The Badge & the Pen Thrillers

by Roger A Price

  In this moment he grasped something else. The blood had not come from the woman. Directly in front of him, at the treeline, stood a huge swarthy-looking man with an eastern Mediterranean complexion. His right hand cradled his left wrist as blood seeped through his fingers. Judging by the spray that had hit Vinnie, the man’s injury might be serious, an artery even. He stepped forward, his first concern being to help the victim. The assailant would have to wait. She was long gone, anyway.

  ‘That bitch will pay with her life for that,’ the man said.

  ‘Never mind that, let me have a look at your wrist,’ Vinnie said. He could see that the man was exerting great pressure in order to stem the flow of blood. He may well have nicked an artery.

  Vinnie quickly whipped his blood-stained T-shirt off and wrapped it around the man’s wrist as tightly as he could, using the short sleeves to tie a knot and secure the makeshift bandage. He guessed that the man was in his forties, certainly a lot older than the woman. He also noticed a wagon wheel-like tattoo on his injured forearm. He then heard a calmer Christine on her mobile phone calling the emergency services.

  ‘Come and sit down mate,’ Vinnie said.

  ‘No police,’ the man shouted past Vinnie towards Christine, in what Vinnie now realised was a heavily-tainted eastern European accent.

  Vinnie exchanged surprised looks with Christine before he turned back to see the injured man disappear through the trees. He was running as if his life depended on it.

  ‘How strange,’ Christine said.

  ‘Strange indeed. Victims don’t tend to do that.’ He then turned to face the direction in which the woman had run. He hadn’t had much chance to see her, and then only from the rear. A young, olive-skinned woman, perhaps early twenties at most, with long rolling black curly hair, wearing a flowing skirt and ruched blouse with short, white puffed sleeves. Then he saw something glisten in the sand 10 feet away. A short-bladed knife, with blood all over it.

  Chapter Two

  Vinnie had just finished briefing the cop as best he could, as his Spanish was poor, when the Spanish policeman’s colleague, who had been taping up the crime scene, joined them. His English was excellent, and Vinnie was relieved. He told the new officer what had happened and said that if he left him some blank Spanish police statement forms; he would fill in his own statement later. The officer was happy with that; one task less.

  He was about to join Christine, who had been talking for ages on her phone, when he noticed the second cop carefully pick up the knife and put it in an evidence bag. It was the first time Vinnie had had chance to look more closely at the weapon. It was very ornate, with a green sculptured handle with some sort of a cross next to the small circular emblem he’d noticed earlier. Similar to the tattoo on the injured man’s arm, he realised. He only managed a brief glimpse before it disappeared from view.

  ‘That looks valuable,’ Christine said, as she approached.

  ‘It looks interesting,’ Vinnie replied, watching an unspoken moment pass between the two officers as they finished sealing it in the evidence bag. Then the first one, the older one who had first spoken to Vinnie, whispered something.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Vinnie asked Christine.

  ‘Sounded like “gitano scoria” or similar. My Spanish is OK, but not fluent. Hang on, I’ll check on my phone while it’s still fresh.’

  Vinnie watched as Christine typed. A moment passed. ‘According to Google, gitano means gypsy.’

  ‘What about “scoria”?’

  ‘Can’t find it, but “escoria” means scum.’

  ‘Sounds like the cops have just downgraded their investigation,’ Vinnie said, and added that they should make a move. Christine agreed. They collected their things, made their way from the beach and headed to the edge of the treeline where the promenade began.

  ‘What did your editor, June, say?’

  ‘She wasn’t over interested, but the gypsy angle and the cops’ apparent attitude might help change that.’

  ‘Straight back into work mode.’

  ‘I know; I’m just a nosy bugger. Look, let’s get cleaned up and eat early.’

  ‘No problems, but what have you got in mind?’

  ‘I noticed a bar on the way in this morning, which looked like a hangout for Roma gypsies, or travellers or whatever one is supposed to call them. Thought it might be fun to have a drink in there later.’

  Vinnie rolled his eyes; Christine really should have been a cop instead of a TV reporter. Then he remembered he had made a loose arrangement to meet Jimmy for a pint later, he was just awaiting a confirmation text. Jimmy was an ex-cop with whom Vinnie had been friends for many years. He was one of the best undercover officers he had ever met. He’d done work all over the UK and quite a lot in Belfast, during the end of the troubles there. He’d even helped a little on his last job, when Vinnie was after a bit of background on an ex-senior officer from Ulster. Vinnie knew that after Jimmy retired from the police he’d quipped there weren’t many places in the UK where he’d not worked undercover, so he retired to Spain — sort of.

  Sort of, because he had since found a nice niche, working freelance for the local authorities who were keen to track down ex-pat undesirables who were wanted back in the UK. Just so happened that he was in Palma at the moment, while they were in northern Majorca at Porta Pollensa.

  Before he could remind Christine, his text alert went off. As if on cue, it was Jimmy. He’d booked into a local hotel for the night and would meet Vinnie later, near the Marina. Vinnie read the text to Christine.

  ‘Look, I was always going to suggest that I leave you two boys to talk bollocks all night, anyway. I’ll come with you to say hello and then leave you to it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Vinnie asked.

  ‘Positive; and it’ll give me a chance to have a snoop in the Roma bar, or whatever it’s called. I’ll have my phone with me and it’s only 50 metres further down the promenade from where you and Jimmy will be.’

  ‘OK, we can still meet up later. It won’t be a late one, as I know Jimmy will have to head back to Palma early doors tomorrow.’

  Christine smiled at Vinnie and they took a right, then headed inland towards their apart-hotel.

  *

  Vinnie said goodbye to Christine, as did Jimmy, and said he would catch up with her later. He watched her walk away a few metres, before turning back to face a grinning Jimmy.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know what,’ Jimmy said, followed by a laugh. Then he added, ‘Landed the right way up with that one.’

  Vinnie just grinned. It was good to see Jimmy again. He looked a little older and his hair was white, but in his early sixties he was entitled to that. Otherwise, he still looked the grey man in every sense. Medium height and build; unobtrusive.

  ‘Never mind me, what about you?’ Vinnie asked.

  It was Jimmy’s turn to say, ‘What?’

  ‘You undercover types can’t leave it alone; once a James Bond, always a James Bond,’ Vinnie added.

  Jimmy smiled. He was nearly 30 years older than Vinnie, and he had always been someone Vinnie looked up to, a mentor, even. He asked Jimmy what he was working on, and Jimmy told him that he was grafting his way down a long list of Brits who were wanted back in the UK. For every wanted person the Spanish managed to arrest through him, he got €1,000.

  ‘Easy money; tops up my pension and gives me a permanent holiday. Some of those old lags just can’t help but brag. Especially if you fill them up with Benedictine first.’

  ‘You need to watch out, in case you become a common denominator.’

  ‘And so the student becomes the master.’

  Both men laughed and Vinnie waved the waiter over: time for more lager.

  *

  Christine walked towards the bar, which was actually named The Roma Bar, its sun-faded sign confirmed. It was set back from the promenade, a cobbled patio in front with a few old aluminium tables and chairs scattered across. All were empty. By the door w
as an old wooden beer barrel, which Christine immediately thought would look nice in a back garden. Her new flat didn’t have a garden, but one day perhaps, when she settled down.

  Sitting on the barrel was a dark-skinned Mediterranean man in his forties, smoking a roll-up. His face was wrinkled and gave him a much older look. Clearly a complexion that was used to the outdoors. He watched Christine as she approached, a quizzical look on his face; not threatening, just puzzled. ‘Can I help you, nice lady?’ he asked, in an accent Christine couldn’t quite place.

  ‘Just fancied a drink somewhere quirky, is that OK?’

  ‘What is quirky?’

  ‘Different. I’m sick of all the other bars, all the same.’

  The man just smiled and waved her towards the entrance. Christine entered and realised that the main illumination came from the street lights outside. A couple of single light bulbs above the small bar did little to help. The place was only six or seven metres square, with a small toilet block at the rear. The bar was to the right and she ordered a vodka and Coke Zero. The barman could have been the barrel man’s younger brother. Same swarthy appearance. She handed over €5 and turned to survey the room properly. At first she assumed she was wasting her time, as the place looked empty. Then, in the corner near the toilets, she noticed a man sitting in the shadows and nursing a glass of lager. His lager hand had a bandaged wrist. She walked over. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

  ‘Why?’ the eastern Mediterranean-looking man said, in a heavy eastern European accent.

  ‘I was just passing and fancied a drink and then I saw you. Thought I’d ask how your wrist was.’

  The man then glanced at his bandaged left wrist before looking back up at Christine. He had piercing blue eyes that she had not noticed on the beach. They would have been attractive, but for a flint-like hardness within them. His gaze cut through her.

  ‘I OK lady, no cut artery, thank you; you can go now.’

  ‘Why did that woman cut you?’

  ‘I not know why bitch do that.’

  ‘You must have known her?’

  ‘She will know me, if I ever get my hands on her again.’

  Christine noted the man’s use of the word ‘again’. On the beach they had thought initially that he was the victim; now she was not so sure.

  ‘Why did you not want to speak to the police?’

  ‘You ask too many questions, leave me alone,’ the man said as he stood up and knocked over the small, round, brass-topped table in front of him. The man by the door was straight in and asked if everything was OK.

  ‘Too many bitches round here,’ the man said, and then he pushed his way past the barrel man and quickly left. Christine stepped forward, but the barrel man put his hand up to stop her. He was smiling.

  ‘I would leave it, if I was you.’

  ‘Why? I just wanted to ask how he was.’ The barrel man looked confused, so Christine quickly explained, and then asked, ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I not know. We are Roma people, so we attract a lot of passing Roma. I not seen him before, but he looked like trouble. Is why I stay here. Make sure boy OK,’ barrel man said as he nodded towards the barman. His son, she now assumed.

  Christine thanked him and added, ‘Interesting person though.’ She finished her drink quickly.

  She meandered back down the promenade; it was darker now and felt later than ten o’clock. The street was empty, though it looked busier up ahead in the distance where the main bars were. She thought she may as well go and spoil the boys’ night for a while, but she wouldn’t intrude for too long, she fancied an early one.

  As she thought the last thought, a huge rough hand covered her mouth and half of her face, from behind. It stifled any noise she tried to make. She was yanked backwards with incredible ease, and knew she was being pulled into a dimly-lit passage which served as a narrow alleyway. The stench of stale cigarettes made her gag. Two or three metres further and the hand yanked her again. Sideways this time, into a small yard. Light was even less in here, it was near darkness. She tried to scream, but couldn’t. She was struggling to breathe. Fear was starting to take hold.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Your round, Jimmy, stop being a lightweight,’ Vinnie said.

  ‘You’re not too old to go over my knee,’ Jimmy replied.

  ‘Perv.’

  ‘You know that’s not true. It’s just one of those daft phrases my parents used to come out with when I was growing up.’

  ‘Oh, you mean the days when it was OK to beat your kids?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘No wonder your generation have so many issues.’

  ‘Another one was, “it hurts me more than it hurts you” and, “you’ll thank me one day”. Still don’t understand those two.’

  ‘Beer, Jimmy. I’m dying of thirst while you meander down memory lane.’

  ‘I’m on it,’ Jimmy answered, as he rose from the table to wave in the direction of the waiter, who was sitting on a stool behind the bar.

  Vinnie watched Jimmy and saw his demeanour change as he suddenly focused on something along the promenade. ‘Vinnie,’ Jimmy said, as he continued to look in the same direction. Christine was fast approaching, and she had been crying. Vinnie rushed around his table and met her on the promenade.

  ‘Am I glad to see you,’ she said, as Vinnie threw his arms around her. He could feel her start to relax in his embrace, and once she had, he loosened his grip and led her to the table.

  ‘What the hell has happened?’ Jimmy asked.

  Christine took a deep breath and then told them about her visit to the Roma Bar. She stopped as the barman arrived with the drinks, and Vinnie watched as she nearly emptied a vodka and Coke Zero in one go. She ordered another and then emptied her glass, which the waiter took away. Once he was out of earshot she continued, describing how she had been dragged backwards down a narrow alleyway and threatened.

  ‘What threats could this lame excuse of a man possibly have to make against you?’ Vinnie asked.

  ‘Said I shouldn’t have “nosed around in the bar”, said I “asked too many questions”.’

  ‘Was it that bastard from the beach?’ Vinnie asked.

  ‘I knew straight away that it wasn’t.’

  ‘How come?’ Vinnie asked.

  ‘He used two good hands to drag me backwards and to hold me facing away from him, but he had foul, nicotine-stained fingers. I can still smell them.’

  ‘The bloke smoking on the barrel?’ Vinnie asked.

  ‘It must have been. And I thought he was a good guy.’

  ‘Did you get a look at him, at all?’

  ‘Only from behind as he legged it down the alleyway.’

  ‘What exactly was the threat?’ Jimmy asked.

  ‘Just to stop asking about the man from the beach. He said I’d been told that before I left the bar, but added that he felt I hadn’t “fully understood”.’

  ‘Maybe he’s the one who needs a lesson in understanding,’ Vinnie said, as he pushed his chair back.

  ‘Where do you think you are going?’ Christine asked.

  ‘To have a word.’

  ‘I doubt he’ll be there, and shouldn’t we report it to the police?’

  ‘I doubt they’ll be interested.’

  ‘But you heard those cops call the Roma scum; perversely, maybe they will.’

  Vinnie thought about Christine’s last comment for a moment. Maybe she had a point, albeit perverse, as she had said. And he knew the cops would be calling at their apartment in the morning to collect their written statements, they could report it then. He voiced his thoughts and Christine said they should report it now, while there was still a chance the man was in the area. Made sense.

  Vinnie watched as Christine keyed 1-1-2 into her phone and then listened to her side of the conversation in what, to Vinnie, was fluent Spanish. She ended the call and sighed.

  ‘What?’ Vinnie asked.

  ‘They say as I am no longer under threat it is no l
onger an emergency and I should report it to the local police tomorrow.’

  ‘What about your assailant still being in the area?’ Vinnie asked.

  ‘I mentioned that, and the operator said that is why she told me to report it in the morning; as the local police are all tied up with a major incident in the capital, Palma.’

  ‘The other side of the island completely,’ Jimmy said.

  ‘Must be someone’s retirement do,’ Vinnie said, before pushing his chair out once more, and then added, ‘Jimmy, will you stay here with Christine? I’ll only be gone for one beer.’

  ‘The way you drink, that’ll be two minutes.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Christine asked.

  ‘Nothing daft, don’t worry, just see if barrel man is back at the bar and ask him what he’s playing at. I’ll switch the recording feature of my phone on. He may just drop himself in it. He won’t know he’s talking to a cop.’

  ‘Not wanting to get all cop-like on you, but if you are acting as a cop, anything he says will be inadmissible in court unless you caution him. Or, if you are acting as an undercover cop, you will need a local official’s authority,’ Jimmy said.

  ‘I’m not a cop here in Spain, and I’m not you, acting as a local agent of a Spanish cop.’

  ‘Ah, you’re right; the student has really become the master,’ Jimmy said.

  Vinnie said he would only be a few minutes and set off down the tree-lined promenade towards its eastern end. He knew what Jimmy said would have been true, if he was back in the UK. Acting as a cop he would need transparency to prevent the little shite from incriminating himself, or acting undercover he would need authority he didn’t have. Then he stopped in his tracks.

  If Jimmy was authorised by the local authorities to act as their agent in his pursuit of wanted criminals, maybe he should come along. Then he realised that any authority Jimmy had, would be bespoke to his instructions. He started walking again.