Hard Place (13 page)

Central London EC3

“Jock’s back tomorrow,” volunteered Tosh. “He’s got his boy Gordy thinking positive.”

“Not the same as kicking the winning goal in the World Cup, though, is it? The coach told Jock he had that in him, given a few seasons. Now he’s finished.”

Ratso really felt for the lad. As a youngster, he had dreamed of playing cricket for England. Being left-handed, he had modelled his batting on David Gower and his bowling action on Wasim Akram, the great Pakistani left-arm quickie. As an eleven-year-old, he had imagined himself walking through the Long Room at Lord’s as a genuine all-rounder. The realisation he would never be good enough to play for England had come in his late teens. The coach’s arm round his shoulder had been kind but the words, though sugar-coated, had been brutal. Years of dreaming gone in a moment of harsh reality. His dad had been pretty choked too; from his wheelchair, he had lived his dreams through his son.

The two detectives were heading for Arkwright, Fenwick, & Stubbs’ offices on Lime Street. They fell silent as they walked along Eastcheap and into Philpot Lane. Ratso had insisted they get off the Northern Line at London Bridge and walk across the river to get more miles into his daily routine. Tosh had not been appreciative.

“Jock would have enjoyed what you’re going to do,” Ratso said.

“Yeah, he’s a great bullshitter,” Tosh agreed.

“And you?” Ratso turned to look at his sergeant, who grinned back but Ratso remained uneasy. Jock was a safe pair of hands. Besides that, Ratso was still struggling to understand why they were approaching Fenwick at all—reversing his decision that it would be a crap move. Desperation—that was it. Chuck a rock in and watch the ripples. But still the nagging doubts had him on edge. Tosh Watson was younger, less experienced and less adept at thinking on his feet. “Get the feel of the place, any brochures, magazines, artwork on the walls, antiques, threadbare carpets, whatever.” He popped a Polo into his mouth as Tosh unwrapped another Mars bar from his endless supply. “Get an impression: is it busy, lots of clients in reception, sounds of typing everywhere, phones ringing? And most important—there should be a board listing the companies that have registered offices at this address. Photograph it if you can. Don’t get caught! Above all, ID Terry Fenwick. Does he look like the photo we got from DVLC?” They stopped at the end of the street to wait for a bus to trundle by. “You got the patter?”

Tosh’s grin nearly split his face as he nodded enthusiastically. “I’m well up for it boss. When I phoned for the appointment, I told the girl what it was about. Just a ten-minute meeting with Mr Terry Fenwick, I said. No more.” As they dodged a cruising cab while crossing Fenchurch Street, Tosh grinned again. “I’ll get a photo of him and the other partners if I can.”

“Risky. Not needed.”

They headed north along Lime Street, the narrow road that had long been synonymous with Lloyd’s of London insurance. Further up the street lay the Willis Tower and the Richard Rodgers Lloyd’s building, the latter very avant-garde when it had opened in 1986. Now it looked rather tired. But the offices of Arkwright, Fenwick, & Stubbs bore no resemblance to the neighboring towering buildings. Its entrance was a narrow doorway close to the Ship public house. The gloomy entrance led to a flight of unstained wooden stairs, no carpet or lino. Both men studied the four-story building dating back maybe hundreds of years. “Where will you be, boss?”

“Doing a spot of thinking, Tosh.”

“I’ll see you in the Ship, then.”

Ratso laughed but then turned deadly serious. “Remember. No risks. Got it?”

Ratso went on to the pub still regretting that his impatience had meant Tosh making the visit. Jock would have been more nimble on his feet if anything went wrong. But Tosh had been so enthusiastic that Ratso’s own impatience prevailed. He glanced back at the slit-like entrance. It was too late now; Tosh had gone up the stairs. He checked the time. Too early for a scotch. More like tea and cake.

He entered the pub, which was still busy with noisy city types who would never make it back to the office from lunch. The place smelled of roast beef, green veggies and beer. A weepie Dolly Parton number mixed with the sound of braying laughter. He thought of Tosh and his size-tens and abandoned the idea of coffee. “A Famous Grouse. Make it a large one.”

He poured a splash of water into the whisky and settled down to read the Standard. The whisky was almost gone when a beaming Tosh reappeared. Ratso tossed back the last drops and rose to follow his sergeant at a discreet distance till they reached Mark Lane, well away from Lime Street. By then, Ratso was sure nobody was following.

Ratso could sense his sergeant’s excitement as Tosh ambled along, slowly swinging his teddy-bear arms, his toes pointing slightly outward.

Just nine minutes later, as Tosh and Ratso rounded the corner by Tower Hill Station, Terry Fenwick was studying a picture of Sergeant Tosh Watson photographing the list of company names. He put the photo in his briefcase, checked the time and announced to the receptionist that he would be leaving early after all.

Fort Lauderdale, Florida

At first Kirsty-Ann Webber had intended to take in the airport but by the time the tall radio mast at Police HQ on West Broward Boulevard came into view, she had decided to work the phones. Relegating a check on casino cruises to her third priority had been a no-brainer. Like everyone in Florida, she knew all about these cruises to nowhere. Daily cruises sailed a few miles into the Atlantic to get round gambling regulations, while the hopefuls aboard slaved over slots and blackjack till the ship docked hours later.

Kirsty-Ann had tried it just once and vowed never again. She had quickly grown disgusted watching people who could barely afford to lose a dime endlessly feeding the slots, which almost always channelled their money to the casino owners. The throng cheerfully formed long lines at the buffet, chowing down mountains of fast-food and sinking Atlantic quantities of booze before returning to feed the slots till their last nickel was gone.

But Lance Ruthven? Would he go even once on a casino cruise—let alone six times? Hell no! That left the longer two-night cruises to Grand Bahama, where gamblers stayed in hotels for a couple of nights. Young guys having a blast might party that way once, maybe twice in a year. But would Lance Ruthven do this five or six times? It made no sense. Frankly, the whole thing made no sense—him visiting Florida so often—unless he had friends here, or some sinister business. A hobby? Snorkelling? Fishing? Well … maybe. It was a thought. So where else might he go? The Bahamas, the Caymans?

Walking slowly, equally preoccupied with the media storm hanging over her and how to unravel the Ruthven mystery, she entered the white three-story building with its familiar blue stripe getup. Some colleagues she passed encouraged her to give the proverbial finger to the media critics, while others praised Bucky Buchanan for refusing to crawl to the shit-stirring lefties who wanted her suspended … or worse. On reaching her desk, she unlocked her computer for updates on overnight events before hitting the phone. As the chief had said, there was plenty of coverage in the Washington media about Ruthven, including a serious-faced image of him, identical to his passport. But the local journalists hadn’t majored in on the story yet.

She glanced at the photo on her desk, her mom with Leon in a floppy sunhat. She hated being apart from them. Being a single mom had not been the plan—quite the reverse. If she had tried to encapsulate her vision, it was a family unit—Mom, Dad and two kids, cocooned by peace, happiness, respect and understanding. But that smooth-talking trader from Chicago had charmed his way into her life during his long weekend visit and abortion had not been acceptable to her, despite her malevolent feelings toward the bastard. The only good thing was the trust fund he had provided without even wincing. He had no interest in ever seeing her or Leon again.

Despite Leon’s gurgles and smiles, she still felt an emptiness, especially when times were tough, like now. Leon needed a father. She needed someone to tune into her wavelength and hold her through the media attacks. She wanted someone like Andy to teach Leon to play catch, how to kick a goal and how to shoot baskets. She turned away from the picture, just a hint of tears in her eyes as she refocused on airlines flying to the Bahamas. From Fort Lauderdale, there were four obvious possibilities—Vision, Bahamasair, Gulfstream International and SkyBahamas—but she jotted down a reminder not to overlook private charters and to check that Ruthven was not a qualified pilot. But that would come later, if the airlines didn’t pan out.

She decided to start with Bahamasair.

“Hi! Howyadoin’? Detective Kirsty-Ann Webber calling from the Fort Lauderdale Police Department.” She explained what she wanted, held for a few minutes and was passed to a woman with a deep, husky voice who seemed about to chuckle at any moment. She introduced herself as Darshelle King. Kirsty-Ann could almost picture the woman from her voice alone. She judged Darshelle to be African American, mid-to-late thirties, overweight with a rounded, warm smiling face and large brown eyes. Big earrings hanging low. A red sweatshirt straining somewhat against the fullness of her bust. Kirsty-Ann smiled at her mental picture as she explained the information she needed.

“I’ll get right back to you. Give me an hour, honey.”

“Thanks, Darshelle. Appreciate it.”

She dialled SkyBahamas and repeated her inquiry to a woman with a remarkably similar voice. Maybe all airline employees sounded like this.

No sooner had she ended the call than the phone rang. It was Darshelle. “That was pretty darned easy,” Darshelle laughed.

“You mean negative?”

“Nope!” Another chuckle from deep in the throat. “I mean there was jus’ one person who booked every one of those flights.”

Kirsty-Ann’s face lit up. “Including this most recent one?”

“Depends what you mean. The guy flew to Freeport but he was a no-show for his return flight.”

The detective paused. “And his name?”

“Kurtner. Hank Kurtner.”

“Hey, Darshelle, that’s terrific! I’ll drop by to get a statement. You available in an hour?”

“You’re in Nassau right now?” Darshelle’s surprise was evident.

Kirsty-Ann fell silent. How could she have been so dumb! The airline’s HQ was on New Providence Island, not Fort Lauderdale. She laughed. “Well, maybe not an hour. The Concorde’s stopped flying!” Both of them laughed. “I’ll check flights. Budgets here are so damn tight I’ll need to speak to my chief. I might be swimming!”

“Wouldn’t recommend it. The water’s not so warm now.”

Central London EC3

Ratso stood with Tosh on the platform at Tower Hill Station, waiting for a westbound train. “So we have our first twenty-four-hour surveillance data on Terry Fenwick.” Ratso checked the message just received. “He’s predictable. Leaves home early. Train in. Walks to the office. Goes home just after six.”

Tosh was still on fire from the success of his visit but this info was a downer. “Get a life, mate!” He showed Ratso the picture of Terry Fenwick he had taken. “Pretty damned good, eh?”

“You’re sure he didn’t …?”

Tosh shook his head as the District Line train rumbled into the station. “Cinch! The girl at reception knocked on his door, told him I was there and he called her in. He was pointing her to a corner to get him something. He was watching her, so I got a clear shot of him.”

“And the list of company names?”

“Displayed right beside me in reception. By the time she returned, I was …” The rest of Tosh’s answer was drowned out as the carriages stopped noisily beside them. The train was standing room only and they fell silent, swaying and bumping into strangers as they passed through Mansion House, Cannon Street and Blackfriars. They were almost into Temple when the train stopped in the tunnel. A moment or two’s delay was not unusual but when it became rather more, Ratso looked at Tosh in the near-silent carriage. Passengers were either staring mindlessly at the adverts, reading books, the evening paper, or fiddling with iPods or MP3s, nobody speaking.

“Reminds me of the 7/7 bombings,” Ratso volunteered. “I was stuck in the tunnel near Westminster for a bloody age. All types of explanations were given but blowing up Tube trains was never mentioned.”

“Cheerful sod, aren’t you,” intervened a laughing Aussie with ridiculous sideburns.

Ratso grinned. “Well, it’s not our train, so why worry, mate?” He was about to make a dig about the last test match result when the driver came on. “Sorry about the delay. All trains are stopped. There’s someone on the line near Stamford Brook. I’m waiting for instructions on whether the power will be kept off and you can walk into the next station. It’s about two-fifty meters.”

“Selfish bastard,” said Tosh, so half the carriage could hear. “Why didn’t the sod just jump off a roof. Inconvenience nobody.” Ratso nodded as he watched murmurs run through the strangers. No doubt there were as many shades of opinion about another suicide as there were skin colors in the carriage. “This is your fault, boss,” continued Tosh, unsure whether he was joking or not. “Your keep-fit routines. Walking to Tower Hill. If we’d gone to Bank, we’d be back drinking cups of tea with our feet up.”

Ratso enjoyed the chance of a wind-up. “Good exercise, though, standing here. Keep moving your legs. Stand on tiptoes and back again.” Their immediate neighbours grinned and the Aussie was obviously debating whether to make a dig about Tosh’s waistline when the driver came back on.

“Sorry, ladies and gentlemen. The District Line controller says we’re to stay on the train. Maybe twenty minutes.”

“Pity. I fancied walking. There’s rats down there the size of cats.” In the near silence, those close by looked toward Ratso, ahead higher than everyone around him. The women and even some men looked uncomfortable at the thought.

“You’d eat them an’ all,” added Tosh, enjoying the attention.

Ratso grinned from ear to ear. “Nothing like a bit of rat, eaten raw. Maybe a dash of Worcester sauce.”

The Aussie laughed and several others joined in, enjoying the banter that kept their minds off the mounting sense of claustrophobia in the packed carriage. Had it been a blazing hot August day, the panic factor would have been ten times higher. “You think he’s joking,” Tosh said.

“Only about the Worcester sauce. Rat tartare. Goes down a treat.”

“Will you shut up?” The sharp interruption came from a woman in her early thirties, with disapproving eyes set behind severe glasses and an accent from one of the finest finishing schools. Her glare showed her contempt but Ratso gave her what he thought was a sexy wink, forcing her to look away and then return to her Guardian. Tosh caught Ratso’s eye and said nothing. Fortunately, the driver came on soon after.

“Better news. We’ll be on the move in two minutes.” And they were. The relieved passengers settled down into silence again.

At Embankment, Ratso and Tosh changed to the Northern Line. Between the two platforms, Tosh regaled Ratso with more details of his meeting. “Not the shyster type you see down the Old Bailey or Southwark Crown Court. Fenwick’s more like an accountant. About fifty. Quiet voice, shrewd face. Mean with words. Almost like a Gestapo officer in a movie. Calculating.”

“If he’s so clever, you sure he didn’t rumble you?” Ratso was worried, not just about Tosh’s cheerful optimism but because even a company lawyer like Fenwick might know that crime prevention for a Lime Street address was the role of the City of London police.

Tosh was adamant. “No. He fell for the cover story. I gave him some spiel about a gang targeting professionals to launder money on the pretext they were buying a chain of motels. He said he’d never been approached but would alert us if he was. I also lobbed in some crap about a spate of break-ins—a gang nicking computers. Fenwick said he was pretty safe, showed me his security system. Plus he’s one floor up, so a ladder in Lime Street is the only other way in. He said they kept little cash on the premises but I warned him that laptops, iPads, computer chips and techie things were the hot targets.”

“What took you so long?”

“Ah!” Tosh tapped the side of his nose. “I saw a brass plate for some accountants above Fenwick. I visited them too, just in case Fenwick was suspicious.”

Ratso was surprised. “Good thinking. Anything else at Fenwick’s place?”

They descended the escalator, Ratso noticing he had a missed call. Tosh looked uncomfortable. For a moment, Ratso was concerned but it was just Tosh’s bladder sending urgent messages. “The offices were pretty dull. Low-key. Cheap carpeting, no magazines. Not even a Financial Times. Just four rooms off the reception. One PA for the three fee-earners and the girl on reception.” He paused to think. “As we knew, there’s Terry, his brother Adrian and a young woman partner called Lynda Dorwood. Adrian was out but I glimpsed Lynda—she’s about thirty. No artworks. Just the bog-standard legal prints on the walls. Practical furniture, rather old and faded but the computers in reception and Fenwick’s office were the real deal.”

“Nothing else?”

“No other clients. Just the list of companies with a registered office. Shall we go through them tonight?”

Ratso checked his watch and shook his head. “It’ll keep overnight. I’ve cricket nets at Shepherd’s Bush. I’ll just shift some crap from my desk and then be off. Anyway, Jock’s back tomorrow. My office—nine thirty before meeting in the Cauldron.”