The Nothing Job

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Yeah – always gets me on the way down. Very painful.’ He blew again and his ears popped, suddenly making his hearing keener than Superman’s. ‘That’s better.’

  Henry had chosen Bill Robbins, the PC who was the disgruntled firearms officer, to come along for the ride. This was not because they were old mates, which they were, or because they’d worked together years back, which they had. It was because that by accident Henry had found himself working with Bill when he’d stumbled across the plot to assassinate the American State Secretary on her visit to Blackburn. Bill’s laconic cynicism and his calmness under the most extreme duress had impressed Henry. Bill was the sort of guy you pushed in front of you in a crisis. He had an old, level head on his shoulders and because he’d been steeped in firearms lore for the past fifteen years, he could handle himself physically and mentally.

  As the plane made its final trim adjustments prior to landing, Henry allowed his mind to do a quick skim through his knowledge of Paulo Scartarelli, the second person on his wanted list.

  Henry found it amazing that he was no longer surprised to be arresting a foreign criminal who had been operating on British soil – Lancashire soil at that. Although he knew it wasn’t a new phenomenon, it was far more common than it had ever been because of the immigration mess the country was in.

  Not much was known about Scartarelli. He’d been operating on the periphery of some brothels that had been set up in the north of England and had been circulated as wanted for the savage attack on an Albanian prostitute who had subsequently died. But not before she named Scartarelli as her killer. By the time she’d blabbed his name – when she realized she would die – he was long gone and though the initial murder enquiry generated many leads, it wound up after nine months when Scartarelli failed to raise his head above the parapet. Many rumours as to his whereabouts abounded. All related to connections with people-trafficking and various European gangs, but nothing concrete came to light – until Cyprus.

  Henry was eager to hear the full story as to how he’d been found.

  He braced himself as the plane touched down on the short runway and the brakes and reverse thrust were applied and finally his ears came back to normal. A short while later the plane taxied up to the terminal building and everybody de-planed, was transferred across the tarmac by bendy bus to customs and baggage reclaim.

  Henry Christie and Bill Robbins had set foot in Cyprus. British cops abroad.

  SEVEN

  Agonizingly, Henry’s bag came last down the conveyor belt, whilst Bill’s was one of the first to appear through the rubber flaps. The firearms officer waited patiently for Henry whilst the DCI became increasingly annoyed, suspecting that it might not even have made the flight.

  ‘How can this be?’ Henry moaned. ‘Our bags went in together.’

  ‘It’ll come,’ Bill assured him.

  And it did, eventually, all by itself.

  Henry tore it off the belt and angrily set off towards the doors which opened out into the comparatively tiny arrivals hall, Bill in tow.

  By the time they appeared, all the other passengers from the flight had gone and the hall was quiet.

  Henry stood and looked around. Bill tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to a person holding up an A4-sized piece of white card on which had been scribbled ‘CHRISTIE & ROBBINS’. Bill set off, Henry a beat behind him.

  Bill stretched out a hand in greeting and the woman holding the sign broke into a wide, welcoming smile as she shook Bill’s hand.

  ‘You must be Detective Christie,’ she said to Bill, whose bottom lip dropped stupidly open as he took in the sight of the woman sent to meet and greet them. ‘You’re just as I imagined.’

  ‘I’m … er,’ he blubbered.

  ‘It’s so lovely to meet you,’ she said and looked at Henry as she prised her hand from Bill’s grasp and proffered it to Henry. ‘You must be Constable Robbins,’ she said, shaking his hand firmly. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Papakostas … Georgia Papakostas.’

  Henry’s mouth also drooped, almost flopping on to the tiled floor, his anger over his late luggage immediately evaporating, to be replaced by a sort of awe at the sight of one of the most stunning women he’d ever met. Her jet-black hair was pulled back tightly from her face and tied in a neat ponytail. She had honey-coloured skin, deep-brown eyes, an imperfect complexion with two tiny pockmarks on her left cheek that only added to the overall effect of a true Mediterranean beauty. There was no make up other than a touch of lip gloss which simply served to accentuate the full mouth and pure white teeth of her hot, real smile.

  For a few moments Henry could not form any words. He and Bill just simply stood before this woman drooling like imbeciles from a Tom and Jerry cartoon.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Sergeant,’ he managed to say.

  Her thick black, but perfectly trimmed eyebrows knitted together in puzzlement. ‘I have got it the right way round, haven’t I?’ she said in a lightly Greek-accented voice. ‘You are Bill, yes?’ she said to Henry.

  ‘Oh no, I’m DCI Christie … this is PC Robbins.’ Henry moved forward a couple of steps, positioning himself slightly ahead of Bill because there were times when it was only right and proper for a DCI to lead from the front.

  Georgia giggled. ‘I’ve been looking at the names on the paperwork, imagining what you both would look like.’ She gave an apologetic tilt of the head. ‘Got it wrong.’

  Henry caught the merest scent of light perfume from her, reminding him of strawberries.

  ‘All you need to know is that I’m the brains and he’ – he thumbed disrespectfully at Bill – ‘is the muscle.’ And immediately regretted what he’d said because he knew it made him look stupid.

  ‘Thanks, boss,’ Bill said under his breath.

  To try and compensate, Henry gave Georgia his cute tilted-head half-smile he kept for use on such occasions, coupled with a few blinks of his eyes.

  She smiled and emitted a pleasant chuckle. ‘Anyway, I’m very pleased to meet you both. As you probably know I’m the officer in this case and may I formally welcome you to Cyprus, halfway to the Orient, as they say.’ She bowed her head gracefully and gave a very minor curtsey.

  She was wearing a black trouser suit with sensible black shoes, good practical clothing for a female detective. As she bowed, her unbuttoned jacket flapped open slightly, revealing her red blouse fastened just above her breasts. Obviously these caught Henry’s eye, as they did Bill’s, but what really caught Henry’s breath and what made him realize that this might not be just a jolly to a sunny holiday island was the sight of the pistol strapped to her right hip.

  Stepping out of the terminal building, Henry was struck in the face by the incredible heat of the day and the myriad of intoxicating aromas associated with the island, particularly that of the sea, which was literally just across the road.

  The two Lancashire officers followed DS Papakostas down the ramp, past a few lounging and moustachioed taxi drivers touting idly for work, all of who watched the female detective’s progress with dirty eyes and thoughts. She led Henry and Bill across the car park to a Nissan Terrano, a big four-wheel drive beast, into the back of which they heaved their cases and then themselves.

  ‘You can have use of this,’ she explained, ‘but I’ll drop you off at your hotel first.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Henry, barging Bill out of the way to get into the front passenger seat alongside Georgia, who climbed in behind the wheel. The two men exchanged scowls, but Bill relented and got into the back seat with great reluctance. It was only as Henry settled himself in and pulled on his seat belt did he realize that the vehicle’s steering wheel was on the right. He said, ‘You drive on the left,’ with surprise.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said.

  Bill tutted and Henry shot him a quick look which said, ‘Watch it.’

  ‘You haven’t been to the island before?’

  Henry shook his head. ‘I have,’ Bill piped up.

  Georgia smiled. ‘Lot
s of British influence here, still,’ she explained, manoeuvring the Terrano out of its parking space. ‘We only recently changed to the euro,’ she added.

  ‘From what?’

  ‘Pounds … Cypriot pounds, that is.’ She drove on to the road, the shimmering Med on their right, and gunned the big, but lazy, diesel engine which responded sluggishly. There then followed one of those slightly stifled introductory conversations covering such inanities as flight comfort, in-flight meals and other bits of trivia to break the ice. This included the fact that her father was Cypriot and her mother English, hence her almost excellent use of the language.

  That done, Henry asked about the plan for the remainder of the day ahead.

  Georgia checked her wristwatch. ‘If it’s OK with you guys, I’ll take you to your hotel and get you settled in. Then, maybe, we meet up and plan for tomorrow, which is when we’ll move for Scartarelli. It will have been a long day for you today, so you just need to chill for the remainder of the day and maybe we get a meal later?’

  ‘Sounds OK to me,’ Henry said.

  ‘And me,’ Bill seconded from the rear. ‘I’m dying for a large Keo.’

  Henry turned and grimaced at him.

  ‘The local brew – very nice.’ Bill smiled and licked his lips.

  ‘I’ll go with that, Henry agreed, turning forwards huffily, then looking sideways at DS Papakostas’s profile. ‘How far to the hotel?’

  ‘Maybe half-hour. It’s in a place called Coral Bay.’

  ‘In that case could you give me a bit of background as to how Scartarelli came into your sights?’

  She gave a short laugh. ‘Good phrase, because that’s what he did – come into my sights.’ She patted the gun nestling against her right hip.

  She had a good informant, one she had been keeping to herself, something Henry could relate to. He had been a smuggler for many years and was in his early sixties, though he looked fifteen years younger despite his weather-beaten face and grey moustache. Georgia had encountered the man known as Haram when she had been a keen rookie cop patrolling the streets of Nicosia, the island’s capital, in the early days of her service. She had, in fact, worked her way up to Haram. He had been the one every cop in the southern half of Cyprus had wanted to catch red-handed. Her trail had begun with the spot-check and subsequent arrest of a minor drug-dealer under the battered ruin of Pafos Gate. A deal had been struck leading her to the next dealer up the chain and so on, until she reached the final link: Haram. He was known to smuggle Turkish heroin down through the north and then cheap cigarettes and booze in the opposite direction. Although he had been arrested on a multitude of occasions, no prosecutions ever ensued.

  But Georgia – ambitious to be a detective – bided her time. Constantly digging and building a jigsaw of Haram until she had four informants, all with jail penalties hanging over them, passing on information to save their own arses.

  All the patience came to fruition almost a year after the encounter with the first dealer under the gate in Nicosia. Haram was bringing a carload of drugs across the border from the Turkish north of the island by a circuitous route around the western tip from where he would be supplying the tourists and the British forces bases in the south.

  If her intelligence was correct – and jail sentences would happen if it weren’t – Haram would eventually be travelling south down the coastal E704 towards Polis, a town popular with backpackers. Once on that road, there would be no escape for him.

  That had been ten years ago and Haram, terrified by the thought of losing his liberty, had reached an ‘understanding’ with Georgia who, after successfully transferring to CID, used his intimate knowledge of the Cypriot underworld to further her career.

  She had met Haram most recently and clandestinely on the waterfront at Kato Pafos, where they sat at a quayside restaurant called the Pelican, sipping mineral water. It was called the Pelican because a real live one wandered around the tables, seeking scraps from the diners.

  ‘I want to give you something,’ he said in his quiet, gravelly voice.

  ‘That’s always good to hear.’ She was always cool with him, always in control, never wanting to give him the impression he was anything more than a piece of useful shit.

  He held up his hands. ‘You want it, or not?’

  ‘Haram,’ she began patiently, her brown eyes taking on a glint of steel. ‘Give.’

  She knew that he still operated very much in the centre of the Cypriot underworld, often protected from the law by her, and that he had grown wealthy on the proceeds of crime because she had allowed him to do so. He could now so easily just be stepping out of a prison cell if the two of them hadn’t reached that understanding – something none of her bosses knew about, incidentally.

  ‘A man has appeared on the scene,’ he said gruffly. ‘An interloper.’

  Georgia gave him a crooked smile. ‘And he’s treading on your toes?’ she ventured.

  Haram looked quickly away. Georgia knew she had struck a nerve, read his mind. ‘Go on,’ she urged.

  ‘He’s Italian, mixing with the Maltese guys in Nicosia. Low profile, but starting to throw his weight around with us. He has good connections …’

  ‘And he’s treading on your toes?’ Georgia said again, knowing that many of Haram’s snippets of information were given simply just to get the competition off his back. Such was the nature of informants. They were always in it for a reason, and Haram’s was to keep operating unmolested – and not to go to prison.

  Haram nodded. The pelican approached their table, its big beak clattering hungrily.

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘People, drugs, prostitutes … trying to set up a new line. Hookers, mainly, but also a lot of drugs … using Albanian girls.’

  Try as she might, Georgia could not keep a sliver of interest out of her eyes.

  ‘I want him caught, neutralized,’ Haram stated.

  ‘So you can continue to do the same?’ she said cynically.

  He raised his eyebrows. They were grey and overgrown. ‘And there’s something else – a bit of glory for not much work on your part,’ he teased. ‘I have checked out this man carefully. Here, on the island, he goes by the name of Corelli, but I have discovered he is really called Scartarelli.’ Haram passed the detect-ive a scrunched-up piece of paper. ‘His details. Check him out on your computers. You will find something interesting that will get him out of both our hairs.’

  Her hand covered the paper. She looked sideways at the expectant pelican. ‘And how will that happen?’

  ‘I will give him to you on a plate.’

  It was just the sort of job a detective likes occasionally. A decent arrest, not much paperwork and some kudos to boot.

  When Georgia checked out the name, the computer she was using became all bells and whistles. Corelli, also known more correctly as Paulo Scartarelli, was wanted by the English cops for murder. What better fun could there be? To execute a simple arrest and get a big-time player off her patch with hardly any paperwork.

  There was a tense few days waiting for Haram to come through, but he did via a call to Georgia’s mobile phone.

  ‘Tonight … he will be driving three Albanian prostitutes, illegals, from Pafos to Limassol using the B6 … Audi A4.’ He recited the registered number. ‘Leaving Pafos seven-thirty.’

  ‘How good is this, Haram?’

  ‘The best. Take him, get rid of him, flush him down the shitter.’

  She thumbed the end-call button and felt a pleasant tremor of anticipation shimmer through her.

  Henry listened as the story unfolded, but something about the situation did not quite add up. ‘I take it it didn’t go to plan?’

  She looked squarely at him for a moment. ‘You could say that.’ Her voice sounded bitter, upset. Her attention returned to driving as she negotiated her way through Pafos, a dusty town that struck Henry as sun-baked and not very picturesque.

  Despite her fine arrest record, which outshone most other detec
tives on the island, she could only muster the use of one double-crewed car – and herself – to pull the vehicle a murderer might be in. She argued that two would be better, but the police in Cyprus had the same resource issues as every other police force the world over – i.e. never enough. One would have to do.

  At seven on the evening on which Georgia had got her information she sat in the rear of a liveried Fiat Bravo on the B6, facing the direction of Limassol, waiting for an Audi A4 to pass them, a male and female cop in the front seats.

  Which it did one hour later, four people on board.

  The Bravo slotted in behind and followed for a couple of miles, passing Secret Valley and reaching Aphrodite’s birthplace, where they decided to tug the Audi. Using blue lights, a tweak of the siren and flashing headlights, they indicated for it to pull off on to a scrubby parking area overlooking the two spectacular rocks in the sea below them, set against white cliffs. It was from out of the foaming water here that Aphrodite herself was alleged to have emerged from the ocean. The Audi pulled in as instructed and the three cops were quickly out of the Bravo, covering both sides of the Audi. It was all going very smoothly.

  Georgia tapped the driver’s window. The man behind the wheel looked up through hooded, dangerous eyes and just so he made no mistake about who was who, she flashed her badge at him and indicated that he get out of the car – now! He climbed out slowly, like a cat, doing as instructed, placing his hands on the roof and spreading his feet. The two other cops were doing the same with the female passengers. They were young, pasty-faced girls, immediately reminding Georgia of pimp-fodder.

  She searched the man, asking him questions, then expertly cuffed him. He made only guttural, non-committal responses.

  Georgia looked up as the woman cop searched the last of the females. She saw what happened next in slow motion, knowing she would be able to replay the scenario in her mind forever.

  The female suspect acquiesced to the search, but as the officer spun her round to slap on the cuffs instead of doing it from behind, a knife appeared in the girl’s right hand from somewhere, probably having been secreted up her sleeve. It had a short blade, no more than three inches, with one serrated edge. Georgia screamed a warning, started to hurl herself across the gap as the prisoner jerked up her hand and thrust the blade up to the hilt below the officer’s ribcage.