ever to see again.

  Funny, he thought as at last he rejoined a better road, how environment changes everything. In what he had come to regard as his manor of West London, nothing and nobody scared him. He walked tall, felt good. There was nothing he could not control or fix with a couple of calls. But here, driving through the slums of Freeport, he felt strangely ill at ease, his hands clammy, his eyes watchful at every small junction as he anticipated armed black men, built like oak trees. But nothing happened. Without a rope, gun, or knife at hand, he felt naked but no way could he have risked carrying anything through airport security. Not these days.

  The interior light was broken, just like the wing mirror. He could not check the map but he guessed the Pink Flamingo could only be another mile or two along the main highway and then down a track toward the beach. Traffic was moderate, mainly old vans, open 4x4s and Japanese saloons batting around with young people, four to a car, listening to the blast of rock or reggae, heading to bars or clubs for a night of boozy laughter. Moments later, he saw a faded wooden sign with an arrow and an image of a flamingo standing on one leg. He swung the wheel into the turning. The little 4x4 lurched alarmingly through a deep pothole but Bardici grunted with satisfaction at having arrived without having to ask the way.

  The unmade track was four hundred meters long before it ended in a bare earth car park with room for perhaps sixty vehicles. He lost count at thirty but still felt confident from the web revues that this was only a late-night dive, one for the night owls and that in the early evening tomorrow the place would be deserted. It would be a good place to bring the CEO, plenty intimidating enough if the guy played it tough. He wound down the window and smelled what might have been chicken being grilled on charcoal in a shack out of sight beyond the pines. Google’s aerial views had not lied. It was a perfect spot for tomorrow’s chat with the American.

  For a hungry second or two, he was tempted to sink a local beer and devour chicken and fries to the thump of reggae, the music being carried by the cool breeze. For a lingering moment, his hand even gripped the grubby door handle. But no. Best get to the hotel. He crunched the vehicle into gear and cruised slowly back to the highway.

  His hotel was only about three miles back and by midnight, he had downed a couple of large Grey Goose vodkas and a shrimp kebab as he prepared for the day ahead. Next to his guide book was his shopping list. It was not long. Buying decorated conch shells or a ceramic toothpick holder for his ageing mother did not feature.

  As Bardici slipped the list into his hip pocket, Lamon Wilson, the CEO of the shipyard was scribbling figures on a notepad, dreaming up a scenario to screw that wimp Kurtner. Less than a mile away, the American was entering his hotel with Cassie, the eighteen-year-old daughter of a port worker. For $270, she was his for the night.

  Bardici ordered another vodka, as he made his plans, a quiet smile playi
ng on his lips.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Clapham, South London

  It was only a short walk from base round the corner to the Indian store on Balham Rise. Though the peak rush hour had long ended, traffic heading out of London was still heavy and tailing back at the traffic lights at the Glebeside Lane junction. Ratso wondered if he had seen the same lemmings that morning. Probably. Everyone, except too many clock-watching civil servants, now had to work harder, longer days and all wait longer until retirement.

  He looked at the occasional driver, their faces resigned to another night getting back too late to see the kids before bedtime. Vans, cars, Chelsea tractors, the drivers stressed out and anxious to get home. He had huge sympathy for them—most of them were decent folk trying to pay off their credit cards and mortgages at the end of the month while the minority but a pretty damned powerful one, was plotting, dealing, stealing and killing. Paying no taxes, either. Hard men, outside the system.

  One thing was for sure—there was no recession in the crime industry. More villains would be starting careers now as job opportunities disappeared. It was sad but inevitable, he concluded as he swung into a tiny shop and grabbed a bottle of Chardonnay from the chiller. Everybody was sinking in the same damned boat called Recession. He didn’t buy all this hate the bankers stuff. Politicians and Eurocrats could have intervened any time to kill the excess. Politicians and Eurocrats! Just the thought of them swilling vintage wine in overpriced Michelin-starred restaurants in Brussels made him scowl. In the real world, real people like him were trading down with less to spend and scouring the shelves for the cheapest plonk from convenience stores.

  Armed with South African Chardonnay, Ratso breezed into the unlicensed Balti Gem restaurant just along the road. He was pleased to find a free table with a good view of the door. He liked to sit where nobody was behind him and he could scope the room. Jock Strang was yet to arrive, so Ratso ordered poppadoms and a fiery chutney dip strong enough to blow the bollocks off a donkey. It was his regular choice after a long day. He flicked through the messages he had grabbed from his desk and sorted the clutter that had accumulated during his afternoon in the Chilterns.

  Twenty minutes later the Scot’s bulk filled the door, With a pleased look of recognition, Strang advanced, rubbing his hands warm as he did so. He slumped into the chair rather than sat down and Ratso knew at once that all was not well. “Jock. Don’t blame yourself about the missing out on the target. He was really shifting when I saw him. The bastard must have been well gone before you were close.” Even as he spoke, Ratso realised he had lost his audience.

  “It’s no that, boss.”

  “Give! What’s up?” Ratso pushed across the poppadoms. Strang declined the chutney with a rueful grin but then turned stony-faced again. “He didn’t make it.”

  Ratso was thrown. Who hadn’t made it? Who’d been dying and had now lost the battle?

  “Gordy.”

  Ratso was in synch now. Jock’s young son Gordy had been spotted by the Glasgow Rangers as a likely talent, a future star to follow in the footsteps of legends like Jim Baxter, John Greig and Ally McCoist. Ratso knew that his sergeant lived his life through the boy, especially since his ex had run off with another man—a Celtic supporter, to twist the knife.

  Ratso fought for the right things to say, then simply shook his head and leaned across to pat Jock’s sleeve. “Aye,” Strang continued. “But for the injury, he’d have made the reserves this season, maybe even have got on the bench. Now, they’re no keeping him on.” Ratso thought the sergeant was going to destroy his hard man image by shedding a tear. Certainly he bit his lip, eyes lowered. “His knee’s unstable and he’s lost a yard.”

  “Life’s a bitch.” Ratso waved the hovering waiter away. “More physio, maybe?”

  Strang shook his head. “The Club have been just great despite their financial problems. They’ve tried everything. His knee winna stand ninety minutes, let alone a season. Like Brian Clough. Busted outta the game.”

  “Except Cloughie got some great goals till his injury.”

  “The lad’s heartbroken. Fitba was his life.”

  Ratso played with his cutlery, debating what to do or say. He needed Jock as Operation Clam moved into overdrive but there was no choice. “Gordy needs you. Take some time. Get back to Glasgow for a few days.”

  Jock produced a bottle from the depths of his black windcheater. Ratso saw the quadruple measure of whisky poured with an unsteady hand.

  “You’re not driving, are you?”

  Strang laughed at last. “I’ll be too pissed to walk.”

  The tiny waiter, all smiles and teeth, was still hovering too close for Ratso’s liking. “C’mon, let’s order.”

  Jock went first. “Naan bread, rice and a medium lamb balti. Spinach. The non-stick-in-yer-teeth type.” The waiter looked confused but then turned to Ratso, who followed up with a hot Rogon josh chicken curry, easy on the rice and plenty of green salad. The waiter disappeared. “I’ll take the bus,” Strang continued. “And boss, yer offer? Ye’re right. The boy needs me. I’m due a few days anyroads.”

  Ratso fell silent as he thought of England cricket captain Michael Vaughan: knee injury, premature end to a golden career. Simon Jones. Syd Lawrence. The list of cricketers with devastating injuries was endless. “Sport can be cruel. But I bet the hardest thing is life without it. That’s why Gordy needs you.”

  Jock nodded agreement but his voice was emotional, scratchy as he moved on. “Change of subject, eh boss? What happened with the AC? Or Arthur Tennant?”

  “Tennant?” Ratso laughed mockingly. “Never saw him. Long gone to the ten-pin bowling. Lazy sod. Part-time bleeding job he does.”

  “Ten-pin? I thought he had a bad back? That so-called injury last year?”

  Ratso laughed, head thrown back. “It only hurts if he’s working.”

  “Just wait, boss. He’ll play the injury game, get in a claim for a work injury and early retirement.”

  “You mean like lifting a heavy file on a Monday morning?”

  Strang laughed. “Aye, right enough! Nae bad, is it? Early retirement with injury compensation and a full pension. I’ve seen it before! Plenty like him in Glasgow.”

  “I thought Scots cops were all like Rebus and Taggart.”

  “Only me.” Jock sank his Bells and poured another. “And Wensley Hughes?”

  “Said he was working till midnight. And I believe him.” He sipped the wine, unimpressed. “I should stick to red. Even with Indian.” He grinned and thumped the table. “We go on. We’ve still got his backing.”

  “There’s more?”

  “I’ll meet Neil’s woman in the morning.” He gave a sly look, eyes narrowed. “One of my snouts phoned the Yard. Told them he’d heard on the radio about the body at Hammersmith. Said he was due to meet a pal called Neil Shalford who hadn’t turned up. Reckoned you could set your clock by him.”

  “So your guy ID’d him?”

  Ratso grinned. “And he’s putting it about that Neil did jobs for the Hogan brothers.”

  “Nice one. And yer snout, let’s call him Lefty Denholm for convenience.” Strand knew he had hit a bullseye. “He’s safe? Won’t be, er, indiscreet?”

  Ratso flinched when Lefty’s name was used. He thought nobody knew the identity of this snout who hung out around the fag end of Wandsworth. But Strang himself had his own sources, built over the years working the area. “Lefty? Nah! It wasn’t him.” He sounded convincing but Jock was not taken in. “My snout’s as tight as a newt’s arsehole.”

  “And Charlene? How’s she going to be?”

  “Cut up, I guess.”

  “Bit like her man, then.” Jock growled across the steaming food that had now arrived. “Sorry, boss. I know you liked Neil. Charlene too.”

  Ratso did a double take, sensing innu
endo.

  “Did she no miss him when he didna come back?”

  “Nah! She wouldn’t have worried. Will-o-the-wisp she called him. He reckoned she never asked. He never volunteered.”

  “She got anyone? I mean company for tonight?”

  “Brother on an oilrig somewhere. Sister might have driven up from Folkestone.”

  “She must be in some state. Ye should see her tonight.”

  Ratso put down his fork. He frowned, knowing he had already debated this and had put off a decision. “You’re right, Jock. I could grab a train from the Junction. Then walk. Do me good.” He refilled with Chardonnay to the brim. The second glass always slipped away quicker. He was about to continue when he had a thought and dialled a number. “Hi, Ranji! Todd Holtom here, SCD7. Remember me? That job in Merton? Right. Any reports of stolen vehicles today? Yeah, I know. Silly question! Silver Range Rover. Hounslow way. Anything?” He continued forking fiery chicken pieces into his mouth as he held on. At last he nodded and scribbled on his pad. Then he laughed. “Call me psychic. Thanks!”

  “Our pal Bar-deechi reported it stolen, did he?”

  Ratso played thoughtfully with his glass, twirling it round in a manner that would have made wine buffs flinch. “No. Not Bardici. A guy called Klodian Skela. He’s a cousin. Skela reported it stolen around 5 p.m.”

  “That Bardeechi bastard! Setting up an insurance claim for a stolen vehicle.” He paused to look sadly at his nearly empty whisky bottle. “Know this Skela guy?”

  Ratso shook his head. “Tosh checked out the name once, remember? Nothing. We never followed up. Check him out in the morning before you go. He claimed he was picking up the car to take it for service.”

  “At 5 p.m.? Bollocks! So where is Bardici, then?”

  Ratso shrugged. “Tell you this for free, though. Erlis Bardici must have been shit scared. You don’t go torching a new Range Rover, a Christmas tree job and all.”