Hard Place (32 page)

“We’ve got our team of eight covering Terry Fenwick like a rash. Wherever he goes, we’ll know. Likely time?”

“Dunno. I’ll call you. As soon as the raid starts, I want him picked up—and Zandro too.”

Ratso heard the slight cough at the other end. “Not so easy, boss. Zandro’s given the lads from SCD11 the slip.”

“What! My instructions were the sod couldn’t fart without us knowing. You telling me he’s outwitted the surveillance unit?” There was an uneasy silence. “They’d better bloody find him by tomorrow morning. Where was the loss?”

“His chauffeur dropped him near Fortnum & Masons. He went into Thomas Pink on Jermyn Street. He didn’t buy anything. He was then picked up on Lower Regent Street and taken to Plantation Tower in the City.”

“Plantation Tower?” Ratso tried to recall the address. “Oh, yes! That huge block near Fenchurch Street Station. Quite close to Lime Street, funnily enough. Why was he there?”

“Unknown. He was followed in at 10:30 a.m. He used a photo ID to get through security and went to the bank of lifts. DC O’Donnell kept watch for him coming out but he never did.”

Ratso was exasperated. “It’s 4 p.m. now. Is he in a meeting there?”

“The surveillance team circled the huge building and found another exit and watched that too. Then they checked a security camera. He never went up in the lift. He went down and two minutes later, exited through the rear entrance on a lower level. Timed at 10:32 on the security camera”

“Lost him! That’s all I bloody need. Did he go to Fenwick’s office? It’s close by.”

“No. It’s being watched.”

“So the bastard realised he was being followed.”

Tosh had to agree. “Looks like it. And from the rear exit, he could have gone in God knows how many different directions.”

Ratso felt drained. He didn’t blame the SCD11 crew; he knew that even with a team of eight using motorbikes, cars and plainclothes, cunning bastards like Zandro could use local knowledge to give them the slip. “What bothers me is not him losing them. It’s that he felt the need to.”

Tosh could only agree. “But maybe he uses this dodge occasionally for other reasons. Maybe he didn’t know he was being followed.”

Ratso scowled as a thought hit him. “Well, I hope to hell there’s been no leak.”

“I hadn’t thought of that, boss.” He paused to check his scribbles. “Oh yes—he was carrying a small overnight case.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“They say not.”

The overnight bag did something to calm Ratso. “Okay. Keep me posted.”

“Do you want all ports and airports alerted?”

Ratso was about to say yes when he remembered the note in the thousands of papers he had inherited from Wensley Hughes’ original investigation. “No. He had at least one mole in the Home Office, a well-placed one. I can’t risk tipping Zandro off. Remember, we haven’t been following him at all till now—quite deliberately—letting him think he’s off the radar. So our best hope is he’s playing away from home. He always used to. Ciao!”

“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish, boss.”

“I don’t. That’s Italian, caromio.”

Exhausted after a restless night, a worse morning with Botía and now Zandro’s disappearance, Ratso slumped back onto the pillows. He needed to unwind, regroup, get his head in gear. Forget Plan A and Plan B. With Zandro gone, even a Plan Z wouldn’t bloody work. He tossed and turned restlessly, his mind a jumble. Everything seemed a bugger’s muddle of futility. Too much had gone wrong at the same time. Only the possibility of Botía getting his balls chewed provided any comfort.

How long he lay there he was unsure. Had he dozed off? Or had every moment been spent treading paths to nowhere? When the phone rang, he was confused, his mind fuzzy. “Yes, Jock. Only give me good news. I can’t take any more bad.” He listened for a moment before leaping off the bed. “I’ll be five minutes.” He pulled on his jeans, stuffed his feet into his ageing black shoes and splashed cold water over his face before drying with an abrasive towel. He felt better already.

It was under four minutes later when he saw Jock standing outside the Tourist Office on the plaza. “We’ve been sniffing at the wrong dog’s arse.” Jock grinned.

“Explain!” Ratso was already shivering as the light faded and the first of the ornate street lamps came on.

“I went into the Tourist Office. Young laddie in there, a student, he wis an employer’s dream—bright, keen and spoke and understood English.”

“But you don’t speak English.”

“Away with yer tedious racist jokes. He understood me just fine and dandy, nae bother.” Jock laughed. “Anyroads, he started marking up every war memorial all over town. He seemed disappointed that I wisna impressed. But then I asked him if there were any war memorials near either of the other two hotels.” Jock held out the map and it fluttered slightly in the chilly breeze. “The laddie checked his list, mentally ticking off each one and said no. Well, he could see I was fair disappointed. ‘But ye’re English,’ he said, ‘so ye might want to visit this monument.’ He pointed here.” Jock’s stubby finger landed on the Mendez Nunez Gardens. I said no Sir John Moore again but he said it wisna. It was a bronze statue of John Lennon with his guitar.”

“John Lennon? You been on the wacky-baccy? Anyway, why should we be interested in that? We’re not here to sing ‘Yellow Submarine.’” Ratso didn’t mean to sound as harsh as he sounded.

“It’s a monument right enough—but it’s also an anti-war memorial.” Jock saw he had Ratso’s attention now. “And it’s only one hundred meters from the Hispanio Sol Hotel—that dump with the rude receptionist.” He pointed to the map. “The Lennon monument isna’ even marked. The map’s out of date. But it’s been there a few years.”

Suddenly all the negatives of the past twenty hours vanished. Ratso’s blood pumped faster, his eyes flashing with a boyish enthusiasm unthinkable just moments before. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go see. It can’t be far.” Ratso grabbed Jock’s arm and gave him a warm look for digging him out of his black hole.

They hurried across the plaza toward the seafront, Jock limping slightly and puffing and panting to keep up. Through the gloom of early evening and across the busy road, they saw a small tree-filled park. They dodged the traffic and found, nestling in the darkness of the trees, the statue of a seated, bespectacled John Lennon strumming his guitar. It was discreet with no pedestal, so low as to be almost anonymous. Ratso peered at it, struggling to read the inscription. Nothing to Kill or Die For.

“You’re right. Anti-war.” He stood a moment in reflection. Why had an obscure small Spanish town raised money to erect this statue? “Back in England, thieves would have nicked this by now for the brass. It used to be lead from church roofs; now they nick whole bloody statues to make a few bob to buy drugs.”

He looked across the street and pointed to the Hispanio Sol Hotel. The miserable woman at the front desk could just be seen under the lights of a central chandelier. “It’s not even a hundred meters,” Ratso commented, more to himself than to Jock, who had moved to get a better view. With dusk, lights had come on in much of the hotel, the first time they had seen it after dark.

“Boss, look at the windows on the first and second floors. Right-hand end. They dinna look like bedrooms to me.”

Ratso joined him, staring at the upper floors. “You’re right. They’re not. They’re meeting rooms, so whatever that Spanish bitch never said, she could have offered us a meeting room.” Ratso clapped Jock on the shoulder. “One more thing to do.”

“My feet are killing me.”

“We’re not going far. Not if I’m right.”

Ratso wanted to avoid walking in front of the hotel and most certainly did not want the woman on the front desk to see them. They crossed farther along the road at the traffic lights and then walked back toward the Hispanio Sol. Just before the entrance, they reached a scruffy one-way street running along the side of the hotel, into which they turned. At the end of the building stood a high wall, blocking any view of what lay behind.

“Come on, Jock,” Ratso pointed to the next street, which ran parallel to the rear of the hotel. “Along here and round to the far side. At last, I’m feeling lucky. This is a big area behind a third-rate hotel. I doubt we’ll find rose gardens and an Olympic-sized pool behind this wall.”

“The laddie at the Tourist Office told me there was off-street parking at the back.” Beside him on this busy road, rush-hour traffic was moving steadily in both directions. All around, the pavements were busy with office workers heading home or going to the shops, bars and cafés.

“The car park entrance can’t be on this street. It must be up the other side.”

Ratso led them another eighty meters or so till they reached the next junction. Here they turned left, the third side of the square, keeping the high wall next to them. Above them the street name was barely visible but a passing car lit the words Rua de Cervantes. They had barely taken a few steps when Ratso saw the faded sign saying Aparcamiento Privado Hispanio Sol. The two men looked at each other, Jock’s face breaking into the huge smile he normally saved for the arrival of his fish supper.

The wall ended and in the gap before it resumed was a perfect view of what looked more like waste ground than a real car park. The surface was dried earth strewn with litter, bits of newspapers, plastic bottles, fast-food cartons and old cans. Pristine it was not but the wide-open space was ideal for a truck looking to divvy up its load into other vehicles.

Ratso was about to pass between the open gates to snoop around the vehicles when he heard a car approaching from behind. “Keep walking, Jock.” For a fleeting moment, both men were lit up by the car’s powerful headlights before it turned into the car park. After the engine quieted and a couple of doors slammed, Ratso turned back and peered between the open gates. Though the yard was poorly lit by a floodlight fixed to the rear wall of the hotel, Ratso could see a man towing a small suitcase and his companion, a rather younger woman, clinging to his arm. They had their backs to him as they climbed a few stairs leading up into the hotel’s rear entrance.

There were perhaps twelve saloon cars in the car park, ranging from a black Mercedes to a small Seat. There were also four vans. That left spaces for dozens more vehicles. There was no security, so they crossed to the nearest car. Jock noted the car’s number while Ratso felt the bonnet for warmth. “You won’t learn much from Spanish numbers. Delgado told me a few years back that vehicle registrations are national, so you can’t tell from which region they come any more. But check out every one.”

The fourth vehicle’s bonnet was still hot, as if it had been driven far and fast. It was a burgundy-colored BMW 7 series and Jock confirmed it had a French number plate. “That couple who just checked in, maybe?” They continued down the line of cars and vans. No other felt as warm. A Mercedes panel van had German plates but the others might all have been rented in Spain. “Some posh cars here for a doss-house like this. I like that. I’m getting good vibes.”

“I’d like to see more vans, trucks to shift the gear.”

“You’re right, Jock. These distributors won’t travel with the drugs. They’ll supervise the split and then use their delivery guys in case of capture.” Ratso led the way back to the street. “Maybe Foxy Boxy might risk driving his share across Spain—no borders to cross. That Toyota Land Cruiser over there could be big enough.”

“Are we done? I’m fair famished. I’ve feet like a pair of dead haddock.”

“We’ll find the best steaks in town. But first we’ve got to decide what to tell Jesus Botía.”

“He’s no going to listen to us,” grumbled Jock. “Why not talk to your pal Delgado?”

“Botía outranks him. The AC’s progressed it,” Ratso muttered as he led them alongside the drab gray rendering of the hotel’s boundary wall. As they threaded their way between the pedestrians on the main street, Ratso continued. “Would Jesus buy this? We say, this hotel has a discreet car park. It has meeting rooms. It is near an anti-war memorial. A French registered car has arrived. The receptionist was awkward. That’s it.”

“Aye, well … put like that.” Jock’s stride faltered. “Except that Erlis Bardici—call me Mujo Zevi—is staying there, fourth-floor room.”

Ratso stopped as if struck by lightning. They stood in the shadow between two street lights. Sure enough, standing at an open window overlooking the car park was the unmistakeable figure of the Albanian, his frame almost filling it. He was smoking a cigarette. They watched till he flicked the fag end into the darkness and then shut the window.

“That’s a clincher! But if Bardici’s there, won’t JF be there too?”

“Ye mean no using the other place at all?” Jock was hobbling along and Ratso slowed to accommodate him. “Possible.”

Ratso’s eyes narrowed as he weighed that up. “Christ, Jock! You’re puffing away like a clapped-out steam train.” They turned left beside the splendour of the municipal building on the plaza. “Perhaps JF keeps his location a secret.”

“Time to tell Jesus where to work his next miracle?”

“We’re going to save him from egg on his face.”

“Aye, right enough—a three-egg Spanish omelette too, boss.”

“But I’m reporting to Wensley Hughes first. CYA rules.”

La Coruna, Spain

Despite the generous portion of his crab salad and a blood-red fillet steak with tomato and onion salad, Ratso was still unable to sleep. Even the red wine and a couple of cheap fiery brandies were no help as his mind shuffled through how the next day would develop. Erlis Bardici dominated his thinking, especially with Kirsty-Ann’s warnings replaying ominously. When the phone rang at 1:30 a.m., it was almost a relief to stop the endless marshalling of facts. “Yes?”

The chocolate voice of Darren Roberts filled his ear. “Hey, mon! What’s goin’ on?”

Ratso sat up and adjusted the pillow behind his shoulders. “Don’t ask! I’d almost given up on you. You got something?”

“Sure but hey, it’s been tough shit. I been done try to get something from the boy Chuckie. Remember, my cousin’s son who do welding at the yard.” Ratso needed no reminding. “He’s damned scared and then some.”

“I can believe it. You cracked it?”

“The boy, he done tell me. You remember your inspection?”

“Every moment.”

“You found nothing strange. Right? No surprise. You done visit the accommodation? The crew’s quarters?”

“Yes. But no work had been done there according to the specification. And there was no sign of anything either.”

“Under one of them bunks on the lowest deck, they done cut like a manhole. Under there was a big water storage tank. Chuckie, he done work down the manhole—strengthen the bottom.”

“How big?”

“Easy take maybe three tons. But I’d say like hell down there—filling it, stacking the coke. Chuckie, he did not see nothing of the coke.”

Ratso was now on his feet, pacing the room with giant strides. “Anything else from Chuckie?”

“The boy, he did ask the boss, why is we doing this? He been told to shut the mouth.”

“Once the sacks were down there, I guess they could weld over the hole.” Ratso was almost talking to himself, thinking through the implications. “Did the boy know of any other hiding place? Nomora’s now loaded with smack too.”

“I did ask him that. He did say maybe the crew’s quarters.”

“Hold on, Darren. That fits.” Ratso leaned over and flicked through pages on his iPhone. “During scientific research, there was sleeping space for sixteen crew, eight officers and up to a dozen boffins—thirty-six total. How many crew sailed with her?”

“Twelve total. I do watch from a crane.”

“Tosh Watson saw the heroin going aboard in Turkey. He reckoned it was concealed somewhere around the stern. Perfect.” Ratso was already weighing up more changes to the day ahead—big changes. “By the way, I see you got anew murder case on your hands.”

“You know that?” There was almost a squeak in Darren Robert’s voice.

“I read the papers,” Ratso bluffed, not wishing to reveal that Kirsty-Ann was his source. “What’s it about?”

“The Pink Flamingo Bar where we done meet? In the mangroves near the carpark, a body do appear after a storm. With the high tides and wild seas, the waves they done swept through the pines and mangroves. They done disturb maybe a shallow grave.”

“The bar? Is it okay?”

“It sure been damaged but survived.”

“What’s the story with the body?”

“Male. Around forty. Been dead several weeks. Throttled with a wire noose.”

Ratso knew that modus operandi well enough to mutter Bardici under his breath. “Something to get your teeth into. Local, was he?” He played it straight.

“His clothes, what remained, suggest white male from the USA.” There was a pause. Then Darren spoke slowly. “My guess, it’s the guy you showed me. Remember the guy with Cassie—liked doggie-doggie?”

Ratso decided to volunteer nothing. “Good luck with that. Anyway, great job on the Nomora. I owe you.”

“But there’s more.” Darren sounded hurt and excited at the same time.

“Sorry, Darren! I’m all ears!”

“Ida, she’s scared as hell mon, ’bout me telling you all this shit about Lamon Wilson.”

“Her name won’t come out.” Ratso kept his fingers crossed as he spoke.

“On 28 December, she did hear her boss on the phone. He been done fixing something for delivery to Nomora.”

“Coca-Cola for the crew, of course,” joked Ratso.

“Ida, she do say her boss, he did call it the white stuff.” Ratso whistled. Another piece of the puzzle was in place. “Ida she say them photos of Freddie, they did hurt her real.”

Ratso was quite moved. “I’m lost for words. Thank her for me. How’re things … with her, I mean? She still sticking pins in my image? Chanting Voodoo curses?”

“She be a coming round. Mebbe soon I’ll get back in the big bed.” He tee-heed.

“I’ll drink to that. Thanks for everything. Stay cool.”

Kirsty-Ann had told Ratso the victim had been garrotted. “If he’s identified, heh, Washington’s plans kinda fall apart.” She had sounded concerned enough to put the lovey-dovey stuff several steps back.

“Not your problem. Relax.” He chose his words carefully. “Bucky won’t let the Feds or the CIA hang you out to dry.”

He was less convinced than he sounded. He had no illusions about the power of Washington to stage-manage whatever they wanted the public to believe. And Kirsty-Ann still had the road fatality hanging over her—plenty of room for a stitch-up there too.

With too many facts buzzing round his head like demented blowflies, sleep was impossible He poured a glass of sparkling water and phoned Jock, who had also been lying awake watching a recording of a Spanish football match. “Let’s have thirty minutes. Come to my room.”

“I’ve still some of my duty-free Famous Grouse. I’ll bring that.”

As he waited, Ratso slipped on a T-shirt and jeans and opened the action plan scribbled over dinner. The AC had done his stuff. Botía would have to listen. As he savoured the prospect of some malt whisky, he got his red pen ready to make some hefty changes.

Next morning Jock’s bottle emptied, Ratso and Jock were seated in the same chairs as the day before in Police HQ. Jesus Botía had left the room to check on the latest news from the port.

“At last he seems to be cutting ye some slack.” Jock helped himself to a very plain and very dry biscuit. It was 7:15 a.m. and since their arrival, Ratso had driven home the evidence about the Hispanio Sol. Botía’s bronzed face had not blanched but had graduated from disinterest to a Christ I’ve screwed up look of panic. He had left the room hurriedly, prompting Jock to suggest he was changing his trousers.

“Your smart work yesterday, not mine,” Ratso acknowledged. “But Botía’s attitude has only changed because someone in Madrid has shat on him from a great height.”

Wensley Hughes’ contact had been a comisario principal, a full commissioner and able to talk nicely to Botía, as the AC had put it. While not admitting any error, Botía was busily changing his instructions to the assembled team. Head now agreed to position the anonymous support vehicles with their posse of heavily armed officers in a side street much closer to the carpark for the Hispanio Sol. He had also just confirmed that the GOES had arrived—the Grupos Operativos Especiales de Seguridad, a crack SWAT team ready for a shootout if needed.

Superintendent Botía bustled into the room, his composure restored, with news that a white truck had parked by Nomora.

“Just one truck?”

“One only for now.” For the first time in twenty-two hours, Botía smiled. “You may be correct, Inspector Holtom. Maybe the cocaine cannot be unloaded until the heroin has gone.” The smile turned less friendly. “Or maybe the cocaine does not exist.”

Ratso was going to retort but decided to leave it. The conversation between Zandro and Terry Fenwick had been plain. Ida’s information was solid too.

Botía took out a packet of cigarettes and played with it, knowing he could not light up. “So I agree with you. As soon as the dealers have been arrested with the heroin, we arrest the crew before they unload the cocaine.”

“You have enough support?”

“I have another twenty officers coming.” Botía looked away to conceal the climb-down. There was a look of triumph on Jock’s face as he winked at Ratso who fought to conceal his satisfaction.

“Coming from Madrid? That might be too late.”

“Not from Madrid. From Oviedo. They will be here by nine.” Botía was about to continue when his phone rang. Still twirling the cigarette packet with his other hand, he listened intently and then ended the call. “As you suggested, I have two officers already watching the Hispanio Sol Hotel.”

“From where?”

Botía smirked quite unpleasantly. “They are using two WCs on the top floor of the shopping mall. By standing on the seats, they can see across the road and into the meeting rooms. In a moment, I will receive a photo of a meeting that has started.” He checked his notes and read out the name pedantically. “Adrian Julian Fenwick arrived three minutes ago.” Ratso liked it when Botía talked of Julian because he pronounced it more like hooligan.

With a swift turn on his heels, Botía disappeared once again, walking briskly with the bearing of a well-trained soldier. When he returned, he showed them an impressively clear 8 x 6 photo zoomed through the meeting-room window. Ratso felt as if his nose were pressed against the windowpane, so detailed was the view. He saw the assembled group all seated with coffee cups in front of them. Ratso could also see what looked like scrambled eggs and bacon piled at one end of the table.

“You recognise them?”

“I can see Foxy Boxy, the weasel-faced guy with the cheroot.” He pointed again. “Fenwick is at the head of the table.”

“And that is your Erlis Bardici in disguise, guarding the door,” concluded Botía. “I recognise him.”

“Seven of them, boss,” confirmed Jock, “including the one from that French car with his popsy.” He pointed a stubby finger and Ratso saw he was correct.

“So the French guy brought no minder,” Ratso mused and sounding puzzled. “Must be the all-friends-together scenario.” He saw a questioning look from Botía so he continued. “We reckon these are all Zandro’s own trusted distributors. There’s no real risk of them falling out when dividing the heroin. No cash will be changing hands in there.”

“But Bar-deechi is there in case of trouble.”

Botía spoke in rapid Spanish into his phone before explaining, “I’ve moved nearly all resources close to the Hispanio Sol.”

Ratso smiled and checked his watch. “Jock. Change of plan. I’m leaving. I’ll take the morning flight to Gatwick.”

“Zandro?”

Ratso tapped his silent iPhone. “No news. He’s not been sighted since yesterday.” He stood up and shook Botía’s hand with an enthusiasm he had never thought possible yesterday. “Good luck, Superintendent. I am glad you and I now see things the same way.” Botía volunteered no thanks for having been saved from the edge of disaster, so Ratso continued. “And the role of Sergeant Strang?”

Botía walked to the window, tossing his cigarette pack from one hand to the other before replying. “He will join me in the van.”

Ratso smiled gratefully. “Tosh is going to be at Central 3000. Contact him the moment the raid starts to get things moving.” He saw Botía’s puzzled look. “You must have watched Jack Bauer in 24?” He saw Botía nod. “Central 3000 is a Metropolitan Police facility near the Thames where complex operations can be managed and monitored. We use it for counter-terrorist operations or major incidents like coordinated arrests. We’ve every latest gizmo to hear or observe our targets. Jack Bauer would love it. We will coordinate the London arrests from there.” As he spoke, he crossed his fingers that Zandro hadn’t carried a disguise in his small bag and disappeared for ever.

Botía looked almost impressed but didn’t admit it.