Hard Place

by Douglas Stewart

  “It’s outta character.” As an afterthought, she added, “He a regular with you?”

  Buffete sat down again and after a few quick keystrokes he nodded. “He’s been down here five times in six months. Always arrives Friday and … hey! Always checks out on Sunday. So this trip is different.”

  “Maybe he got lucky,” laughed Kirsty-Ann, showing her well-kept teeth that glowed against her Florida tan. Had her hair been black instead of blonde, she might have been mistaken for an American Indian, with her oval face and unblemished skin.

  “Let’s find out.”

  A few moments later they were outside Ruthven’s suite. Buffete rapped on the door a couple of times and announced himself. There was no response and no sound from the room. The detective glanced at her watch; just 8 a.m., a strange time for a guest to be out. Buffete slipped the card into the lock and opened the door.

  Ruthven had chosen a king-sized suite with ocean view and the small step Kirsty-Ann took into the room was like taking a step back in time. It was identical to the room they had shared, chasing each other round the suite with pillows before tumbling into bed. For a moment she imagined Andy, a beer in his hand, lying on the king-size in his beach shorts and T-shirt, watching something on ESPN.

  “The bed wasn’t slept in last night. The maid wouldn’t have gotten to this room yet … so he’s paying for a room he doesn’t need.”

  “Playing away somewhere, maybe.” She noticed Buffete wasn’t listening. He was calling the head of housekeeping and asking her to drop by with the maid.

  “Mind if I look around?” the detective enquired mostly out of courtesy, already about to open the closet door. Buffete nodded as he turned to gaze out to the wintry-looking Atlantic, the grayness of the surface blending into the distant horizon. She moved the formal suit and white shirt along the rail—nothing else in the closet. On the floor were used boxers, a pair of gray socks and a very Washington, DC, pair of black shoes, big, heavy, sensible ones for walking in winter weather. There was a locked room safe, a brown Gladstone bag lying on the luggage stand; the bathroom contained his wash-kit—shaving cream, a disposable razor, expensive shampoo, a toothbrush and toothpaste. The toothpaste looked fresh out of the box and the brush looked unused too.

  The disposable razor was a puzzle. Great for emergencies but would a guy on a serious salary travel with a disposable? Andy used to describe them as the invention of the devil. He always ended up with at least two cuts when he shaved with them.

  “Hello?” She heard Buffete calling her and returned to the main room. The head of housekeeping and a Spanish-speaking maid had arrived. Kirsty-Ann’s Spanish had improved to no end since joining the FLPD and she followed the question-and-answer routine with little difficulty. She saw surprise on Buffete’s face and heard him repeat a question. The doe-eyed maid who was seriously obese held her ground.

  Buffete turned away from the maid. “So Ruthven may have stayed Friday night. The maid remade the bed on Saturday but not since then. Right?”

  “Correct. But she’s unsure if the room really was used Friday night. The shower had not been used; neither had anything but a handtowel. The toilet wasn’t used at all. The paper on the roll is still tucked under.”

  “Unless Ruthven made his own little pointed end after using some.”

  Buffete laughed along with Kirsty-Ann as he dismissed the staff. Once they were alone again, she asked Buffete to get the safe open.

  It was Buffete’s turn to joke. “Impossible. We don’t know the code that the guests put in.” Kirsty-Ann chuckled. Moments later, the safe door swung open, activated by the electronic back door. The detective removed a credit-card holder, a return ticket to National Airport, Washington and a driving licence. There was an Amex card in the name of Lance Ruthven and the photo on the driving licence matched the picture sent down from Washington.

  “I’ll take these,” she said. “I’ll sign for them. You can store his clothes and bag.”

  “Okay. This sure does look unusual. Have a coffee downstairs while I sort out the receipt and check something else. I’ve had a thought.”

  “Sounds good. I started early.” Kirsty-Ann flashed a smile and followed him from the room. While concentrating on her task, thoughts of Andy had disappeared but as she stepped into the corridor, she was rocked by a memory of walking hand-in-hand to the elevator. Andy was dead. But what of Lance Ruthven?

  Play it cool. Those were her instructions. But it didn’t look good.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Chiswick, West London

  While Tosh was having yet another pee, Ratso had ordered Cumberland sausage and mash for himself and a double cheeseburger with extra fries for his sergeant, who claimed to be feeling peckish. Seated by a frosted-glass window, Ratso took a deep slurp of Shiraz. He needed it. On arrival at the Drum & Candlestick gastro-pub, the first thing he had done was wash his face and hands. Even then, he still felt unclean, reminding himself of Lady Macbeth trying to get rid of the blood. In his case, there had been no blood—just the filthy surroundings and the even more disgusting memories of Klodian Skela.

  To Ratso, sex was a carnal, lusty thing. But this was different, big time. Father and daughter, for God’s sake! What Skela had admitted to made sex seem sordid, worse than animal. Anxious to forget the stale smells, the grime and squalor of Skela’s flat, Ratso flicked through the messages on his Blackberry and fired off several replies while Tosh chatted up the Hungarian barmaid. Then he surfed through to Cricinfo and read the latest speculation on team changes for the next test in Perth. Reading of the team’s heroics, life seemed clean, decent. All was right with the world with the lads two-nil up in the Ashes series already. He was just about clear of images of Skela when Tosh re-joined him, followed by the immediate arrival of his huge plate of gastro-posh sausage and mash.

  “Fancy him admitting to sodomising his own daughter because his wife wouldn’t let him have any,” Tosh muttered as he sat down.

  “Change the subject. We’ve got enough evidence to prosecute. She was only fourteen when it started. We have Klodian Skela right here.” He cupped his hands as if the Albanian’s testicles were nestling in them. “Now we know Bardici’s been to the Caribbean. We don’t know why. On that, I believe Skela’s ignorance. Bardici would not have confided the details.” He hacked off a large chunk of sausage. “But I’ll bet you a tenner we hear from Skela before Rosafa returns.”

  “Boss, I don’t much care if I ever see or hear of Skela again.”

  Ratso shrugged. “He could be the key we need—a key to a new door.”

  “I don’t get it. The kid was up for it. Drops by for an overnighter when her Mum’s oop north.” Tosh chewed angrily at his burger. “I mean, she’s a pretty kid. I could sort her out.”

  “In your dreams.” Ratso fell silent, indicating the subject was closed while he ate his lunch.

  “Fourteen years old. The bastard,” Tosh persisted.

  “Tosh. No more!” Ratso’s tone was unusually snappy. The sergeant got the message and chomped away noisily as they both turned to watch the TV. The Sky TV News weather girl was predicting snow when Ratso finished the last of his wedged chips. Tosh, with twice as much food, had wiped his plate clean long before.

  Coffees appeared and Tosh saw that Ratso was ready to chat again. “Reckon she was eighteen like he said?”

  “Nah! See the way the sweat poured from him. She was still a minor. Seventeen at most. More importantly Skela gave us a pointer. Our job is to find out where he’s pointing us. And quick too.”

  Tosh looked concerned. “You under pressure or something, boss?”

  “Caldwell’s complaint is still ticking. Thank God Arthur Tennant is not my defending counsel. I’d be dead.”

  “No worries, boss! Not if the AC’s behind you.”

  “Yeah but he doesn’t want his name in this.”r />
  “Then someone else needs to fix this Caldwell creep.”

  “Right?” Ratso’s voice was interested and his face creased in thought. He was also rather impressed. Tosh was not much given to original thoughts. “That’s a plan. But who? Ideas?”

  “A word from on high. A quiet word. From the very top. Not straight from the AC to Caldwell but a quiet word to Caldwell’s guvnor.”

  Ratso was even more impressed. “I like it. I like it a lot.” Ratso’s face did not break into a smile but his eyes showed appreciation. “All your own work this idea, was it?”

  Tosh grinned. “I spoke to Jock when I was having a piss. We both want to help.”

  Ratso laughed. “Pity! I was going to nominate you for a Nobel.”

  “I told Jock about the incest. He reckons there’s nothing wrong with incest so long as you keep it in the family.” Tosh burst out laughing and after a moment’s uncertainty Ratso’s craggy features broke into a smile and then a hearty chuckle. “Jock added that in life, everybody should try everything once—everything, that is, except incest and Morris Dancing.”

  They both high-fived amid belly laughs. “I never fancied poncing about with white hankies and bells on my legs.” Ratso returned to his notes. “Now, listen. Bardici went from Heathrow. Skela couldn’t remember the destination—probably the Bahamas but he couldn’t confirm Nassau, Paradise Island, or New Providence Island.”

  Tosh accepted a slice of Ratso’s Juicy Fruit. “You sure he wasn’t giving you a load of pony?”

  “Yeah, because being a cousin, Skela’s not just Bardici’s gofer.” Tosh looked unconvinced. Ratso flicked open his Blackberry and pulled up a map of the islands. “Could be any of these little blobs. They’ve all seen their share of Colombian cocaine passing through. But if not Nassau, the most likely destination is Grand Bahama Island.”

  “Maybe he’s just topping up his tan?”

  Ratso knew Tosh was joking. “The Bahamas government used to be the epicentre of drug running from Colombia to the USA.”

  “But Bardici’s no deal-maker. He’s a hammer. And more than that, Zandro’s mob get their gear from Afghanistan, not Colombia.”

  Ratso was pulled up short but only just for a moment. “You’re right, Tosh. But the word I got was that this next deal was going to be mega. So maybe cocaine as well.”

  “Which means Bardici’s gone because there’s trouble—big trouble with a capital B.”

  “I’m seeing the AC at four. Get someone working on where Bardici has been. If Skela’s right, Bardici could be back as soon as tomorrow.”

  “Suggestions?”

  “Check flights to Florida linking to the Bahamas—airports like Miami, Orlando, Fort Lauderdale—on the day Neil’s body was found. Check for Bardici’s name on flights and cross-check for a return landing tomorrow.”

  “But …”

  Ratso anticipated the hesitation. “No, you’re right. Unless he really did pack his bucket and spade, he’ll have used a false ID.”

  “So check all passengers by camera?”

  Ratso’s lips almost smiled at the mindless optimism. “Pointless.” He saw Tosh’s puzzled look. “First identify guys with routings London to the Bahamas on these precise days, then we check the closed circuit and put US Homeland Security and our Immigration boys to work. We’ll know his name and where he has been.” Tosh did not look enthused about data mining. Hard graft and meticulous homework was for the others. “Go to it, Tosh!”

  With a final nod of goodbye, Ratso headed out into the wintry blast of Chiswick High Road and the uncertainty of what lay ahead with Wensley Hughes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Fort Lauderdale, Florida

  At the end of her third day making casual investigations, all low-key with no media on her back yet, Kirsty-Ann Webber edited her report. Everything seemed to point in one direction as she scrolled down the screen to check her Summary and Conclusions:

  1. Ruthven had stayed in the Hilton on five occasions but never once had he charged anything to the room from the poolside or restaurants. He had never eaten there on a card, or even paid cash as far as anybody could recall. He was not a familiar figure around the hotel.

  2. The computer confirmed he always left on Sunday at a similar checkout time of just before noon.

  3. His personal toiletries were slightly unusual (all never ever used).

  4. Without a false driving licence, he could not have hired a car because his driving licence was in the safe.

  5. The bellmen and carjockeys have no recollection of him leaving the hotel this trip. He always arrived by taxi. The bell captain thought he remembers him arriving.

  6. Enquiries of local restaurants and bars within walking distance were negative.

  7. His Gladstone bag was interesting. First examination revealed nothing but on closer inspection, it had a false leather base that could have concealed a few items. It was empty but might have been used. The bag has been seized as evidence.

  8. Forensics confirmed a couple of long brown hairs found in the suitcase’s hidden section were from a wig; see their report in Appendix A.

  9. The return ticket to Washington had not been used.

  Conclusions

  10. Ruthven left the hotel on Friday (almost certainly) and definitely by Saturday.

  11. He must have taken cash because his Amex card was in the room.

  12. He was never seen in a rented car and was not recognised at rental agencies at the airport.

  13. Assuming this trip was like the others, he never used his credit card while in Florida (see printouts from Amex for the periods covered by every trip, nil usage). No other company has any record of him owning a credit or debit card.

  14. Taxi drivers have not been approached. Their testimony would be a long shot but may be essential. Speaking to them would lead to immediate media awareness. So far, I have kept this under wraps.

  15. Assuming Ruthven did not plan to disappear on this trip and was following a familiar routine, he would have returned to DC on Sunday. Therefore, either this trip was the one he was building up to for a planned disappearance in a brown wig OR something unusual has happened to him while wearing a brown wig and operating under an identity other than that of Lance Ruthven.

  16. The false bottom was just large enough to conceal false identity cards, passport(s), the wig and other odds and ends.

  17. Ruthven could enter the Bahamas with only a photo ID but would need a passport to return to the US. I suggest a search be made in DC for his genuine passport. If not found, he must be carrying his real one as well, UNLESS he has hidden/stored it somewhere in the FL area.

  18. Enquiries at nightclubs, saunas and gay bars have been negative.

  19. As this was his sixth identical trip, he either (a) visits a friend(s) here under an assumed ID or (b) uses the airport to fly to a destination easily reachable from here but not from DC. That could include many cities on the mainland but more probably islands like the Bahamas or Grand Cayman. Alternatively, (c) he may use a cruise or other ship.

  20. There are about forty international flight destinations from Fort Lauderdale Airport. I discount twenty-seven as being either too far (e.g. Germany) or inappropriate to reach from Fort Lauderdale (e.g. Quebec, Canada) rather than using a better/more direct routing. I have not checked US city destinations, of which there are sixty-three excluding Washington DC.

  21. In effect, Ruthven has barely fifty hours unaccounted for on each previous trip, so I infer he does not travel far. We should check airlines to the Bahamas, Grand Cayman and short-cruise companies. I will work to identify a passenger using another name, sailing from here or flying to the islands on dates consistent with all of his visits. Failing that, checking other destinations for the six visits could be done.

  Satisfied with her conclusions, she
took the report to Bucky Buchanan’s office two floors up. She wanted to take it further. She had no idea where this was leading but finding out could be just the boost she’d been looking for.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Heathrow, West London

  Ratso and Tosh had been delighted that the Miami flight was due at Terminal Five at 9:35 a.m., so they hadn’t needed to start out early. Ratso had even given himself extra time for his shower and breakfast, catching up with the cricket from Down Under. The previous night he had not spent at Kingston, a decision over which he had agonised. However, as he sat in the swaying clatter of the speeding train, his thoughts were neither of Charlene nor cricket. Amy Winehouse belted out a bluesy number, filling his ears but not his mind. Instead, he was reliving yesterday’s meeting with Wensley Hughes as the train swayed and rocked westwards.

  He always got a buzz passing the familiar revolving sign outside New Scotland Yard, headquartered in its otherwise featureless tower in the heart of Westminster. In here, decisions to make or break police careers or operations were being made every day. During the meeting with the AC, Ratso had felt pleased; he even got in a couple of digs against Tennant. Hughes had said nothing in response and his taciturn face gave away nothing but Ratso was confident that a black mark, maybe two, would go into the book against his superior. He liked the thought. And as for Jock’s idea that the word reach Caldwell but not from Hughes directly, the A Chad been impressed. Fixing Caldwell with no fingerprints left behind suited him well enough to offer Ratso a chocolate digestive.

  After leaving the meeting, Ratso had grabbed the District Line westbound from St. James’s Park and was looking forward to getting home in time to watch the West Indies match from Antigua. After breezing cheerfully out of Hammersmith station, he had crossed the Broadway and chatted supportively to Charlene, saying all the right things. But in truth, he was quite glad for a night away from her. He needed some space before going to Wolsey Drive drifted into something permanent.