Hard Place

by Douglas Stewart

  Ratso was wrong-footed. His immediate thoughts were to tell this overweight tart to piss off and stop imagining that a bloke like him had to pay. “Hi, sweetie! Tempting.” He looked round defensively. “But my wife.” He winked. “She’s arriving soon.” The woman shrugged and gave him a sad smile as she turned away, revealing an unsightly purple bruise on her left buttock.

  Darren returned with a beer for himself and a reddish-brown Hurricane tinkling with ice. “Got an offer you could easily refuse from Cassie?”

  “You know her? Both of them?”

  “Sure, it’s our job to know the working girls.”

  Ratso nodded to the four American women who were whooping over something. “With so many freebies around, I’m surprised they have any takers.”

  Darren grinned hugely. “You’d be surprised. Plenty of guys, they do like the power when they buy a woman. But you right. These American women, they be plenty cutters, mon.”

  “Cutters?”

  “Freebies. After a coupla Hurricanes they is anybody’s.”

  “Okay. Business. Give me the good news.”

  Darren produced the photos of Ruthven and Bardici in disguise. “Ida, she done recognise both men. So did Hubert, the security guard at the gate.” He pointed to Kurtner. “He done been at the yard four, maybe five times.”

  “Why?”

  “He do check the progress.”

  “Or not, as the case may be,” added Ratso, thinking how the drugs’ arrival in the UK had been postponed twice. “And Mujo Zevi?”

  “Just one visit. He too do chasing Lamon Wilson. But …” The Bahamian put down the photos and fixed Ratso full in the eye. “Ida, she been check her boss diary. These two, they done both been booked to visit together.”

  “And?”

  “That guy never showed.” He pointed to Kurtner.

  “Did your wife know anything about Kurtner’s visit to the yard?”

  “She served him and the boss coffee. She do say it was a short meeting, maybe twenty minutes but mon, there was a shouting, plenty shouting. She do hear the visitor plenty much. Then they done gone inspect the ship.”

  “Did she speak to her boss about the visit?”

  “When the guy, he left, her boss he scared. Mon! Lamon, he was shakin’, just staring at a wall. She done fix him a large Johnny Walker.” Darren cackled at the thought. “Then later he did kick ass in all directions.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he say this Kurtner guy, he mad, wild-eyed mad.”

  Ratso nodded thoughtfully and then sucked long and hard on the straws. “That fits.”

  “So … you want the bad news?” Darren waited for Ratso’s shrug. “The ship surveyors, they a-gonna inspect Nomora. The crew, they all been done hired. That Panama Ship Registry they soon gonna approve the paperwork—certificates, crew an’ all. Then the Nomora she do sail.”

  “Where to?”

  “Ida not know.”

  Ratso needed time. “Like when?”

  “Ida say mebbe 10 days latest. Before the New Year.”

  “What! That quick.”

  “This guy,” he pointed to Mujo Zevi, “he do take no shit. He did dictate the date. Nomora she done gone, finished before New Year, he say. Or else big shit happen!”

  “So Mujo Zevis cared the crap out of your wife’s boss.”

  “Ida reckons the bosses, they is a barrel-load of monkeys. They always cackalin’ and sniggerin’ after Kurtner had gone. But Ida she damn sure she take care. Her bosses, they done bought the yard maybe a year back. They is hard men. But this guy from London, he did give their asses a right whipping.” He tee-heed loudly at the image.

  Ratso heard what Darren was saying but his mind had moved on. With the crew arriving shortly, time was tight if the boys from Vauxhall Cross were needed to plant a bug on Nomora. He sensed Darren was looking at him, wondering about the long silence.

  Ratso shoved over the pictures. “The barman know you’re a police officer?” He saw Darren’s toothy grin that said stupid question. “Check out if he saw either of them. Low-key. Pilfering enquiries or something. I’ve got to get a couple of texts away.”

  As soon as Darren had moved off, Ratso sent an urgent text to the AC and another to Bob Whewell at the IMB. The messages gone, he checked the time. It was nearly 8:30 p.m., 1:30 a.m. in London. Nothing would happen until the morning.

  He glanced across the room and saw that the tables and booths had now filled up considerably, with a wide cross-section of singles out on the pull. Many were locals but some were crew from the luxury yachts, sporting that perma-tan look from a day job cruising the Caribbean every day of the year. Others, their faces pallid, had probably flown in from wintry US cities for a whoopee weekend. The decibel level was rising with Van Halen reverberating from all corners. Ratso stifled a yawn until he noticed Darren sitting at a table for two in animated conversation with the red-haired hooker. As he drained the last of the Hurricane with a satisfying slurp, he idly wondered whether either of the two men had been desperate enough to dip their wick inside Cassie’s much-abused body. He did not have to speculate long before Darren bought the girl a drink and returned, beaming.

  “My shout.” Ratso stood up.

  “Thanks but I promise Ida, I not be late.”

  Ratso sat down again and looked enquiringly at Darren, who explained, “The American, Hank Kurtner, he was a regular. The barman, Joel, he did recognise him for sure and pointed me to Cassie. She done been spent the whole night with him several times. She did know him as Hank. Just Hank. He sells auto spares and comes from Detroit, Michigan. He did always stay at different hotels.”

  “When she last see him?”

  “At the Marlin. The weekend he disappeared. He did spend Friday night with her. She did say he was a regular guy. Like plenty doggie-doggie.” Darren grinned at the thought. “Not like some weirdoes. Mon, she do say they kinky bastards.”

  “She know why Kurtner came to the island?”

  He shrugged. “The usual—to chill out, catch the rays. Maybe go snorkelling.”

  Ratso nearly reacted at the word snorkelling but managed to remain poker-faced. “That it? That’s all she knows after four or five all-nighters?” Ratso shook his head. “Still, I guess he wasn’t paying for polite conversation.”

  “Nobody know the other guy.” Darren stood up, keen to get away.

  Ratso rose, dwarfing the Bahamian and clapped an arm round his shoulder. “You’ve done a great job. I’ll be in touch.” As he said the words, he was already troubled; if the IMB didn’t deliver, tomorrow was going to be tough. “I’m not staying.”

  “Hey! After those coupla Hurricanes, you’d be flying soon. I thought you liked to party, mon!”

  “Sad sod now, aren’t I? Too many things doing my head in. Besides Van Halen.” They walked to the exit. “I need some night air and then later a quiet place serving beer, chicken, peas and rice.

  After parting from Darren, he decided to take a look at the shipyard. It was no distance but the route proved to be a zigzag maze of darkened backstreets, a mix of residential, auto repair and small industrial units, a rough part of town. Every step made him more wary. Stray mongrels roamed at will, trash fluttered in the light breeze. But there was nothing specific to make him feel uneasy.

  Except experience.

  He touched his belt for reassurance. He had bought it in a personal security store in Dallas, Texas. Though it just looked like a chunky buckle, it doubled as a knuckleduster that could be freed from the leather in a trice. On flights, he had to put it in his checked baggage for fear it would be confiscated. No question, it was a fearsome and effective means of self-defense. A snarling dog bounding up to a fence beside him convinced him to be prepared; he unclipped the buckle and gripped it tightly in his right hand, leaving the
leather belt flapping freely around his waist.

  Moving farther from the bright lights, he entered a broken-down area of strange smells, rusting bicycles, scooters and unloved cars, a part of Freeport that was full of unfamiliar sounds and voices drifting from the shabby single-story homes. He had never been close to these timbered shacks with their corrugated iron roofs but he had often seen ones like them on TV, wrecked after a Caribbean hurricane.

  He passed a few locals, embryo basketball players judging by their height, all of them towering over him. They seemed uninterested in him but Ratso knew that walking in deprived areas where you look the odd man out or the richest guy around was a ticking timebomb. He’d learned that working round the backside of Kilburn in northwest London. But he soldiered on, hoping he looked more confident than he felt, all the while heading for the brightly lit port area and the massive cruise ship with its yellow funnel.

  The first shipyard of four that he reached, next to the Grand Bahama Shipyard, was well protected with a close-boarded fence topped with razor wire, at least nine feet high and heavily locked at the main gate. In the dry dock he saw the cruise ship standing aloof between lines of lights and four huge cranes. He walked on for another five hundred meters before he saw his goal. There, in a dry dock, was the Nomora. Its green hull and low-level white bridge stood out under the glare of overhead spotlights. He could see no sign of activity. One thing was obvious: as Darren had warned, casual access was impossible with a fence made from mesh and razor wire. But peering through it, he could see that the ship looked freshly painted. Whether the rust was still underneath or had been properly treated would be for others to find out when the vessel was caught in a Storm Force Ten.

  His eyes studied the vessel from end to end. Like he always did, he used a cricket pitch for comparison. Probably she was up to fifty meters in length. What had been done in the refit costing a million quid? He had no clue as to what to expect but one thing was for sure—within those fifty meters, there was plenty of room to stash away drugs with a London street value into the billions.

  Ratso moved on down the side of the yard, passing a solitary security guard who was seated in a sentry box smoking a cigarette, the smell of tobacco drifting from him. A quick glance at the heavy-duty gates was sufficient to convince him that Darren had been right—for the average Joe, getting inside the yard was a no-no. Everything now turned on his message to Bob Whewell at the IMB. As the AC had said, he’d have to use ingenuity to get aboard.

  He was just bracing himself for another unpleasant walk back to the tourist area when he got lucky. A taxi pulled up to drop off someone who, though in mufti, looked like a crew member—officer material, too. While the man paid off the driver, Ratso noticed that his build was familiar, as was the bald head with tufts flying sideways by each ear. As he stepped forward to claim the taxi, Ratso was sure. My God! It’s him! He wanted to yell out with satisfaction. Immediately he half turned his own face away but he need not have worried. The drunkard seemed uninterested in anything other than keeping his balance and persuading one leg to step in front of the other without collapsing. The man belched loudly and the smell of rum lingered as Ratso took in the side view of the familiar pugnacious face, clearly profiled by the security lights along the perimeter fence. There could be no doubt.

  Another duck had joined the row.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Freeport, Grand Bahama Island

  Once inside the cab, Ratso turned round for a final look as the man fumbled and dropped his ID card at the security guard’s feet. For a moment, Ratso ignored the driver’s request about where he wanted to go. His heart was pounding, his pulse racing and his brain racing back to when that face had haunted him. Though the memories were unpleasant, he felt on fire, his nerve ends tingling with excitement. The driver repeated the question, this time more aggressively. Ratso had to force himself to answer, asking to be taken somewhere quiet where he could chill out with the very best local cooking, no singles crowd and no loud music.

  Ten minutes later, the taxi dropped him at a small bar not far from his hotel. He needed some downtime. He was desperate to catch up on the injuries involving two of the English fast bowlers as they prepared for the Melbourne Test but now this face from the past danced before him like a kid’s Halloween lantern. Oh God! And then there’s Charlene, too late to phone now—long gone 2 a.m. over there. What to say, anyway? Will I make Christmas Day? He’d text her. That would work.

  The exterior was scarcely inviting—drab colors, peeling paint and a cracked window—but inside, a cheerful woman, who Ratso took to be the wife of the owner, showed him to a table for four, which she cleared for his solitary use. The restaurant area was small, seating ten at a push but it was under half full. Ratso reckoned he could see the husband standing in front of a cooker laden with steaming pots. He ordered a beer and jerk chicken and was about to text Charlene when his phone vibrated. He saw it was Jock Strang.

  “Hi, boss.” The unmistakeable rasp cut through the several thousand miles between them. “How’s it going?”

  “Bloody fantastic. You’ll never guess who I just saw.” He paused for effect. “Only our old friend Micky Quigley.”

  Ratso heard Jock suck through his teeth. “That Irish bastard? He’ll be the ship’s master, then?”

  “I guess. We missed the sod on that freighter bust in Lyme Bay. Now we have another chance. I wonder where he’s been hiding up.”

  “Play this right, boss and we’ll know where he’ll spend the next twenty years.” Jock’s laughter carried the miles easily. “But, boss, I’m no going to cheer ye up.”

  “Go on, then!” He nodded to the woman as she delivered his beer, admiring the red ribbon bow in her generous ponytail. “You’re still in Cyprus?”

  “Aye, right enough! I wish I wisna. It’s been a right scunner—or in English, a dog’s dinner.” Ratso poured his beer as the Scot started to explain. “I’m here with Nancy Petrie, ye ken. We stayed overnight at a crap flea pit near Larnaca Airport, run by an ex-RAF electrician who used to be based at Akrotiri. The lamps were screwed onto the bedside tables. At breakfast there was a big sign: Our cutlery is not medicine. Do not take it after meals!”

  Ratso snorted a laugh. “Yeah. I get the drift but get on with it.”

  “Zandro’s pilot phoned but not from the UK. Said he had no chance after Zandro gave him instructions. If you believe that.”

  Ratso made a mental note to worry about that later. “So he landed while you were still kipping or noshing, eh?”

  “Now, now, boss! Ach no. It wisna like that at all. He phoned from … Istan-bul.”

  “Istanbul?”

  “When Zandro arrived at Biggin Hill Airport, he wanted to go to Cyprus right enough—but not the southern side that we all know and love. He wanted to go to the Turkish side. It’s called the TRNC—the Turkish Republic of North Cyprus. That’s the part the Turks kept after they invaded back in the 1970s.”

  “Go on.”

  “But the point is, no flights from Europe can land on the Turkish side. It’s regarded as an illegal state with the Turks as illegal occupiers.” Jock paused to let the message sink in. “So flights go via Istanbul or Ankara. Of course, when your guy phoned from Istanbul, he was about to take off again. So there we are, stuck on the Greek side while Zandro’s jet lands at Ercan Airport across the border in the TRNC.”

  “So you jumped into your rented car to drive across?”

  “Aye, right enough. I was advised I could cross with a car at a godforsaken place called Metehan.”

  “Easy, then.”

  Jock snorted. “I was queuing to get across when I got chatting to a Welsh fella in the next car. He told me it was illegal to take a rented car across to what he called bandit country. He said it was deep shit to take rented cars out; the hatred on the Turkish side is too intense. In the war nearly forty years ago, there was
ethnic cleansing, with thousands murdered by both sides. Each blamed the other. From what this Welshman said, both sides were barbaric. Muslims were butchered or cleared out of the Greek side and vice versa.”

  “Get on with it! I’m in no mood for history lessons. You got across?”

  “Aye! Eventually. At first, we decided to walk across and rent on the other side. But this Welsh guy offered us a lift, so we crossed with him.

  “So?”

  “He was heading to a port called Kyrenia, which the Turks have renamed Girne. He said we could easily rent a car there. Looks like a great spot for a holiday, boss. No a bandit in sight! Great hotels, casinos, bars, clubs, beaches and a port. Anyway, we rented no hassle but the sick bit? We could have driven across. It’s only cars rented in the TRNC that can’t cross into the south. The Welsh guy was wrong! So I rented and drove like the locals—that means like ye’ve no fear of death and with less skill than a learner driver with impaired vision. It was about thirty kilometers to Ercan Airport but we were too late. Zandro’s jet had landed over ninety minutes before.”

  “You spoke to the pilot?”

  “Aye! Eventually, yes. Giles had gone off for a bite tae eat and, if you believe him, said he’d left his phone on the plane. Eventually, when he did answer, he said Zandro had gone to … wait for it … only Kyrenia. To join his boat.”

  Ratso bit his tongue rather than arse-kicking Jock for not checking that out in the port before dashing to the airport. “Any clue who Zandro was meeting?”

  “The pilot didn’t ken, if you believe him. Says Zandro never volunteers.”

  “How long till Zandro flies back?”

  “The pilot’s on standby for tomorrow—sorry, that’s today now. It’s 4:50 a.m. here and bloody freezing, too.”