Hard Place (24 page)

Freeport, Grand Bahama Island

Surrounded by the smell of fresh paint, Ratso walked along the deck beside Tito Comores, an amiable South African approaching retirement with enthusiasm. The deck was cluttered with hawsers, torn matting, old bedding, new bedding, a broken chair and fast-food wrappers. But even the new paint could not disguise the lingering smell of decay, saltwater, seaweed and old rope. No real attempt had been made to smarten up Nomora for her inspection but Tito seemed content, not in the least surprised by the signs of rust still visible or the broken-down feeling that pervaded a vessel on which one million pounds was being spent. Besides several cans of paint to cover the rust, Ratso found it hard to understand what the money had bought. True, the hull was freshly dark green and the crew’s quarters spanking white but under that façade of beauty, Nomora was a shithole. Or so Tito had decided after completing the tour of inspection.

Hoping not to encounter Micky Quigley, Ratso ran his eye down the short list of work to be inspected. Some rusting parts of the A-frame at the stern had been replaced. The dry and wet labs had been cleaned and looked ready for new scientific equipment to be installed. The old stuff had been ripped out and dumped. Apparently. But the vessel had been in dry dock for days, weeks, months. Ratso stopped at the bow, gazing down the entire length of the vessel with Tito beside him. They were alone but Ratso still spoke quietly.

“Tito, everything seem in order to you?”

Tito looked at his checklist, each one ticked. “Todd, this was what is known as an additional survey. That means it was needed only because of a refit or renewal. Being an oceanographic research vessel means it also has to comply with RVSS—Research Vessel Safety Standards. Nomora passed its annual survey just before she sailed here.” He checked the records. “That was just six months ago, so this is not a full survey. I only have to check some minor repairs, the work on the A-frame, check the suitability of the winches, the knuckleboom crane over there and the modest refit.” He pointed to the midships area. “There’s been only limited adaptation that must comply with safety regulations and I only have to certify that the standard of workmanship is satisfactory.”

“The previous owners were Coast Guards but it never carried weaponry?”

“Not officially. Not obviously, either. Most of the space below decks was used by the boffins testing water for the fish urine content or whatever it is they do.” He chuckled, something that had come easily to him all morning. “Straight forward job, a no-brainer really.” He tapped his list with a pen bearing a hotel logo. “Finally, I have to certify that the vessel complies with various maritime rules and because nothing unusual has been done to the vessel, I am satisfied.” He ticked the final box.

Ratso’s puzzlement was growing with every word. “Can you see work worth a million pounds or even dollars?

“Pounds,” Tito confirmed from his spreadsheet. “You can see why the Coast Guard dumped her. She was a rust bucket. She remains a rust bucket … but smartly painted—all fur coat and no knickers. So to answer the question—no, this job was overpriced. What I’ve seen was worth maybe a third to a half of that. The owners got their bollocks tweaked.” Tito laughed, a gold tooth glinting in the sunlight. “It happens.”

Ratso liked the answer. It ticked a box on his personal checklist and reinforced his opinion that he had to be wary of Lamon Wilson and all he stood for. Darren’s wife’s opinion had stuck with him. No legitimate owner paid a million quid for work worth just a third of that. No legitimate company hired Micky Quigley, either. Nobody would send Lance Ruthven on six trips just to see a few locals slapping paint onto a rusting hull.

Ratso tapped his foot, which resonated on the deck. There had to be more. Something not obvious had been done to Nomora. Something not on the job specification. Something not apparent from the sheaf of scale plans that Tito had been given. Something that the yard had charged heavily for—or something Nomora’s owners were happy to pay an extortionate price for. Like silence. He turned to his companion. “Thanks, Tito. I’ll have to dash. I’ve another meeting in twenty minutes.”

“If you want me, I’ll be checking stuff in the offices. Your chap Quigley may be there with the CEO.”

Ratso shook his head. “Thanks. I’ve one more meeting before racing to the airport.” Thanks, Wensley, for screwing up tonight’s date with Kirsty-Ann, he muttered under his breath as he clambered down the gangplank. He had sensed disappointment in her voice when he had broken the news but the call had been briskly efficient too. And now he’d also miss meeting Darren’s contact—a young fitter called Chuckie who was flying back from Disney in Orlando. He had worked aboard Nomora and Darren reckoned he was a relative who could be trusted. Not the ending he had hoped for and it showed in his taut facial muscles as he strode out of the yard, barely saying goodbye to the guard at the gate.

Twenty-one minutes later, Ratso was seated at the dining table in Darren’s modest single-story home. Hurricane-proof, Darren had proudly explained when Ratso arrived, pointing at the concrete blocks that made up the walls. Sitting beside Ratso was Ida, a petite, almost bird-like figure with gentle features, aged perhaps twenty-nine. Her hair was long, hanging in rivulets either side of her face. She wore little makeup and her skin was not as black as her husband’s. Her eyebrows were perfectly groomed, boomerang-shaped, arching high above her eyes to enhance her open, enquiring look. Darren meanwhile was heating shrimp gumbo on the cooker across the room. The air was filled with the enticing smell of shrimp, onions, garlic, stewing tomatoes andouille sausage and mixed herbs.

“I really appreciate this,” Ratso said, addressing them both. He was looking at printed pages from the company’s invoice ledger kept on QuickBooks. There it was: addressed to Onduit (Enterprises) Limited of Gibraltar, an invoice for 1.62 million Bahamian dollars, equalling one million pounds sterling give or take. The services to be provided were as per specification discussed and agreed with your representative.

Darren dumped bowls of steaming gumbo in front of the two diners and then joined them. “You know that company?”

“I know the name. The team in London are working on the way money moved around using offshore jurisdictions. This is pretty damning material.” He noticed Ida was simply playing with her spoon. “Ida, you look worried.” She gave him a weak smile and shook her head but Ratso was unconvinced.

“Ida, she be happy to help.” Darren was quick to intervene but Ratso could see she was in torment. “Did you get to copy the bank transfers, honey?”

As if pulling herself out of a deep swamp, Ida slowly removed a thin bundle of printouts from her orange sack-come-handbag. She never said a word and Ratso was unsure whether her attitude was just sullen or fearful. She turned away as Ratso flipped the pages. There had been four stage payments totalling the full amount. Each one had come from Onduit’s account in Gibraltar using the seemingly reputable Royal United & Universal Bank of Canada.

“Perfect.” Ratso’s eyes said it all as he folded the papers and slipped them into his briefcase. Ida looked troubled, her stare locked on the floor but Darren seemed unaware or uncaring as he spooned the steaming gumbo into his mouth. Ida still hadn’t touched hers. Ratso’s eyes at last met Darren’s and he motioned him to say something.

“Ida, you don’t never need to worry.” Darren shook his head vehemently. “No way. ’Cos Todd here will never use these documents in court. I telling you, sneaking out this stuff, nobody will ever know nothing. No shit.”

“Darren’s right, Ida. This is vital information but it’s not evidence. If we need to prove this, we would get the shipyard to disclose these documents officially, as if I had never seen them. So you can relax.” Ratso watched for Ida’s reaction and was concerned that she still stared down, her lips pursed, her whole body taut. Ratso had seen similar body language often enough in interview rooms to be convinced something was bugging her. But what was it? Was she so scared of her boss? Did she know more about what work had been done on board? He gulped more of the hot, spicy soup during an embarrassing silence. Darren too had now caught the vibes.

“Ida, my honey-love, you is not in any trouble.”

She suddenly pushed back her chair from the table and stood up. “Fuck you, Darren for using me—you using your own wife. You putting me, my job on the line. But you don’t give a shit, do you? You mussa be think only your own career.” She turned round sharply and grabbed her bag, tears pouring from her eyes. “You just using me. Make me feel like shit to my boss.” The words tumbled out as Darren dashed toward her. He tried to put his arms round her shoulders but she shrugged him off and headed for the door.

Ratso was desperate to do something. “Ida, you can’t go back to work crying, looking all shaken up. People will want to know why. Come and sit down. I’m not asking you anything else.” He saw her waver and pressed on. “Look, I’m really sorry. It’s my fault, not Darren’s. I’ve been leaning on him to make this vital connection.” He paused for a moment’s debate with himself. “And I’d like to tell you why.”

Ida turned to look at him, her almond-shaped eyes streaming. Ratso opened his wallet and from one pocket produced a photo of a healthy-looking Freddie receiving his bronze medal for completing the Ten Tors event on Dartmoor. “This is my nephew, Freddie. Young, fit, popular. Three years later, Freddie died alone in a London street, killed by drugs imported by the gang that own this boat.” He saw he had her attention. “This is why I must win. And it’s not just Freddie. There are thousands of others—kids, mums, dads … they’ve all had their lives and families destroyed. Does this drug baron care?” He paused. “We need all the help we can get and these papers are vital to bring these bastards down.” He moved toward her, smiling. “I am so, so grateful.”

Slowly, Ida’s determined stare softened. She took the photo from him and studied the strong features of Freddie in his prime. She wiped away a tear and then handed back the picture. Darren grasped her shoulder and gently eased her back to the table. She slumped down with a final sudden movement, blew her nose and then sat, looking down and away as if ashamed of her outburst.

“You scared, my sweet? Worried about something else? Something you is not telling me?” Darren was standing behind her, one hand on one shoulder, the other softly caressing the back of her neck. “Is that your problem?” There was a long silence broken only by the bubbling sounds of second helpings boiling on the cooker.

At last she spoke, turning toward her husband. “Darren, believe me. I got no part in all this. No way.” She shook her head vehemently. “I know nothing, no shit. But Nomora, she was like special.” Then she burst into more tears, her shoulders heaving uncontrollably.

For now, Ratso had heard enough. The rest would have to wait. He wanted to give her both barrels, peppering her with questions till the full story emerged but no way could he do that to Darren and Ida. He picked up his grip. “Enough, enough! I’ve got to get my flight.” He saw Darren silently mouthing that they would speak later. “Ida, just remember the thousands of Freddies and when you’re ready, tell Darren anything else you know. Please.”

Freeport, Grand Bahama Island

An hour later, Ratso had checked in for a direct flight to Miami so he could make the evening connection to London. Still cursing Wensley Hughes for the order to rush back to plan the Christmas Eve raid, he crossed the check-in area at Grand Bahamas International. He had barely gone a few paces when he heard his name being called. Turning sharply to look over his shoulder, he spotted Kirsty-Ann, who had just entered the terminal.

He started to walk toward her, his body language oozing pleasure. Her face made no secret of her pleasure at catching him. “I’m glad I got here in time.”

“Heh! What a great surprise,” he replied. There was an awkward moment again when neither was sure how to greet the other in the middle of a crowded terminal. “Let’s stop by the bar. I needn’t go through just yet.” Moments later they were perched on high stools, he with a beer, she clutching a Virgin Mary, easy on the ice.

“That was a real bummer about tonight.” She spoke softly so that he had to lean in to hear her against the backdrop of chat from all sides. “After you called, I felt kinda lost. I’d no idea how much I was looking forward to dinner till you cancelled.”

“Me too. You would not believe my language after the AC ordered me back!” He briefly touched her hand as they clinked glasses.

“Your enquiries finished? Go well?”

Ratso’s mind raced through what he had achieved. “Seven, maybe eight out of ten. But given more time, it might have been a perfect ten.” He appreciated her sympathetic look, her head cocked and her eyes lowered. “And you?”

“I guess.” But Ratso could sense her unease. “I’ll have a wrap tomorrow. My questions about hiring snorkelling equipment haven’t spooked anybody. Those beach-bum kids are pretty laid back.” She imitated their lazy drawl. “Oh, really? Oh, yeah, could be. Sounds like someone. Sunday? Like two weeks ago? Sure. Mebbe! Yeah, there sure was a guy, yeah!” Ratso laughed as Kirsty-Ann pressed on. “If the folk in Washington want to conclude Ruthven came here and got ate up by a shark, my report won’t make them choke on their croissants.”

But Ratso was concerned and she was quick to sense it from his raised eyebrow. She too now looked uneasy, her leg swinging to and fro.

“If DC leak or spin a suspected shark attack, the local media won’t want those headlines. Not good for tourism. Tell me more but I’m concerned for you. Slightly better than headlines about a murdered tourist,” added Ratso. He was thinking of the shocking Bahamas murder statistics that Darren had mentioned.

“You? Concerned? For me?” Kirsty-Ann saw his nod and her cheeks colored as if she was touched quite deeply. “That’s all, really. I wasn’t briefed to dig deep about Hank Kurtner. Just to find out enough to let DC know that Kurtner may have died here. Bucky’s sure they don’t want any murder investigation in Freeport.”

“There isn’t one, I can tell you that,” Ratso snorted. “Stinks, doesn’t it?” He leaned toward her and found that he was lightly clasping her bare arm just above the wrist. It just seemed so right and she never flinched. “Look, if the Feds and Washington want a cover-up, the Atlantic out there,” he nodded toward the sea, “is surely where you draw a big, fat line.” She looked puzzled so he continued at once. “Forget Grand Bahama. Someone called Hank Kurtner flew here and never flew back. But nobody will miss Hank Kurtner. Why? Because he never existed except here.”

“Go on.”

“Lance Ruthven is different. He checked into the Fort Lauderdale Hilton but never checked out. His belongings were in the room.” Ratso debated before continuing but then decided he should. “You ask me, which you haven’t,” he grinned, “I’d go for drowning in Florida and no sharks. Enthuse Bucky about investigating a possible sighting near Fort Lauderdale—somewhere others have drowned in difficult currents.” He saw she was interested. “If DC play up a shark attack here or in Florida … and I don’t think that’s their game, wow—the world’s media will invade. It’ll be like Amity Island in Jaws. And that means intense scrutiny … of you and your investigation.”

“Which, right now with the car wreck fatality, I want as much as a root canal.” She seemed to be pushing deep into his mind. “Todd, you’re a regular guy. But there’s more, something else you haven’t told me. Don’t go holding out on me. And anyways … what is their game?”

“Okay. Hank Kurtner checked out of the Marlin Hotel.”

“What! You found this out?”

“A hooker from the Red Poppy told me where he stayed, so I dropped by the Marlin as a friend expecting a birthday gift left for me the front desk. The girl said he’d long gone, nothing left in the room, nothing at the front desk. He’d paid his bill. But he never took the flight under the name of Kurtner and he abandoned his car.”

“So he may be alive?”

Ratso shrugged. “He … maybe returned to Florida. Different ID. As you Americans say, don’t bet the ranch. Kurtner’s hire car was retrieved by the rental guys from the Marlin Hotel.”

“Suits the shark story, then?”

Ratso did not look convinced. “Kurtner never showed at the boatyard.” He pulled out a photo of Bardici and they both stared at the swarthiness of the man’s face, his heavily built frame and large, thickset hands. “Bardici’s smart, animal smart. My guess, he stripped Kurtner’s room and checked out for him before going to raise hell with the boss at the yard about delays to the refit.”

“You think Ruthven was …?”

“Silenced, I’d say. He could link Shirafi to the Nomora. But Bardici murders for the hell of it; disposing of Ruthven for incompetence would be no big deal.”

Suddenly, she looked sad and tired, her head shaking at the mess she was in. “I hate all this double-speak from Washington. Based on these facts, if he drowned here, he checked out and then walked fully clothed into the sea carrying all his belongings.” She shook her head angrily. “This could unravel like crazy if the journalists get a sniff of scandal. So you’re right, it can’t be here. It has to be back home. But again, Todd, tell me what is Washington’s game?”

“They want this story to disappear. They don’t want Ruthven or Kurtner reappearing. Their problem is they know from you he reached here and they don’t much like that. Untidy.”

“So?”

“Well, he might be alive but I doubt it.” He tried to sound reassuring though in his guts he was unconvinced. “Kirsty-Ann, if I were you … you make a full report to Bucky Buchanan. Tell him what you uncovered over here, being something and nothing. Run the missing in Florida approach by him. Tell him I proved Kurtner had seemingly checked out over here. My guess—that’s what DC wants. Nice and vague. Nothing sinister, No skeletons in Ruthven’s closet.”

“You think?” Kirsty-Ann sounded hesitant, surprisingly so.

“Those guys in DC, they know the truth. Not what I’ve just told you but the rest of it. Wensley Hughes has spoken to them. They’ll have tracked every opportunity for contact between Ruthven and Shirafi in Kabul. So it’s KYA time! Don’t get cornered where you can get hung out to dry. Make them decide which of their lies works best. To me, Florida is the place. That’s where his belongings were found. Look—there’s no corpse here. If the story breaks that Ruthven came here leading a double life with another name, hell, every professional and amateur sleuth will be crawling all over this.”

“Yeah, I can just see Greta van Susteren from Fox News going real big on this. Once the media start asking questions …” She let the sentence die. “And so?” She clasped her hands across her knees. “If you make arrests, will Ruthven’s name come out? That Bardici may have murdered him? If so, everything that Washington wants buried will …”

“Float inconveniently to the surface?” Ratso saw her torment, sensing she knew that one wrong move and her career was in a lose-lose spiral. “Ruthven’s existence is irrelevant to us in London unless we are nailing Shirafi and the AC says that won’t, can’t, must not happen.” Kirsty-Ann was surprised at the bitterness in his tone.

This time, it was Kirsty-Ann’s hand that rested across Ratso’s fingers. Despite the coolness of her touch, the warmth came across in the message she was sending. “You’re right. I’m gonna tell it like it is … and then some. Let someone else decide.”

“That was my last call. Time to go. You ever get to London?”

“Not so far.” She smiled almost teasingly. “I’ve never had a reason.”

“You should. I’d enjoy that. And Ruthven and those guys in DC would be off-limits.”

She smiled very differently, her face lighting up for the first time since their heavy conversation started. “That’s a cool idea. My mom can care for Leon for a few days. What’s the weather like in February? I’m due some vacation.”

“Don’t pack a bikini or sun lotion.” He rose to leave. “But the welcome will be warm, that’s for sure.”

“Deal,” she said. They strolled slowly toward Immigration and Security as if reluctant to reach the moment of parting. He stopped just short of the line and they stood facing each other for a silent moment before Ratso put his bag on the floor and grasped her gently around the waist. She responded at once, pushing herself forward as he gave her a gentle, affectionate kiss on the lips.

As he drew back, Ratso was feeling almost lightheaded, debating whether to miss the flight. The Christmas Eve raid seemed an intrusion on something far better. For a second, nothing seemed to matter but being here with this woman that he barely knew and yet so much wanted to. But damned duty and commonsense prevailed. The raid in Brighton was too important to screw up.

“I’m going to miss you. We hardly know each other but it’s like, oh, I don’t know—maybe like there’s magic dust all round.” He paused, feeling a bit silly.

She pulled herself close. “I kinda feel that, too. Magic dust, huh? Yeah. I’ll buy that.”

“So, see you in London. Promise?”

“Can we see those soldiers with the funny hats?”

“The bearskins? Busbies, they’re called. Yes. At Buckingham Palace. But I can’t promise you’ll see the Queen.”

“Seeing you’ll be just fine.” She pulled at his free hand to turn him toward her. “Maybe I’ll get to see your bearskin.” She winked with an impish smile. Then she gave him a warm hug, turned sharply away and was gone. Ratso watched her till she had waved at the corner and turned out of sight.

On the hop over to Miami, Ratso dozed fitfully, disturbed by every change in the noise from the turboprops but once cruising on the London-bound 747-400, he tucked into the evening meal of salad, beef stew and a rich chocolate dessert. He accepted the flight attendant’s offer of coffee and brandy and dismissed thoughts of Charlene and Christmas Day. Her obsessive texts were an irritation but somewhere lay a kind and gentle solution. More urgent was the Christmas Eve plan and updating the whiteboard.

Micky Quigley was a big plus. Probably somebody loved the Irishman—perhaps his mother but Ratso doubted even that. There was plenty enough of the bruiser but little that was likeable. He was a drunk and had done time for a violent attack on a woman. He was scruffier and stank worse than a scrapyard mongrel. But none of that bothered Ratso. He had no wish to get nearer to the Irishman than to slip on the handcuffs. In a dawn raid on a previous vessel, the Dubliner had escaped, slipping over the ship’s side. He had vanished, never once appearing in his usual haunts. Ratso had even wondered whether he might have drowned and had hoped for weeks that a body would wash up along the South Coast. Until last night.

Why have I been thinking about Quigley’s escape? He sniffed the brandy and swirled the glass in his hand, savouring the fiery fumes. It was a few moments before he had the reason. Quigley had escaped because the local cops had been in charge and been stubbornly pig-ignorant. And now the raid on Rudi Tare would be handled by the Sussex Tactical Firearms Unit. He could see no way around the problem; he would have to delegate the delicate operation to the Sussex TFU. But that didn’t stop him creating a plan, a good one, so good that the Sussex top brass would have to buy it.

The Sussex Constabulary’s Tactical Firearms Unit had an excellent reputation. Sure, I respect their professionalism but this is my baby. I don’t want another Micky Quigley snafu. On his iPad he studied the data he had downloaded at Miami Airport. To strangers, Bankside Gardens was part of Brighton but actually it lay in Hove, though the join between the two was seamless. Ratso knew the area from years back but much had changed since then. The old music hall image as a resort for dirty weekends for Londoners or for a paddle had been lost to a new flashier, faster-moving image. And with the changes had come crime and drugs. Increasingly, the seaside town, under fifty miles from London, with its pier, antique shops, fish-and-chippers, amusement arcades and miles of beach, had become a neo-capital for the gay community. Additionally, it was a Mecca for young adults, with clubs, pubs and bars—all easy pickings for the pushers.

Before take-off, he had mined his way through Google Maps and done a virtual drive along Bankside Gardens. But now he was offline, so he browsed the map and photos that Tosh had sent through. Tosh had also tracked down some agent’s particulars from when Rudi Tare had rented Flinders. It was described as a “highly desirable gentleman’s residence.” Being in Brighton, Ratso wondered whether the agents meant that it was the gentleman or the house that was highly desirable.

The property had four beds, three reception, a conservatory and a double garage with two up-and-over doors. Others in the street were valued on Zoopla at over £1.1 million. It was a substantial two-story building, painted white and mock Georgian in style with a portico over an impressive front door painted navy blue with brass fixtures. At the rear was a rather neglected garden and an impressively large gravelled courtyard wrapped around the front. Ratso could see why Rudi Tare had selected it. There was plenty of room for cars or small vans to be loaded while concealed from the neighbours by a mix of tall hedges, towering evergreens and thick clumps of shrubs.