Hard Place

by Douglas Stewart

  At the table, Jock had been joshing Tosh about the company names. Tosh’s frown said it all. Ratso sat as the sergeants wolfed down their muffins, though that didn’t stop Jock from almost choking with laughter. “I asked Tosh if he’d worked it out,” he spluttered to Ratso. “Okay, I said, I’ll give you a clue. These four names: Etro, Oulsden, Egent and Onduit. They’re code for four London clubs. So he only says, Spurs, Arsenal, West Ham and Fulham.” Ratso joined in the laughter while Tosh scowled, asking what was so bleeding funny.

  “Tell him, Jock.”

  But before Jock could answer, Tosh volunteered again. “Tit-and-bum clubs, then? Like those joints in Soho? Sunset Strip and that.”

  “Come on, boss. Put the poor sod out of his misery.”

  “Etro, Oulsden, Egent and Onduit. Add one letter to each you get Metro, Poulsden, Regent and Conduit.”

  Jock put on a passable imitation of a Hoorah Henry’s London accent. “Each one is a posh, blue-chip London club—hangouts for toffs like the Lord Doodahs and Sir Willerby Muppets of this world. Oh yaah! Spiffing, what?”

  “Plus loads of media types, city slickers, minor celebrities,” added Ratso. “The royals—some of the male ones, that is—belong to the Poulsden in Hill Street, Mayfair.”

  Tosh was miffed at his ignorance being so exposed. “So what’s your point?” he asked huffily.

  “I’ll explain, Tosh. I’ll use big writing to make it easier. Or would you prefer a cartoon?”

  “Bollocks!” Tosh replied, grinning as he shifted uneasily.

  “Okay, imagine you’re Terry Fenwick.”

  “With his money, too?”

  Ratso ignored him. “You form dozens of companies. Most names have been used already, so you can’t register them. You need to invent new ones. So you’re having lunch in the …”

  “Metro Club in Charlotte Street,” suggested Jock.

  “And you’re talking to a client who needs a new company,” continued Ratso. “So you think, what shall we call it? Ah! Metro Holdings Limited but of course you know that a good name like Metro will have gone.” Tosh looked up, his expression showing that he was now on message. “So today I want a list of members from those four clubs. I’m off tomorrow; it’s the funeral.”

  “And no’ just off for an hour, eh, boss?” Jock’s remark was well loaded and Ratso saw Tosh smirk.

  Ratso’s pokerface gave nothing away. “Afterwards? I’ll go to the wake. Meet the family.”

  “Ye’ll be back the next day, will ye?” Now Jock’s voice was deadpan but Ratso had no doubt what the gossip had been behind his back.

  “Why not?” Ratso ducked the bouncer as well as any England batsman. “After I’ve been through the membership lists, I’ll decide about surveillance but if Fenwick’s a member of these clubs, then we might get to fast-track what’s going on.”

  He turned to Tosh.

  “Tomorrow, for Neil Shalford’s funeral, I want you in an O.P. van. I want everyone who attends the service to be photographed. Plus, of course, anybody who might be hanging round watching.”

  “Expecting Bardici?”

  Ratso’s look was foxy. “If he heard both Hogans would be there as mourners, he might stop by.” He twirled his coffee cup. “They won’t be, of course. No way they want to be linked to Neil Shalford. Especially not to his corpse.” Yet the listeners knew Ratso had a subplot in mind. They had spotted the dancing look in his eyes.

  “But?”

  “But if my snout gets the word out …”

  Jock thumped the table. “That both brothers will be there? Aye, that’ll attract Bardici like a fly to dung.”

  “And in Bardici’s mind, link the bugging to Dan and Jerry Hogan.” Tosh was getting there in bite-sized chunks.

  “He might try something. Or he’ll want to know who attends. So you will be there to watch any watchers, Bardici or someone we don’t yet know. Maybe we’ll add another photo to the whiteboard. Perhaps even ID him if you follow him onto a bus or tube. Or better still, into a car with a number you can scratch down. Got it?”

  Tosh grinned. “Piece of cake, boss.”

  Ratso was less confident. Jock had said nothing, his mind somewhere else. “Jock. Anything to add besides the shenanigans at Rangers?”

  Jock stirred from his thoughts; Ratso had guessed his mind kept drifting back to Glasgow. The Scot shook his head and sighed. “It’s a right mess up there. Double-dealing. The fans deserve better.” He reached for the last crumbs on his plate. “Any special instructions for me, boss? While ye’re, er, comforting the widow?” But Ratso had already left the table and if he heard, he was not rising to the bait.

  “He’ll be well in there,” volunteered Tosh with Ratso out of earshot. “Charlene’s a right little raver.” The two sergeants grinned at each other as they held back, watching Ratso hold open the door for a frail-looking pensioner.

  “Aye, right enough!” added Jock. “Remember that night at yon pole-dancing place in Streatham? That piss-up after banging up those Yardies?”

  Tosh looked sheepish. “I prefer to forget that night.”

  Jock rewarded him with a belly laugh. “My money? The boss won’t be in next morning. Not early, anyroads.”

  The two men laughed and were still laughing when they caught up with Ratso near the traffic lights. He looked at them suspiciously, pretty damned sure he was the butt of their joke. Ignoring their mocking grins, he crouched to chat with a scruff who was seated cross-legged on a coconut mat, an even scruffier mongrel beside him. The two sergeants looked on as Ratso exchanged some banter before slipping a fiver into the man’s grimy hand.

  “God bless you, mate,” the man said with a strong Yorkshire accent. Ratso knew the beggar had started life in Rotherham.

  “Don’t piss it all against the wall, will you,” Ratso responded as he smiled his goodbye and the three officers moved on.

  “You’re a soft touch, boss. A fiver! Five quid to a lazy bastard who’s too idle to get off his fat arse.” Tosh’s face matched his indignant tone.

  “Ending up like that is never so far from any of us. That fiver means more to him than to me.”

  Tosh was unrepentant. “One day you’ll see the real him, all togged up in his best whistle and flute coming out of the Ritz after a slap-up dinner. Conmen, the lot of them.”

  “You are so wrong. This guy likes a chat, a kind word.” Ratso’s voice had grown irritated. “And I know a damned sight more about him than you ever will, with that pig-ignorant attitude. Talk to him—find out for yourself.”

  Ratso wasn’t going to give Tosh the pleasure of knowing the horrific story of the guy’s rail crash in Africa that stole his wife and his baby daughter. He had used a crutch since the age of twenty-nine. His frontal lobe brain injury had made him unemployable.

  There was an embarrassed hush as they walked on before Jock broke the surly silence. “Reckon Zandro might be a club member, boss?”

  Ratso shrugged but his face revealed a glimmer of hope. “I don’t know much about these pukka joints. You need a shedload of members to support your application to join. One blackball and you’re out. It happened to that Jeremy Paxman once at the Garrick. But maybe Zandro would get elected—all that patronage of the arts stuff and his swanky dinner parties.”

  “I’ll check for his name anyway,” Tosh said as they turned into the car park and their drab, cheerless block.

  Ratso stopped in his tracks and turned to face the sergeants. “I’ve an idea. Tosh, take five random pictures along. Any old sods—City types, landed gentry. Get them from the Web. Nobody well-known but include Zandro among them and then ask the porter at the entrance whether he knows any of them.”

  “And if they recognise Zandro?”

  “Act disappointed. Make out you were after one of the others.”

 
“And me?” Jock sidestepped a puddle and glanced up at the drizzle that was now settling on Ratso’s hair.

  “When you’ve cracked Klodian Skela’s boat, help Tosh on the clubs.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Kingston, Surrey, England

  Ratso sat in the rear of the Daimler limo. Next to him was Charlene, dressed in black and clutching a white hankie in her black gloves. Outside, the sky was endless pale blue against which every branch of every tree was sharply edged. The early morning frost had just about thawed under the winter sun. In the middle row of the stretch limo were Charlene’s sister and Frankie, her insipid-looking husband, who had a thick ginger moustache to match his ginger comb-over. Over milky Nescafé and biscuits, he had bored Ratso rigid, full of crap about his job in credit control at a sanitary ware company in Folkestone.

  Neil’s only known relation, his brother Patrick, was working on a mining project in West Australia. He had emailed that he could not travel. The brothers had not seen each other in seventeen years and Patrick’s indifferent tone was loud and clear. Charlene’s brother was on an oil rig in the Falklands and was not attending. Neil had a handful of drinking buddies, so Ratso expected maybe a dozen or so mourners to be at the church.

  Ratso had felt very close to Charlene, enjoyed her squeezing his hand as they left Wolsey Drive. She was staring straight ahead, her thoughts goodness knew where. Yet his thoughts kept drifting back to the new evidence that Tosh and Jock had gathered. In the silence, the details swirled around his restless mind. As the Daimler turned into Fernhill Gardens, he wondered how Tosh was getting on in the O.P. vehicle—presumably okay, as Ratso’s phone was silent in his pocket.

  Occasionally Ratso glanced at Charlene and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. She seemed well in control, not tearful, just quiet and tense. He guessed the tears would come during the service. Suddenly, Ratso’s phone rang, grotesquely intrusive to the chilly silence as the limo glided slowly toward the cemetery behind the hearse. Frankie, the credit controller, turned round and glared at Ratso. “Turn that bloody thing off. Got no respect?”

  Ratso glared at the irritating sod. “Look, chum. Neil was murdered and don’t you forget it. I can’t. I’m on duty twenty-four-seven. Got it?” He watched the absurd moustache disappear as the boring little man turned away. Ratso answered the call. It was Tosh.

  “Right bog-up, boss. Our van’s just been sideswiped by a delivery vehicle. About two minutes from the cemetery. Not our driver’s fault. But by the time the traffic boys arrive …”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Ratso had a big decision to make.

  “We’ll never make it. Plan B? You want me in the church?”

  “What you wearing?” Tosh got as far as explaining he was wearing a lilac T-shirt and jeans before Ratso stopped him. “I’ve got the North Face job.”

  Ratso’s mind was racing. It was at moments like this that you earned your crust or screwed up. “Grab a camera with a decent zoom and skulk somewhere close by. Skulk means discreet, okay?”

  “You got it, boss. Where are you?”

  Ratso wiped the window that had started to mist over. “Driving along Richmond Road. We’ll be ten to fifteen depending on traffic on the gyratory.”

  He ended the call. Immediately, Charlene turned to him. “I’m glad.” Her face was sincere. Ratso looked back, puzzled. “Glad you’re on Neil’s case. I thought …”

  “You’re right. DCI Caldwell’s running the show but … I mean, Neil was a mate. I’m doing what I can.” The gratitude in Charlene’s eyes made him feel uncomfortable deceiving her about this … and perhaps too about his conflicting emotions. She gripped his hand tighter and he felt her thigh press close against him. Ratso swallowed hard and looked away.

  He peered out as the procession turned into the winding road leading to the church and cemetery. Ahead, he saw blue flashing lights of a patrol car and a motorbike. Someone Ratso did not recognise, presumably the delivery driver, was on the street corner looking like a whipped pup as he was questioned by two uniforms. Of Tosh there was no sign as they inched past the two vehicles, Ratso scanning the wing of the O.P. van. It had been crumpled deep into the deflated nearside tire. He saw young Reynolds, the police driver in his overalls, talking on his phone.

  Ratso looked away and gave Charlene another reassuring smile, hoping she would not ask questions. She squeezed his hand and then stuffed the still-dry hankie into her black shoulder bag. He offered her a Polo but she declined. “I’m told it helps,” he prompted but again she shook her head. Finally the vehicle stopped. Moments later, they stood restlessly outside the church watching the pallbearers lift the casket from the rear of the leading Daimler. “Here we go, then.” He grasped her elbow and they walked to the coffin, which Charlene touched briefly, staring blankly at the abundant lilies and white carnations.

  Ratso never saw Tosh but Tosh saw them. He was pretending to read a headstone. In Dallas, Texas, his position would have been called the grassy knoll, about sixty meters from the entrance to the chapel. His loud lilac T-shirt was muted by his North Face. He felt glad of it on the chilly morning. So long as he leaned round the gravestone beside him, the camera’s powerful zoom gave him a great chance to photo the very few mourners. It all looked very predictable, nobody out of place.

  He had photographed the nine mourners who had awaited the arrival of the hearse. They looked like a group of pub mates, chatting spasmodically, all of them seeming to know each other. No Hogan brothers. One solitary woman of about twenty-six with a wide-brimmed black hat stood alone smoking a cigarette, gazing around her, obviously nervous. An ex-lover, perhaps? Or a current one? Or Bardici’s spy?

  Far down to his right, Tosh saw the empty grave, the earth piled up, everything ready for the burial. Nearer were low shrubs and a clump of trees, perhaps six of them, their leafy branches drooping toward the ground. Holm oaks, probably, he thought, grappling back to lessons at school. His casual glance changed to a stare. Was that movement behind one of them? Surely not a mourner. He could hear a doleful melody, perhaps an organ or canned music cutting through the crisp air. Then came the strains of “Abide with Me” being sung feebly by the few mourners.

  There it was again. Movement. The air’s still. Can’t be a branch swaying. A sniper? A snooper? He crouched low and backed off, moving away from the trees, the singing fading with each step as he dodged and ducked from one headstone to another. He headed up the slope away from the church, planning to turn back once he was positioned above, behind and beyond the trees. If it worked, he would end up concealed close to but behind the unknown watcher. One thing was obvious: whoever it was had a sniper’s view of the grave.

  In short bursts, still crouching low and panting with nervous tension, he travelled a good forty meters beyond the trees before circling. Was it one of DCI Caldwell’s team? Possible. But poofter shoes had been told by his superiors to back off. A toady like Caldwell wouldn’t risk his career by defying orders. So if not Caldwell, who? Bardici?

  Okay. Assume it is Bardici. He’s not out to shoot Ratso. Doesn’t know him. But Charlene and the other mourners? The mysterious bit in the big hat? Surely not. But … A nasty uncomfortable thought struck him, went right through him. The bacon buttie with brown sauce he’d devoured in the van crashed through his intestines like lead falling from a roof.

  If Bardici sees me, he’ll not know I’m a copper. He might think that but even worse he might assume I’m a Hogan gofer—one who doesn’t want to be seen at the funeral. So where does that leave me? Not in an effing good place at all. Tosh’s mind and stomach were both in turmoil as he covered the last few meters, moving slowly down the slope, pausing behind the occasional headstone to catch his breath.

  Now his damned bladder was sending him unwelcome messages too, adding to the pressures from the buttie and the toast, cereal and last night’s chicken korma. He checked the time: perhaps four mi
nutes till the mourners emerged. Then, depending on what the mystery man was doing, he could race to the chapel and find the lav. Christ! Holding on while crouching was bleeding agony.

  He reached an oak that stood a good eighty feet tall with a massive trunk. He edged in behind it and took the pressure off his knees, easing himself into a standing position for the first time in ten minutes. His innards felt better for not being squeezed and he started to relax as he worked out where the figure had been. It had to be close now and just down the slope.

  Nothing. Nobody. Zilch. He was sure he was in the right place, maybe thirty meters from the tree with the broken branch that he had used as a benchmark. Had he been mistaken? Had it just been a seasonal robin fluttering its wings? He peered round the other side of the trunk and was rewarded with a clear view. There he was: crouching down behind the next tree, a camera next to him on the mossy earth. No sniper’s rifle. He let out a long, low sigh of relief. This was no hired killer. This was someone interested in who’d attended the service. A copper, then.

  At that moment, the vicar and coffin appeared, its silver corners glinting in the noontime sun. Ratso shuffled out with Charlene’s head almost resting on his left shoulder, their pace slow behind the pallbearers. Tosh saw the watcher in front of him fiddle with the camera and then focus it on the empty grave.

  Decision time. Tosh knew Ratso would give him hell if his only photo was a rear view of a dark green hooded anorak and black jeans. Tongue lashings from Ratso were rare but memorable. He would have to move again. Risky but a calculated risk. The watcher was photographing the procession. Go for it!

  Slowly, Tosh stepped away from his cover. If the man turned round, there was no hiding place till he reached a solitary bush twelve meters away. But why should he turn round? He was intent only on the people in front of him. The ground beneath Tosh’s feet was soft and his progress silent and swift. His destination was a scrubby bush that stood only about five feet high. Its evergreen nature would be perfect cover while he captured at least a side-on view and hopefully even better.