Hard Place

by Douglas Stewart

  “Me. Nobody else.”

  Ratso marked the first blatant lies but let Tosh continue. “So why not report it, then?” Ratso noticed the man fidget, his fingers opening and closing on the tablecloth.

  Skela shrugged. “I not know for sure. Maybe I make mistake. Wrong day. Maybe Mr. Bardici, he out in car.”

  “So what made you sure at 5:25 p.m.? Had you spoken to Mr Bardici?”

  “No. Not talk. Erlis Bardici away.”

  “Oh, where?”

  “Away. He not say. Back tomorrow.”

  “Abroad, is he? Tirana, perhaps?”

  Skela shrugged again but still looked composed.

  “You work for him?”

  “Like … bit this, bit that.”

  “Such as?”

  “Take car to garage. Work in garden. Paint wall. Buy things. B & Q. HomeBase. Maybe drive him.”

  Ratso nodded. He always enjoyed questioning a witness when he had every ace in the deck. But he liked to build it up, let whichever sergeant was with him do the spadework, set the tempo before going for the jugular. “So when did Mr Bardici ask you to take his car to the garage?”

  Skela seemed unperturbed, replying without hesitation that it had been the day before the theft. “The garage in Twickenham. Meltbys.”

  “And how do you know Mr Bardici?”

  “He my cousin.”

  “Mr. Bardici? Who is he? What is his job?”

  “Ask him.”

  “I’m asking you. Now tell me.” The final three words were snapped out, causing Skela to flinch.

  “Maybe he own one, no, maybe two stores. Like corner shops.”

  “And her?” Ratso pointed to the bathroom, where a shower was running. He saw Tosh change positions uncomfortably on his chair and he would have bet a pony that Tosh’s bladder was giving him hell with the sound of running water. Then his attention returned to the witness, who either shared Tosh’s problem or was uneasy. “This young woman. Her name?”

  “Lindita.” The name was accompanied by a small bead of perspiration trickling down the man’s forehead to the black stubble on his cheek. A study of Skela’s heavy features showed that, given a good wash and brush-up, he would be quite attractive to some women; he had a strong jawline, a steady gaze and designer stubble that he had yet to trim this morning. His eyes were deep-set, suggesting a depth to his character but judging by the squalor in which he lived, perhaps he was less intelligent than his features suggested. His mouth looked smiley though at present he had little about which to smile.

  Ratso was puzzled by the man’s unease. “How old is Lindita? Fifteen?”

  Very quickly, too quickly, Skela retorted that she was eighteen but now his forehead was gleaming with a line of sweat from side to side. It started between the thinning strands on top of his head and was almost a stream now, so much so that the Albanian searched in his dressing gown pocket and mopped his brow with a grubby blue-spotted hankie.

  The draught from the ill-fitting window whistled across the table, matched only by another from the hallway. The small gas fire was not lit. “Not hot in here, is it, Mr Skela?” Ratso was curious. In fact the place was bloody freezing and the best way Ratso could think of to keep warm in a dump like this was to be shagging Lindita twenty-four-seven. Short of that, thermals all year.

  Ratso stood up, stretched and yawned loudly as if he were at home. He wanted time now—time to gather his thoughts as he pottered his way round the bedsit picking up ornaments, looking at the pictures on the walls. Who’s this woman Skela is bedding?

  He paused at the end of the bed. Lindita had taken the top sheet but the bottom sheet was still there, rumpled and creased. Halfway down, there were a series of wet patches where Skela’s orgasm had dripped from the girl’s thighs or been shot into the bed. Elsewhere were other stains that he did not care to study too closely. On the far side of the bed, he saw the jumble of male and female clothes lying in a heap on the floor.

  For a fleeting second the discarded underwear took his imagination to Wolsey Drive. His animal instincts toward Charlene had been heightened by a second overnight stop. Last night, they had even walked down to the pub by the Thames for bar food and a glass of wine. It had been one of those awkward events, sort of dating but not—their first public appearance. Yet he could almost feel her urging him to hold her hand in the dark side streets on the return journey. Though his sap was rising, he had somehow refrained. F’Gawd’s sake, Ratso, you can’t go walking through the streets hand in hand before the funeral. But at least there was no sign now of Caldwell’s lot, who had interviewed Charlene and left with nothing of value.

  Ratso continued his tour of the bed-sitter, leaving Skela to worry about whatever was worrying him so much. Tosh knew better than to fire any questions now while Ratso was letting the witness stew. There was no kitchen as such, just a small area where you could stand on the lino by the sink or cooker rather than on the stained fawn carpet. The remains of takeaway for two and an empty bottle of Bulgarian red stood beside unwashed dishes. Ratso reached the sideboard, the place that had been his ultimate goal without making it obvious. There were almost a dozen family photos, including one of Klodian Skela’s wedding to the woman he had seen walking toward Bardici’s house in Westbrook Drive. The adjacent photo of husband and wife was quite recent and appeared to have been taken with Southend Pier in the background. Ratso picked it up. “Your wife?”

  Skela nodded. “Rosafa.”

  Ratso’s eyes moved along the line of snaps and portraits of the loving family—several were of a young boy at different ages. In the most recent, he was about nineteen and posing outside Old Trafford wearing United’s red top. But it was the photo of the other young child that made him look and then look again. No. Surely not? But yes. He said nothing as he turned away and pulled back the faded curtain to peer down at the wet pavements below. He felt slightly sick and wished he had tucked into a bacon buttie in the greasy on the High Street like Tosh. Empty stomachs were not good at times like this. He returned to stand, towering over the witness. “So where were you during the day? I mean, between when you saw the car was missing and when you phoned the police.”

  There was a pause. “Ah! With Rosafa.”

  “Where?”

  “Goldhawk Road. Shopping. Then here. Then I go to Erlis house. No car still. I phone police.”

  “Did you phone Mr. Bardici to tell him his car was gone?”

  “Yes, yes. I phone. No answer. Many time.”

  Ratso was unconvinced. He decided it was time to sit down and he did so, drawing his chair closer to Skela’s fit-looking frame. The sweating above the hairline had stopped but the smell of stale underarms was now very evident. “Okay, Skela. I’ve listened to enough bullshit. From now on I want the truth.”

  “What you mean? I swear all true. Car stolen.”

  “I am going straight to Manchester and I am going to speak to Rosafa. Where is she staying? Your son’s address?”

  Skela looked everywhere but at the officers. He licked his lips nervously, proving to Ratso that the guy was small-time as he had always suspected. Certainly his crap bedsit showed no sign of drug wealth.

  “Your son’s address.” This time Ratso barked out the words so that Skela flinched. “Now!”

  “I no remember. Fallowfield.”

  Ratso had driven through the Manchester suburb on a few occasions. It was full of students and kebab houses. “Oh, you’ll remember by the time this interview is over. You’ll remember a great deal. There’ll be no more bullshit.” He paused for effect before pushing his head even closer to the man’s face. “Listen and listen hard.” He waited, watching Skela’s now sullen eyes stare at the worn carpet. “You, you dirty snivelling bastard, are screwing Lindita … your own daughter. When Rosafa’s away, you are screwing her here in the family bed.”
>
  Ratso sensed the shock as Tosh heard the words. He saw Skela’s eyes move furtively, seeking an escape. He could almost hear the Albanian’s brain whirring as he measured the depth of the pit in which he now was.

  “Where does Lindita live?”

  Skela was slow to answer. “With friends. Ealing.”

  “So when Rosafa’s in Manchester, you screw her like you have done since she was a kid.”

  “No.”

  “You’d go down for fourteen years. Maybe much longer. Sex offenders can expect no mercy from other prisoners.” Ratso was unsure whether he was bluffing or not. What he had learned about the law on incest had been long forgotten.

  “Mind you,” intervened Tosh, “I guess Rosafa will use her kitchen scissors on you when she gets the chance.”

  “No. Not tell Rosafa. No, please.”

  Ratso never relented when he had someone pinned to the ropes. “Unless I get every answer I need from you, I am arresting you for incest with a minor and I am going to Manchester to get statements from your son and your wife on what they knew.”

  “Then I answer. What you want know? Okay? You no tell Rosafa.”

  “No deals. No promises. You speak. I listen.”

  Sweat was again pouring down the Albanian’s face. “I pay you money. No tell.”

  “Piss off, Skela. Answers. That’s all.” There was a long silence as the fish wriggled on the hook.

  Tosh looked across at Ratso. “Let’s interview the girl.” He nodded to the bathroom. “Let’s find out how old she was when this started.” Ratso signalled agreement. Tosh eased himself up and headed to the closed door but before he reached it, Skela broke down completely, shaking uncontrollably, sobbing with his head bowed.

  “Hold it, Tosh.” Ratso turned to the snivelling wreck. “I think our friend here wants to sign a statement. Look at me, Skela and listen. I want every last detail. Believe me, I’ll know if you are lying. One single porky, one lie and you will be charged with incest but not before I’ve told Rosafa the truth. Worse still for you, I’ll let her return home to speak to you before I take you down the nick.”

  “I answer.”

  Ratso signalled Tosh to sit down. “You were not taking the Range Rover to be serviced, were you? You torched it. What was going on?”

  “Erlis, he kill me if he know I speak. You no tell him.”

  Ratso shrugged and his lips narrowed. “Look, Skela. You have no choice but to speak. I don’t give a toss whether you are more scared of Rosafa or Mr. Bardici. Just talk.”

  Skela started to sob again. Sweaty fear oozed from the man’s skin. Tosh and Ratso exchanged glances. They had seen this situation before and there was only one way to go. Foot down, hard on the throttle. No letup. No deals. Or, as Ratso had said a couple of months back, keep one foot on the throat till the gurgling has nearly stopped.

  “Erlis. He phone. He say take car. Go to place in country. Meet man. Burn car. Then say stolen.”

  “Did you go alone?”

  “Rosafa did come.”

  “Who did you meet?”

  “Man. No know name.”

  “You see him before?”

  “No. Never.”

  “After you torched the car, what happened?”

  “Man drove us to Acton. Never see again.”

  “Why did Erlis want the car torched?”

  “He no say.”

  “He paid you well?”

  “He promise one fifty pound.”

  “One hundred and fifty pounds, eh? Easy money, Mr Skela. Where is he?”

  “I not know.” Ratso could tell Skela was lying. There was just that flickering moment when the man’s small brain had decided that he just might get away with a denial. The rapid eyelid movement was a dead giveaway. A curt nod to Tosh.

  “You’re lying, you stinking lump of shit. Get the girl in, Tosh.”

  Watson headed for the bathroom and opened the unlocked door. Lindita was sitting on the edge of the bath, still shrouded by a sheet but now with a towel wrapped around her head. He motioned her to join them and she came through, her eyes lowered, the haughtiness apparent only in her face, not in her movements. Tosh remained in the bathroom and Ratso sat silently, waiting while Tosh splashed his boots. There was silence as the three awaited his return, though Ratso observed Lindita staring hard at her father as if seeking a lead from him.

  “That’s better.” Tosh reappeared, grinning contentedly.

  Ratso flicked back his cuff to reveal his watch that did nothing more than tell the time. If he wanted a watch that could control a Space Shuttle, be waterproof at 10,000 meters and play “Jingle Bells,” he would save up. Till then, this H. Samuels fifteen quid on special offer would do. “I’m bored with this. I’ve no time to waste on perverted scumbags like you.” He leaned forward and barked full into Skela’s face so that he flinched, drawing back in shock. “Tell me and tell me now.” The final word might have been heard in the next apartment. “Where did Bardici go and when?”

  He stood up, seeing no sign of progress.

  “Okay. I am now asking Sgt Watson to take Lindita to the police station. I am going to Manchester. We’ll locate your son and your wife quickly enough.”

  Tosh looked at the girl. “Get your clothes. Get dressed.” Lindita looked sullen and sought guidance with an enquiring look at her father but he looked away, still torn between his fear of Bardici and the destruction of his family life.

  Ratso glared at the witness but then softened. “Do you really want to put Lindita through all this? Are you that scared of Erlis Bardici? A guy who runs corner shops selling crisps and Mars bars.”

  Even as he said the words, Ratso knew the answer. Skela was indeed shit-scared. With good reason: if Bardici suspected he had been dumped on by Skela, his death would not be pretty. He motioned the woman to the bathroom. “Get dressed. You have two minutes.”

  A long silence followed in which Tosh and Ratso stared silently at Skela, who sat with his head in his hands, looking down with his eyes closed. It was only when Lindita reappeared that he looked up, his hands and lips trembling. “Okay. I will say you.”

  He motioned his daughter back to the bathroom. Not even she was permitted to hear where Bardici had gone to ground.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Fort Lauderdale, Florida

  Detective Kirsty-Ann Webber of the Fort Lauderdale Police Department cruised along East Sunrise, prepared to turn south toward the Hilton resort. Though assigned to the Strategic Investigations Unit, she had been temporarily pulled from her present role on a team targeting some new suspected mob activity.

  As usual, she was driving an unmarked vehicle, everything low profile. Play it cool, keep it casual had been her instructions from Bucky Buchanan. According to the chief, the word from Washington was that this assignment was more important than it seemed. What the heck did that mean? A guy from DC had checked in at the hotel the Friday before and hadn’t returned to DC. A missing person! So what? Happens all the time. Debt problems. Woman trouble. Just wanting a new start. Got lucky with a new date and can’t get his pants on over his erection. Could be all kinds of reasons. Didn’t mean the guy had been dumped in the Everglades to feed the alligators.

  She chewed on a granola bar and felt better for it. It was the start of a long day, another long day after another disturbed night. Little Leon was now eight months old, with lungs that could crack concrete. She sighed. Balancing being a single mom and keeping her reputation as a smart cookie in the FLPD was harder than she’d expected. Thank God her own mom was available round the clock to provide support.

  She knew the missing guy worked for the government, kinda high in the State Department. So was he a spook, living a secret life beneath the cover of his day job? Or was he working for an enemy state? Russia? China? Iran? It was hard to remembe
r who was a friend and who was an enemy any more. But if he was a spook, surely the CIA or Feds would have been down here. Or perhaps their presence would have been top-heavy. Not casual.

  The familiar tower of the Hilton came into view, dominating the skyline. She viewed her task with mixed feelings—not because of the task itself but because it was the first time she had been inside the Hilton in three years. She and her husband had luxuriated there for their honeymoon. Andy had been the one love of her life, not like the charmer last year who got her pregnant with Leon and then returned one-way to Chicago. Her husband, a federal agent, was murdered near Peachtree Plaza just days after the honeymoon, shot dead on duty.

  Afterwards, she had applied for a transfer to Florida and with rave testimonials about her tenacity, she had landed a position with FLPD. She wanted, or thought she wanted, the feeling of being close to where she and Andy had been happiest during their ten months living together. Now, as she parked and then entered the huge open space of the marbled lobby, she had to fight the temptation both to cry and to cry out at the unfairness of a young thug with a gun stealing the future they had planned. Slowly, her mind locked in a timewarp, she walked to the front desk and asked for the duty manager.

  While she waited, she took a seat on a white bench, where they had sat and gazed up at the chandelier and tasteful designs, just as they had done. This time she saw everything through watery eyes, which she fought to conceal as the duty manager appeared, hand cheerfully extended. After she flashed her ID, he took her into a private office behind the front desk and offered her coffee, juice, soda. She declined.

  “Lance Ruthven, you said?” He was tapping at the computer as he spoke.

  “Checked in last Friday. Should have checked out on Sunday.”

  The tall, rather elegant Puerto Rican, whose name tag read Santiago Buffete, looked across. “Yes. He checked in. But so far, he has not checked out.”

  “Can we take a look at his room?”

  “Sure.” He rose to a full six foot two and was about to escort her to the lobby when he paused. “This is Tuesday morning. Plenty of our guests stay long or leave early. It’s part of the business. Why are you guys involved?”