Deadly Intent

by Iain Cameron

  ‘I’ve looked at a few more of these Cayman accounts and they contain similar amounts. Harris wouldn’t have access unless, first, he was a close confidante of Wood, and second, because he was involved in managing the funds; effectively Wood’s banker.’

  ‘Must be.’

  ‘However,’ Siki said, ‘what we’re looking at here is not the sort of proof we can hand to police to use as evidence in a court of law. This document, if you remember, was obtained illegally.’

  ‘You’re starting to sound like Gill,’ Matt said as he pushed his seat back and stretched. ‘Court-ready or not, we’ve got enough to bring that bastard down.’ Matt stood.

  ‘I’ll speak to Amos,’ Siki said, ‘and get him to provide you with a list of everything the accounts contain.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Matt patted Siki on the back. ‘Great work as usual, Siki. Anything you need from the food counter before I disappear? A never-to-be-repeated offer.’

  ‘No, I’m good, Matt.’

  ‘Catch you later.’

  Matt took the stairs two at a time, buoyed by this new information and determined to ramp up the search to find the missing DI.

  He reached a spare desk and put his papers and laptop down. He was about to sit when he heard his name being called.

  He turned to see Rosie rushing towards him. ‘Great news, Matt! We’ve located Harris.’

  Chapter 31

  ‘Good morning my darling,’ Zoë Masterton said, climbing up the stairs from the galley.

  ‘Good morning, Zoë. Did you sleep well?’

  Sam Davidson’s new bride was wearing a long t-shirt, one of his, her golden-coloured legs glowing in the afternoon sun. She walked towards him, draped her arms over his neck and gave him a long, sloppy kiss.

  ‘You know me,’ she said, ‘I always sleep well on a boat. Shall I make breakfast before I take over, or,’ she said running a hand over his chest, ‘will I take over the helm and let you do the cooking for a change?’

  ‘I would not want to subject you to my culinary skills so early in our married life. No, I’m fine here for a while yet.’

  ‘I thought that might be your reply. Was yesterday’s lunch the limit of your repertoire?’

  He looked down at her face, now in his lap, her hair a tangled mess. ‘I’m good at pasta. I practically lived on the stuff at university.’

  ‘How could I forget, replete with mackerel, fresh from the ocean?’

  ‘A fine piece of improvisation.’

  ‘Praise indeed. It’s going to be a fine day, don’t you think?’

  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and only a minimal breeze to drop the temperature a little. It was always cooler out at sea than on land, but this weather was doing its best to ensure their Mediterranean tans didn’t fade.

  ‘Where are we?’ she asked.

  ‘See that big large land mass on the starboard bow? That’s Ireland. It appeared as if by magic while you were sleeping.’

  ‘I know it’s Ireland I was just testing you.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘Did anything else happen while I was asleep?’

  ‘Some dolphins, a couple of freighters, a flight of albatrosses, a sighting of the Marie Celeste–’

  She punched him in the chest and kissed him again. ‘You idiot. I know you don’t see albatrosses in the North Atlantic.’ She levered herself up, stood, and stretched. Even in her just-woken state she looked beautiful, especially now, tanned with her hair lighter from the sun. Contrary to his best-man’s veiled warnings, he didn’t regret a thing. ‘I’m off to make breakfast. But first, a girl must do her hair.’

  He’d been at the helm for most of the night, and Zoë would take over the day shift. On boats, he preferred being on deck at night and sleeping in the day. In summer at least, nights were calmer, with reasonable visibility and good acoustics. With less ‘weekend sailor’ traffic and fewer large boats like ferries on the water, he didn’t have to concentrate too hard and could think through all his problems at work.

  Sam Davidson was a senior consultant with a large, American consulting firm and a few weeks back had been put in charge of a project to run the rule over three companies an international drug company was considering buying. He got the job because his degree was in bio sciences, and his first job after leaving university was working in a research lab. The company made a range of medicines, ranging from cough syrups to analgesics, and while he was there, albeit on the periphery of the research team, they’d developed a new drug to help certain types of MS sufferers.

  The three target drug companies were all aware of the American company’s interest, and all were willing to sell. It was an old story. Despite investing billions in R&D, the large drug companies of the world, Big Pharma as they were known, were crap at coming up with ground-breaking new products. Innovation in the drug market was being led by young scientists, often fresh out of university, their heads full of knowledge about the human genome and nanotechnology. With money, their ideas could grow into class-beating products. They had the brains; the big companies had the money. A marriage made in heaven, most would think.

  The drug company that Sam was working for was willing to splash the cash, but their shareholders were unwilling to allow them to overpay. The target companies, on the other hand, were hoping to extract eye-watering sums from the buyer. Enough for their small board of directors to retire to the South of France with a large villa on a hill and a yacht bigger than the one Sam was skippering, in the bay. His job was to bring together those two seemingly irreconcilable forces.

  He looked around at the ocean before consulting the instruments in front of him. He loved sailing and never got tired of the endless expanse of ever-moving, ever-changing water all around. Even though they had a deadline to meet, delivering this boat to its owner in Shetland, that didn’t mean they couldn’t take in some of the sights along the way. Hence the trip around the west of Ireland, and not the more sheltered route through the Irish Sea, or the more direct route through the North Sea. He nudged the boat a little to starboard.

  The boat didn’t belong to Sam, but a rich friend he’d met at university. He was now in Shetland completing the RYA Day Skipper course, designed to give him the confidence and competence to sail it from Lerwick to his home port of Bristol. His friend didn’t feel able to pick the boat up from where it was moored when he bought it, Marbella in Spain, and sail it back to the UK. Instead, he knew Sam and Zoë were keen sailors and in need of a lift after their wedding and a honeymoon curtailed by work pressures, so he asked them to do it.

  It was a Beneteau Sense fifty-seven-footer, and it handled like a dream. Bought new, it had been kitted out to its new owner’s specification with no expense spared for this rich, hedge-fund manager. It included every electronic guide imaginable. At times, in the middle of the night, the boat sailed itself while he made a cup of coffee or read his book. Below deck, six-foot long berths accommodated his long frame without fuss, and the kitchen and dining area could seat eight without a squeeze, while eating a full three-course meal cooked in its twin ovens.

  ‘Breakfast is served!’

  Sam flicked on the autopilot and slid down to the galley while holding the rails and without touching the stairs. ‘What culinary delights have you conjured up for us this time?’ he asked Zoë, looking more like her normal self in a blue t-shirt and shorts, hair combed and tied back.

  ‘Bacon, scrambled eggs, sausages and baked beans.’

  ‘Smells delicious to this starving man here.’

  ‘Starving my eye. Do you think I don’t see the chocolate bar wrappers in the rubbish after you finish a shift?’

  ‘To tide me over these lonely nights, nothing more.’

  ‘Too much of it will make you a fat boy, and I didn’t sign up to marry a fat boy.’

  ‘Caution issued and understood, officer. Can I take anything up on top?’

  ‘Take the plates there, and those mugs.’

  He did as he was told and ascended the stai
rs without holding, all the time hoping the boat didn’t hit a rogue wave or get caught by a sudden large gust. It didn’t, and he made it to the table at the stern without incident.

  ‘Ireland looks big from here,’ Zoë said as she took the seat opposite Sam. ‘Have you moved us in a bit closer?’

  ‘Yep. I thought we might moor somewhere and spend the night in the relative calm of a cove or a harbour.’

  ‘Does anywhere in particular take your fancy, or is this boat clever enough to decide for us? It seems to do everything else.’

  ‘Over there is County Clare, I think, and up ahead, those are the Aran Islands.’

  ‘Where Aran jumpers come from.’

  ‘I thought they came from Arran in Scotland.’

  ‘Nope, Mr Consultant. Aran in Ireland.’

  ‘This is good,’ he said tucking into the food. ‘Just like my mother used to make.’

  She laughed. ‘Give me a break. Porridge for breakfast and haggis and neeps, or shop-bought steak pie for tea, any time I’ve been to the Davidson household.’

  ‘Eight years in Scotland has got to leave some sort of mark. At least I’m not fond of whisky and an ardent follower of Rangers.’

  ‘You could have fooled me. Tartan place mats, tea mugs with quaint Scottish expressions like ‘dreich’ and ‘baw heid’–’

  He laughed, almost spluttering his food over the table. ‘If you say something Scottish, try to make it sound as if you don’t come from Pakistan.’

  ‘I’m a Surrey girl, it’s not possible. Let me hear you say it.’

  ‘Despite spending some of my early years up in the snowy north, I’m as English as you are.’

  ‘Go on, Sam. I’ve heard your Scottish impressions.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘At uni when you were drunk.’

  ‘What a scurrilous statement. I’ve never been drunk. Tipsy maybe, merry even, never drunk.’

  BANG!

  ‘What the hell was that?’ He dropped his knife and fork and ran towards the bow, Zoë following close behind.

  ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

  ‘I think we hit something.’

  He leaned over the bow while Zoë scanned the surrounding ocean, first on the port side, then ran over to starboard.

  ‘There!’ she said pointing at what looked like debris floating past the yacht. ‘It looks like bits of wood, maybe a barrel.’

  Sam rushed to her side. ‘I think it’s part of a boat.’

  ‘What? That means there’s someone in the water. Can you see anyone?’

  ‘No.’

  Frustrated at seeing nothing, Zoë went off in search of the binoculars. When she returned to where she had been standing, she searched the surrounding ocean, but neither of them could see anyone in the water, only bits of seasoned wood.

  ‘There,’ she said pointing. ‘It’s a seat. We hit a rowing boat.’

  Chapter 32

  Matt woke with a start. He looked out of the window to see the wheels of the plane touch down at Malaga Airport. It took him several seconds to realise where he was. He hadn’t been sleeping well. A dietician would point to his high intake of takeaway food with too many additives, and the beers he slugged while looking over the two cases he and Rosie were investigating.

  In truth, he’d put the hunt for Patrick Doherty on the back-burner, awaiting a breakthrough which he was convinced would soon come. The search for Jack Harris, on the other hand, was hot. The DI hadn’t flown to Estepona as everyone believed, which would have made it too easy for HSA researchers to track him down. He’d driven to Plymouth and boarded an overnight car ferry to Santander in northern Spain. He’d travelled under a false name, as they couldn’t find any Jack Harris on the ship’s manifest, but he’d used his own car. Matt had seen him driving a new Audi A7 when he’d followed him a few weeks back, and had a picture of the car’s number plate on his phone.

  The car’s details had been forwarded to the Estepona police and, in a matter of days, they discovered where Harris was living. Appropriate for the valued employee of a major drug supplier, a large villa on the outskirts of town with extensive views over the sea on one side and mountains on the other. Further research had determined it had been bought by an Antilles company owned by Jack Harris and no doubt funded by the proceeds from the drugs business.

  On exiting the terminal building at Malaga Airport, they were met by a cop, not selected for his conversational abilities, as he said nothing, not even in Spanish, on their drive to Guardia Civil headquarters in Estepona. It was a long drive, but could have been longer if the driver had selected the coast road, with a myriad of traffic lights, slow-moving traffic, and holidaymakers darting across the road in a bid to reach the beach. By way of contrast, on the autostrada they passed a featureless landscape covered in brown, sandy-looking soil, sparsely dotted with hardy-looking bushes and trees.

  They didn’t see much of Estepona, as five minutes after leaving the motorway, they stopped outside a building and turned into a courtyard, guarded by tall, metal gates. Matt could see a Spanish flag flying, indicating a public building, and the words, Guardia Civil, above the door.

  It was a sturdy looking brick-built place, in contrast to the white apartment blocks surrounding it. In Spain, the local police investigated everyday crime, stolen handbags and nuisance beggars, while the Guardia Civil were a semi-military outfit tasked with investigating major crimes, and having access to a whole range of riot gear and raiding equipment. The problem Matt anticipated was not a lack of enthusiasm, but curbing their gung-ho spirit.

  They were led upstairs and into an airy conference room.

  ‘Ah, the agents from the UK,’ a large man inside said. ‘Welcome. I am Captain Rodrigo Pérez.’

  Matt and Rosie walked over and shook the hand of the Captain and, after introductions, the other men in the room.

  Coffee was poured from a machine at the back of the room, and when everyone had their cups full, they sat down. There were eight Guardia Civil officers in the room and, from the way Captain Pérez introduced his team, the chubby bloke at the front, Diego Cantor, was his deputy, the other members of the team the foot soldiers.

  Pérez was a big guy, around six foot two, with broad shoulders, a large moustache, a dense crop of black hair gelled flat, and a stomach only now, at the age of around forty-five, turning to fat. He spoke good English, which was just as well, as neither Matt nor Rosie knew much Spanish. His accent was thick but not unpleasant on the ear.

  Up on the screen behind the Captain was a large picture of an extensive villa, replete with tennis court, rockery, swimming pool, and a couple of outhouses possibly containing hot tubs or saunas.

  ‘Before your arrival,’ the Captain said, ‘I was informing my men about the home of your fugitive, Detective Jack Harris. Perhaps, before we talk about our approach, you could tell us what you know about this man, and what we are likely to face?’

  They’d decided before coming here this would be Matt’s gig. He knew more about Harris than anyone else at HAS, and he was the person most eager to catch him. However, Rosie counselled him against introducing any personal animosity. They didn’t want the Spanish officers shooting Harris on sight as there were still many questions they needed to ask him.

  Matt handed a memory stick to the Captain, who in turn passed it to his deputy who stood and took control of the laptop. A few minutes later, Matt was standing in front of a large picture of Jack Harris. Seeing his enlarged, smirking face, the image taken from an official Met Police file, almost made Matt puke.

  ‘This is the person we want to capture,’ Matt said speaking slowly to allow his words to be translated. Looking around the room, they showed a fair degree of understanding. This meant either the translation made sense, or a common factor of police work the world over didn’t require words: this is the fugitive; we need to arrest him.

  ‘He is wanted in the United Kingdom for kidnapping, attempted murder, and money laundering.’

  ‘Al
l of which is detailed in the European Arrest Warrant, I assume?’ Corporal Diego Cantor said in excellent English.

  Matt nodded. ‘It is.’

  ‘Good. Continue.’

  Matt went on to give a potted description of Harris, from the reliable Detective Sergeant in the Met’s anti-drug unit, to the money man working for Simon Wood’s drug supply operation. He omitted to mention any suspicion of his involvement in Emma Davis’s death. This, and some other important questions, were the substance of what he and Rosie wanted to discuss with him. Matt concluded his talk and returned to his seat.

  ‘Thank you, Matt, for telling us about Jack Harris,’ Pérez said. ‘Now, we shall examine his villa and the operation we will stage there tonight.’

  He turned and tapped the screen, once more showing a picture of the villa.

  ‘This is Villa Francesca. It is set in the hills above the town to the north west. Now the map.’

  Cantor, the laptop operator, changed the picture. They were now looking at a map of the villa’s location. The road on which Villa Francesca stood lay to the north of the autostrada. It was beyond the environs of Estepona and, if the absence of road names was anything to go by, a recently developed part of the area. Matt knew ‘developed’ was rather a loose term in this and other parts of southern Europe. It could equally mean anything from nearly finished to barely started. This villa looked complete, perhaps a couple of years old, while the road access was no better than a rough, dusty track.

  All the time the pictures were being displayed, Pérez was talking, part in Spanish, part in English. ‘We will assemble here,’ the Captain said, pointing. ‘One team will enter the property at this point, and the other team will enter here.’ He went on to talk about how they would advance, and what they would do once they had entered the villa.

  An aerial view of the villa now appeared. Matt was pleased to see this, as any raid on an unknown property was filled with unseen hazards. Using a top-down view, easy enough to obtain from estate agents, a drone-fly-over, or using satellite view on Google Maps, if was up-to-date, it made it clear to all in the room where the rendezvous and the entry point would be, along with the size and scale of the property.