Ken walked towards the town he spotted from the boat and soon was greeted the town’s streetlights. Twice vehicles approached as Ken neared the town, each time Ken slipped into the trees lining the road. Twenty minutes later Ken came up to the sign welcoming him to Puerto Naos. Six blocks later he reached the centre of the town. Two cars and two motor scooters were parked in front of the only open restaurant. Ken smiled because the first café he came to in this Spanish province was a pizza place. He walked in and ordered a coffee and a pizza. On the wall near the door was a display of travel brochures. Ken walked over and browsed through them until he found a charter boat company that would transport him to the main airport, which is in the city of Tenerife on another island in the Canaries. Ken devoured the delicious pizza and tolerated the stale coffee.
The brochure guided him to the marina that housed the charter boat company. The Islands were overwhelmed with tourists from all over northern Europe so Ken had little trouble agreeing to terms with the boat owner, a short, jovial young man named Eduardo. For twenty pounds extra Eduardo had a travel agent friend book Ken on a flight to London that left the next day. Eduardo also offered Ken the option of sleeping on the boat for free. Ken gratefully declined without telling the young man he was looking forward to sleeping on solid ground for the first time in several weeks. Eduardo directed Ken to a small hotel down the street where he paid for the room in advance because the boat left for Tenerife early the following day.
Ken purchased a medium sized suitcase at a shop on the same street as well as some tee shirts, shorts, and other tourist clothes in his size as he did not want to fly to London without luggage since it would draw questions at the airport.
Ken slept well that night but was startled out of his slumber by the pounding on the hotel door early the next morning. After he cautiously opened the edge of the curtains he was greeted by Eduardo’s smiling face.
“Good morning, sir. Sorry to bother you, but we must leave soon.”
“Of course, Eduardo. My apologies. I will join you at the boat in ten minutes.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Eduardo walked down to the boat and prepared it for departure while Ken tossed his things into the suitcase and was ready to go in minutes. Ken gave himself a few extra minutes to calm down and reassure himself there was little chance he would be caught. His odds increased more if he acted like a tourist and not a wanted fugitive. Five minutes later Ken left the room and was pleased to find fresh coffee and Spanish churros, a type of doughnut, waiting for him on board the boat.
The ship was Eduardo’s pride and joy. It was old, but maintained perfectly, the woodwork gleamed in the sun and the floors were scrubbed clean. Ken eased himself into one of the newly reupholstered seats and savored the delicious coffee and hot fresh churros.
Eduardo cast off the bow and stern ropes. “Please relax and enjoy the coffee and sweets, sir. I hope you’ll understand I will be focusing on the driving. However, if you need anything please join me in the front cabin.”
“Thank you, Eduardo. I’m sure I’ll be fine back here. Your coffee is excellent and I look forward to trying another churro.”
Ken was relaxed for the first time in months. He had stumbled upon a charter company with a focus on service and it was the perfect start to his new life of leisure.
Thorpe, Collins, and Baker, had anything but a leisurely last few days. They were busy coordinating electronic and manned surveillance on the apartment. The upstairs neighbour allowed the police to use their place as part of the operation and three teams of two officers were working shifts waiting for the arrival of the Clelland brothers. They had a bank of five monitors that covered the front and rear entrances, the lobby, the hallway outside the apartment, and, through the floor, the living room of the Clelland’s apartment. Collins, Thorpe, and Baker each headed one of the shifts, but the work wasn’t limited to watching and waiting. All of the evidence was reviewed again and again looking for clues that might indicate the brother’s had taken up residence in another place. They reached the consensus the brothers were headed to London since they were schooled in England and were likely unable to afford to keep this residence and another of equal value elsewhere for an extended period.
* * *
Ken jumped off of Eduardo’s charter boat in Tenerife with a view to a fresh start in London and thanked the young man with a handshake and a healthy tip.
“Thank you, sir,” said Eduardo as he humbly accepted the tip. “You’ll find a taxi to take you to the airport just up the hill.”
Ken walked up the hill and grabbed the first taxi in line and asked him to take him to the airport.
The city of Tenerife was built on the side of a hill amongst the lush vegetation and seemed to offer spectacular vistas from nearly every window.
“Driver, I’ve changed my mind. Take me to a nice hotel. One with a great view.”
“Right away.”
The taxi weaved its way to the top of the city and stopped at a small hotel with a bustling open-air lobby decorated in bright reds, blues, and yellows. An impeccably dressed young man stood at the curb and helped Ken out of the taxi. He paid the driver and handed the bellhop his bag.
“Welcome to the Hotel Capitulo.”
“Thank you, young man,” Ken replied in his best London accent.
The bellhop led Ken to the registration desk, never leaving his side.
“Good afternoon. Do you have a reservation with us, sir” asked the well-dressed woman behind the desk.
“No I don’t, but I’m hopping you have a room available for two nights.”
“Just a moment please.” The women checked her computer. “Yes, we have a room available. For how many please?”
“Just myself.”
Ken signed the card and left a cash deposit. The bellhop showed Ken to the room and set the two bags in the spacious bedroom with the same spectacular view as the living room.
“Thank you, sir,” said the bellman. “If there’s anything I can do for you, my name is Raul.”
“Thank you, Raul. I do have a question. Is there an Internet hookup for hotel guests?”
“Of course, sir.” Raul pointed to the desk at the far end of the suite. “The hotel has free WiFi for all of its guests.”
“Raul, how much is a decent shirt and pair of pants in Tenerife?”
“Hmm, about twenty pounds will get you a very nice shirt and pants.”
Ken looked past Raul’s “company” shirt and saw he wore nice shoes and slacks. He reached in his pocket and pulled out one hundred pounds. “Raul, go buy me two pairs of pants, size thirty-four with a thirty-six inch inseam and two nice shirts. Make them suitable for dining in the restaurant. I also need three pairs of underpants and three pairs of socks. Will this cover it?”
“Easily, sir.”
“Great. You keep the change. I want to relax this afternoon so leave them outside the door by five o’clock.”
“Yes, sir!” Raul slipped outside the room.
Ken closed and locked the door. He called the airline and moved the reservation forward two days before he shaved and took a one-hour shower. After drying off he slipped on the plush robe hanging folded by the king-size bed and grabbed an obscenely overpriced beer from the mini bar. From the comfort of the plush lounge chair Ken savored the beer and the view of the green vegetation that flowed down the hill until it met the turquoise blue of the sea. Ken felt refreshed and relaxed, happy he decided to take two days to collect his thoughts before moving on to his new life in London.
Later that afternoon he found a package of clothes outside his door that fit and looked good. He enjoyed a delicious seafood dinner and some fine wine later that evening.
On the second day Ken booted up his computer and logged into the banking firms at which he and Eric had placed money and found he had a total of three million, two-hundred-thousand Canadian dollars spread amongst six accounts. With the annual tax-free interest of just under two-hundred-thousand Canadian do
llars Ken calculated that his yearly income equaled ninety-one-thousand British pounds. While he knew he could just survive on that amount since the apartment was paid for, he could find work in London that would at least cover his expenses, allowing the savings to build. That evening Ken went down for his second delicious gourmet meal at the bright coloured dining room just off the lobby.
The next morning he checked out, charging the room to the U.K. credit card of Harry Stuart, exhilarated about starting his new life in England.
Chapter Eighteen
Jim Collins sat across the table from one of the members of his surveillance team. Tim O’Shea dealt another hand of cribbage, a distraction from the monotony of the waiting game. Shift after shift went by without any movement in the apartment below. Jim picked up his hand and sorted the cards.
When surveillance of the apartment had started every little noise from the apartment below or the hallway had the detectives rushing over to the monitors. As the two policemen started the next hand an unusually loud sound came out of the Clelland apartment, a sound like a stones falling on wood. Collins had a good cribbage hand, but set it down and had a look at the monitor of the living room below. At first glance everything appeared the same. Then Collins spotted something shiny on the end table of one of the sofas.
“Tim, can you zoom in on the far end table?”
“Sure.” O’Shea sat down at the computer and moved the mouse, directing the self-focusing camera on the small, square table.
“Well I’ll be. Keys. Someone set down a set of keys,” said Collins.
“Let’s back up the recording, shall we?” O’Shea said.
Collins’ eyes were glued to the screen within a screen showing the digital recording in reverse. First a shadow entered the picture from the right then a tall blond man seemed to walk backwards, the set of keys miraculously rising off the table into his hand.
“Freeze it right their, Tim.” Collins said, his heart racing.
Collins picked up the phone and dialed a number. “One of them is in the apartment, Albert.”
“Right, we’ll be right there.”
Thirty minutes later Thorpe and Baker joined Collins and O’Shea.
O’Shea kept an eye on Ken as he moved in and out of the living room. Five other undercover policemen took up discreet positions outside the building and watched the front exit and the garage doors.
Collins, Thorpe, and Baker sat at the table in the apartment above Ken.
“Right,” said Baker. “What’s the move?”
“Let’s move in and take him,” demanded an anxious Thorpe. “We’ll get him to tell us where to find his brother during the interrogation.”
“Perhaps,” added Collins “but siblings, especially twins are very loyal to each other. I suggest we keep a tight watch on him and wait for his brother to show up, or for this one to make contact. After all, we have him trapped and the phone tapped.”
Thorpe squirmed in his chair. “I think you’re right, but we can’t let him slip away or play any tricks on us.”
Baker unraveled a drawing of the building. “Well, we know there are no surprise explosives of any kind in the building. Our team is one of the best in the world and they checked every part of the building twice. I suggest we keep an eye on him for a week or so, but err on the side of caution by keeping close to him.”
The detectives agreed. Scotland Yard supplied teams to aid in following the man. They didn’t know which brother they had until they retrieved a fingerprint from a door handle. With it they were able to match it to prints taken from the house in St. Kitts and it was a clear match to multiple prints off of items they had linked to Ken Clelland, such as a driver’s licence and a tennis trophy he won in university.
The police in Edmonton and Toronto were very pleased with the turn of events and agreed with the plan, as they wanted both brothers extradited back to Canada.
For the first few days in London, Ken made many trips out of the apartments. He shopped for food and clothes in the stores along Oxford Street and exercised by running in Hyde Park. The Scotland Yard team watching Ken was ready for any contingency, be it travel by vehicle, public transport, or even running. One of the casually dressed policemen or women was dressed in attire for any activity.
For three days the detectives kept a close watch on their target with a policeman or woman in front of the monitors watching the living room, front door of the building, garage entrance, and hallway. Aside from outgoing phone calls, the detectives heard little from the microphone planted in the living room of the apartment. Ken would occasionally sit in front of the television watching British shows, mimicking the local accent. The English detectives agreed Ken’s accent seemed to improve each day.
Ken was happy with his new life where he no longer had to constantly look over his shoulder for police. He couldn’t imagine the police could track his trail to England through the Canary Islands. While content, the one thing he missed was home cooking. He compensated for the inability to cook a decent meal by ordering takeout from some of the gourmet shops sprinkled throughout central London.
He had discovered a fabulous Italian restaurant and enjoyed their amazing three-cheese lasagna and Caesar salad and picked up an order to take home on his fourth day in London. The memory of the smell of the tangy tomato sauce wetted his appetite as he strolled down to the restaurant, just off Regent Street. The food was ready and he started his five-block walk down Bayswater Road to his apartment between the green of Hyde Park on his right and the endless line of stone buildings on his right. As he turned right and entered the front door of his apartment the bicyclist that had been behind him on Bayswater turned into Hyde Park. A painter working on the adjoining building glanced over as Ken entered his building and the police in the apartment building watched the monitor as Ken crossed the lobby and entering the elevator.
Across the street, and two buildings over, a man sitting inside an ice-cream shop scooped strawberry sherbet from a frosty metal bowl, also keeping an eye on Ken. The man hadn’t noticed the bicyclist, but saw the man posing as a painter was making slow progress on the window trim. He smiled and ate another spoonful of ice cream, a small piece of strawberry sticking to his dark black beard. As he looked at his reflection in the window in front of him he dabbed off the morsel and straightened his bright red tie. His very dark complexion suited the black business suit and shiny new shoes. His piercing eyes seldom left Ken’s building where he saw the red of the setting sun reflect off the upper windows as his watch showed 7:15 PM.
The street in front of him was a steady but slow procession of vehicles. He watched one in particular, and five minutes later a blue courier van pulled up in front of the apartment. A young woman jumped out holding an electronic clipboard and a small envelope. She walked up the five cement steps to the front door of the building. After glancing down at the envelope to verify the unit number, the woman pressed 412. Moments later she had a conversation through the intercom, the door to the building opened and the courier rushed through the lobby to the elevator.
Ken was annoyed by the distraction of the delivery because he had just transferred the pasta to a china plate, steam swirling into the air from the hot tomato sauce and cheese. There was a knock on the door and Ken looked through the peephole pleased to find an attractive young courier woman standing there with an envelope and pen at the ready. Ken opened the door and signed Harry Stuart on the electronic pad after which the courier handed Ken the envelope and walked down the hall towards the elevator. The space for sender’s name on the envelope was blank, but urgent was stamped twice in bold red letters. Ken glanced at the hot food on the table but resisted leaving the important document until later, thinking it might be from one of his offshore banks. Dropping on the fine leather sofa, Ken tore open the envelope.
In the apartment above Thorpe and two other police officers watched with interest.
“Can you zoom in and get a name or address from the envelope?”
The t
echnician took a digital still of the envelope but the angle of the camera only showed the back. “Sorry can’t make out a thing on the front of the envelope or the letter itself until he turns it more in this direction.”
Thorpe grabbed the walkie-talkie and spoke to an undercover policeman stationed outside the apartment. “Cousins, catch that courier and find out what you can about who sent that letter.”
Outside the apartment the man on the bicycle sprinted up to the courier van after it was a block away from the building and flashed his badge. “Please pull around the corner and stop.”
The driver did as ordered and the policeman questioned her about the sender of the letter, letting the driver go after she checked the source of the letter on her computer.
“Thorpe, Cousins here.”
“Hi Bob. What did you find out?”
“The letter was dropped in an unmanned courier pickup bin near Covent Garden and the sender area was blank. However, it was marked urgent and the delivery time was specific, ten minutes after seven tonight.”
“Anything else?”
“No, that’s it.”
Thorpe joined the other watching the monitor and saw Ken’s face grew more and more serious as he read the letter.
The sherbet was left half eaten when the dark, bearded man picked up a small bag of fresh vegetables and an expensive attaché case as he strolled out of the ice-cream shop and walked to the end of the block where he turned left on Bayswater road. Half a block down he turned left and slowly walked down the narrow lane that led past the back of Ken’s apartment. Just past the building the man took two steps down some very old steps, stopping on a landing, facing an old door with peeling paint and cobwebs. Dying leaves were piled up at the base of the windowless door. He bent over the century old lock and was finally able to pull the heavy wooden door open, generating a loud squeak. The warped, old doorframe was narrow and low so the man had to crouch and turn sideways in order to enter. The door creaked closed behind him, stopping slightly ajar.
Rough Business Page 21