Hard Place

by Douglas Stewart

  “So you found Tirana Queen, did you?”

  “Aye! Eventually!”

  Ratso mimicked Jock’s accent. “Aye eventually seems to be the story of this trip, Jock.”

  “Right enough! Eventually’s a great word for this lousy snafu. I raced back to Kyrenia harbour and found out that even if a yacht eighty-nine meters long could get in, the berths are all full in winter anyway.”

  Ratso sighed. “So, next? Eventually?”

  “Someone suggested I try the Delta Marina about a mile away, so we dashed there, busting the backside of the Kia. No joy. Tirana Queen wisna’ there. I spoke to a couple of crew on a wee sailing boat who’d seen a floating gin palace moored just outside the marina but it had sailed, weighed anchor as they said, about forty minutes earlier.”

  “So where are you now?”

  “We’re sitting in the Kia, heater going full blast, using our night glasses. We never ate yesterday evening except Nancy shared her Crunchie bar with me. My stomach’s rumbling like Krakatoa.” He sounded more pissed off than Ratso had ever heard him.

  “You’ll feel better after a good breakfast. You should be able to get stuck in after daybreak without Zandro arriving and leaving unseen.”

  Jock sounded hesitant. “Our luck, as soon as I’ve started to murder bangers, egg and bacon, his damned boat will moor and he’ll be gone.”

  “So where’s your observation point?”

  “We’re in a lay-by on a narrow road about two hundred meters above sea level. When it’s daylight, we should spot the vessel for ten miles in any direction.”

  “Nautical or Statute miles?”

  “Sorry, boss but I’m no in the mood for banter.”

  “Ah! Thanks.” Ratso acknowledged his meal being served. “Sorry, Jock. I was just thanking the serving wench for my dinner of jerk chicken, peas and rice.”

  “Boss, stop, stop! If this goes on much longer, I’ll have to eat Nancy.”

  “Okay, now listen. I want photos of every person leaving the boat and those who stay aboard. Let’s hope for Shirafi. Close-ups on anything they’re carrying. You’ve got the zoom lens?”

  “Aye. When they drop anchor—heh, how’d ye like that nautical jargon—we’ll mosey on down to the marina. I guess they come ashore in a wee speedboat.”

  “Tenders, they’re called, since you’re so into the hello sailor scene. And bring me back some Turkish Delight. The pink one.”

  He ended the call and turned to the steaming plate in front of him but his mind was troubled. He pushed the food around as if marshalling his thoughts. The highs of just a short while ago were gone. Was the pilot to be trusted? Or was he playing games? It hadn’t sounded good. Not good, not good at all.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Freeport, Grand Bahama Island

  While waiting for his coffee, Ratso sent a friendly text to Charlene promising to talk when he could. The message gone, he looked around the dining room, which was almost devoid of any features except for an incongruous solitary picture of Neil Armstrong on the surface of the Moon. Back home, the small caff would have been called a greasy spoon, especially given the curiously bent fork he had been given. But the homemade rum and raisin ice cream made up for the naked-light-bulb atmosphere.

  At least his to-do list was now finished. Using Cricinfo, he updated himself about the Melbourne Test. One day he would be there watching the English batsmen walk out, trying to look confident with 80,000 Aussies baying for their blood. One day, he told himself again. Like when I’ve nailed every drug baron in London and won the Euromillions.

  Seeing flaming sambuca on the drinks list, he ordered one. When it arrived, correctly served with three coffee beans, the hostess lit the liqueur and after a few seconds he blew out the flames. “Here’s to commonsense,” he muttered, thinking of the dickheads back home who had banned setting the drink alight. Health and safety regulations. Eurocrap from Brussels! No doubt you could set your nasal hair on fire, or even the hairs on your arse if you were daft enough. Consumer activists gone mad! Ratso sipped the warm, sticky glass with relish, remembering La Casaling a restaurant near Lord’s where he’d sunk several on days when rain had stopped play.

  His thoughts turned to Kirsty-Ann and tomorrow night. She was an enigma—warm, friendly but with an invisible shield that warned him not to push his luck. But someone must have done, or there would have been no Leon. But what were his intentions? Once upon a time, hell he’d have been after her like a rat up a drainpipe. But now with the big four-zero approaching, life was different. No more hitting a Saturday night party with a cheapo Spanish red and ending with a shag on the shagpile.

  He sighed at the flood of memories of the wild days and wilder nights but as the second sambuca kicked in, nostalgia gave way to uncertainty. These days, arresting Zandro, getting the lads in their wheelchairs up to Lord’s or bowling some late out-swingers seemed more important than chasing bits of skirt in noisy clubs. And if Kirsty-Ann fancied him, a big if, well Charlene didn’t own him, for God’s sake. But thoughts of her alone in her semi-detached in Kingston cast a long shadow over the final sambuca and lingered even after he had paid his bill. He drained the coffee and promised himself a local beer at the hotel bar before turning in.

  Back in his room, he flicked on the TV and caught the end of a CNN news programme as he undressed. Then, just as he was about to climb between the tired-looking sheets, his phone vibrated. It was Bob Whewell from the International Maritime Bureau. “Christ, Bob! You’re at your desk early.”

  Ratso was rewarded with a laugh. “Sorry to spoil the workaholic image but I’m in Singapore. We’re thirteen hours ahead. I already did a presentation on piracy this morning.”

  Ratso laughed. “Sorry that I butted in, then. You must be busy.”

  “No problem. I haven’t got all the answers yet but I expect to reply tomorrow. It’s not straight forward. But you wanted cover to get aboard the Nomora urgently. That’s fixed. I’ve spoken to the surveyor who does the classification and survey work for the State of Panama where the vessel is registered. I persuaded him to advance the ship’s survey to today and for you to join their surveyor. You will meet Tito Comores at 8 a.m. at the Pelican Bay Hotel. He will have notified the yard and is fixing your credentials.”

  “Thanks, Bob. You’re a star. I owe you one.”

  He lay in bed, restless from the time difference and unable to sleep. For sure, Tito would know the owners of the vessel but he’d bet it would be a faceless company and nominee shareholders. Useless. He needed real names—a trail to tight-lipped lawyers in Gibraltar would be another cul-de-sac. But what about source of funds? The thought shot through him. He sat up and turned on the light. The source of funds. Hell. I’ve nearly missed that open goal. He checked the time: it was far too late to phone Darren, so he sent him a text, his fingers fairly flying over the keys. For God’s sake! How could I have overlooked such a basic?

  The room was small, the air stale and there was no minibar or tea or coffeemaker. He paced around, stared at the blackness outside the window and reluctantly poured himself a glass of sparkling water. Then he sat on the solitary chair sipping it, his angular face locked in a deepening frown. He had nearly emptied the glass when his iPhone alerted him to a message. Wensley Hughes wanted him to call when he awoke.

  Brownie point time, he decided as he dialled at once. Good to be seen to be alert at this time of night. But what the hell did the AC want? It had to be trouble.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Freeport, Grand Bahama Island

  Surrounded by the smell of fresh paint, Ratso walked along the deck beside Tito Comores, an amiable South African approaching retirement with enthusiasm. The deck was cluttered with hawsers, torn matting, old bedding, new bedding, a broken chair and fast-food wrappers. But even the new paint could not disguise the lingering smell of decay, saltwater, seaweed and o
ld rope. No real attempt had been made to smarten up Nomora for her inspection but Tito seemed content, not in the least surprised by the signs of rust still visible or the broken-down feeling that pervaded a vessel on which one million pounds was being spent. Besides several cans of paint to cover the rust, Ratso found it hard to understand what the money had bought. True, the hull was freshly dark green and the crew’s quarters spanking white but under that façade of beauty, Nomora was a shithole. Or so Tito had decided after completing the tour of inspection.

  Hoping not to encounter Micky Quigley, Ratso ran his eye down the short list of work to be inspected. Some rusting parts of the A-frame at the stern had been replaced. The dry and wet labs had been cleaned and looked ready for new scientific equipment to be installed. The old stuff had been ripped out and dumped. Apparently. But the vessel had been in dry dock for days, weeks, months. Ratso stopped at the bow, gazing down the entire length of the vessel with Tito beside him. They were alone but Ratso still spoke quietly.

  “Tito, everything seem in order to you?”

  Tito looked at his checklist, each one ticked. “Todd, this was what is known as an additional survey. That means it was needed only because of a refit or renewal. Being an oceanographic research vessel means it also has to comply with RVSS—Research Vessel Safety Standards. Nomora passed its annual survey just before she sailed here.” He checked the records. “That was just six months ago, so this is not a full survey. I only have to check some minor repairs, the work on the A-frame, check the suitability of the winches, the knuckleboom crane over there and the modest refit.” He pointed to the midships area. “There’s been only limited adaptation that must comply with safety regulations and I only have to certify that the standard of workmanship is satisfactory.”

  “The previous owners were Coast Guards but it never carried weaponry?”

  “Not officially. Not obviously, either. Most of the space below decks was used by the boffins testing water for the fish urine content or whatever it is they do.” He chuckled, something that had come easily to him all morning. “Straight forward job, a no-brainer really.” He tapped his list with a pen bearing a hotel logo. “Finally, I have to certify that the vessel complies with various maritime rules and because nothing unusual has been done to the vessel, I am satisfied.” He ticked the final box.

  Ratso’s puzzlement was growing with every word. “Can you see work worth a million pounds or even dollars?

  “Pounds,” Tito confirmed from his spreadsheet. “You can see why the Coast Guard dumped her. She was a rust bucket. She remains a rust bucket … but smartly painted—all fur coat and no knickers. So to answer the question—no, this job was overpriced. What I’ve seen was worth maybe a third to a half of that. The owners got their bollocks tweaked.” Tito laughed, a gold tooth glinting in the sunlight. “It happens.”

  Ratso liked the answer. It ticked a box on his personal checklist and reinforced his opinion that he had to be wary of Lamon Wilson and all he stood for. Darren’s wife’s opinion had stuck with him. No legitimate owner paid a million quid for work worth just a third of that. No legitimate company hired Micky Quigley, either. Nobody would send Lance Ruthven on six trips just to see a few locals slapping paint onto a rusting hull.

  Ratso tapped his foot, which resonated on the deck. There had to be more. Something not obvious had been done to Nomora. Something not on the job specification. Something not apparent from the sheaf of scale plans that Tito had been given. Something that the yard had charged heavily for—or something Nomora’s owners were happy to pay an extortionate price for. Like silence. He turned to his companion. “Thanks, Tito. I’ll have to dash. I’ve another meeting in twenty minutes.”

  “If you want me, I’ll be checking stuff in the offices. Your chap Quigley may be there with the CEO.”

  Ratso shook his head. “Thanks. I’ve one more meeting before racing to the airport.” Thanks, Wensley, for screwing up tonight’s date with Kirsty-Ann, he muttered under his breath as he clambered down the gangplank. He had sensed disappointment in her voice when he had broken the news but the call had been briskly efficient too. And now he’d also miss meeting Darren’s contact—a young fitter called Chuckie who was flying back from Disney in Orlando. He had worked aboard Nomora and Darren reckoned he was a relative who could be trusted. Not the ending he had hoped for and it showed in his taut facial muscles as he strode out of the yard, barely saying goodbye to the guard at the gate.

  Twenty-one minutes later, Ratso was seated at the dining table in Darren’s modest single-story home. Hurricane-proof, Darren had proudly explained when Ratso arrived, pointing at the concrete blocks that made up the walls. Sitting beside Ratso was Ida, a petite, almost bird-like figure with gentle features, aged perhaps twenty-nine. Her hair was long, hanging in rivulets either side of her face. She wore little makeup and her skin was not as black as her husband’s. Her eyebrows were perfectly groomed, boomerang-shaped, arching high above her eyes to enhance her open, enquiring look. Darren meanwhile was heating shrimp gumbo on the cooker across the room. The air was filled with the enticing smell of shrimp, onions, garlic, stewing tomatoes andouille sausage and mixed herbs.

  “I really appreciate this,” Ratso said, addressing them both. He was looking at printed pages from the company’s invoice ledger kept on QuickBooks. There it was: addressed to Onduit (Enterprises) Limited of Gibraltar, an invoice for 1.62 million Bahamian dollars, equalling one million pounds sterling give or take. The services to be provided were as per specification discussed and agreed with your representative.

  Darren dumped bowls of steaming gumbo in front of the two diners and then joined them. “You know that company?”

  “I know the name. The team in London are working on the way money moved around using offshore jurisdictions. This is pretty damning material.” He noticed Ida was simply playing with her spoon. “Ida, you look worried.” She gave him a weak smile and shook her head but Ratso was unconvinced.

  “Ida, she be happy to help.” Darren was quick to intervene but Ratso could see she was in torment. “Did you get to copy the bank transfers, honey?”

  As if pulling herself out of a deep swamp, Ida slowly removed a thin bundle of printouts from her orange sack-come-handbag. She never said a word and Ratso was unsure whether her attitude was just sullen or fearful. She turned away as Ratso flipped the pages. There had been four stage payments totalling the full amount. Each one had come from Onduit’s account in Gibraltar using the seemingly reputable Royal United & Universal Bank of Canada.

  “Perfect.” Ratso’s eyes said it all as he folded the papers and slipped them into his briefcase. Ida looked troubled, her stare locked on the floor but Darren seemed unaware or uncaring as he spooned the steaming gumbo into his mouth. Ida still hadn’t touched hers. Ratso’s eyes at last met Darren’s and he motioned him to say something.

  “Ida, you don’t never need to worry.” Darren shook his head vehemently. “No way. ’Cos Todd here will never use these documents in court. I telling you, sneaking out this stuff, nobody will ever know nothing. No shit.”

  “Darren’s right, Ida. This is vital information but it’s not evidence. If we need to prove this, we would get the shipyard to disclose these documents officially, as if I had never seen them. So you can relax.” Ratso watched for Ida’s reaction and was concerned that she still stared down, her lips pursed, her whole body taut. Ratso had seen similar body language often enough in interview rooms to be convinced something was bugging her. But what was it? Was she so scared of her boss? Did she know more about what work had been done on board? He gulped more of the hot, spicy soup during an embarrassing silence. Darren too had now caught the vibes.

  “Ida, my honey-love, you is not in any trouble.”

  She suddenly pushed back her chair from the table and stood up. “Fuck you, Darren for using me—you using your own wife. You putting me, my job on the line. But y
ou don’t give a shit, do you? You mussa be think only your own career.” She turned round sharply and grabbed her bag, tears pouring from her eyes. “You just using me. Make me feel like shit to my boss.” The words tumbled out as Darren dashed toward her. He tried to put his arms round her shoulders but she shrugged him off and headed for the door.

  Ratso was desperate to do something. “Ida, you can’t go back to work crying, looking all shaken up. People will want to know why. Come and sit down. I’m not asking you anything else.” He saw her waver and pressed on. “Look, I’m really sorry. It’s my fault, not Darren’s. I’ve been leaning on him to make this vital connection.” He paused for a moment’s debate with himself. “And I’d like to tell you why.”

  Ida turned to look at him, her almond-shaped eyes streaming. Ratso opened his wallet and from one pocket produced a photo of a healthy-looking Freddie receiving his bronze medal for completing the Ten Tors event on Dartmoor. “This is my nephew, Freddie. Young, fit, popular. Three years later, Freddie died alone in a London street, killed by drugs imported by the gang that own this boat.” He saw he had her attention. “This is why I must win. And it’s not just Freddie. There are thousands of others—kids, mums, dads … they’ve all had their lives and families destroyed. Does this drug baron care?” He paused. “We need all the help we can get and these papers are vital to bring these bastards down.” He moved toward her, smiling. “I am so, so grateful.”

  Slowly, Ida’s determined stare softened. She took the photo from him and studied the strong features of Freddie in his prime. She wiped away a tear and then handed back the picture. Darren grasped her shoulder and gently eased her back to the table. She slumped down with a final sudden movement, blew her nose and then sat, looking down and away as if ashamed of her outburst.

  “You scared, my sweet? Worried about something else? Something you is not telling me?” Darren was standing behind her, one hand on one shoulder, the other softly caressing the back of her neck. “Is that your problem?” There was a long silence broken only by the bubbling sounds of second helpings boiling on the cooker.