Hard Place (4 page)

“He’d fit that white suit ye’re wearing, Tosh,” muttered Strang. “Could do with it and all,” he added. “Catch his death out here in weather like this.” Ratso suppressed a smirk as he glanced sideways at Caldwell. Piss artists was written contemptuously over Caldwell’s face as he chewed his lip.

Ratso’s eyes took in the blue nylon cord that had finally throttled the life from Neil. “You can get that cord just about anywhere,” he murmured to nobody in particular. But as quickly, like the others, his eyes turned to the todger, or what little remained of it.

“Jewish circumcision ceremony gone wrong?” Strang’s irreverence would never change. The Scot spotted a frosty glare and more lip chewing from Caldwell but his superior said nothing. Fifteen years working the tenements on Glasgow’s south side had given Strang a rhino’s hide, unless Celtic had beaten his beloved Rangers.

Ratso turned to the Indian scientist who knelt by the body. “Did you find it? The todger?”

Before Prasad could respond, Caldwell pointed to a polythene bag. Ratso picked up the small bag. Neil’s manhood lay clearly visible, a flaccid, docile dwarf of a thing.

Ratso stared at it. It was hard to imagine that this little pink bud had given so much pleasure to so many. Over a few beers, listening to Neil’s tales of his services to women round Belfast, Birmingham and South London, Ratso had often laughed till the early hours. Tall, small, young, old, fat or thin; lying down, knee-tremblers, in a cupboard, down an alley, husband in the next room—Neil was your man. But no more. Now this slightly bloodied relic, barely larger than an acorn, was all that remained of the mighty swordsman’s weapon.

Prasad looked up. “It fell from his mouth.”

Nobody spoke. Perhaps even Jock Strang felt humbled at what had happened to a good bloke who had died in their cause. An uncomfortable silence hung for a long moment as his attention turned to Neil’s right hand, where every nail was missing. Ratso for one was praying to a God in whom he did not believe that he would never, ever have to suffer like this.

The other hand, with surprisingly long slender fingers, had four nails missing. Had that been the pain threshold? Had number nine been the moment when Neil had suffered enough and revealed what he had been doing? But then what had he told Bardici before he was throttled? Ratso looked across to Tosh Watson and Strang in turn and shook his head.

“Well?” Caldwell was impatient.

Ratso deliberately decided to piss him off. Jealous of those shiny expensive loafers, am I? More suited for a tea dance at the Waldorf than for a sodding wet morning in Hammersmith. The DCI obviously spent his wad in the likes of Baron Jon’s boutique in Westfield rather than pissing cash against a wall Friday nights. He looked the younger man up and down with something close to insolence, wondering how he would have coped in Tirana. For sure, you wouldn’t catch Caldwell rummaging for boxer shorts in a T.K.Maxx dump bin. At last he responded as if he were doing Caldwell a huge favour. “Get me a photo sent over, can you? And his measurements. Todger apart.”

He was rewarded with a scowl. “You do or don’t recognise him?”

“Very familiar but not the guy we were … I dunno whether to say … hoping or expecting. Not the guy we wanted to see on a slab.” Ratso stood up and turned to his sergeants. “Not anybody you wanted to see, is it?” On seeing the shaken heads, he turned to face the yellow shirt and tie. “We’ll leave you to it. We’ll be pretty much dropping out. Nothing for us here. Let us know if you get an ID.”

Caldwell examined his manicured nails. “You, too.” The words were innocuous but Ratso could tell Caldwell was probing and edgy. But there was no going back now. The die was cast. Ratso’s conspiracy to obstruct the police investigation had started. He imagined himself down the Bailey, courtesy of Caldwell. But I acted in the greater good, M’Lud. He could imagine it now … the judge looking across at the Witness Box. “Setting yourself up above the law, are you, Inspector Holtom? You should take heed of Lord Denning’s admonition to the attorney general—‘Be you never so high, the law is above you.’” The thought was uncomfortable.

With a come-along nod, Ratso turned briskly and left the shelter of the tent. The sleet slapped his half-shaved cheeks. He knew there would be more and worse slaps to come. And then he saw Watson and the sight cheered him.

“C’mon, Tosh. Get your white kit off. I need a good laugh.”

West London

Tosh Watson had spotted Neil’s navy blue Honda Civic as Strang checked his iPad. “Bardici hasn’t moved. Our silent friend’s still at 22 Westbrook Drive.”

Ratso was flicking through web pages to find Cricinfo.com. “That’s assuming …”

Tosh Watson blew warmth into his hands. “So drive by number 22, boss?”

“I’ll go on foot. Alone.” Ratso was talking autopilot as he checked his Blackberry for the overnight cricket news from the Second Test in Adelaide. He grunted with satisfaction as he saw England were 297 for 2. One day, he was going to follow the team to India, Australia and the West Indies, watch every match—enjoy the heat, sink some local brews and see England stuff the opposition. This time of year, early December, his passion for cricket had to make do with TV highlights or sometimes watching live till long after midnight. But last night, with Nadine there, turning on the TV would have been impolite … and physically impossible given what he was doing with his hands at the time.

“Cricket! Grown men ponsing about in white trousers. Game for woofters,” said the Scot’s voice from the rear seat. “Ham and Egg ties; naff striped blazers and stupid straw hats. Gimme the Ibrox terraces any day. Real people. Real men.”

“You Scots. Blinkered from a game that really is beautiful.” He paused while Watson accelerated past a truck on the Great West Road. “Fact is, cricket’s too difficult for you to appreciate.”

Jock Strang was about to reply when Ratso took a call from base.

“Holtom.” His head nodded occasionally as a dismembered voice let rip. Apart from the occasional yes or but, it was a one-sided conversation. Ratso caught Watson’s glance and winked. Only when it was over did Ratso find his tongue. “Arse-covering time for our friend Arthur.”

“Tennant? He’ll still be Snow White whenever the shit hits the fan. Always is,” complained Strang.

Ratso laughed his agreement. “More like one of the dwarves. Dopey. Or maybe Grumpy.” The three men savoured the comparison. “You can guess: Tennant had just taken a call from upstairs. That’s a better laxative than prunes, that is.”

Watson laughed, coarse but infectious. “Yeah. He was probably sitting on the bog when he phoned you. What’d he say?”

“Warned me not to screw up any more than I have already.”

“Nice one. Didn’t he approve Neil going in solo?”

Ratso shook his head. “That bleeder? Didn’t want to soil his hands.”

“Or crap his pants.” Strang leaned forward against his seatbelt. He tapped his watch. “I could sink a wee one,” he volunteered.

Watson looked enthused. “You’re on. The Chequers on Twickenham High Street does a good pie-and-pint deal. Suit you, boss?”

Ratso checked the time, thought of his trim waistline and looked at Tosh whose stomach was rubbing against the foot of the steering wheel. He had no plans to turn into a fattie any time soon. “You two get stuck in. I’ll head over to Westbrook Drive.”

After dropping off the two eating machines outside the dreary ochre-painted pub, Ratso headed to the anonymous array of suburban streets between Isleworth and Hounslow. In a variety of vehicles, he had driven past Bardici’s rented property several times over the past couple of months. But today he wanted to take it nice and slow, hoping somehow to get the feel of what had happened just hours before. He parked up and checked the iPad that Jock had left on the passenger seat. Still no sign of the Range Rover moving. In theory, it should not be there; typically at this time of day, Bardici would be out on his errands, dropping by the money-changers. If his information was right, Bardici’s boys laundered money through dozens of these outlets.

He cursed the weather as the sleet slapped his face. He pulled on his Fulham FC beanie and entered Ali’s Corner Emporium. From a diminutive Pakistani, he bought soup, canned spaghetti and mineral water to carry in a plastic bag as he walked past number 22. He caught his fragmented reflection in the rain-spattered glass door of the shop. In a Britain now littered with home-grown fat slobs, scruffs and immigrants from all quarters of the globe, it was becoming increasingly hard not to look like a plainclothes copper, especially when he was over six feet and super fit. But the low beanie, the slouch, the hunched shoulders and the plastic carrier were a help. He set off up Westbrook Drive, keeping on the opposite side to number 22, still feeling as exposed as a pimple on a stripper’s bum.

There it was. Number 22. The downstairs curtains were drawn but the upstairs ones were both open. There were no lights on and the place looked deserted, unless someone was in the kitchen at the rear. More importantly, the Range Rover was still there. So maybe Neil had managed to plant the bug.

Ratso had been eighteen years in the force and he still got that weird feeling that somehow just by staring hard enough, evil places like number 22 would give up their dark secrets. For a second, he imagined Neil’s naked body strapped to a chair as Bardici approached with pliers and wire cutters. He could almost see the smirk on Bardici’s swarthy features.

He shuddered, wishing the job was not such a bitch. Maybe there would be evidence of the murder but it was pretty damned unlikely. The Albanian was too bloody smart for that.

He rounded the bend farther along and had just passed a broken fence at number 89 when he saw a couple approaching on the other side. It was not Bardici; the man was too short and his shoulders too narrow. Definitely younger than Bardici, who was forty next year–14 June to be precise. The man was mid-thirties, the woman rather less. A nondescript couple probably heading for Ali’s Corner Emporium or perhaps walking home from the bus stop on the main road. They were talking, that much he could tell from the man’s arm waving and her intent look. But only at the last moment could he hear some words. “Nuk e di.”

Ratso’s blood pumped faster, his heart suddenly pounding overdrive. Nuk e di. He didn’t know much Albanian but nuk e di was a phrase he’d picked up in Tirana, meaning I don’t know. He’d gone masquerading as one of the Hogan gang. Several locals he had chatted with had used it when asked about Boris Zandro. Nuk e di. I don’t know. Lying bastards but scared shitless that just one careless word would bring Zandro’s gang down on them.

He continued walking, debating what to do. Is Westbrook Drive an Albanian enclave? He didn’t think so. He’d smelled curry from several properties, had seen Asian kids peering at him from the occasional window. He crossed the street and pretended to post a letter from his carrier bag at the corner box. Then he turned round to walk back past number 22, picking up his pace. As he rounded the bend, he saw the taillights appear on the Range Rover and in a couple of swift movements it had gone, heading steadily in the other direction. Of the Albanian couple, there was no sign. He had no choice but to blow cover by checking the iPad. He got the map on screen and was at once rewarded. Neil had planted the bug, his dying act. Good on yer, Neil!

Ratso fought the urge to run back to his car. There was no rush, no need to panic. The bug would help him. He reached the car pool Mazda and used the covert radio channel to speak to Jock Strang on the secure encrypted wavelength. “Our friend is singing and I’m following. Get someone to pick you up immediate. Then call me again.”

“Barrr-deecchee?” The sergeant’s accent always seemed even more Glaswegian on the phone.

“An Albanian couple. Heading …” He paused to check. “West toward the A30.”

“Nae bother, boss. I’ll phone the noo and then we can finish our game. I need double-top to win.”

Ratso smiled as he accelerated away, watching the blink on the small screen as the target vehicle moved steadily west and slightly north on the A30. He reckoned he was about two, maybe three miles behind and keeping pace well.

His thoughts turned to Neil and getting the word on the street. What would he say? Got it! Neil had been working for the Hogan twins, thug brothers who ran the south London drug scene. All hell would break loose. It could get nasty. Or nice, depending on your standpoint.

Grand Bahama Island

After the short hop from Fort Lauderdale, Lance Ruthven’s Bahamasair flight touched down at Grand Bahama International. Now his long, slim legs were stretched out sideways in the back of the taxi heading for the Marlin Hotel. He wore a heavy black moustache—fake, unfortunately, as he’d shaved his own when he fell in love with Amber, believing somehow his smooth skin gave him a more refined look. His brow puckered at his unsettling train of thoughts: the unknown Brit, the CEO taking the piss about unforeseen problems. He knew the ship owners were being gouged but then the shipyard had the company by the balls. Confidentiality was crucial and Lamon Wilson, the wily CEO knew it.

No more taking that crap, Ruthven had vowed on the flight. This time I’m standing firm but one wrong word to the Brit and his own true ID could come out, ending his career. The Brit was called Mujo Zevi, or at least that was his cover. Ruthven’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the seat. What type of Brit would give himself such a name? His mood darkened even more and his feet scuffed the carpet. He looked out at the palm trees swaying in the late afternoon breeze and the pastel pinks and greens of the buildings. Usually this was paradise. Today it felt like paradise lost.

Get real, Lance. Show this Mujo Zevi you can kick ass and soon you’ll be pocketing five million greenbacks. Goodbye, DC. But not before persuading Amber that Lance Ruthven was the man of her dreams.

Amber Yardley! Just the name, the thought of her made his groin ache. He had watched her for hours, followed her to her condo seven miles from Downtown, watched her buying perfume in Nordstrom, lusted over a Victoria’s Secret lace bra and panties he had bought but never given her. Twice he had hung around outside Amber’s condo till late into the night to make sure that she lived alone.

Of course, Amber had not been the first woman to catch his eye. There had been others before her—others he had followed home to Great Falls or to Arlington or DuPont Circle. But not one of them had excited him as she did.

The lurch of the taxi over a pothole brought him back to the moment, a couple of stray dogs yapping and leaping along the unkempt verge. He watched some kids playing with a hoop made from an old bike wheel. Not an iPad, iPhone, or MP3 player in sight. It was another world compared to the teenage kids strutting down Georgetown’s M Street, diving in and out of the bars and hangouts, irritating him with their endless whooping and high-fives.

But then he remembered he too was no longer Lance Ruthven. Right now, he was Hank Kurtner, from Detroit, Michigan; he had no shackles—just the immediate prospect of picking up Cassie, that hooker in the Red Poppy bar. The confrontations with the limey and at the shipyard would come later.

He sighed. He was used to diplomacy, where lies were silky smooth and nasty spats avoided by doublespeak. But the time for diplomacy had gone. If he faced the truth, it had long gone. The CEO had played him for a fool.

The taxi bumped and lurched into Jolly Roger Drive and he took in the familiar sights from his previous visits. At last, the icy grip of Washington seemed blissfully distant. Each trip, he stayed at a different beach hotel, anxious to avoid anybody shouting Welcome back, Mr Kurtner.

Earlier that morning, his breakfast meeting at State had ended in good time for him to catch the 10:30 a.m. flight from National to Fort Lauderdale. Among his colleagues, the word was Lance was long-week ending again at the Hilton Beach Resort in Fort Lauderdale—poor-man’s snowbirding, as he called it. The Hilton was large enough to be anonymous, right on the beach and yet not far from the airport. The price was consistent with his lifestyle but as he had no intention of staying in the suite, he resented every last dime it cost him.

After checking in, he always stripped off his charcoal gray suit with white shirt and formal club tie and hung them neatly in the closet. A faded lime windsurfer T-shirt, Bermuda shorts and Nike Swoosh sandals completed the dress change. He moved quickly, familiar with the routine, following a pattern he had practised on previous trips. He pulled back the bedding, disturbed the sheets and then completed the makeover from Lance to Hank Kurtner.

From the false bottom of his Gladstone bag, he removed the Kurtner passport and driving licence and donned a dark brown wig, parted on the left. It hid his ears and hung overlong at the back too, changing the shape of his head. He put pads in his cheeks and stuck on the generous black moustache. The tinted shades completed the change. He looked younger and fatter than moments before. In the room safe, he left his driving licence, Amex card and the world of Lance Ruthven. After a final check, he exited the hotel, walking with a slight limp—something he always did as Kurtner—his few spare clothes in a small rucksack hung low on his back. He told the car jockey he was going to the Ritz-Carlton but after climbing into a taxi told the driver he was short of time and to go direct to the airport instead.

That had been just under two hours before, a thought confirmed with a glance at his watch as his Grand Bahamas taxi pulled up to the pale pink colonnades of the Marlin Hotel. It was 5:20 p.m. and the sun was setting.

But it would rise in the morning and before then … ah yes, before then! A shower, aftershave and off to the Red Poppy bar.