CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Tooting, South London
Ratso stepped out of the minicab, still unsure whether the Pakistani drove faster than he spoke or spoke faster than he drove. He had managed the journey in twenty-six minutes flat. Ratso felt relieved to be alive and standing in the night air of Blackshaw Road. The Toyota saloon had been grimy, with no working rear seatbelts and seemingly no front suspension or brakes. The upholstery was ripped and the stuffing was such that Ratso felt something was trying to invade his back passage every time they hit a bump.
Ratso paid off the turbaned driver, making a mental note to wash his hands at the first opportunity. He glanced around to get his bearings and then strode off beside the huge red-brick building to A&E Admissions. The Christmas decorations in the brightly lit reception area did nothing to disguise the fact that this was a soulless place where endless life-or-death dramas were played out. At least fifteen worried-looking visitors awaited news from the emergency rooms down the corridor.
He spotted Jock standing close to the Christmas tree. The Scot’s face was sombre but brightened when he saw Ratso. “How’s Tosh?” enquired Ratso at once.
“He’ll be okay. He was lucky. He’s badly shaken—suspected fractured ribs, bruises and a possible fractured left ankle. The nurse says we can see him in a few minutes.”
“Can we get a cup of tea here?”
Jock nodded at a machine. “I’ll get you one.” He started to move off but then turned. “Ye reek of curry. Chicken tikka, was it?”
Ratso cursed the minicab. “My taxi doubled as a delivery vehicle for a Pakistani restaurant in Morden. That bad, is it?”
“Bad enough to put Tosh into cardiac arrest.”
“I’ll wash my hands.”
“That’s never enough. Ye need to give yer clothes to Oxfam and then have an all-over scrub-down, a blanket bath. I’ll ask yon nurse.” They both laughed as Ratso headed for the Gents’. When he returned, Jock had put two steaming paper cups on a table.
“So what do we know?”
“There’s a team at the scene but I’m no hopeful. The best chance is …”
Jock was interrupted by the nurse waving them over. She took them along the clinical emptiness of the corridor into a small room where Tosh was sitting up, his face turning purple down one side. Somehow, he managed a lopsided smile. The room reeked of disinfectant and floor cleaner. “Ten minutes,” warned the Filipino nurse.
“Mr. Watson can take more than that. Nothing really wrong with him. He just wanted free B & B,” said Ratso. The nurse appeared not to understand but she left with a smile. “So, Tosh, what happened, me old son?”
“Bruised ankle where the car hit me. Not the worst, the doc said. Two suspected cracked ribs, left side where I hit the corner of a wall.” He gingerly touched his temple. “And this hurts like hell where I hit a gate.”
“Okay. Take it from the top.” Ratso sat down on the tubular steel chair and pulled it close.
“Good curry?” asked Tosh.
“Don’t go there, or you might have a sudden relapse,” Ratso growled with a wink.
“Well, after I left Jock going to the chippie, I headed home. The missus had phoned telling me to bleeding well get back home pronto. Till then I was planning on the scenic route but after her bloody rant, I went home direct, my usual route. I turned into our street, Welbeck Avenue. It was quiet as usual. It’s one-way, traffic from behind me. No on-street parking allowed. Our place, number 73, is a couple hundred meters down there.”
Already Ratso was scowling but Tosh continued. “So I was gone maybe ninety or a hundred meters when I heard a car swing round the corner from Trinity Road. The engine was revving a bit, so I looked back. It was accelerating, full headlights blinding me. It could have been nothing but …”
“I had warned you,” interrupted Ratso, sounding more sympathetic than he felt.
“Something told me.”
“Probably my warning, don’t you think?” Ratso observed, rather less gently.
Tosh looked sheepish as he paused to gather his thoughts. “Then I saw the car’s lights were aiming at me and I realised he was going to mount the pavement. I watched a split second longer to be sure. Next moment … bang. It was on me. Don’t laugh, boss but I dived to my left. Saved my life, no question but just too late. The car hit my ankle with its front near corner. I landed half inside someone’s front yard. I yelled like buggery.”
“Ye were lucky,” Jock commented.
“Luckier than you know. The car stopped up the road and two men ran toward me. I never saw them, mind, just heard the running footsteps. But five blokes came out of the house beside me, where they’d been playing poker. When the two from the car saw them, they hoofed it and drove off.”
Ratso shared a look with Jock. Tosh saw the mounting anger on the boss’s face, saw the lids of the hooded eyes close and the cheeks narrow, always sure signs of trouble. But instead of the fury he expected, Ratso’s anger was cold, clipped but just as deadly. “No way can I cover your arse over this. You were warned. What in hell were …? Oh yes, the missus.”
Tosh looked across at Ratso and wished he had not as he put in his mitigation. “The missus. Sounds like a shit excuse but … right, Jock?”
“Aye, ye wanted to go to the chippie but with yer marching orders from Patsy, ye left at once.”
Ratso had met Patsy on a couple of occasions and Tosh had his total sympathy on that score. “No excuse, Tosh. None at all. Arthur Tennant, the AC—they’ll need a full written explanation.” He stood up. “The thugs were going to cart you off. Interrogate you. Or kill you straight off, if you were lucky.”
Jock’s face showed he had not thought that through but after the shock passed, he broke the long silence. “Ye were lucky, son.” He looked down at his good mate, whose face looked even more swollen now than a few minutes before. “Ye got the vehicle make and number, of course,” he joked. They all laughed, though Tosh’s laughter stopped with a gasp as the searing pain spread from his ribs.
“Yeah, right. The number was PI55 OFF.”
Jock looked at the two colleagues in turn. “Best hope is damage to the car.”
Ratso shook his head. “They’ll torch it tonight.”
Jock laughed. “Two cars! Bardici will be getting a knighthood for services to the car industry.” Ratso’s face flickered toward a smile but no more. “I’ve got the boys checking every CCTV in the area. But at just gone eleven, Trinity Road is pretty busy. Unless we get lucky and catch a car actually swinging into Welbeck Avenue, it’s a long shot.”
Ratso stood up. “Tosh, you’d better get a bit of kip. I need you back in the morning. Seven sharp.” Tosh looked at his boss, unsure how to take the remark but then managed a smile.
“Yeah, right!”
“While you’re lying there putting on even more weight, you’ll have time to think. I ordered you to vary your route. So what did you do? Only ponce down Glebeside Lane, business as usual.” Ratso’s voice lowered to a growl. “You’ll get both barrels from the top brass, deservedly. Nothing I can do to protect you. Got it?”
“Sorry, boss. I never expected anything so soon.”
“Bardici’s a king cobra. He strikes hard and fast.” Ratso saw Jock nod, fully supportive. “For now, think back to when you left Jock. That’s along Glebeside Lane, into Trinity Road and up to Welbeck Avenue. My guess, no, my hope is these bastards were parked near the nick, on the off chance. You probably saw the vehicle.”
“Or they were following me all evening.”
“Bardici’s crapping himself wondering what we know. Maybe Zandro is too.” Ratso looked at Jock. “Here’s the problem. If these thugs were not there by chance, we’re turning the clock back.”
“Ye mean … the bad old days?” Jock’s eyes were like slits.
“
Someone leaking, yes. Someone on Bardici’s payroll who provided Tosh’s address.”
Jock scratched his head. “Someone higher up.”
The uncomfortable comment hung heavily in the harsh light of the sparse room. Ratso was about to disagree when they heard a shrewish voice in the corridor and the Filipino nurse entered with Patsy Watson. She was a bit younger than Tosh, about thirty. Ever since his second meeting with her on a quiz night, Ratso had avoided her. She had a face that was perpetually disagreeable, mouth downturned, lips thin and eyes as hard as Charlene’s were melting. Her nose was sharp, her jaw narrow with a receding chin. She wore no make-up and her hairstyle was a severe bun, adding to her disagreeable image. But no doubt with Tosh’s job, she had plenty enough to put up with.
Whether she had always looked and behaved like a shrew or whether being married to a copper had scarred her, Ratso had no idea. He forced himself to mutter hello but Patsy ignored both him and Jock as she stared menacingly at her husband. Ratso had no wish to stick around.
“Come on, Jock, we’ve a lot to be getting on with.” He pushed the Scot to the door, leaving Tosh to fend for himself. “Cheers, Tosh,” he said with a wink that Mrs Watson could not see. Then he was out of the door.
As he and Jock hovered in the corridor, the rasping tirade started. “What you been doing, then? Drunk again? Falling over, was you? Drinking down the pub when the kids was expecting you bleeding hours ago? You always was a selfish bastard. I got better things to be doing than visiting A & E after you get pissed.” There was a slight pause for breath. “You been eating bleedin’ curry again! This room stinks. I warned you—no more curry, stinking the place out, farting everywhere. Selfish sod.”
Jock started to snigger. “A right mess ye’ve got him into, boss, you and that minicab.” Ratso grinned and urged them away with his head. When they were out of earshot, Jock continued, “So what now?”
“Stay here till someone from uniform can keep guard twenty-four-seven. We can’t take any chances.”
Jock thought for a moment. “Maybe Tosh visiting Terry Fenwick was the trigger, not the funeral?”
Ratso did not like being reminded of that. He sucked in his cheeks. “Maybe Tosh wasn’t as smart as he thought in the lawyer’s office.” He reached the main entrance and pulled up the collar on his windcheater, grimacing as he saw the sleet now falling on the path outside. “I might just make the last Tube from Tooting Broadway. Anything but Anwar’s Luxury Minicabs.”
“Hammersmith, is it, boss?” There was a touch of insolence in Jock’s eyes.
Ratso played it dead-bat, a real Geoff Boycott–style forward defensive. “At this time of night? Where else?” But as the sleet slapped against his cheeks, the image of Charlene alone and the miserable way the evening had ended left him uncomfortable. Still, no way was he heading back to see her. The moment had passed. A slice off a cut loaf was one thing but he didn’t want to own a bakery. More importantly, his life, his lifestyle, was not for sale. For once, Ratso, let your brain rule your dick. He decided to phone her in the morning.
When he got to Tooting Broadway, the station was locked for the night. He looked up and down the High Street. If he was lucky, a black cab would be heading into Central London after dropping off in the suburbs. Trouble was, he didn’t feel lucky.
And he wasn’t.
It was nearly 2:00 a.m. when he stumbled into his apartment, the air chill and the atmosphere desolate. The central heating had been off for hours and no way was he going to put it on now. But he wasn’t ready for bed. Tired? Yes. Exhausted? Definitely. But he was beyond sleep. There were too many loose ends troubling him. Tosh, the boat in Grand Bahama, the role of Bardici’s daughter, a possible leak … Charlene alone in bed with her baby-doll nightie.
He drew the curtains, switched on the main lights and then used the dimmer. From his collection he selected Guns N’ Roses and set it to a volume that was almost intrusive on those above, below and next to his open-plan living room. He felt hungry but there wasn’t much in the fridge except cheddar cheese. The bread was several days too old but he toasted a couple of slices with cheese and sprayed it liberally with sauce. He was about to open a can of lager when he changed plans and made a mug of instant, into which he poured a slug of Cointreau—to keep the cold out, as he told himself, tipping in a second slug for luck.
Munching and listening, he flicked through the accumulation of text messages that had come in during the previous ninety minutes—endless admin with just the occasional nugget from the scene of Tosh’s attack. Then he remembered there would be cricket from Perth. He turned off the hard rock, flicked on the widescreen digital TV and was quickly transported into the warmth of Western Australia, where once again the Aussie bowlers were under the cosh from England’s top order.
When he awoke, his mouth parched, his legs stiff, England had crashed to 198 all out. While he had slept in blissful ignorance, the Aussie bowlers had suddenly found the right length and destroyed the cream of English batting in twelve overs. Beside him, the now-empty mug lay sideways, coffee and liqueur spilled across the already stained carpet. He felt a wreck, every limb aching from sleeping in the chair. His mouth was furred, his eyes bleary, his toes numb. His hands were frozen and he was stiff in all the wrong places.
He checked the time. 4:50 a.m. The heating would not kick in for another forty minutes. Slowly, he stood up, stared blankly at the spilled mug and then began a long, slow stretch, really forcing his arms up toward the ceiling. Then he touched his toes, did some hip swivels of which Elvis would have been proud and headed for the kettle. He wondered about Charlene. Too early to ring her. He’d wait till he was in Clapham.
On second thoughts, he grabbed the Blackberry and sent a text asking how she was and saying it had been a right bummer how the evening got screwed up. But she had to understand. He was a twenty-four-seven kind of copper and that would never change. He ended the message with three X’s but then deleted two of them before transmitting.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Clapham, South London
The pavements on Glebeside Lane were icy, so Ratso’s usual brisk walk was much slower and more cautious than usual. The overnight sleet had frozen and the sight of a young woman falling heavily outside Hammersmith Station had been a good reminder to take care. On his headphones, Queen pounded away. His new iPhone started vibrating and he paused to check it under a street light. It was from Charlene, timed at 6:20 a.m. Sorry. My fault. But I had the hots for U. Maybe C U tonight? XXX.
Ratso crossed the gritted road and swung his arms faster to get his circulation going. He went straight to a greasy, its windows almost opaque from the condensation. Alf’s Caff was not his scene—he had no intention of joining the Met’s unimpressive obesity statistics with three bangers and six rashers of streaky—but the disturbed night and the freezing temperatures had made the prospect of a bacon and egg bap washed down with piping hot coffee irresistible.
He carried the hot paper bag to his desk. There he munched through the bap, HP sauce oozing onto the paper napkin as the laptop booted up. He checked the London headlines but there was no mention of Tosh; neither was there any report of a burned-out vehicle found. Give it time, he murmured.
He phoned St George’s and asked to be put through to Tosh but the nurse said he was sedated and to call back later. At least Patsy didn’t murder him. He had scarcely put the phone down before Jock was on the line. “We still meeting at nine, boss?”
“Except for Tosh.”
“Ye free now?”
“If it’s good news, yes.”
“I’ll be right in.”
While he waited, Ratso looked at the replica of the whiteboard from the Cauldron. Each day, he took a photo and loaded it onto his laptop. Too rarely, it gave him inspiration. Today, it looked just the same: a glass half empty. Euphoria at linking Terry Fenwick to Boris Zandro seemed less thrill
ing in the cold light of dawn after a short night that had left his brain in slow motion. But as he sat wondering what news Jock might bring, his experience convinced him Tosh had been uncovered while visiting the solicitor’s offices.
He wiped his mouth as Jock entered, his cheeks rosy, everything about him alert, almost radiant. He had a couple of folders in one hand and a flask of tea in the other. “You look better than I feel,” Ratso observed. “I had a lousy night. The cricketers got a first innings stuffing and I fell asleep in a chair.”
“I was home just after three. I waited for young Armstrong to arrive. There’s a couple of uniforms taking turns outside Tosh’s room. Ye heard from the hospital?”
“He’s asleep. I guess he’ll be released today.”
“The lads downstairs are more worried about the damage to the wall. Ye ken—from him diving into it.”
“Yeah. There’d have been less damage if the car hit it. Anyway, you’ve news?”
Jock poured strong builder’s tea from the flask and sipped appreciatively. “Ye want the good or the very good?”
“Work upward.”
“Here’s the Florida report. It’s from a Detective Kirsty-Ann Webber in Fort Lauderdale.”
“Like the name.”
“Bardici travelled to Grand Bahama under his false name and passport. But of course, with their beefed-up Homeland Security, they took pics twice and got his dabs.” He handed over a Perspex folder.
“His dabs? Impressive! Mind, I’ve done the chief there a good turn or two. What’s the even better news?”
“I’ll get there. But there’s more from Detective Webber. Just a throwaway one-liner. She didn’t know what she was telling us—just mentioned it in case it fitted. She says it is top, top confidential. Seems an important government servant from Washington named Lance Ruthven disappeared on Grand Bahama the same weekend Bardici was there. And this geezer from the State Department was using a false name too.”
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