Hard Place

by Douglas Stewart

  At last she spoke, turning toward her husband. “Darren, believe me. I got no part in all this. No way.” She shook her head vehemently. “I know nothing, no shit. But Nomora, she was like special.” Then she burst into more tears, her shoulders heaving uncontrollably.

  For now, Ratso had heard enough. The rest would have to wait. He wanted to give her both barrels, peppering her with questions till the full story emerged but no way could he do that to Darren and Ida. He picked up his grip. “Enough, enough! I’ve got to get my flight.” He saw Darren silently mouthing that they would speak later. “Ida, just remember the thousands of Freddies and when you’re ready, tell Darren anything else you know. Please.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Freeport, Grand Bahama Island

  An hour later, Ratso had checked in for a direct flight to Miami so he could make the evening connection to London. Still cursing Wensley Hughes for the order to rush back to plan the Christmas Eve raid, he crossed the check-in area at Grand Bahamas International. He had barely gone a few paces when he heard his name being called. Turning sharply to look over his shoulder, he spotted Kirsty-Ann, who had just entered the terminal.

  He started to walk toward her, his body language oozing pleasure. Her face made no secret of her pleasure at catching him. “I’m glad I got here in time.”

  “Heh! What a great surprise,” he replied. There was an awkward moment again when neither was sure how to greet the other in the middle of a crowded terminal. “Let’s stop by the bar. I needn’t go through just yet.” Moments later they were perched on high stools, he with a beer, she clutching a Virgin Mary, easy on the ice.

  “That was a real bummer about tonight.” She spoke softly so that he had to lean in to hear her against the backdrop of chat from all sides. “After you called, I felt kinda lost. I’d no idea how much I was looking forward to dinner till you cancelled.”

  “Me too. You would not believe my language after the AC ordered me back!” He briefly touched her hand as they clinked glasses.

  “Your enquiries finished? Go well?”

  Ratso’s mind raced through what he had achieved. “Seven, maybe eight out of ten. But given more time, it might have been a perfect ten.” He appreciated her sympathetic look, her head cocked and her eyes lowered. “And you?”

  “I guess.” But Ratso could sense her unease. “I’ll have a wrap tomorrow. My questions about hiring snorkelling equipment haven’t spooked anybody. Those beach-bum kids are pretty laid back.” She imitated their lazy drawl. “Oh, really? Oh, yeah, could be. Sounds like someone. Sunday? Like two weeks ago? Sure. Mebbe! Yeah, there sure was a guy, yeah!” Ratso laughed as Kirsty-Ann pressed on. “If the folk in Washington want to conclude Ruthven came here and got ate up by a shark, my report won’t make them choke on their croissants.”

  But Ratso was concerned and she was quick to sense it from his raised eyebrow. She too now looked uneasy, her leg swinging to and fro.

  “If DC leak or spin a suspected shark attack, the local media won’t want those headlines. Not good for tourism. Tell me more but I’m concerned for you. Slightly better than headlines about a murdered tourist,” added Ratso. He was thinking of the shocking Bahamas murder statistics that Darren had mentioned.

  “You? Concerned? For me?” Kirsty-Ann saw his nod and her cheeks colored as if she was touched quite deeply. “That’s all, really. I wasn’t briefed to dig deep about Hank Kurtner. Just to find out enough to let DC know that Kurtner may have died here. Bucky’s sure they don’t want any murder investigation in Freeport.”

  “There isn’t one, I can tell you that,” Ratso snorted. “Stinks, doesn’t it?” He leaned toward her and found that he was lightly clasping her bare arm just above the wrist. It just seemed so right and she never flinched. “Look, if the Feds and Washington want a cover-up, the Atlantic out there,” he nodded toward the sea, “is surely where you draw a big, fat line.” She looked puzzled so he continued at once. “Forget Grand Bahama. Someone called Hank Kurtner flew here and never flew back. But nobody will miss Hank Kurtner. Why? Because he never existed except here.”

  “Go on.”

  “Lance Ruthven is different. He checked into the Fort Lauderdale Hilton but never checked out. His belongings were in the room.” Ratso debated before continuing but then decided he should. “You ask me, which you haven’t,” he grinned, “I’d go for drowning in Florida and no sharks. Enthuse Bucky about investigating a possible sighting near Fort Lauderdale—somewhere others have drowned in difficult currents.” He saw she was interested. “If DC play up a shark attack here or in Florida … and I don’t think that’s their game, wow—the world’s media will invade. It’ll be like Amity Island in Jaws. And that means intense scrutiny … of you and your investigation.”

  “Which, right now with the car wreck fatality, I want as much as a root canal.” She seemed to be pushing deep into his mind. “Todd, you’re a regular guy. But there’s more, something else you haven’t told me. Don’t go holding out on me. And anyways … what is their game?”

  “Okay. Hank Kurtner checked out of the Marlin Hotel.”

  “What! You found this out?”

  “A hooker from the Red Poppy told me where he stayed, so I dropped by the Marlin as a friend expecting a birthday gift left for me the front desk. The girl said he’d long gone, nothing left in the room, nothing at the front desk. He’d paid his bill. But he never took the flight under the name of Kurtner and he abandoned his car.”

  “So he may be alive?”

  Ratso shrugged. “He … maybe returned to Florida. Different ID. As you Americans say, don’t bet the ranch. Kurtner’s hire car was retrieved by the rental guys from the Marlin Hotel.”

  “Suits the shark story, then?”

  Ratso did not look convinced. “Kurtner never showed at the boatyard.” He pulled out a photo of Bardici and they both stared at the swarthiness of the man’s face, his heavily built frame and large, thickset hands. “Bardici’s smart, animal smart. My guess, he stripped Kurtner’s room and checked out for him before going to raise hell with the boss at the yard about delays to the refit.”

  “You think Ruthven was …?”

  “Silenced, I’d say. He could link Shirafi to the Nomora. But Bardici murders for the hell of it; disposing of Ruthven for incompetence would be no big deal.”

  Suddenly, she looked sad and tired, her head shaking at the mess she was in. “I hate all this double-speak from Washington. Based on these facts, if he drowned here, he checked out and then walked fully clothed into the sea carrying all his belongings.” She shook her head angrily. “This could unravel like crazy if the journalists get a sniff of scandal. So you’re right, it can’t be here. It has to be back home. But again, Todd, tell me what is Washington’s game?”

  “They want this story to disappear. They don’t want Ruthven or Kurtner reappearing. Their problem is they know from you he reached here and they don’t much like that. Untidy.”

  “So?”

  “Well, he might be alive but I doubt it.” He tried to sound reassuring though in his guts he was unconvinced. “Kirsty-Ann, if I were you … you make a full report to Bucky Buchanan. Tell him what you uncovered over here, being something and nothing. Run the missing in Florida approach by him. Tell him I proved Kurtner had seemingly checked out over here. My guess—that’s what DC wants. Nice and vague. Nothing sinister, No skeletons in Ruthven’s closet.”

  “You think?” Kirsty-Ann sounded hesitant, surprisingly so.

  “Those guys in DC, they know the truth. Not what I’ve just told you but the rest of it. Wensley Hughes has spoken to them. They’ll have tracked every opportunity for contact between Ruthven and Shirafi in Kabul. So it’s KYA time! Don’t get cornered where you can get hung out to dry. Make them decide which of their lies works best. To me, Florida is the place. That’s where his belongings were found. Look—there
’s no corpse here. If the story breaks that Ruthven came here leading a double life with another name, hell, every professional and amateur sleuth will be crawling all over this.”

  “Yeah, I can just see Greta van Susteren from Fox News going real big on this. Once the media start asking questions …” She let the sentence die. “And so?” She clasped her hands across her knees. “If you make arrests, will Ruthven’s name come out? That Bardici may have murdered him? If so, everything that Washington wants buried will …”

  “Float inconveniently to the surface?” Ratso saw her torment, sensing she knew that one wrong move and her career was in a lose-lose spiral. “Ruthven’s existence is irrelevant to us in London unless we are nailing Shirafi and the AC says that won’t, can’t, must not happen.” Kirsty-Ann was surprised at the bitterness in his tone.

  This time, it was Kirsty-Ann’s hand that rested across Ratso’s fingers. Despite the coolness of her touch, the warmth came across in the message she was sending. “You’re right. I’m gonna tell it like it is … and then some. Let someone else decide.”

  “That was my last call. Time to go. You ever get to London?”

  “Not so far.” She smiled almost teasingly. “I’ve never had a reason.”

  “You should. I’d enjoy that. And Ruthven and those guys in DC would be off-limits.”

  She smiled very differently, her face lighting up for the first time since their heavy conversation started. “That’s a cool idea. My mom can care for Leon for a few days. What’s the weather like in February? I’m due some vacation.”

  “Don’t pack a bikini or sun lotion.” He rose to leave. “But the welcome will be warm, that’s for sure.”

  “Deal,” she said. They strolled slowly toward Immigration and Security as if reluctant to reach the moment of parting. He stopped just short of the line and they stood facing each other for a silent moment before Ratso put his bag on the floor and grasped her gently around the waist. She responded at once, pushing herself forward as he gave her a gentle, affectionate kiss on the lips.

  As he drew back, Ratso was feeling almost lightheaded, debating whether to miss the flight. The Christmas Eve raid seemed an intrusion on something far better. For a second, nothing seemed to matter but being here with this woman that he barely knew and yet so much wanted to. But damned duty and commonsense prevailed. The raid in Brighton was too important to screw up.

  “I’m going to miss you. We hardly know each other but it’s like, oh, I don’t know—maybe like there’s magic dust all round.” He paused, feeling a bit silly.

  She pulled herself close. “I kinda feel that, too. Magic dust, huh? Yeah. I’ll buy that.”

  “So, see you in London. Promise?”

  “Can we see those soldiers with the funny hats?”

  “The bearskins? Busbies, they’re called. Yes. At Buckingham Palace. But I can’t promise you’ll see the Queen.”

  “Seeing you’ll be just fine.” She pulled at his free hand to turn him toward her. “Maybe I’ll get to see your bearskin.” She winked with an impish smile. Then she gave him a warm hug, turned sharply away and was gone. Ratso watched her till she had waved at the corner and turned out of sight.

  On the hop over to Miami, Ratso dozed fitfully, disturbed by every change in the noise from the turboprops but once cruising on the London-bound 747-400, he tucked into the evening meal of salad, beef stew and a rich chocolate dessert. He accepted the flight attendant’s offer of coffee and brandy and dismissed thoughts of Charlene and Christmas Day. Her obsessive texts were an irritation but somewhere lay a kind and gentle solution. More urgent was the Christmas Eve plan and updating the whiteboard.

  Micky Quigley was a big plus. Probably somebody loved the Irishman—perhaps his mother but Ratso doubted even that. There was plenty enough of the bruiser but little that was likeable. He was a drunk and had done time for a violent attack on a woman. He was scruffier and stank worse than a scrapyard mongrel. But none of that bothered Ratso. He had no wish to get nearer to the Irishman than to slip on the handcuffs. In a dawn raid on a previous vessel, the Dubliner had escaped, slipping over the ship’s side. He had vanished, never once appearing in his usual haunts. Ratso had even wondered whether he might have drowned and had hoped for weeks that a body would wash up along the South Coast. Until last night.

  Why have I been thinking about Quigley’s escape? He sniffed the brandy and swirled the glass in his hand, savouring the fiery fumes. It was a few moments before he had the reason. Quigley had escaped because the local cops had been in charge and been stubbornly pig-ignorant. And now the raid on Rudi Tare would be handled by the Sussex Tactical Firearms Unit. He could see no way around the problem; he would have to delegate the delicate operation to the Sussex TFU. But that didn’t stop him creating a plan, a good one, so good that the Sussex top brass would have to buy it.

  The Sussex Constabulary’s Tactical Firearms Unit had an excellent reputation. Sure, I respect their professionalism but this is my baby. I don’t want another Micky Quigley snafu. On his iPad he studied the data he had downloaded at Miami Airport. To strangers, Bankside Gardens was part of Brighton but actually it lay in Hove, though the join between the two was seamless. Ratso knew the area from years back but much had changed since then. The old music hall image as a resort for dirty weekends for Londoners or for a paddle had been lost to a new flashier, faster-moving image. And with the changes had come crime and drugs. Increasingly, the seaside town, under fifty miles from London, with its pier, antique shops, fish-and-chippers, amusement arcades and miles of beach, had become a neo-capital for the gay community. Additionally, it was a Mecca for young adults, with clubs, pubs and bars—all easy pickings for the pushers.

  Before take-off, he had mined his way through Google Maps and done a virtual drive along Bankside Gardens. But now he was offline, so he browsed the map and photos that Tosh had sent through. Tosh had also tracked down some agent’s particulars from when Rudi Tare had rented Flinders. It was described as a “highly desirable gentleman’s residence.” Being in Brighton, Ratso wondered whether the agents meant that it was the gentleman or the house that was highly desirable.

  The property had four beds, three reception, a conservatory and a double garage with two up-and-over doors. Others in the street were valued on Zoopla at over £1.1 million. It was a substantial two-story building, painted white and mock Georgian in style with a portico over an impressive front door painted navy blue with brass fixtures. At the rear was a rather neglected garden and an impressively large gravelled courtyard wrapped around the front. Ratso could see why Rudi Tare had selected it. There was plenty of room for cars or small vans to be loaded while concealed from the neighbours by a mix of tall hedges, towering evergreens and thick clumps of shrubs.

  Tosh had also sent a dozen aerial photos of the street and the entire neighbourhood. This was an upmarket area but by no means Brighton’s finest; most houses looked as if they provided white-collar families with comfortable homes, garaging for more than one car and space for the kids to play football or cricket in the garden.

  As he studied the view from the road, he tossed back the dregs of the brandy angrily as the implications of the Osman ruling struck him. Whoever sat above Rudi Tare on Zandro’s muck heap was likely to take fright at coppers ripping Rudi’s place apart. Thanks to the pinko idiots in the legal system, the cat was not just out of the bag but was bolting straight to the one person Ratso did not want tipped off.

  The Hogans would come tooled up, no question, so the top priority was preventing injury to decent coppers protecting a shitbag like Rudi Tare. By the time he met them, the Sussex team would have their own plan and would not welcome any input from a smartarse in SCD7. On the plus side, they would have started the groundwork, checking with neighbours about using their drives or even their homes as observation posts. Surveillance would be underway too and planning where and how to pos
ition roadblocks. But something else was needed, something special to create a win-win from this lose-lose situation.

  Ratso sighed and then buzzed the attendant for another coffee while his neighbour snored, mouth open. The Osman ruling could hardly mean turning up at Tare’s home and saying, Please, Mr Tare, we are coming in to protect you from the nasty Hogan boys and once we’ve done that we’re going to arrest you for offenses that will bang you up for twenty years. Come on Ratso, there has to be a solution. He yawned, checked the time and realised it was 4:30 a.m. in London. He turned off his iPad, reclined his seat and switched off the light. Within moments he was gone.

  He slept through breakfast and only awoke when asked to put his seat into the upright position. He was offered a coffee and welcomed it and as he sat looking at the darkness outside, he realised that he had a plan. Why did sleep so often provide an answer? As the plane parked at the gate, his brain was still in overdrive, puzzling now how to discover the identity of JF. He was missing something.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Brighton & Hove, Sussex, England

  Later that day, on the drive down to the South Coast, Ratso felt none of the Christmas spirit. There was no chance of tossing back whisky with Crabbie’s green ginger or getting into party mode, not with a dangerous mission ahead. He had called Charlene, who now knew she would not be seeing him on Christmas Eve and that Christmas Day was iffy. During the chat, her disappointment had turned to surliness and understandably so but he had ended the call with no regrets. It was bad enough having to work on Christmas Eve without being nagged by someone who said she understood. Like hell she did! Ratso had told her gently that dating him was always going to be full of ruined plans and disappointments and she could never expect that to change.