Hard Place (7 page)

“Maybe not. The big guys, they change phones more often than socks but this guy was expendable. Doing a relative a favour for a few quid. He phoned to report the vehicle stolen. We have a number. Check it out, can you?”

“I’m on compassionate leave.”

Ratso playfully punched his bicep and rather wished he hadn’t. He was about to enter the tube station when Strang turned to face him.

“There’s something you need to know boss.”

Ratso looked at him cautiously. “You sure I want to hear this?”

Strang looked at a young woman staggering drunkenly across the road, carrying what looked like a bottle of Smirnoff. “This afternoon. When we joined the A40.”

“Chasing the Beamer, yes.”

“Tosh needed a leak. Desperate. We had to stop. Lost a couple of minutes.”

Ratso studied a discarded fag end, eyes fixed downward. At last he looked up and laughed. “Tosh and that bloody weak bladder of his.” He clasped the sergeant’s arm. “Thanks for telling me. Keep that away from Tennant. He’s looking to shit on us from a great height.”

Kingston-on-Thames

It was a long, miserable walk from Kingston Station to Wolsey Drive. The wind driven, intermittent sleet and snow was a right bloody downer. It squelched from Ratso’s shoes and streamed down his neck. The main road heading north to Richmond was busy enough to give him something to look at but otherwise the soulless surroundings of small shops, traffic lights and forgettable housing were dreary and not worthy of attention. Only the steady beat of Metallica kept his spirits up. Each step took him nearer to facing Charlene and sitting in a chair where Neil used to sit, holding a glass used by his old friend.

But Charlene must never discover that it was me who sent him to his death. And she’ll get nothing. No widow’s pension. No golden goodbye. Nothing. Just the press boys sniffing round about Neil’s underworld contacts. All because of me.

No. All because of Boris Zandro.

It was twenty-five minutes before he was amongst the terraced homes of Wolsey Drive. Would she be alone or would her sister have arrived yet? Or a neighbour, perhaps? He swung open the familiar metal gate set in a wooden fence and walked slowly through the small, well-kept garden, the wintry grass looking lush in the light from the front room. He rang the bell and heard the familiar musical chime, which he had always regarded as naff.

He heard footsteps. “Who is it?” The fear and confusion was obvious.

“It’s me. Todd.”

“Ratso!” There was welcome in the voice and the door was quickly unlocked in three places. Without a word, he stepped inside and she fell into his arms, clinging to him, her body trembling as she stood on tiptoes to press her cheek to his. “Oh God, Ratso! Why, why? He didn’t deserve …”

Ratso broke away as he back-heeled the door shut and then locked it. Charlene had obviously decided to look her best to go to the morgue. Was she a stunner or what? Her hair was as well coiffured as ever he’d seen it. Brown in color, it was parted in the middle and hung either side of her face to near shoulder length. Her skin was slightly tanned and wrinkle-free. Her hair just hid the tops of her ears, which were each adorned with a dangly earring. The navy trouser-suit, figure-hugging over a simple white blouse, he had never seen before and he guessed she had selected it for the sombre occasion. Her make-up was immaculate, unspoiled by tears. Her eyes! Ratso had always regarded them as her most striking feature, green and of seemingly infinite depth.

For a moment they stood under the burgundy shade of the single hall light but then she clasped his hand and led him into the front room. Her hand was cold, deathly cold. The living room was silent, empty. The cosy room that used to echo with Neil’s rasping Belfast accent felt unloved and unwelcoming.

“Thanks for coming, Ratso. There’s nobody I’d rather have here at a time like this. You were so close.” Charlene motioned him to a chair. “Oh, sorry. You’re off duty, I suppose. A drink. Neil bought some single malt the other day. There’s plenty …” Her voice faded away.

“I’ll get one for both of us. You sit down.”

But Charlene did not. Instead she followed him to the kitchen, standing close to him as he studied the array of bottles and selected a Macallan. “He loved his whiskies,” she explained. “Well, I guess you knew that!” Her laugh was nervous and her voice quavered with each word. “The Macallan! I just knew you would choose that one. Neil was planning to share it with you.” She bit her lip and wiped away a tear.

Ratso took two tumblers from the Formica-fronted cupboard and poured generously, then splashed in a drop of water. The kitchen light was bright but her beauty held as they chinked glasses. “To Neil.”

Charlene nodded. “God rest his soul.” They both swallowed a good mouthful before heading back to the comfort of the easy chairs. The room smelled of sandalwood from a candle burning on a small table.

As if reading his mind, Charlene volunteered that Neil had never told her much of what he did. “A dark horse,” Ratso agreed. “He had skills learned in Ireland that had made him valuable.”

“To the underworld.” Her tone was bitter. “That’s what some journalist said. He phoned just before you arrived.” Charlene shifted uncomfortably and then tucked her feet under her on the chair across from him. Ratso was amazed at how the word he had put out through the snout had travelled so fast. Had it reached Bardici … wherever he was?

“Don’t always believe the press.” Ratso saw she was unconvinced. “Look, Neil was not known to us. No previous convictions.”

“So who would…kill him?” For the first time Ratso noticed anger in her voice.

“Depends on what he was doing and who was paying him.” Ratso liked the answer. It was matter-of-fact but he hesitated before continuing. “Taking one extreme … you know—knew Neil well enough. It might have been an angry husband.”

Charlene took it in her stride. “He was a randy sod, all right.” She shook her head ruefully but without any sign of irritation. “Morals of a tomcat. But,” she hesitated, “we had … an understanding.” She paused. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” She sank the whisky. “He always came back. Treated me like a princess. Kind. Good with money.”

“You tamed him and all,” Ratso agreed. “Neil and I—we go back over twelve years and he’s never stuck with one person as long as you. You got the nearest to muzzling him.” He rose from his chair and strolled round the small sitting room, studying a photo of Neil and Charlene laughing on the London Eye. It would have been a good night for a fire but the grate was empty, as was the coal scuttle. “Look, Charlene, if I’d ever thought he was part of some underworld mob, I’d have let our friendship cool. I’d have had no choice.” The lie was essential and it came out easily.

“You said one extreme just now. What’s the other, then?” Her stare was businesslike and disbelieving.

“Not so extreme—corporate espionage. Ferreting for big companies involved in litigation or takeover bids. It pays well.”

Charlene did not look convinced. She too stood up and in a sudden move clung to him. “I’d bet he was murdered by a hardened criminal. Are you on the case?”

Ratso wondered if anyone had hinted at what agonies Neil had suffered. He hoped not. “Not me. DCI Caldwell is in charge. You haven’t seen him yet?” He saw her shake her head. “You will. Who took you to the morgue?”

“A couple of youngsters. I don’t remember the man’s name, wasn’t really concentrating on that. She was WPC Stella Tuson.”

Ratso went to the kitchen to refill the glasses. On his return they sat down, this time next to each other on the sofa. “I’m not too good at the emotional stuff. I never have been. Even when my folks died. Tears and drama aren’t my way. It’s the Capricorn in me. Feet on the ground. Face facts. So let me ask. Financially—will you be okay? Neil had no index-linked pension or death-in-service benefits.”

“It’ll be hard.” She twirled the tumbler between her slim fingers. “We got a bit put by in the bank.”

“Mortgage?”

“No. Rented. My earnings cover that and a bit on top. Neil’s money was the bunce. The fun money, he called it.”

“Good, that’s good.” Ratso was captivated by her eyes as she watched him, their pale green drawing him in. “Never be too proud to ask for … y’know, a bit of help. Neil was a real mate. If he’d ever got to understand cricket, he’d have been the best. I took him to Lord’s once.” Ratso laughed. “He spent the entire day drinking Pimms in the bookmakers. Never saw a ball bowled.”

“He loved hanging out with you guys.”

“But watching cricket is about being together—debating tactics, arguing, complaining about the umpires, sinking a few while watching! I never saw him all day. And he got lucky! Won eighty quid on racing from Kempton. He said he’d had a great day, so I jokingly asked for his winnings to pay for his ticket. I never got it.” He was rewarded with a smile.

“I’m glad you came, Ratso.” She looked away, staring at a photo of Neil in a Hawaiian beach shirt and bright red shorts. “Neil envied your dedication. One of the best, he reckoned. Always said if anything happened to him, you were the guy to turn to.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Course, I never expected …”

“Well no, of course not. You don’t, do you?” Ratso stood up to leave.

“You’re not going, are you?”

“I really only dropped by to see if I could help, to give you a shoulder to cry on. But you’re doing just great.”

“That’s only ’cos you’re here.” She stood up and moved toward him, clasped his hand. “I don’t want to be alone tonight. There’s a spare bed. It’s late. Anyway, for you heading for Hammersmith, this is not the best place to start.”

Ratso felt a pleasing but untimely stirring down below as he had met her pleading look. Not for the first time, he imagined comforting her with a right good rogering, pounding hard into those slim hips, her body heaving and her groans deep. He had always envied Neil the luxury of sharing her body but he had quashed the thought as absurd.

“I’ll have to be away early. And you shouldn’t be alone. Your sister?”

“She’s in Tenerife. She’s flying back for the funeral.”

“Neighbours?”

Charlene patted her thigh dismissively. “Nobody I’d really want here that much.”

“Work colleagues? I mean, it’s not just tonight.”

“There’s Sandra, I suppose. A right laugh she is but she’s young, no life experience.” She turned slightly and clasped her arms round his back. Her voice was suddenly hoarse, throaty and emotional. “Remember Princess Diana said that butler of hers was her rock. I can feel that about you. Steady and sensible.”

“Dull and boring, eh? That’s the Capricorn in me again! But I’ll stay … if it helps.”

She rested her head just below his shoulder and murmured thanks, clasping him to her so that Ratso was uncomfortably aware that his inner thoughts were all too evident. But if she noticed, there was no sign as she pulled back and said she would make up the spare bed and find the new electric razor she had only just bought as Neil’s Christmas present. As she said the words, her voice cracked, her head and shoulders slumping back against the wall, making her look frail and very vulnerable. Ratso knew it was always the little things, the sudden flash of memory or chance word that could trigger deep-seated emotions. As she turned to leave, Ratso closed in behind her and stroked a tear away with his finger.

“It’s okay. I’ll be fine.” She left the room and he heard her feet clattering up the wooden stairs.

Next morning, Ratso awoke only when Charlene stood beside him in her pale pink dressing gown over not a lot else. “You slept through the alarm.” She smiled. “Here’s some tea. You used to like it strong.” He felt uncomfortably aware of her closeness as he lay naked under the duvet. Her breasts swayed gently as she placed the cup on the low bedside locker. He felt a wreck. The night had been too short, the previous day too long. He felt sure he looked a mess, his hair tousled and his face no doubt flabby, unshaven and misshapen from sleep.

She perched on the side of the bed as he leaned on one elbow. “You’re going to work?” he enquired.

“No. I’ll go to the undertakers in Kingston. I’m on compassionate. Open-ended.”

“Sleep okay?”

She looked down at him and mouthed no. “But you did. I could hear you!”

“I was knackered after yesterday. You must think …”

She placed a finger on his lips. “Forget it. My head was buzzing. So many contradictions, regrets, uncertainties. You coming here just confused me even more.” She stood up. “I’ll go to the bathroom first. Finish your tea.” She left him with an erection that was more than just morning piss-proud. He checked his watch. 6:20 a.m. He was going to be later than usual and the lads would be sniggering about why.

It was nearly 7:30a.m. when he left the house, turning right toward Kingston Station. He had declined Charlene’s offer of a lift, preferring to get in some exercise and catch up on the day’s play in Adelaide as he walked. After giving her a lingering hug on the doorstep and insisting she phone anytime, he was gone, waving a cheery goodbye and blowing a final kiss. He watched her head droop as she closed the door and for a moment he had to resist the urge to return.

Slowly, he turned away and crossed Wolsey Drive. He never noticed a small black Rover saloon parked down the street with two men in the front seats.