The Nothing Job

by Nick Oldham

  ‘I got three shot shots off at them,’ Tekke said, still dangerously waving his gun in the air.

  ‘I thought you said you didn’t have much crime on Cyprus,’ Henry said accusingly.

  EIGHT

  The noises coming from the bathroom were awful to behold, almost inhuman, making Henry Christie feel queasy himself. He stood by the door, listening, his face a mask of horror. Then, with a guttural moan, the sounds stopped suddenly and there was a worrying silence. Henry put his ear to the door and tapped gently with his fingertips.

  ‘Bill, are you OK?’

  There was no response.

  Then immediately the noises began again, moans, retching sounds, unbelievable farts and groans, then a ‘Jesus Christ!’ then the flush of the toilet, the third in about five minutes.

  Henry knocked again, this time more urgently. ‘Bill – you OK?’ he asked and wondered whether his claim about being bright-eyed and bushy-tailed would come back to haunt him.

  The lock slid slowly back. Bill opened the bathroom door and stood there, his head peering round, looking at Henry who had not seen a human being looking much worse this side of the grave.

  ‘Hell fire,’ said Henry, taken well aback.

  ‘Something I ate,’ Bill explained.

  ‘You look bloody dreadful.’

  ‘You want to feel what my guts feel like.’

  ‘It couldn’t be something to do with that local beer, could it?’

  ‘Prob’ly a combination of things,’ Bill said, evidently not wishing to put his state down just to the beer. ‘The long flight, dehydration, that mezze, and maybe the beer … and tiredness – they all go into the mix, y’know?’

  ‘There was a lot of food, admittedly, but I’m not sure copious amounts of beer helped matters.’

  ‘Nah, definitely not just the beer,’ Bill insisted. ‘Anyway, need to get dressed.’ He pushed past Henry and padded towards his bedroom, Henry open-mouthed at the naked form of his new flatmate. ‘By the way,’ Bill said over his shoulder, ‘it’s not for the faint-hearted in there.’

  A single manned patrol car had been parked up outside their hotel for the night, a paltry but well-received gesture designed to reassure Henry and Bill and dissuade anyone from trying anything further. Henry had actually argued it wasn’t necessary to tie up a cop all night, but Georgia dismissed his protestations with a wave.

  ‘It’s the least we can do,’ she insisted.

  ‘Well, it’s kind of you,’ Henry relented.

  The night had panned out without further incident and after the surge of police activity at the scene of the shooting, Henry had slept like a baby stuffed with Calpol. He could only guess from the loud snoring in the other room how well Bill had slept. The sleep of the drunk, the waking of the very poorly, as it happened.

  The two men emerged from their ground-floor apartment into the bright sunlight of a Cypriot morning. Bill shielded his eyes and complained of a terrifying headache. Henry felt OK, glad he hadn’t drunk too much and not only because of his lack of a hangover. If he had been drunk, and slower to react, he and Georgia could well have been dead.

  They walked past the police car which had been on guard all night and gave the officer behind the wheel a wave of appreciation. He had been there since the shooting, hadn’t been relieved even yet and looked only marginally better than Bill.

  They had been told to make their way to a particular cafe on the main drag that offered a full English breakfast, starting at three euros. Georgia and Tekke would meet them there.

  After finding the place, not far from the scene of last night’s incident, Henry felt well enough to devour the ‘Gut-buster’ but Bill contented himself with a coffee and croissant, which he nibbled like a sparrow. He had become surly and uncommunicative, his mouth twisted as though there was a bad smell coming from somewhere. Henry didn’t mind the silence because as he ate he ran through the shooting, and the implications behind it, with a clear mind.

  His first instinct was that there had to be some connection with Scartarelli, otherwise it didn’t make sense. He took his musings backwards a stage further. DS Papakostas had been given information by a trusted source about a new operator on the block, one Paulo Scartarelli, a guy who was evidently muscling in on the snout’s territory. The snout, Haram, had gone whining to Georgia, his controller, and told her about Scartarelli, giving her details of when and where he could be located – i.e. moving prostitutes around who happened to be illegal immigrants. Then it looked as if Haram had been set up, fallen for the bait, then been eliminated for his trouble. He had been assassinated in broad daylight and Henry, despite liking Georgia, did tend to think she hadn’t done everything she could to catch the offenders. In his experience, a daylight killing was usually quickly bottomed, but the police here didn’t seem to have got their act together in terms of a full-blown professional investigation. But maybe that’s the way it was over here and Henry tried not to judge by his own standards.

  So, Haram was executed and then an attempt was made on Georgia’s life.

  Going for a cop was a very serious move indeed, not one that any criminal would take lightly, even one in Cyprus.

  Henry couldn’t even begin to guess why she had been targeted, yet he accepted he knew very little about anything that was going on here.

  Haram’s desire to let Georgia know how to catch Scartarelli smacked of a fallout between crims. Henry would have happily laid odds that he and Haram were into something together that had gone wrong, resulting in a fatal disagreement. And Georgia didn’t know about it.

  Still, he thought, not my business. My job is to lock up a fugitive and take him back to face justice.

  His mind reverted to the shooting itself: Bill and Tekke in heated discussion about the merits of particular firearms, some forty metres behind him and Georgia. The bright lights of the car mounting the pavement, shots being fired, him and Georgia probably saved by toppling over a low wall.

  The additional shots were Tekke’s, apparently firing wildly at the fleeing vehicle and missing.

  Henry gulped drily as he thought he could so easily have been a victim.

  Yet … they weren’t particularly good shots …

  ‘You not want that sausage?’ Bill asked, coming to life.

  Henry looked at his plate and realized he hadn’t made any significant inroads into his Gut-buster breakfast. ‘Yes I do, so fuck off. And anyway, do you actually remember anything about last night?’

  ‘Which bit?’

  Henry regarded him as though he couldn’t believe his ears. ‘The shooting?’ His voice had a hopeful tinge to it. ‘You know, me nearly being killed, having to go home in a body bag in the belly of an aeroplane?’

  ‘Nah.’ He rubbed his eyes.

  ‘It’s a bloody good job I like you, Bill.’

  Robbins fluttered his eyelashes that were attached to eyelids sliding over bloodshot eyes. ‘I like you too.’

  Henry concentrated on his breakfast, which he was finishing with a large white coffee as Georgia and Tekke arrived in her Terrano. They sat at the table, shaking hands. Both were dressed in jeans and windcheaters and neither looked the worse for wear, unlike their professional British counterparts.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Georgia asked.

  ‘I’m OK,’ Henry said.

  ‘Me too,’ Bill said. Henry squinted quickly at him and saw that, all of a sudden, he did look quite well again, as though someone had just inserted new batteries. The appearance of a beautiful woman he wanted to impress probably had something to do with it, so instead of being totally catatonic, Bill was now semi-catatonic.

  ‘How about you?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Shaken, but OK.’

  Henry looked at Tekke, whose dark, sunken eyes were even more bloodshot than Bill’s had been. On closer inspection, he looked like hell on legs. Tekke simply breathed out heavily and said nothing other than, ‘I need an espresso.’

  ‘Well, if you’re having something, I feel like
I could down a proper breakfast now,’ Bill said. ‘Not a Gut-buster, maybe, perhaps that Belly-buster.’

  ‘I think I’ll join you,’ Tekke said. ‘Greek yoghurt and toast is only so good.’

  Whilst Bill and Tekke tucked into their breakfasts, Georgia and Henry seated themselves out of munching distance over coffee.

  ‘Anything from the crime scene?’ Henry asked.

  Georgia shrugged. ‘Our people are looking at it. Don’t hold out too much hope, though. They’re good, but …’ She shrugged again.

  ‘OK,’ said Henry briskly, ‘to business, then. I was pretty much under the impression that you had Scartarelli’s location and as soon as I arrived we’d be able to make an arrest and get proceedings underway … is that the case? Because if it isn’t, Bill and I may have to return home empty-handed because as much as we’d like to make a holiday of this, I’m not sure my bosses would approve of us staying for a fortnight.’

  As Henry spoke, Georgia was nodding seriously. ‘I can see your point, but we do have Scartarelli’s location, kind of.’

  Henry’s mouth skewed sardonically. ‘Kind of?’

  ‘As a result of that second piece of paper Haram gave me, we know that he returns frequently to a villa on the edge of the Akamas, not far away from here. We’ve been keeping a surveillance operation since …’ Her voice broke slightly. ‘Since Haram was killed … but we don’t have enough people to keep a tail on him.’

  ‘The villa.’ Henry tried to get it right in his head. ‘That’s the address Haram gave you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how long is it since he was murdered?’

  ‘Over a week ago.’

  ‘How many times has he used the villa since then?’

  Georgia blanched. It was time for her mouth to twist. ‘He’s been seen once,’ she admitted, ‘but managed to get away before we got to him.’

  Henry sighed, scratched his ear and gave a short laugh.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Georgia said, irritated.

  ‘Nothing, nothing,’ he assured her – except there was always that disparity between expectation and actual events. He’d arrived thinking that trussing up Scartarelli would be the proverbial piece of piss, but the reality was a completely different kettle of fish. Basically, and as far as he could see without over-egging the pudding, it was a shambles. It was made much more palatable by the presence of Georgia, but in reality even that pleasure was tainted by the fact that he’d nearly been riddled with bullets on his first night on a holiday island.

  ‘Why are you a target?’ he asked her bluntly.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’m so close to Scartarelli and he doesn’t like it, or maybe it has nothing to do with him at all. Maybe it’s someone else I upset, maybe it was a mistake. Lots of maybes, but I’ll only know for sure when I arrest the guys with the gun – which I will do,’ she concluded confidently.

  ‘Yeah, it’s best to keep an open mind. But it seems a hell of a coincidence to me, and you need to be extra-careful, Georgia.’

  ‘I will be.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘Just how long can you and Bill stay?’

  ‘Maybe three days at most – unless we make a quick arrest and then we’ll stay as long as necessary to complete the processing – unless of course it drags on. Lots of unlesses,’ Henry said.

  Across the cafe Bill and Tekke had finished their Belly-busters, were wiping their lips and generally coming to life.

  ‘Let’s go for a drive,’ Georgia said.

  Georgia explained that the Akamas, a designated national park, was a beautiful region of valleys and rocky shorelines and was the westernmost extremity of Cyprus. One of the beaches, called Lara, she said proudly, was where loggerhead turtles came to lay their eggs. She also said that there was very little development in the area, but a lot of building was taking place right up to the boundary and it was there they were going.

  She drove out of Coral Bay and turned north-west along the E701.

  Henry and Bill were in the back of her Terrano, windows open, enjoying the warm rush of wind on their faces. Georgia and Tekke occupied the front seats.

  The heat of the day was building and Henry loved the effect it had on his bones.

  She drove to an area called Agios Georgios, Henry noticing quite a lot of holiday villas being built, many standing unfinished like monstrous insects. Many were finished, however, and looked big and comfortable causing Henry to wish … if only he’d been a millionaire instead of a cop.

  Henry saw a sign for the Akamas and Georgia veered off the main road by a pleasant-looking restaurant called the Sunset, and on to a side road which cut through a development of villas in various stages of build and occupation.

  ‘Straight on is the Akamas,’ Georgia said, slowing down and pointing to where the tarmac ended abruptly and became a dusty, pitted road. As she turned right, Henry saw a snake slither across the road and disappear into a banana plantation. Next she turned left into a cul-de-sac, villas either side, again in varying stages of development. She turned into the driveway of one of them – a completed one – and the Terrano lurched as it instantly dropped sharply into an underground garage. ‘Pretty neat, huh?’ she said climbing out and indicating for Henry and Bill to do the same. The garage was spacious enough to house another 4WD, which it did, and a fun buggy.

  She led them through a door into the villa itself, explaining as she went, ‘It’s built on three levels. Underground, ground and first floor. It’s just been completed for some buyers in Germany, but the contracts haven’t been exchanged as yet … hence …’ She gestured.

  ‘Her uncle is the builder,’ Tekke said sourly.

  ‘Wow,’ Henry said, looking at the magnificent villa appreciatively.

  ‘How much is it worth?’ Bill asked with his traditional bluntness.

  ‘About a million.’

  ‘Euros?’

  ‘Pounds sterling.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Bill as though this was OK.

  ‘Her uncle’s very rich,’ Tekke said, still sounding sour.

  Georgia scowled fleetingly at him and he shrugged. ‘He’s built all these on this road and when I found out Scartarelli had been using an address nearby, my uncle was happy enough to help out. Want a guided tour?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bill said enthusiastically. It was Henry’s turn to scowl at him. He didn’t feel this was the time for house viewing.

  Georgia saw Henry’s reaction, hesitated for a moment, then gave him a cheeky smile. ‘Underground we have the garage, obviously,’ she began as though she was an estate agent. Henry clamped his mouth shut as he was led unwillingly on a tour of a fabulous house with an infinity pool, superb fixtures and fittings and a roof terrace giving magnificent views towards the village of Agios Georgios and the shimmering sea beyond, then to his right, the bays and hills of the Akamas. He was suitably impressed. ‘And if you turn that way,’ Georgia said, ‘we can see a villa right on the edge of the Akamas. I won’t point to it, but it’s the one not part of any development, surrounded by a high hedge.’ Henry got it. ‘And that is where Scartarelli is supposed to be visiting. Let’s go back downstairs.’

  Henry took a good look at the villa, then followed the trio back down the stairs and Georgia opened the door to a bedroom they hadn’t inspected on their tour, inside of which was the police observation point. It consisted of a lone, smelly cop, cooped up with a thermos of strong coffee and a pair of battered binoculars, pen and notepad. He was sitting in an uncomfortable chair, probably with backache, keeping observations on Scartarelli’s villa through slats in a blind.

  The cop turned slowly and Georgia introduced him as Detective Piali, one of her team.

  He was young, dark and handsome and Henry hated him instantly, though the BO issue was an issue. ‘Hi, I’m Henry Christie,’ he shook the officer’s hand, ‘and this is Bill Robbins.’ Bill extended his hand, too. ‘How’s it going?’

  Piali shrugged. ‘Nothing so far. Place is empty.’

  ‘Who
owns it?’ Henry’s question was directed at Georgia.

  ‘An Englishman from London, but he’s not there at the moment.’

  ‘Are you assuming Scartarelli has permission to use the place?’ Henry frowned.

  ‘I’m assuming nothing.’

  Henry pouted now, his mind jangling and thinking, ‘Connections?’ Scartarelli had been operating in England, albeit in the north; after committing the murder, he flees and ends up using an Englishman’s house in Cyprus, if the information is to be believed. ‘Do you have the guy’s name?’

  ‘I do, and he’s been checked out and he’s clean as far as we can tell.’

  ‘Clean, as in not on a computer clean, you mean?’

  Georgia nodded, but Henry saw her eyes register what he meant by these words. ‘I’ll give you his details,’ she said. Turning to her detective, she asked, ‘Anything you need?’

  ‘Fresh coffee, a croissant – and a shower.’

  ‘I hope we haven’t wasted your time,’ Georgia said. She and Henry were seated on the veranda and under the shade at the Sunset restaurant, the one they’d passed on the way to the OP at her uncle’s villa.

  ‘I’m sure you haven’t.’ He sipped his iced tea and winced at the unfamiliar but pleasant taste. It was refreshing, just took a bit of getting used to. The day was already too hot to drink coffee, his usual upper. The restaurant was by the roadside, right on the junction that led towards the villa development and the Akamas. It was a good position from which to observe the comings and goings of the traffic for a short time. The road was fairly quiet, but a stream of quad bikes and fun buggies throbbed past them, heading for the Akamas, which was a popular off-road destination.

  Tekke and Bill were sitting inside the restaurant itself, Tekke busily chatting up a young waitress.

  Henry was still thinking out loud about last night’s drive-by shooting, which had rattled him. ‘Crims don’t usually go for cops, whatever the provocation – and I’m not including drunks who fight with cops in that statement. I would’ve thought that if Scartarelli was involved in Haram’s shooting – and again, there’s nothing to say he definitely was. Haram, by all accounts, had his fingers in many pies for many years. Anybody could’ve been after him.’ He rolled his shoulders. ‘But if he was involved, then killing Haram should be enough and to go after the cop who was handling him seems very extreme. To me, anyway. If he thought Haram’s death wasn’t enough, I would think he’d be more inclined to run again, rather than stand and slug it out with the local law.’