Hard Place

by Douglas Stewart

  “But the Spanish fought a civil war—Franco’s lot and Ernest Hemingway. There’ll be other war memorials.”

  “You’re right but not with a hotel initials HS or HF close by.”

  Jock still looked troubled. “We’ve just one chance. Is there no anything else we can do to tighten it?”

  Ratso fell silent for a few moments while Jock studied the map, looking for war memorials. “Tell you what. JF’s room is just a single, so he won’t meet in there. Let’s check what meetings are booked to take place in the hotel.”

  “Aye, that may help.” Jock still sounded unconvinced. “What other hotels are HS or HF?”

  Ratso checked the details gathered by Paul Mason. “We can’t be sure about war memorials. Mason double-checked twenty miles around. There are just three hotels HS or HF: the Hispanio Flores, the Hesperia Finisterre and the Hispanio Sol. But according to Paul, only one has a war memorial nearby.”

  “Let’s take a look at each one. I winna be happy until I’m sure.”

  Ratso paid the bill and led the way outside. “You’re right, Jock. Let’s walk the town. Check out the hotels.”

  “And ye’re okay about leaving me here for the arrests?”

  “Sure! With Delgado here, I’m not needed. I need to be close to Zandro. Once we’ve met Antonio and I’m satisfied nothing’s been lost in translation, yes, I’ll leave you here.” He gripped the sleeve of Jock’s windcheater. “I personally want to arrest Boris Zandro and if I’m here, sure as hell he’ll have done a runner by the time I get back.” He then pointed. “That’s the hotel we’re staying in, the Hesperia Coruna. We can check in later.”

  They turned onto the seafront, passing the long line of traditional apartments, each with large picture windows that looked out across the harbour. The skyline was still dominated by the soaring height of the cruise ship. After winding up the hill, they reached the Hesperia Finisterre and made their way to the desk.

  “I’m interested in renting a meeting room,” Ratso said. “Tuesday and Wednesday.”

  “We have rooms for over a thousand. I assume not that big at this late moment?” The svelte receptionist spoke excellent English. Her smile and rounded eyes were a delight. Ratso was so lost in admiring her lips he momentarily forgot to reply.

  “Oh, sorry, no. Maybe twenty maximum?”

  “I will show you a perfect room. Come!” She led them to a meeting room that would have been ideal had Ratso been minded to book it. They returned to the lobby and she checked on screen. “You could have it on Wednesday but Tuesday … is booked.” Jock tried to see her computer screen to get the name but he needn’t have bothered. “The Pan-European Timeshare Action Group have it booked for three hours, 11 a.m. till 2 p.m.”

  She wrote down the price and Ratso gave an unmistakeable wince. “We’ll have to look at some other hotels. That looks like a budget-buster.”

  Outside, the men exchanged knowing glances. The Pan-European Timeshare Action Group sounded a useful cover. They checked the map and continued a short way along the Paseo Maritimo until they reached the large, circular stone-walled garden that served as a memorial for Sir John Moore, a giant plinth taking pride of place in the centre. They walked round the memorial, pausing under the arch to take in the picture-postcard view of the port. They could see the ferry terminal and farther away to the left the cranes used for loading and unloading in the commercial port.

  “Look at this, boss.” Jock was now thoroughly enthused by this place where a fellow Glaswegian had been buried. “See this poem on this wee plaque. Sir John, he was some boy, eh. We dinna respect our heroes enough these days.”

  Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

  As his corse to the rampart we hurried;

  Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

  O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

  We buried him darkly at dead of night,

  The sods with our bayonets turning,

  By the struggling moonbeam's misty light

  And the lanthorn dimly burning.

  Jock paused, strangely moved by the deadly images. “Ye can almost hear the muskets, see the bloodied bayonets, smell the gunpowder. And today it’s so peaceful.”

  “Like Starbucks, you Scots get everywhere. Come on.” Ratso led the Glaswegian out between the wrought-iron gates onto the narrow and winding streets of the old town.

  “And to think that Zandro’s mob use this wee garden as a marker point for a meeting. Fair makes ye want to puke.”

  “Y’know Jock, I’m coming round to your opinion.” They stood by the gate to the memorial as Ratso waved in each direction. “This is no place to divvy up the drugs into several vehicles. Bring a truck round here, into that swanky hotel? No way! Use one of these grand old homes with truck and vans parked up outside? Get real, or as the locals would say, No way, José.” He checked the map. “We’re looking for a quiet spot or a warehouse nearer the port. Somewhere that vans and trucks don’t look out of place.”

  “A different hotel, then.” Jock sounded gloomy. Ratso reckoned it was the thought of more walking that brought it on. He and Tosh were two of a kind.

  “If Mason’s right, neither hotel has a war memorial nearby but the Hispanio Flores is nearer to the commercial port.” Even as he spoke Ratso was striding off downhill. “Come on, Jock. Work up an appetite for dinner.”

  “If it’s like that beef at lunch, I’ll go vegetarian.”

  It took them nearly thirty-five minutes to find the Hispanio Flores, tucked away down a side street in an area where truckers might well doss down for the night. “I can see why JF isn’t staying round here.”

  They both absorbed the broken-down scene. Washing hung from windows in the narrow cobbled street; the pavements were cracked and covered in dog turds. A skinny cat was gnawing at something that might have been a carcass and litter danced in the breeze coming in from the Atlantic. Ratso lashed out at an empty plastic Coke bottle that rolled beside him. From upstairs rooms, more than one baby was wailing its heart out and a broken pram opposite the gloomy entrance to the hotel completed the broken-down image. They toured the area and double-checked the map. Mason had been right; there was no memorial. A quick enquiry revealed the hotel had no meeting rooms and walking round the area proved the nearest parking was four hundred meters in a municipal park. Ratso had already dismissed this hotel. “The area’s seedy enough but that’s all it has going for it.” He shrugged dismissively. “The Hispanio Sol, then. Last chance! Somewhere near the cruise ship terminal.”

  Ten minutes later, Jock spotted it, looking like what it was—a tourist three-star hotel. The front entrance was through open double doors and the shutters by every window badly needed painting. Ratso imagined that the Atlantic breeze, flecked with salt, must play hell with building maintenance.

  “Let’s check out their meeting-rooms, if any.” Ratso led Jock into a compact reception area where a rather fierce-looking woman in her late fifties waved a dismissive arm and returned to her computer screen. After standing by the desk for what seemed an age, Ratso could take no more. “Hello! Anybody there? We want a meeting room on Tuesday or Wednesday.” He spoke slowly, spitting out each word. “Do you have one for twenty people?”

  The woman adjusted her swept-back silvery hair, staring at them as if they had crapped on her lino. “Hablo Español?” she enquired in a deep voice. Ratso understood enough to know what she was asking and shook his head.

  “Habla Ingles?” he replied. The woman seemed to understand but shook her head. Ratso looked around for any pictures of the hotel facilities but there were none. “C’mon. We’re outta here. Let’s go.”

  The woman watched them leave, adjusting the needles in the bun at the back of her head. As soon as they had gone, she returned to her computer screen with just a fleeting glance at the two Brits deep in convers
ation outside.

  “There’s no sign of any war memorial round here anyway,” volunteered Ratso as they entered a nearby café, ordered and sat down with their drinks.

  “What did ye think of thon Pan-European Timeshare Group?” Jock was warming his hands round tea in a glass cup.

  “When we’ve checked in, I’ll trawl the Web.”

  “Having seen the other hotels, it must be the posh one but it still doesn’t seem right.” He stretched his legs out and complained about aching feet.

  “Let’s get checked in. I’m feeling a bit knackered myself.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  La Coruna, Spain

  Next morning Ratso and Jock crossed Maria Pita Plaza in good time for their meeting with Antonio Delgado. At this early hour, the sun was not warm and Ratso was glad of his fleecy lined windcheater. “I met him four years back on a bust at Torremolinos. He’s the best I’ve worked with in Europe. He’s a detail freak and none the worse for it but others call him anal retentive.”

  “Those Pan-Europe Timeshare folk? Ye get anything on them?”

  “If they exist, which I now doubt, their online profile is lower than a mole’s tunnels.”

  “Sounds like they’re the guys, then, at the Hesperia Finisterre.” But Jock still did not sound convinced.

  Ratso looked across to the Ferry Terminal. The cruise ship had gone and the red, blue and green fishing boats once again dominated the scene. “It could be an inaugural meeting. I just don’t know.” They breezed into police headquarters, which was a modern building, more smoked glass than concrete. “Makes our place look what it is.”

  “A 1960’s shithouse,” Jock agreed as they were ushered into a small meeting room with chairs for six. The lighting was bright and the view looked onto a vast shopping mall designed to bleed money from cruise-ship passengers. The table and chairs were new, the glass table top matched the windows. They accepted strong, bitter coffee and sat in silence waiting for Delgado. At precisely 9 a.m., a small, busy-looking man aged about forty-three entered the room alone. Ratso did a double-take. It was not Delgado—not unless he had shrunk six inches and started wearing a toupee to cover the shining bald head Ratso recalled so vividly.

  The man sat down at the head of the table, barely shaking hands. He smiled with the warmth of a coal fire that had gone out. From a slim, expensive wallet, he produced two business cards and handed them over. “Good morning. My name is Jesus Botía. As you see, I am a comisario from Unidad de Drogas Y Crimen Organizado, Spain’s drug squad. I am based in Madrid.” His English was impressive but spoken in sufficient accent that both listeners had to strain to be sure what was being said.

  Ratso and Jock handed over their cards and showed their IDs, which Jesus seemed to expect. Ratso recalled that a Spanish comisario was the equivalent to a superintendent. He felt rather outranked. Although Delgado was an inspector jefe, a chief inspector, he had always treated Ratso as an equal and an old mucker. “Thanks for your support … but I was expecting Antonio?”

  “Oh, him? You know him well?” The remark was heavy with contempt.

  It was not a good start but Ratso tried not to show his irritation. “We worked together in Torremolinos.”

  Jesus Botía nodded, uninterested. “He cannot be here.” With no explanation and barely a pause, he continued, “So I am in charge. You have any more news for me?”

  “I believe you have forty men arriving to support the operation … but where is Antonio? Is he arriving later?”

  “Inspector Delgado’s father died yesterday afternoon. And no, we do not have forty officers. Just fifteen. He exaggerated the difficulties of a simple affair.” Botía saw the horror on his listeners’ faces.

  “Fifteen? That’s crazy—especially if this turns violent.” Ratso checked his notes. “Besides the ringleader, Adrian Fenwick, arriving this morning, also flying in is a contract killer called Erlis Bardici. He is the enforcer.” Ratso looked at Jock and saw his cheeks were growing redder by the second. “This could be a screw-up of mega proportions. Your officers may face unacceptable dangers.”

  “You exaggerate too, Inspector Holtom.” Calmly, Jesus Botía poured himself a coffee and adjusted his heavy black spectacles. “Forgive me but I have read the file.” The remark could have been polite, perhaps even friendly but the look on Botía’s face was closer to contempt. “Your summary has left me in no doubt. We need one man at each hotel, watching for a meeting breaking up. But I am sure it will be the Hesperia Finisterre. Wherever Fenwick goes from there for a meeting, by car or on foot, we will follow. If the meeting is there, we can photo all of them and then follow to where the drugs are divided.”

  Only that part made sense. A simple affair! The words almost made Ratso choke. “You’ll not follow the lorry to France?”

  “No. We will arrest the truck as it leaves town. That will be cheaper. Less risk”

  “And lose the chance of more arrests in France.”

  “The value of the cocaine tells me to take no chance.”

  “And the truck with the heroin?”

  Botía smiled confidently. “The officers following that truck will report to me when the destination is reached. Six of my men in unmarked cars will stake out the area surrounding the truck and will move in when the dealers are dividing it.”

  “And Nomora’s crew?” Ratso had been through every detail with Delgado and they had concluded thirty-five men minimum.

  “There is no hurry to arrest them. They will have no reason to be suspicious. The ship cannot leave harbor—that has been arranged by you with Delgado. A Spanish naval vessel is patrolling close by at sea.”

  Ratso could take no more. “This is useless. Nobody arresting the crew? They’ll be off, disappear at the slightest whiff of trouble. The skipper’s a slippery bastard called Micky Quigley. He’ll slip out of Spain quicker than Houdini.” Ratso found his voice had been rising with his temper.

  Jock’s wrinkled face looked ready to explode, his cheeks deep crimson and the vein on his temple throbbing. “With respect, Superintendent Botía,” he began, before he was cut off by the little man standing up and slamming shut his notebook.

  “You requested our help,” the Spaniard snapped. “Now you tell me—a superintendent of the drug squad—how to manage an operation?” He turned sharply and flounced toward the door with all the self-assurance of a matador. “You can observe but will not be involved, not now, not at the scene. Understood, Sergeant, Inspector?” He glared at each listener in turn. “You agree? Yes or no.”

  Ratso’s mind was in ferment. He found himself chewing his lip as he realised the man would have zero interest in synchronising with arrests in the UK. But it was pointless reasoning with someone who thought he could walk on water. In turn, Ratso felt as if his own feet had been nailed but to the floor rather than a wooden cross. He glanced at Jock, who looked as if he’d found ten pence after dropping a pound. “The figure forty was Antonio Delgado’s decision, not mine. Let me take you through the breakdown.”

  “Delgado is like an old woman—everything a big problem.”

  Ratso caught Jock’s eye and shrugged. “You have us by the balls, Superintendent Jesus Botía, so our hearts and minds will follow. Only God can outrank you.”

  Ratso watched the small man with the big ego flinch at the cheeky comment. He hesitated before returning to his seat. “I take that as a yes, Inspector.” His deep-set and cautious eyes still showed his distrust for these interferers from London. “Any update for me, Inspector Holtom?”

  Jock wondered whether Ratso would take the piss but realised his boss saw this as too serious for that. “A London drug-dealer who swans about Estepona like villain royalty left there yesterday morning by car. We think he could be coming here.”

  “His name?”

  “He’s known as Foxy Boxy but his real name is Arnie Boxter.
He’s got a sharp face. That’s how he got the nickname. He’s the only one of our suspects living in Spain who is on the move.”

  “A car? He won’t get much in that. You have a photo of this … Foxy Boxy?”

  Ratso tapped away on his iPad and then sent the superintendent several shots of a shrimp of a man, aged late fifties with a thin face, long nose and a slim moustache. “These were taken this week. We think Foxy Boxy could be a distributor for Spain.”

  Botía nodded. “I think you leave here today, Inspector?” Jock showed no surprise as Ratso explained that no, he was staying on.

  “So we meet at seven tomorrow morning.”

  “I think I should be at the Hesperia Finisterre, where Fenwick is staying.”

  “No. You look too English.”

  Ratso had to give that to him. “Fenwick does not know me.”

  “Seven unless I change it. I am convinced the meeting will be at Fenwick’s hotel. The memorial to the English general is the most significant.” Jock let the mistaken reference to an English general pass without challenge. The past twenty minutes had taught him that silence was the better option.

  A short time later, Jock and Ratso were seated at the same small café as the day before. Today, as the clock struck ten, the sun was now striking the red tables so it was comfortable to sit outside. Jock ordered coffee and pancakes with apple, chocolate and whipped cream. Ratso, still inwardly fuming from the encounter, admitted to feeling drained and ordered a full English, a rarity for him. While Jock browsed yesterday’s Daily Mail, Ratso tapped away furiously on his iPhone. “I’m reporting to the AC.” The message to Wensley Hughes pulled no punches. “We’re facing the biggest snafu in La Coruna since General Sir John Moore died here over two hundred years ago. I want Jesus Botía outranked.”

  “It’s cover-yer-arse time,” agreed Jock. “So … ye’re staying on?”