by Iain Cameron
They approached the door to find it closed. To a casual passer-by, rare as snow in this remote area, it would appear to be locked, so they wouldn’t find a homeless family camped inside come Monday morning. However, with the locks smashed by the door banger, it swung open with a gentle push.
The big boots of the Guardia Civil hadn’t made much of a mess, helped by the baked earth in the garden yielding no mud, and the downstairs floor covering of marble tiling. On a wet day in the UK, the ART boots would have left marks on the carpets and there would be scrapes and scores on the wallpaper where hands, helmets and weapons, had been leaning or dragged along it.
‘I would normally suggest you search down here and I’ll go upstairs,’ Rosie said, ‘but as we don’t know what we’re looking for, and this is such a big place, we should do it together.’
‘Fine by me. All I’m looking for is evidence of all the stuff that Harris is involved in. I mean, we found nothing at his house in London and all we’ve got in terms of hard data is the Caribbean bank accounts.’
‘So, we’re looking for what, hidden storage, safes, iPads, laptops?’
‘You got it.’
Matt went into the lounge, Rosie the kitchen. It was a large room and the furniture there, an L-shaped, grey coloured settee, coffee table, large television, and a few ornaments and pictures, didn’t succeed in filling it out or making it look homely. It felt more like a rental, despite them knowing it wasn’t.
Matt checked the flower pots and all the usual hiding places before checking the floor tiling, trying to spot any anomalies, and lifted each of the rugs. Next, he scrutinised the walls, searching behind pictures and pulling out furniture to see if anything was lurking behind.
Satisfied that he’d covered all the likely hiding places, he left the lounge and did the same to the other rooms on the ground floor. He waited while Rosie finished off in the kitchen before climbing the stairs.
‘There’s not much in the way of personal stuff,’ Rosie said.
‘No, and the other rooms are the same. It’s as if he didn’t come here often, but given the fact he’s burned his name in the UK, it looks to me like this was to be his home for the foreseeable.’
‘Yeah, but the change in his circumstances has only happened in the last couple of weeks. I expect it would take a few more months to personalise the place.’
They searched each of the rooms on the top floor and spent some time in the master bedroom, this time without the naked beauty adorning the bed. After questioning, she had been released without charge. She maintained they’d met in a bar a few days earlier and, as the sex was better than average, she’d decided to see him again.
When the search of the rooms proved fruitless, Matt climbed into the loft for a second look, even though he knew there was nothing to see.
On coming down the loft ladder he remembered the garage across the road from the villa, and how it was well equipped with bikes and tools.
‘Did you find anything heavy like a hammer or crowbar when you searched the kitchen?’ he asked Rosie as they descended the stairs.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Remember I told about the garage where I found the other bike?’
‘Yes.’
‘It might be a good idea to search it, but the door was automatic. It closed after I came out so it might prove difficult to open without the remote.’
‘I can do better than a crowbar.’
‘I doubt there’s anything more useful than a crowbar, but tempt me.’
‘I found a drawer full of keys.’
‘Really? Where is it?’
They walked into the kitchen, as large and spacious as the other rooms in the house. It was fitted with all known gadgets, including a huge American fridge and a fancy system that delivered water any way it was required, from ice-cold to boiling hot.
In the drawer, Rosie showed him a mountain of keys, enough to perplex even the most experienced prison officer.
‘There’s probably four keys for each of the double-glazed units,’ Rosie said. ‘That’s what we found when we moved into our house.’
Matt took them out a bunch at a time. Some were marked with their use, while others he could only guess by the manufacturer’s name or the shape of the key.
He shifted all the obvious-looking double-glazing keys to one side, and those whose functions he could guess at, leaving him with a couple of oddballs. He took a brass-coloured key so complicated-looking, it wouldn’t seem out of place in a bank vault, and headed to the front door. One of the locks, was hanging off, but the main one was still embedded in the door, although the frame to which it was once attached had been smashed. He tried the key and it fitted.
He walked back to Rosie and picked up the two remaining. ‘Let’s go and take a look at the garage.’
Matt put on a serious face and told Rosie they would need to use the loft route, but she didn’t fall for it. Instead, they walked down the driveway on to the road and headed up the slope at the side of the property.
Matt examined the lock on the up and over garage door, and could see that one of the two keys he held in his hand would fit. Again, it wasn’t a simple garage door key, but something a bit more sophisticated, giving him pause for thought. He checked it fitted before suggesting Rosie should stand back.
‘Why?’
‘I only had the chance to take a glance in there, but it looked to me like a well-equipped escape room.’
‘And?’
‘It might be booby-trapped.’
‘How could he have set it? You’ve been inside after he left.’
‘I think he opened it using a remote control, and I got in before it closed. When I left on the bike, I opened it with the button inside. That, I imagine, are the normal ways of opening and closing the door, so if there is a booby-trap, its settings haven’t been disturbed. Maybe it only activates when someone tries to open the door with the key, or force it with a crowbar, as a cop or a burglar would do.’
‘If you’re right, how do we get in?’
‘Let’s find out, shall we?’
Matt undid the lock and raised the door a few centimetres off the ground. He walked to the side where Rosie was standing, and lifted the door by its edge. It wasn’t as easy to open as a standard garage door, it felt like he was pushing against the remote opening mechanism, most likely a worm-screw or a pulley system.
Matt pushed the door to its full extent. In the place where an unaware door opener would be standing with his or her arms outstretched and their chest a large target, two shots rang out: Bang! Bang!
The noise sounded loud, a reflection of the quiet area and the amplification effects of the cavernous garage. With no target to hit, the bullets smacked into the wall opposite. It was lucky they were on a deserted road and no cars were passing, or they would be seeing Captain Pérez and his men sooner than expected.
‘Christ!’ Rosie said. ‘When you said ‘booby trap’ I imagined a water-filled bag, or an oil patch on the floor. I didn’t expect to be shot at!’
‘If I’m being honest, neither did I.’
Chapter 38
‘Did you sleep well?’ Zoë asked Sam, prostrate at the rear of the yacht, soaking up the morning sunshine. She climbed the last few steps and jumped on deck.
‘Of course I did, my darling,’ he said as she leaned over to give him a kiss.
He sat up. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘this is the first time we’ve slept together since we left Spain two weeks ago?’
‘Yes, but not the first time we’ve made love.’
‘No, coming off night shift my mind is always full of dirty thoughts.’
‘What about, past girlfriends or your relief at getting away from the scary dark?’
‘I’m not frightened of the dark, you cheeky mare.’
‘I’d better make breakfast before I say something I shouldn’t.’
‘Talking of breakfast, take a look at those,’ he said, pointing.
‘Where did you get
these?’ she said, walking to the side of the yacht and picking up three sizeable fish.
‘Took the dinghy out, rowed to shore and bought them at a little fishmonger in the cove. Where do you think? I dropped a line over the side after I spotted a load of them swimming around. Twenty minutes later, bingo.’
‘Brilliant. You know you’re spoiling me. I love mackerel. How’s our hole in the hull?’
‘The repair looks like it’s holding. No leakage that I can see. It should get us to Sligo where the boat builders will make a more substantial job of it than I can.’
‘When are we setting off?’
‘Today is?’
‘I don’t know, but if I were to take an absolute guess, I would say, Friday?’
‘No, I’m sorry, madam, but you’ve given me the wrong answer. Lose two points.’
‘Oh no, and I was needing the prize money to feed my three starving children, or is it four?’
‘The right answer is Sunday, and the place where we are moored,’ he said spreading his arms wide, ‘is called Ireland. Nothing is open unless you include churches.’
‘I think your information is a little out-of-date, Mr not-so-well-informed Consultant. Ireland used to be like that, I don’t know, maybe thirty or forty years ago, but it’s changed a lot since then. People are less religious than they used to be.’
‘I do exaggerate, but boat builders are a laid-back bunch and work nine-to-five, Monday to Friday. Even if we leave for Sligo now, they won’t touch it until Monday morning at the earliest.’
‘Do I get the impression you like it here and wouldn’t mind staying around a little bit longer?’
‘What’s not to like? Our own little cove, fresh fish for breakfast, and being able to sleep with my wife at night.’
‘Oh, you’re so sweet. I like it here too, but I’d like it better with a couple of shops.’
‘And a pub.’
‘Yes, a pub, and perhaps a cinema and maybe a chemist.’
He looked at her, his stare intense. ‘You’re not…’
‘Don’t be daft. I’m getting low on some of my feminine things and my period’s due next week.’
He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘Too much information, my girl. Get down below and make some breakfast.’
‘I will, but only if you gut the fish. I don’t mind gutting normally, but I drank a bit too much of that nice red last night and suffering for it now. I really couldn’t face it.’
Armed with a sharp knife, Sam sat at the bow and gutted the fish. After finishing each one, he scraped the entrails overboard and the greedy buggers in the water splashed and leapt around as if they had never seen gourmet food like it. Didn’t they know it was one of their pals?
He deposited the now-gutted mackerel down below with the chef and, after washing his hands twice, climbed back on deck. He took a seat at the stern and gazed over at the island. It looked a fairly uninhabited part of Inishmore with few houses and few amenities, but he loved its rugged remoteness.
He and Zoë lived in London and, when younger, Glasgow, so he was used to big cities. He liked the convenience of shops, coffee bars, cinemas, theatre, and all the rest, but hated the crowds, the prevalent menace from moped gangs, druggies, and the constant noise.
Here, there was room to think. A place where he didn’t have to deal with things in a rush, or talk to people over his shoulder as they or he sprinted to the next meeting. He knew he couldn’t live on an island all the time; he liked his job and he felt the competition of his peers keenly. He wouldn’t mind having a holiday home in such a quiet area though, a place where he and Zoë could come to recharge their batteries and put some perspective back into their busy lives.
He couldn’t see any movement on land, no people, no sheep, no swaying of trees as there didn’t appear to be any. He didn’t know much about these islands, only that they were inhabited and the place where Aran sweaters came from, as Zoë had informed him. He imagined they would be popular with tourists, attracted by a short ferry ride and the desire to walk over a landscape, unaffected by all the development taking place on the mainland. However, he didn’t expect to see many venturing down here, as it was a narrow cove with an unappealing beach, surrounded on two sides by fearsome-looking rocks.
‘C’mon Sam, quit daydreaming and clear the table,’ Zoë said, striding towards him. ‘Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes.’
He shook himself from his reverie and walked to the small table at the stern. He removed the book he’d been reading, sunglasses, phone, binoculars, and put them on a seat.
Zoë dumped knives, forks and everything else she carried on the now-clear table before disappearing down below. Sam set out the cutlery, tucking the napkins underneath to stop them flapping in the light breeze. He turned over the glasses and filled them with water.
He was replacing the water jug on the table when he had a feeling of being watched. He turned quickly and stared at the island. It was a weird sensation, one he’d never felt before, not even on a yacht sailing near land when almost everyone they saw carried binoculars, a camera or a telescope. He put it down to the isolated nature of their berth when all they saw and heard were sounds of the sea, and seagulls wheeling and diving. He couldn’t spot anyone or anything to make him feel this way, and he returned to his task of setting the table, but the sensation didn’t disappear.
**
Patrick Doherty removed the binoculars and slid back down the slope on his stomach. When he was sure the people on the yacht couldn’t see him, he knelt and massaged tired back muscles. He expected the yacht to be leaving this morning. He’d watched them make a repair to the hull of the boat the previous night, or at least that’s how it looked to a man who knew not a lot about boats.
Assuming they had experienced a leak, the fibreglass repair kit, or whatever was used to fix holes in yachts, would take some hours to set before it became watertight. By the time they’d finished the job last night, darkness had fallen. A large yacht like that would be fitted with all manner of sophisticated electronic gear: depth sounder, radar, satnav and everything else, and a night-sail wouldn’t have given them any trouble. So why were they still there?
Thinking about it, no way would he make a long sea journey at the dead of night with only a dodgy bit of fibreglass separating him from a meeting with Neptune and his mermaids. He would wait until morning, so why was he surprised when the folks on the yacht did the same? However, what also surprised him, and this time he couldn’t think of a counter argument, it was now nearly ten o’clock and it didn’t look like they were going anywhere. In fact, it looked as if they were enjoying themselves, sunbathing on the deck and having a leisurely breakfast of the fish he’d caught by chucking a line over the side.
He wanted to light a fag, but like the Indians in the ol’ Wild West, it would only send up smoke signals and alert the cowboys. Instead, he pulled out a chocolate bar from his pocket and ripped off the wrapper. He bit into it, but the ‘delicious mix of caramel and peanuts’ tasted bland in his mouth. The continued presence of a yacht in the cove, his cove was starting to get on his nerves.
He’d never suffered from anxiety in the past, or regret, self-loathing, or self-doubt, problems many of the other participants in the ‘armed struggle’ complained about, but he did get angry when things didn’t go his way. ‘Angry’ was a prosaic way of describing this sudden explosion of energy and sound. Colleagues often described him as ‘going ballistic’ or ‘ape-shit’ and made sure no live armaments fell easily to hand.
He wanted them gone, and if shooting a full magazine into their already damaged hull would do the trick, he would do it. Instead, it would have the opposite effect, as the distance from their boat to the shore wasn’t too far for a competent swimmer.
He started the deep-breathing exercises which some anger-management guru on a website said would help. It didn’t calm him, and if ever he met the charlatan who’d advised this technique, he would shoot the bugger full of holes. He
crept to the top of the hill again and lifted his binoculars. The couple on the yacht were sunning themselves, taking their time, as if they didn’t have a care in the world or any place they needed to be.
He made a decision. If they were still there at dusk, he would fetch his rifle and shoot them both.
Chapter 39
Matt and Rosie cautiously entered Jack Harris’s garage in Estepona. They kept to the side wall, made easier with only one motorbike in situ. If Harris took the trouble to booby-trap the door, what else could be lying in wait?
It was about the size of a normal double garage. Location-wise, it wasn’t within the grounds of Harris’s villa, as a large garage was situated only a few metres from its front door. It housed the Audi A7 that Harris had driven from the UK, a Jaguar 4x4, and a Porsche 911. The building they were now in had either been put there by a builder before constructing the house it would ultimately belong to, or it had been specially erected for Harris. Matt thought the latter, as it was far enough away from the house for the drug dealer to deny ownership, but close enough to be used for a quick escape.
The one bike left behind in the garage was a road bike, a beautiful black and sleek 600cc Yamaha. It was a small engine by car standards, a tiny Smart car had 1,000cc under the hood, but Matt knew it could out-accelerate and out-perform many top-of-the-range sports cars. In common with the cars in the main garage, the bike looked new, but considering the money Harris was making and handling, nothing was beyond his reach.
The back wall looked tidy, all the tools hung from hooks with no loose bits of kit lying around, and everything else most likely stored in the cupboards below. Matt tapped the wall to see if any part sounded hollow, indicating a hidden room or cupboard, but found nothing.
He disconnected the gun from the booby trap mechanism and dropped it into an evidence bag. By rights, as this was Spain, it should be handed over to the good Captain, but Matt took a special interest in anything suspicious collected from Jack Harris. He would take it, and any other finds today, back to the HSA forensics labs for analysis. No way would he miss an opportunity to throw additional charges his way.
