Hard Place

by Douglas Stewart

  Ratso managed a grin as he flicked on the computer. The lingering effects of the alcohol interfered with his usually adroit fingers. “Here’s the early retirement rule: you gotta be permanently disabled from performing the ordinary duties of a police officer, including operational duties, until compulsory retirement age.”

  Jock rolled his eyes. “On that basis, he’s fit. He can continue his operational duties just as before—he’s been doing bugger-all for years.”

  “Right on,” agreed Tosh amid the laughter.

  “I’ll speak to Wensley Hughes, then.”

  “Reasons, boss?”

  Ratso rapidly explained why it was highly likely that Terry Fenwick would meet Boris Zandro in a club bedroom next Tuesday night.

  Tosh looked pleased. “Bugging and cameras?”

  “Yup.”

  Jock looked uncertain. “I dinna want to watch a pair of shirt-lifters. Or even listen, come to that.”

  “You won’t have to. Not if I’m right.”

  “’Cos I havna spied on poofters in a lavvy since 1999. I hoped I was done with all that.”

  Tosh punched Jock’s arm playfully. “Memory lane, Jock. You might even get a stiffie.”

  Ratso laughed, wishing he hadn’t as a streak of pain flashed through his brain. “Okay. I’ve a heap of stuff to clear, starting with my goddamned head. Tell me about Adrian-come-Julian Fenwick and where is Nomora?”

  “If Julian Fenwick is linked to Rudi Tare, he’s playing it ice cool. No sign of anything unusual. Maybe JF is not him after all.”

  Ratso scratched the side of his nose. Even that was an effort. “Nomora?”

  “You’ll like this. She’s entered the Straits of Gibraltar.”

  Ratso somehow managed to look as pleased as he felt. He slammed a clenched fist into his palm. Motivating the Spanish police to raid her on flimsy evidence would have been more than tough. Boarding her in a UK port would be doable. If needed, it was a risk he’d have taken. Now no need. Yet. But if they found nothing more than white-coated boffins looking for pollutants? The proverbial would be flying from everywhere—all in his direction. It would be the biggest non-event since England lost by ten wickets in the Stanford Super 20 Final in Antigua. “That gives us time to sort ideas for Turkey, Cyprus. Jock, your take?”

  Jock looked up. He’d been fiddling with his Blackberry. “It’s 1,816 nautical miles to Alanya from present position. Assuming she doesna stop for bunkering.”

  “Ooh! Get you, sailor,” said Tosh, all effeminate.

  “Ach, you landlubbers! That means taking on fuel and water. If it is Alanya, she should arrive Friday.”

  “Explain.”

  “She’s been making about twelve knots since she left Grand Bahama.”

  “Let’s assume she can average fifteen,” said Ratso, looking at the wall calendar.

  “That would be around five days.”

  “Today’s Saturday, so assume she berths somewhere in the Eastern Med Thursday earliest.”

  “Fits in well with the bedroom assignation on Tuesday.” Tosh nudged Jock and was rewarded with an exaggerated scowl.

  “Tosh, go through these twenty-three dates when the men probably met. See how that fits in with anything we suspected about deliveries. See here.” Ratso pointed to the sheet. “Clusters. Look—they haven’t met at the club for eight weeks. That’s pretty typical. Then suddenly it may be four times in ten days. We may find ourselves in there quite often this next month.”

  “And they don’t meet at the other clubs?”

  Ratso thought back to his discussions with the other secretaries. “Open mind still. Their pigeonholes have been used for communications with someone, say Zandro’s driver, dropping off messages for Terry Fenwick. The solicitor visited the others less frequently and never overnighted.”

  Tosh stood up, hopping slightly from foot to foot as if his bladder was sending him urgent messages. “Are we done, boss?”

  Ratso gave a half smile. “Monday morning, same time, okay? I’ll try to see the AC unless he’s off watching Arsenal today.”

  “I didna’ know he was a masochist,” Jock threw out as he followed Tosh from the room.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Mayfair, Central London W1

  Roger Herbison at the Poulsden had proved to be a star act. Though uncomfortable about going behind the committee, a brief chat from Wensley Hughes was the clincher. Fenwick was booked in for Tuesday night but his room had been taken over the previous day by the Technical Surveillance Team. Now, twenty-four hours later, Ratso was in a room three doors along, awaiting action.

  In the quiet hours after 3 a.m., the tech boys from Scotland Yard had concealed video cameras in the corridor either side of Fenwick’s room to capture comings and goings. In the room, the engineers had installed a couple of audio-visual devices—one in the bedroom and one in the bathroom. Every word would be captured with total clarity by the recorders in the room down the corridor where Ratso was now seated with Jock and the two engineers. Two young Indians were watching their monitors, showing four different views inside Fenwick’s room.

  Ratso opened a fruit and oat bar while Jock tucked into the remains of a huge club sandwich arranged by Roger Herbison. The engineers were seated on the bed, finishing a hot curry while Ratso and Jock sat on uncomfortably hard chairs close to a tiny desk-come-dressing-table in the sparsely furnished room.

  In Fenwick’s equally minimalist room, there was a phone but no TV, Wi-Fi, or radio. The plain curtains hung limply and barely met in the middle. It was all so different from the comfortable opulence of the club’s public rooms. As Ratso had commented, the simplicity of the single bed and deal wood bedside locker must have reminded most members of their public school days or life in the army.

  Jock wiped his mouth and grabbed a small, dainty cup of tea, which he looked at with mild disgust. “Ye mind the Arab pupil who was murdered? I went to his school in Hampshire. That was more comfortable than this.” Jock grinned while he chewed. “Ye ask me, only a reclusive order of monks would feel comfortable in these cells.” The sergeant drained the cup in a single swig. “Suppose they don’t speak, boss? Suppose they just write things down?”

  Ratso was dismissive. “They’ll speak. Why wouldn’t they? Otherwise, they’d use the pigeonhole. But anyway, with the camera above the desk, we’ll be able to read every word.” He checked his watch. It was 7:45 p.m. “Fenwick has a table booked for 8:15 p.m., so he should dump his overnight bag any time.”

  “Ye reckon Zandro will slip in at once or later?”

  Ratso shrugged. He had no idea. “Whenever, it’ll be brief. Five minutes max. But he might drop by twice.” He flung the screwed-up wrapper into the waste bin with pinpoint accuracy. “Zandro’s dining with Lord Creshaw, so he can’t bugger off for too long. Otherwise he’d need the excuse of a bladder like Tosh’s.” The two men laughed. The engineers, wearing their headphones and intent on their equipment, never heard a word.

  From the corridor came the sound of footsteps followed by a key in a lock. Both cameras in the corridors showed the lean figure of Terry Fenwick in a navy blue suit with chalk stripes. He had a dark blue tie with a golden motif running through it and a pale blue shirt. He looked calm and relaxed as he towed a compact roll-along suitcase with a black briefcase perched on top.

  After switching on the bedroom light, two other cameras picked up the arrival. His face was placid—the look of a man who was cool under fire and one thousand per cent at ease with himself and his surroundings. He dumped his briefcase beside the desk and plopped the suitcase on the bed. He opened it and extracted a wash kit, which he put in the bathroom. His burgundy pyjamas he hid under the single pillow. He looked round the room and then carried the second chair from one side of the bed to the other so that it was now beside the desk.

  He was about
to settle in the chair when he let off a hefty fart, looking rather pleased with himself for having done so. Ratso grinned. “Sound system’s working okay, then!” He gave the nearer techie a thumbs up. The man responded with a broad smile.

  “The jury will enjoy that, boss.” Jock grinned as the solicitor open his briefcase and produced nothing more exciting than the evening paper. For the next twelve minutes, nothing happened as he browsed the paper, occasionally running his fingers through his hair.

  Ratso looked at Jock. “Wonder what he had for lunch?”

  “Vegetarian, I’d guess. Upsetting the ozone layer. Tell ye what, though—at least he hasna put a pot of Vaseline and a condom beside the bed.” Moments later, Fenwick tossed the paper aside and left the room. The corridor camera caught him strolling toward the splendour of the front hall and the door leading to the bar and restaurant. “Who’s he eating with?”

  “Nobody in particular. Down the middle of the dining room is the Club Table, where members on their own must take the empty seat next to any seated member, so it’s totally random. Zandro, though, will have a side table for his dinner with Lord Creshaw.”

  “I know the name. Remind me.”

  “Ian Creshaw was a Labour MP who became Home Secretary.”

  “Ye mean?”

  Ratso’s eyes narrowed and his face hardened. “Creshaw was the bastard who put a stop to money being spent on twenty-four-seven surveillance of Zandro. Killed off the AC’s investigation.”

  “Reckon he’s getting a cut?”

  Ratso was unsure. “He was reputed to be a greedy bastard.” He stood up to stretch his legs. “Last year Creshaw travelled to Switzerland on Zandro’s private jet. To Gstaad, I seem to recall. A couple of years back, he cruised the Adriatic on Tirana Queen.”

  “Zandro’s so well connected, we did well keeping Operation Clam secret as long as we did.”

  Ratso walked round the tiny room, stretching. “I betcha Zandro knows—Tosh’s visit to Fenwick’s office, Tosh in the graveyard and the raid on Rudi Tare. But at least stuff isn’t leaking to Zandro the way it once did.”

  “And the Hogans?”

  Ratso paused to peek out of the curtain before responding. He gave Jock a sardonic grin. “Nobody has asked what we’re doing now that the Hogans are all banged up!”

  “So Zandro must be edgy. Maybe he’s leaning on Creshaw to find out what the buzz is.”

  Ratso sucked in his cheeks. “We should have bugged his table at dinner.” Like a caged tiger, Ratso had completed three tours of the room. He sat down on the hard-backed chair and noticed that though the scars were itchy, the pain on movement had all but gone. “Did you read: the Justice Department want more slaps on the wrist for criminals and to empty the prisons.”

  “Aye! Give the little darlings another chance, they said. I’m telling ye, I’m fair scunnered. I get it all the time in the pub. You lot don’t put enough people away.” Jock’s face darkened, his brow furrowed. “I always tell them, if I were the Home Secretary, there’d be more prisons and every one would be full.”

  Ratso gazed at the monitors showing the empty room. “They won’t know we’ve uncovered the Leeds connection. That was good work by young Petrie.”

  “Aye, she’s a bright wee lassie. Pity that Rudi Tare’s phones and laptops were clean. But ye’re right, that address in Leeds seems to be the centre of operations up north.”

  “Nothing linking Julian Fenwick.” Ratso smiled wolfishly. “But who knows what this evening will bring.”

  “Are ye no going into his room? Take a wee shufty in his briefcase?”

  “From the dining room to the bedroom is thirty-one seconds. Too risky. Anyway, if there’s anything worth Zandro looking at, the boys here will capture it. Won’t you, Sacha?” The young Indian could not hear until he had removed his headset and then he answered with a smile.

  “Can ye no get room service here? I’m fair famished, boss.”

  “Jock, this is not the Ritz. But I’ll call the kitchen. The chef might get something sent in. What do you want?”

  “Any burger with chips and vinegar. Irn-Bru, if they have it.”

  “Ah! The same as Lord Creshaw’s having, no doubt.”

  The next ninety minutes passed slowly. Other than the sound of Jock munching his way through his burger and the two Indian engineers attacking a large bowl of mathari, there was silence. Ratso sent a flirty text to Kirsty-Ann and received a response in a similar vein. He read the details of the one-dayer from Brisbane and was choked to see that the Aussies had won by ninety-eight runs. The stiff-upper-lip England captain said they were taking the positives from the drubbing and that lessons had been learned. If I had a quid for every time I’ve heard that drivel about taking the positives and lessons being learned, I’d have retired by now.

  It was shortly after 10 p.m. when the camera showed Terry Fenwick ambling along the corridor, hands in pockets. He entered his room but did not bother to sit down, as if confident that he had a visitor arriving. Sure enough, barely seconds later came the moment that Ratso had dreamed of and Fenwick was waiting for: the aggressively handsome features of Boris Zandro barrelled down the corridor, legs strutting importantly. He knocked sharply and was admitted at once, the door locked behind him.

  Zandro pointedly refused a seat. “This RT shit?” His voice, throaty with scarcely a hint of a Mediterranean accent, was unusually clear to the listeners.

  “JF says RT is ring-fenced.”

  “So he must look harder,” Zandro snapped. “There’s a leak somewhere.” He paused barely a second before moving to the next item. “Could the filth have found anything?”

  “JF got Benjy as his brief. He reckons his laptop, everything were all lily-white. They would have found nothing.”

  On hearing this, Ratso and Jock exchanged glances. Ratso made a note to find out who Benjy was—presumably a bent lawyer.

  Zandro continued. “RT say anything? Admit anything?”

  “Benjy says no. Not a word. And we’ve felt no heat.”

  “Good, good.” Zandro looked relieved. “But without RT, who’ll …?”

  “My brother has that sorted.” Fenwick looked thoughtful; Ratso could see he was going through an unwritten checklist. “The route?”

  Zandro coughed rather nastily and wiped the sputum from his mouth with a pristine handkerchief. “La Coruna.”

  Fenwick’s face showed irritation. “JF won’t like that.”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  Fenwick sounded resigned. “So the HF hotel? The one near the memorial?”

  “Fuck those local details,” Zandro snapped. “Not my concern. Get the usual team there.”

  “Timescale?”

  “Arriving La Coruna two weeks today latest.”

  Fenwick nodded thoughtfully. “So you got the money fixed?”

  “Done. I paid the fat greedy bastard what he wanted. And a sexy bonus.” Zandro was almost at the door now.

  Ratso looked quizzically at Jock, who nodded. “Aye! Three young lassies came ashore.”

  Fenwick was hovering by the door. “Next meet?”

  Zandro opened the calendar on his phone. “Two weeks Thursday unless there’s a message at the R.”

  “Agreed.” Fenwick opened the door, saw the empty corridor and waved Zandro out.

  The team watched Zandro hurry back toward the dining room. Ratso tapped his watch. “That lasted just 85 seconds. Lord Creshaw would scarcely have missed him.”

  Jock stood up and yawned. “But every second was twenty-four carat.”

  Ratso’s face was flushed with excitement. “Two words. Two magical words—my brother. Every other time, it was JF. So Adrian Julian Fenwick is the fixer, the nuts–and-bolts man.” He turned to the engineers. “Get that okay? No malfunctions?” He saw their s
miles of satisfaction and a thumbs-up. “Okay. Good job. Leave everything running overnight in case anything else happens next door and then slip out around dawn. Jock and I are off now.”

  “We leave everything in place?”

  “Yup! It’s all well concealed. We’ll need it again. I’ll fix it with Herbison.”

  Ratso phoned Herbison who was at home in Kensington. “No problems, Mr. Herbison. All done. Please reserve the same two rooms for Thursday fortnight. Mr Fenwick will be booking, so please make sure he gets number 8 again and we are in number 11, exactly the same as tonight. Thanks.”

  “Do let me know if the club’s in the doohdah, won’t you?” Ratso thought Herbison sounded as if he had sunk a couple of stiff whiskies.

  “Count on it. I’ll tell you when to put on your tin hat.”

  “That bad, eh?”

  Ratso laughed. “You may well think that but I couldn’t possibly comment. Goodnight and thanks again.” He made a mental note to send him a good malt when it was all over. Or a dry sherry. He’d be needing it.

  “Where on God’s earth is La Coruna? I’ve never heard of it,” said Jock cheerfully as they walked down the street, having slipped out the tradesmen’s entrance.

  “I have. It’s northern Spain on the Atlantic Coast but God knows how we get there.” He paused. “You catch the hotel name?”

  “Maybe initials. HS or HF—and by a memorial.”

  “We’ll need to play that back again.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Clapham, South London

  As soon as Ratso strode into the meeting room on the first floor, he could sense the mood. Expectation was in the air. There was no applause as he entered to address the dozen or so assembled officers but he saw renewed respect and eagerness in their faces. The Hogan gang’s destruction and the arrest of Rudi Tare had been a start but the coup at the Poulsden Club had changed everything. Everyone knew Boris Zandro would be dead meat if the drugs were seized in La Coruna.

  Ratso had chosen to meet upstairs in one of the better rooms, airy and bright. Compared to the Cauldron, this room was clinically clean, containing rows of chairs facing a small dais. There was a computer, a fifty-inch screen for photos and movies, a laser pointer, a cork board and a giant whiteboard. Ratso reckoned that the clean, bright emptiness of the room empowered clear thinking compared with the airless clutter and cramped conditions downstairs.