by Iain Cameron
Jon was never much of an environmentalist, dismissing them as less than intelligent and misinformed and accusing the more vociferous of changing their policies to include the words ‘global warming’, just to get their greedy mitts on more government loot. He would want to be buried in a proper coffin and not cremated or encased (or was it wrapped) in a cardboard coffin as his loopy wife and friends wanted, and he and his mother made sure that particular wish was granted.
He smiled as the beautifully polished mahogany coffin was removed and carried down the aisle and out of the church, past Jon’s frigid wife who was looking suitably miserable and tortured as if his death was causing all this grief, when living with him must have been so much worse.
Out in the churchyard, they gathered around the grave. The vicar was speaking, causing the large crowd to edge closer, as if attempting to join dear Jon in the ground or to get a better look at his final resting place but he suspected they were just trying to hear what he was saying, as a vicious wind was blowing and whipping through the big oaks and thin silver birches that edged the church grounds, and carrying his words off with it.
He wasn’t listening as he knew the words well enough, having attended the funerals of many of his ancient colleagues from the university and the legal community and for the moment, he was content to wallow in his own private thoughts.
A few minutes later, two men began to shovel dirt into Jon’s new home and the crowd began to disperse, some back to their everyday lives and others lingering, hoping for something more. If it was Jon’s choice, they would decant to the upstairs room of the Nags Head with a free bar and sandwiches and later to a pole dancing club and then someone’s house for a party. Alas, they were being directed back to the Lehman show house for a cup of tea and cake, and curses would laid upon the soul by the coven on anyone stupid enough to leave a stain on the coffee table or drop crumbs on the carpet.
Stark walked away, itching to light a cigar but unable to do so, as smoking was a private pleasure and he did not want to look old in front of all those young people, many of whom were his own students. Dominic Green approached and led him to a quiet spot, shaded from the wind by the trees.
‘A terrible business Alan,’ he said shaking his bald, hawk-like head that was sensibly protected from the low temperatures by a natty brown hat that matched his camelhair coat. The man was a snappy dresser and no mistake. ‘I can’t understand it. I just don’t know why he did it.’
‘I don’t think any of us ever will, Dominic. It seemed to me he had so much to live for.’
‘You never can tell how a man will react to pressure and stress. It changes people and not often for the better.’
He went on to tell him a story about a man he once knew, who topped himself just as he was about to sign the final papers on a project that would turn him into a millionaire. He did it because he realised that all the money he received from the deal wouldn’t make him a better person as he would still be the same small-town neurotic shit underneath.
It cheered him up somehow. ‘That was a better story than the one the minister told about lost sheep. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard that one.’
‘I don’t see me standing up in a pulpit anytime soon, do you?’
‘Perhaps not.’
‘Will Jon’s passing affect our little enterprise, do you think?’
Stark stared at him, irritated by the insensitivity of the man. ‘I don’t think this is the time or the place, Dominic. We’ve just buried the man, for Christ sake.’
‘I know, I know but these things have a habit of being pushed aside at moments like this and unless they are dealt with quickly, they soon turn into major problems.’
‘What’s on your mind?’
‘I like the idea of having three people on the management board because if we have a difference of opinion, it just ends up in a bun fight. Who can we get to replace Jon?’
‘I haven’t given it much thought, to be honest.’
‘Well, do it soon Alan, if you can. I’m making plans to take this site to the next level and start to capitalise on that fantastic groundswell we’ve created by selling our legions of customers some new services. Make them feel we’re a clever outfit and not just a bunch of cock-sucking porn merchants.’
‘The king is dead, long live the king,’ Stark muttered to himself as he returned to his car, a car bought with money he made from that cock-sucking porn web site. In many ways Green was right. A sudden death made everyone think there were more important things in life than money but in the end, it was only background noise, designed to get in the way of one’s enjoyment of the main performance.
FORTY-TWO
Hobbs couldn’t park where he wanted this morning as there was traffic chaos at the Alto Golf and Country Club and when he did, it was a couple of streets away. They got out and headed towards Martin Cope’s apartment.
It was Saturday, and for tour operators and apartment renters, Saturday was ‘changeover day.’ Streets that were normally devoid of any activity in the morning, save for a few groups of golfers lugging their bags to the golf course or cars being loaded with golf gear, were now choked with buses, mini-buses and hire cars, and marshalled by tour reps bearing clip boards as tanned and crestfallen holidaymakers hauling heavy suitcases towards yawning luggage compartments.
This frenetic activity would have no effect on Martin Cope as checks done by the team back at Sussex House confirmed that Samuels did indeed own the apartment Cope was staying in. Cope travelled to Portugal on a scheduled flight, which meant he could go home whenever he pleased and even though his return was booked for the following day, it could be changed if he altered his plans. That idea did not fill either Hobbs or Henderson with glee, as he didn’t want to leave Rachel any longer than was necessary and the calls Hobbs was making home were becoming more and more fractious.
However, they would be alert for any change in Cope’s behaviour because ‘changeover day’ could rob him of his golfing partner and without someone to play with, he might be at a loose end and they could find themselves following him through shopping malls, touring the southern Portuguese countryside or his odds-on favourite, sitting for hours outside a bar with a television tuned to a golf tournament being played somewhere in the world.
In the melee of the car park, two casually dressed onlookers melted seamlessly into the background and while they waited, took the opportunity to top up their tans. More buses arrived and other apartment doors opened and hassled adults struggled out with cases, golf clubs and souvenirs while bemused, sleepy and grumpy children looked on. There was a certain enjoyment watching someone else struggle with a twenty-five kilo case which probably contained few clothes but loads of books, toys, water equipment and gadgets and it was pleasing for him to think his days of doing such things were probably over.
When his own kids, Hannah and Lewis were young, they often travelled abroad and while he didn’t miss the hassles of travelling, the struggle to and from the resort, the security checks and the bad airport and airline food, he did miss the time they spent together in the swimming pool, playing tennis, doing the tourist cultural stuff or just chilling out at a play park and watching them spin giddy on a roundabout or marvelling at their courage as they travelled down a slide backwards.
Cope finally appeared and it was obvious he wasn’t playing any golf today as there was no sign of his clubs and instead he was carrying a sports bag. Shielded by a mini-bus, they watched as he dumped the bag into the back seat, got into a car and drove off. It was a silver Opel, clearly a hire car and not unlike the Vauxhall Astra back home making a welcome change from yet another white Seat Ibiza, which was as ubiquitous on the roads around Portimão as his baseball cap.
The Opel eased its way through the throng and soon turned the corner and disappeared, prompting the two officers to leave their suntrap and return to their car. Hobbs reversed but moved slowly as there were numerous vehicles parked badly and small, unpredictable children wandering a
round in a daze, more concerned about having a final throw of a beach ball or finding a song on their MP3 player than being knocked down by a car.
They finally escaped the rumpus but they were further behind Cope’s car than expected, although there was only one exit from the resort and so they knew which way he would be heading. Driving faster than the mandatory twenty-kilometre speed limit, Hobbs expertly swung the little car through the scenic but twisting road, past the golf course, tennis court and swimming pool and soon they could see the exit in the distance.
Several vehicles were waiting to join the public road but a large tourist bus was obstructing their view. Hobbs approached the queue slowly, leaving a large a gap between their car and the bus to maximise visibility and a few seconds later, they saw the Opel turning towards Portimão. Hobbs was tapping the steering wheel in frustration while waiting their turn, as Henderson rooted through the pile of papers given to them by the car hire company for a map while he waited for the sat-nav to start up.
‘So, where’s he going?’ Hobbs said when they finally managed to join a line of traffic heading towards town.
‘I don’t have a clue but I do know the beach is the other way.’
A few minutes later, they approached a large roundabout and mercifully the three large cement trucks that were preventing them seeing much, turned into a construction site and they managed to speed up and soon Cope’s Astra look-alike came into view. Hobbs moved into the inside lane, gunned the Ibiza up to a roundabout and on exit, overtook another car to move within three cars of him.
‘I won’t lose the bugger now,’ Hobbs grunted as the honk from a van behind faded away after cutting-up Portugal’s equivalent of white-van man, looking every bit as angry, impatient and in need of a bath as those back home.
‘Well, he’s not going into town,’ Henderson said after they passed at least three signs pointing towards the town centre, off to the right.
‘I guessed that and I don’t have a bloody map or sat-nav to help me. So where does this road lead?’
‘It skirts the town centre and if he keeps going, it’ll eventually take us to the outskirts of Portimão and out towards the motorway.’
‘And after that?’
He unfolded the map to get a wider view. ‘Well, if he goes far enough towards the north east, he could reach Spain but this road also leads to another place, a lot closer than that.’
‘Where?’
‘Faro Airport.’
‘Bloody Norah! I’m not ready; we’re not ready. My stuff’s still in my room.’
‘Calm yourself mate. All we need to do is put a call through to Carol and the arrivals committee will be there to meet him. She knows all the people I’ve been talking to at Gatwick.’
‘Even still, I was hoping that when he was making his way back, you and me wouldn’t be far behind.’
‘Me too but it can’t be helped.’
‘Why would he go today, he’s not scheduled to go until tomorrow?’
‘Maybe he’s got fed up because his mate’s gone home.’
‘Yeah, you could be right. Hang on though, he wasn’t carrying any luggage or his golf clubs, nothing except that sports bag.’
‘Maybe he loaded the car last night but I really don’t know mate.’
‘Maybe he did but you said his apartment was a mess and he was an untidy bastard, so how come he’s so organised that he managed to have the car all packed up the night before?’
‘I don’t know that either but we’ll save the amateur psychology for some other time and while on the subject of cars, don’t forget this one is a hire and not one of the crappy pool cars or that boxy van you drive, so don’t scratch it or bend it by taking unnecessary risks, ok?’
Hobbs made a face. ‘I hate those bloody people carriers, if you must know.’
‘So why do you drive it then?’
‘What choice do I have? I mean, it’s not just the kids with their bulky car seats and stuff you need to carry just in case they get hungry, sick or need a piss, but it’s all the other paraphernalia like highchairs, change of clothes, nappies, toys, feeding stuff. You name it, we bring it. I swear, any burglar hitting our place when we’re on holiday would walk away in disgust as there’s nothing left to nick.’
Almost imperceptibly, the scenery changed from small beach-orientated shops, themed bars and white-washed apartment buildings to large areas of overgrown, undeveloped land, office blocks and out of town stores and only half a mile or so later, the occasional clump of trees complete with a smallholding bordered by an olive grove and a small vineyard, which indicated without reference to the map, that they were on the fringes of Portimão.
Close to a large hospital, which seemed to be in the middle of nowhere but was probably the main hospital for the Portimão area, a large road sign indicated Faro airport was off to the right but Cope ignored it and drove straight on.
‘Did you see that? I thought he was going to the airport but he drove right past the junction.’
Henderson consulted the map for a few moments. ‘Ah I see what he’s done. There’s no need to panic as it looks like there are two ways to the airport. The one we just passed was probably the old road before Portimão expanded around it and made it too slow for tour operators to get their clients to the airport on time, so they built the autostrada, the IC4, further up. I think that’s where he’s heading.’
‘Thank God for that.’
Ten minutes later, the junction with the autostrada loomed. More nervous than he cared to admit, he watched the back of Cope’s car intently, waiting for the direction indicator to flash. They were close to the junction now and seconds later, on the point of passing it but there was no last-minute slew across the carriageway, no frantic flailing of arms, no heavy braking, nothing to indicate a mistake had been made. Cope continued to head north.
‘Bloody Norah,’ Hobbs said as they passed under the motorway, the one Cope should have been driving on with them following closely behind him. ‘Where the hell is he going? What do we do now?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Where does this go?’
‘Up towards a town called Monchique and the Monchique Mountains.’
‘Mountains? If I’d known, I’d have brought my crampons. What am I saying? I hate mountains, I don’t like heights, period.’
‘Relax Gerry. I read something about it back at the hotel, they’re not mountains at all, more like green hills. Think of it as the Lake District with sunshine.’
‘Even still, doesn’t that mean an abundance of wildlife?’
‘This is Portugal, Europe how bad can it be?’
‘As bad as wolves and wild boar, they can be vicious.’
‘I don’t think there are any wolves around here and anyway wildlife would be more frightened of you than the other way round.’
‘Famous last words mate as they take another bite.’
FORTY-THREE
They were following Cope’s Opel at a safe distance but worryingly, traffic had thinned out since the autostrada and now there were only two cars between them. The trappings of the city were gone; few houses, no pavements or streets, just arid ground with clumps of bushes and grasses and the occasional tree, rising up towards small green and brown hills to the right and left.
Suddenly, an idea came to him. He pulled out his wallet and located the Portuguese Inspector’s business card and immediately called his number.
‘Detective Inspector Henderson,’ Inspector Giraldes said, ‘it’s good to speak to you. Are you well, is Detective Sergeant Hobbs well also?’
‘We are both fine, thanks for asking. We…’
‘Aren’t you glad to be in Portugal at this moment? The weather we are having now is quite fantastic, is it not? I am also hearing it is pouring with rain in the UK.’
‘The weather here is great, yes it is. Inspector, we are in the car following our suspect Martin Cope. He left the resort unexpectedly and drove north through Portimão and we assumed he was go
ing to the airport, but he drove past the N125 and then the autostrada and right now we’re heading into the Monchique Mountains.’
‘Monchique? I see.’ There was a brief pause. ‘From your description of the man, I don’t get the impression he is a nature lover nor a hill walker. Also, if he intended to flee, why would he go there? He should have taken the autostrada and could have gone to Spain or anywhere else in Europe if he wanted.’
‘That’s what we thought but maybe he’s moving to a place where he can hide out for a while.’
‘To do that, he would have to know the country well as their aren’t many places to buy food or water out there. Do you think he has seen you and maybe he is trying to shake you off?’
‘No, I don’t think so as he’s driving at a steady pace and we’re still a couple of cars back. If he was trying to lose us, he would have been better off heading into Portimão as there are plenty places to hide and more obstacles to hinder a follower.’
‘That is true. Maybe Mr Cope’s strange movements and our missing teenager, Cristina Pinto are connected.’
‘The one who’s all over the front page of the newspapers?’
‘Yes. She has been missing since last night.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that. He’s a dangerous individual and it’s just the sort of thing he would do.’
The phone went quiet for several seconds. ‘What I will do is send a car to assist you as my men know that area better than you do and they can help you and I think I might be able to get a helicopter as well. Believe me, it is easier to follow someone in that terrain from the air than it is from the ground.’
‘That would be great. Thank you.’
‘Well, that’s a shocker,’ he said to Hobbs after he put the phone back into his pocket. ‘We marked Inspector Giraldes down as a small town cop that wouldn’t know a major crime if it shot him in the shoulder, now he’s not only sending us assistance, he might be able to scramble a helicopter.’