Hard Place (10 page)

There was a pause. “Ah! With Rosafa.”

“Where?”

“Goldhawk Road. Shopping. Then here. Then I go to Erlis house. No car still. I phone police.”

“Did you phone Mr. Bardici to tell him his car was gone?”

“Yes, yes. I phone. No answer. Many time.”

Ratso was unconvinced. He decided it was time to sit down and he did so, drawing his chair closer to Skela’s fit-looking frame. The sweating above the hairline had stopped but the smell of stale underarms was now very evident. “Okay, Skela. I’ve listened to enough bullshit. From now on I want the truth.”

“What you mean? I swear all true. Car stolen.”

“I am going straight to Manchester and I am going to speak to Rosafa. Where is she staying? Your son’s address?”

Skela looked everywhere but at the officers. He licked his lips nervously, proving to Ratso that the guy was small-time as he had always suspected. Certainly his crap bedsit showed no sign of drug wealth.

“Your son’s address.” This time Ratso barked out the words so that Skela flinched. “Now!”

“I no remember. Fallowfield.”

Ratso had driven through the Manchester suburb on a few occasions. It was full of students and kebab houses. “Oh, you’ll remember by the time this interview is over. You’ll remember a great deal. There’ll be no more bullshit.” He paused for effect before pushing his head even closer to the man’s face. “Listen and listen hard.” He waited, watching Skela’s now sullen eyes stare at the worn carpet. “You, you dirty snivelling bastard, are screwing Lindita … your own daughter. When Rosafa’s away, you are screwing her here in the family bed.”

Ratso sensed the shock as Tosh heard the words. He saw Skela’s eyes move furtively, seeking an escape. He could almost hear the Albanian’s brain whirring as he measured the depth of the pit in which he now was.

“Where does Lindita live?”

Skela was slow to answer. “With friends. Ealing.”

“So when Rosafa’s in Manchester, you screw her like you have done since she was a kid.”

“No.”

“You’d go down for fourteen years. Maybe much longer. Sex offenders can expect no mercy from other prisoners.” Ratso was unsure whether he was bluffing or not. What he had learned about the law on incest had been long forgotten.

“Mind you,” intervened Tosh, “I guess Rosafa will use her kitchen scissors on you when she gets the chance.”

“No. Not tell Rosafa. No, please.”

Ratso never relented when he had someone pinned to the ropes. “Unless I get every answer I need from you, I am arresting you for incest with a minor and I am going to Manchester to get statements from your son and your wife on what they knew.”

“Then I answer. What you want know? Okay? You no tell Rosafa.”

“No deals. No promises. You speak. I listen.”

Sweat was again pouring down the Albanian’s face. “I pay you money. No tell.”

“Piss off, Skela. Answers. That’s all.” There was a long silence as the fish wriggled on the hook.

Tosh looked across at Ratso. “Let’s interview the girl.” He nodded to the bathroom. “Let’s find out how old she was when this started.” Ratso signalled agreement. Tosh eased himself up and headed to the closed door but before he reached it, Skela broke down completely, shaking uncontrollably, sobbing with his head bowed.

“Hold it, Tosh.” Ratso turned to the snivelling wreck. “I think our friend here wants to sign a statement. Look at me, Skela and listen. I want every last detail. Believe me, I’ll know if you are lying. One single porky, one lie and you will be charged with incest but not before I’ve told Rosafa the truth. Worse still for you, I’ll let her return home to speak to you before I take you down the nick.”

“I answer.”

Ratso signalled Tosh to sit down. “You were not taking the Range Rover to be serviced, were you? You torched it. What was going on?”

“Erlis, he kill me if he know I speak. You no tell him.”

Ratso shrugged and his lips narrowed. “Look, Skela. You have no choice but to speak. I don’t give a toss whether you are more scared of Rosafa or Mr. Bardici. Just talk.”

Skela started to sob again. Sweaty fear oozed from the man’s skin. Tosh and Ratso exchanged glances. They had seen this situation before and there was only one way to go. Foot down, hard on the throttle. No letup. No deals. Or, as Ratso had said a couple of months back, keep one foot on the throat till the gurgling has nearly stopped.

“Erlis. He phone. He say take car. Go to place in country. Meet man. Burn car. Then say stolen.”

“Did you go alone?”

“Rosafa did come.”

“Who did you meet?”

“Man. No know name.”

“You see him before?”

“No. Never.”

“After you torched the car, what happened?”

“Man drove us to Acton. Never see again.”

“Why did Erlis want the car torched?”

“He no say.”

“He paid you well?”

“He promise one fifty pound.”

“One hundred and fifty pounds, eh? Easy money, Mr Skela. Where is he?”

“I not know.” Ratso could tell Skela was lying. There was just that flickering moment when the man’s small brain had decided that he just might get away with a denial. The rapid eyelid movement was a dead giveaway. A curt nod to Tosh.

“You’re lying, you stinking lump of shit. Get the girl in, Tosh.”

Watson headed for the bathroom and opened the unlocked door. Lindita was sitting on the edge of the bath, still shrouded by a sheet but now with a towel wrapped around her head. He motioned her to join them and she came through, her eyes lowered, the haughtiness apparent only in her face, not in her movements. Tosh remained in the bathroom and Ratso sat silently, waiting while Tosh splashed his boots. There was silence as the three awaited his return, though Ratso observed Lindita staring hard at her father as if seeking a lead from him.

“That’s better.” Tosh reappeared, grinning contentedly.

Ratso flicked back his cuff to reveal his watch that did nothing more than tell the time. If he wanted a watch that could control a Space Shuttle, be waterproof at 10,000 meters and play “Jingle Bells,” he would save up. Till then, this H. Samuels fifteen quid on special offer would do. “I’m bored with this. I’ve no time to waste on perverted scumbags like you.” He leaned forward and barked full into Skela’s face so that he flinched, drawing back in shock. “Tell me and tell me now.” The final word might have been heard in the next apartment. “Where did Bardici go and when?”

He stood up, seeing no sign of progress.

“Okay. I am now asking Sgt Watson to take Lindita to the police station. I am going to Manchester. We’ll locate your son and your wife quickly enough.”

Tosh looked at the girl. “Get your clothes. Get dressed.” Lindita looked sullen and sought guidance with an enquiring look at her father but he looked away, still torn between his fear of Bardici and the destruction of his family life.

Ratso glared at the witness but then softened. “Do you really want to put Lindita through all this? Are you that scared of Erlis Bardici? A guy who runs corner shops selling crisps and Mars bars.”

Even as he said the words, Ratso knew the answer. Skela was indeed shit-scared. With good reason: if Bardici suspected he had been dumped on by Skela, his death would not be pretty. He motioned the woman to the bathroom. “Get dressed. You have two minutes.”

A long silence followed in which Tosh and Ratso stared silently at Skela, who sat with his head in his hands, looking down with his eyes closed. It was only when Lindita reappeared that he looked up, his hands and lips trembling. “Okay. I will say you.”

He motioned his daughter back to the bathroom. Not even she was permitted to hear where Bardici had gone to ground.

Fort Lauderdale, Florida

Detective Kirsty-Ann Webber of the Fort Lauderdale Police Department cruised along East Sunrise, prepared to turn south toward the Hilton resort. Though assigned to the Strategic Investigations Unit, she had been temporarily pulled from her present role on a team targeting some new suspected mob activity.

As usual, she was driving an unmarked vehicle, everything low profile. Play it cool, keep it casual had been her instructions from Bucky Buchanan. According to the chief, the word from Washington was that this assignment was more important than it seemed. What the heck did that mean? A guy from DC had checked in at the hotel the Friday before and hadn’t returned to DC. A missing person! So what? Happens all the time. Debt problems. Woman trouble. Just wanting a new start. Got lucky with a new date and can’t get his pants on over his erection. Could be all kinds of reasons. Didn’t mean the guy had been dumped in the Everglades to feed the alligators.

She chewed on a granola bar and felt better for it. It was the start of a long day, another long day after another disturbed night. Little Leon was now eight months old, with lungs that could crack concrete. She sighed. Balancing being a single mom and keeping her reputation as a smart cookie in the FLPD was harder than she’d expected. Thank God her own mom was available round the clock to provide support.

She knew the missing guy worked for the government, kinda high in the State Department. So was he a spook, living a secret life beneath the cover of his day job? Or was he working for an enemy state? Russia? China? Iran? It was hard to remember who was a friend and who was an enemy any more. But if he was a spook, surely the CIA or Feds would have been down here. Or perhaps their presence would have been top-heavy. Not casual.

The familiar tower of the Hilton came into view, dominating the skyline. She viewed her task with mixed feelings—not because of the task itself but because it was the first time she had been inside the Hilton in three years. She and her husband had luxuriated there for their honeymoon. Andy had been the one love of her life, not like the charmer last year who got her pregnant with Leon and then returned one-way to Chicago. Her husband, a federal agent, was murdered near Peachtree Plaza just days after the honeymoon, shot dead on duty.

Afterwards, she had applied for a transfer to Florida and with rave testimonials about her tenacity, she had landed a position with FLPD. She wanted, or thought she wanted, the feeling of being close to where she and Andy had been happiest during their ten months living together. Now, as she parked and then entered the huge open space of the marbled lobby, she had to fight the temptation both to cry and to cry out at the unfairness of a young thug with a gun stealing the future they had planned. Slowly, her mind locked in a timewarp, she walked to the front desk and asked for the duty manager.

While she waited, she took a seat on a white bench, where they had sat and gazed up at the chandelier and tasteful designs, just as they had done. This time she saw everything through watery eyes, which she fought to conceal as the duty manager appeared, hand cheerfully extended. After she flashed her ID, he took her into a private office behind the front desk and offered her coffee, juice, soda. She declined.

“Lance Ruthven, you said?” He was tapping at the computer as he spoke.

“Checked in last Friday. Should have checked out on Sunday.”

The tall, rather elegant Puerto Rican, whose name tag read Santiago Buffete, looked across. “Yes. He checked in. But so far, he has not checked out.”

“Can we take a look at his room?”

“Sure.” He rose to a full six foot two and was about to escort her to the lobby when he paused. “This is Tuesday morning. Plenty of our guests stay long or leave early. It’s part of the business. Why are you guys involved?”

“It’s outta character.” As an afterthought, she added, “He a regular with you?”

Buffete sat down again and after a few quick keystrokes he nodded. “He’s been down here five times in six months. Always arrives Friday and … hey! Always checks out on Sunday. So this trip is different.”

“Maybe he got lucky,” laughed Kirsty-Ann, showing her well-kept teeth that glowed against her Florida tan. Had her hair been black instead of blonde, she might have been mistaken for an American Indian, with her oval face and unblemished skin.

“Let’s find out.”

A few moments later they were outside Ruthven’s suite. Buffete rapped on the door a couple of times and announced himself. There was no response and no sound from the room. The detective glanced at her watch; just 8 a.m., a strange time for a guest to be out. Buffete slipped the card into the lock and opened the door.

Ruthven had chosen a king-sized suite with ocean view and the small step Kirsty-Ann took into the room was like taking a step back in time. It was identical to the room they had shared, chasing each other round the suite with pillows before tumbling into bed. For a moment she imagined Andy, a beer in his hand, lying on the king-size in his beach shorts and T-shirt, watching something on ESPN.

“The bed wasn’t slept in last night. The maid wouldn’t have gotten to this room yet … so he’s paying for a room he doesn’t need.”

“Playing away somewhere, maybe.” She noticed Buffete wasn’t listening. He was calling the head of housekeeping and asking her to drop by with the maid.

“Mind if I look around?” the detective enquired mostly out of courtesy, already about to open the closet door. Buffete nodded as he turned to gaze out to the wintry-looking Atlantic, the grayness of the surface blending into the distant horizon. She moved the formal suit and white shirt along the rail—nothing else in the closet. On the floor were used boxers, a pair of gray socks and a very Washington, DC, pair of black shoes, big, heavy, sensible ones for walking in winter weather. There was a locked room safe, a brown Gladstone bag lying on the luggage stand; the bathroom contained his wash-kit—shaving cream, a disposable razor, expensive shampoo, a toothbrush and toothpaste. The toothpaste looked fresh out of the box and the brush looked unused too.

The disposable razor was a puzzle. Great for emergencies but would a guy on a serious salary travel with a disposable? Andy used to describe them as the invention of the devil. He always ended up with at least two cuts when he shaved with them.

“Hello?” She heard Buffete calling her and returned to the main room. The head of housekeeping and a Spanish-speaking maid had arrived. Kirsty-Ann’s Spanish had improved to no end since joining the FLPD and she followed the question-and-answer routine with little difficulty. She saw surprise on Buffete’s face and heard him repeat a question. The doe-eyed maid who was seriously obese held her ground.

Buffete turned away from the maid. “So Ruthven may have stayed Friday night. The maid remade the bed on Saturday but not since then. Right?”

“Correct. But she’s unsure if the room really was used Friday night. The shower had not been used; neither had anything but a handtowel. The toilet wasn’t used at all. The paper on the roll is still tucked under.”

“Unless Ruthven made his own little pointed end after using some.”

Buffete laughed along with Kirsty-Ann as he dismissed the staff. Once they were alone again, she asked Buffete to get the safe open.

It was Buffete’s turn to joke. “Impossible. We don’t know the code that the guests put in.” Kirsty-Ann chuckled. Moments later, the safe door swung open, activated by the electronic back door. The detective removed a credit-card holder, a return ticket to National Airport, Washington and a driving licence. There was an Amex card in the name of Lance Ruthven and the photo on the driving licence matched the picture sent down from Washington.

“I’ll take these,” she said. “I’ll sign for them. You can store his clothes and bag.”

“Okay. This sure does look unusual. Have a coffee downstairs while I sort out the receipt and check something else. I’ve had a thought.”

“Sounds good. I started early.” Kirsty-Ann flashed a smile and followed him from the room. While concentrating on her task, thoughts of Andy had disappeared but as she stepped into the corridor, she was rocked by a memory of walking hand-in-hand to the elevator. Andy was dead. But what of Lance Ruthven?

Play it cool. Those were her instructions. But it didn’t look good.

Chiswick, West London

While Tosh was having yet another pee, Ratso had ordered Cumberland sausage and mash for himself and a double cheeseburger with extra fries for his sergeant, who claimed to be feeling peckish. Seated by a frosted-glass window, Ratso took a deep slurp of Shiraz. He needed it. On arrival at the Drum & Candlestick gastro-pub, the first thing he had done was wash his face and hands. Even then, he still felt unclean, reminding himself of Lady Macbeth trying to get rid of the blood. In his case, there had been no blood—just the filthy surroundings and the even more disgusting memories of Klodian Skela.

To Ratso, sex was a carnal, lusty thing. But this was different, big time. Father and daughter, for God’s sake! What Skela had admitted to made sex seem sordid, worse than animal. Anxious to forget the stale smells, the grime and squalor of Skela’s flat, Ratso flicked through the messages on his Blackberry and fired off several replies while Tosh chatted up the Hungarian barmaid. Then he surfed through to Cricinfo and read the latest speculation on team changes for the next test in Perth. Reading of the team’s heroics, life seemed clean, decent. All was right with the world with the lads two-nil up in the Ashes series already. He was just about clear of images of Skela when Tosh re-joined him, followed by the immediate arrival of his huge plate of gastro-posh sausage and mash.

“Fancy him admitting to sodomising his own daughter because his wife wouldn’t let him have any,” Tosh muttered as he sat down.

“Change the subject. We’ve got enough evidence to prosecute. She was only fourteen when it started. We have Klodian Skela right here.” He cupped his hands as if the Albanian’s testicles were nestling in them. “Now we know Bardici’s been to the Caribbean. We don’t know why. On that, I believe Skela’s ignorance. Bardici would not have confided the details.” He hacked off a large chunk of sausage. “But I’ll bet you a tenner we hear from Skela before Rosafa returns.”

“Boss, I don’t much care if I ever see or hear of Skela again.”

Ratso shrugged. “He could be the key we need—a key to a new door.”

“I don’t get it. The kid was up for it. Drops by for an overnighter when her Mum’s oop north.” Tosh chewed angrily at his burger. “I mean, she’s a pretty kid. I could sort her out.”

“In your dreams.” Ratso fell silent, indicating the subject was closed while he ate his lunch.

“Fourteen years old. The bastard,” Tosh persisted.

“Tosh. No more!” Ratso’s tone was unusually snappy. The sergeant got the message and chomped away noisily as they both turned to watch the TV. The Sky TV News weather girl was predicting snow when Ratso finished the last of his wedged chips. Tosh, with twice as much food, had wiped his plate clean long before.

Coffees appeared and Tosh saw that Ratso was ready to chat again. “Reckon she was eighteen like he said?”

“Nah! See the way the sweat poured from him. She was still a minor. Seventeen at most. More importantly Skela gave us a pointer. Our job is to find out where he’s pointing us. And quick too.”

Tosh looked concerned. “You under pressure or something, boss?”

“Caldwell’s complaint is still ticking. Thank God Arthur Tennant is not my defending counsel. I’d be dead.”

“No worries, boss! Not if the AC’s behind you.”

“Yeah but he doesn’t want his name in this.”

“Then someone else needs to fix this Caldwell creep.”

“Right?” Ratso’s voice was interested and his face creased in thought. He was also rather impressed. Tosh was not much given to original thoughts. “That’s a plan. But who? Ideas?”

“A word from on high. A quiet word. From the very top. Not straight from the AC to Caldwell but a quiet word to Caldwell’s guvnor.”

Ratso was even more impressed. “I like it. I like it a lot.” Ratso’s face did not break into a smile but his eyes showed appreciation. “All your own work this idea, was it?”

Tosh grinned. “I spoke to Jock when I was having a piss. We both want to help.”

Ratso laughed. “Pity! I was going to nominate you for a Nobel.”

“I told Jock about the incest. He reckons there’s nothing wrong with incest so long as you keep it in the family.” Tosh burst out laughing and after a moment’s uncertainty Ratso’s craggy features broke into a smile and then a hearty chuckle. “Jock added that in life, everybody should try everything once—everything, that is, except incest and Morris Dancing.”

They both high-fived amid belly laughs. “I never fancied poncing about with white hankies and bells on my legs.” Ratso returned to his notes. “Now, listen. Bardici went from Heathrow. Skela couldn’t remember the destination—probably the Bahamas but he couldn’t confirm Nassau, Paradise Island, or New Providence Island.”

Tosh accepted a slice of Ratso’s Juicy Fruit. “You sure he wasn’t giving you a load of pony?”

“Yeah, because being a cousin, Skela’s not just Bardici’s gofer.” Tosh looked unconvinced. Ratso flicked open his Blackberry and pulled up a map of the islands. “Could be any of these little blobs. They’ve all seen their share of Colombian cocaine passing through. But if not Nassau, the most likely destination is Grand Bahama Island.”

“Maybe he’s just topping up his tan?”

Ratso knew Tosh was joking. “The Bahamas government used to be the epicentre of drug running from Colombia to the USA.”

“But Bardici’s no deal-maker. He’s a hammer. And more than that, Zandro’s mob get their gear from Afghanistan, not Colombia.”

Ratso was pulled up short but only just for a moment. “You’re right, Tosh. But the word I got was that this next deal was going to be mega. So maybe cocaine as well.”

“Which means Bardici’s gone because there’s trouble—big trouble with a capital B.”

“I’m seeing the AC at four. Get someone working on where Bardici has been. If Skela’s right, Bardici could be back as soon as tomorrow.”

“Suggestions?”

“Check flights to Florida linking to the Bahamas—airports like Miami, Orlando, Fort Lauderdale—on the day Neil’s body was found. Check for Bardici’s name on flights and cross-check for a return landing tomorrow.”

“But …”

Ratso anticipated the hesitation. “No, you’re right. Unless he really did pack his bucket and spade, he’ll have used a false ID.”

“So check all passengers by camera?”

Ratso’s lips almost smiled at the mindless optimism. “Pointless.” He saw Tosh’s puzzled look. “First identify guys with routings London to the Bahamas on these precise days, then we check the closed circuit and put US Homeland Security and our Immigration boys to work. We’ll know his name and where he has been.” Tosh did not look enthused about data mining. Hard graft and meticulous homework was for the others. “Go to it, Tosh!”

With a final nod of goodbye, Ratso headed out into the wintry blast of Chiswick High Road and the uncertainty of what lay ahead with Wensley Hughes.