by JJ Marsh
As they crossed the car park, light from the plant spilt out and the torches went off. Beatrice took the opportunity to glance back and recognised their escorts. Tweedledum and Tweedledee in identical black suits and slicked-back hair carried matching accessories; handguns and torches. The grizzled older man was smoking some foul-smelling tobacco, while his gun dangled by his side. He saw her look and motioned she should turn around. He used his gun as a Japanese courtesan might use her fan, in a professional, yet unambiguous gesture.
She couldn’t be sure of the weapons the Thompson twins were carrying but the ugly man’s stainless steel piece was a SIG Sauer, probably a P226. A favourite with police forces everywhere.
Beatrice looked past the three men waiting on the platform and squinted into the space behind them. A forklift truck, a stack of pallets and blocks of cardboard boxes filled the space, but no dark-haired girl to be seen. They stopped at the base of the steps and Beatrice lifted her head.
Aguirre stared down at her, his face resembling that of a gargoyle, his hooked nose carved from grey stone. His eyes bored into her as if she were the only person there. The second man, also dressed in a suit, seemed ill-at-ease, his eyes not resting anywhere for more than a second. Angel Rosado, undoubtedly. The final individual had a face like Samuel Beckett and he beckoned them forward with a repulsive smile. But rather than using his index finger, he used his whole hand. A classic police gesture. Palm upwards and four fingers waving inwards. Or in his case, only three.
Chapter 37
Outnumbered. Six men, at least four of whom had visible guns. Beatrice’s toes curled in frustration as she watched one of the younger hoods take his time over frisking Ana, purposely groping her breast with a nauseating leer. Ana remained expressionless.
After fixing their captives’ hands behind them with plastic ties and relieving them of mobile phones, the twins ushered them to sit on a small stack of pallets near the back wall. Beatrice sensed an uncertainty in their behaviour. Apart from taking liberties with Ana, the treatment of them was restrained, almost polite. No shoving, no casual violence. One of the identical macho men raised a finger and drew it across his lips, meeting each pair of eyes in turn. Then he and his fellow thug moved away to join the others. Grizzly, Rosado and Three-Fingers stood inside the closed shutter doors having a hushed conversation. Aguirre had disappeared through an internal door. Grizzly occasionally pointed his gun in their direction, less as a threat and more of a conversational gesture.
Beatrice leant forward to look past Ana at Matthew. He was disturbingly pale, an odd blue tinge to his lips. He shouldn’t even be here. None of them should. The cold of the warehouse seeped into her clothes, while a hot surge of guilt flushed over her. She had to do something.
“What are they saying, Ana?” she whispered.
She felt Ana’s shoulders shift against hers as she shrugged. “I’m not sure. They’re speaking Basque, so I can’t understand much at all. They keep saying they’re shocked, that they can’t believe it. But I don’t think they’re talking about us. And I get the impression they’re debating a decision.”
Adrian spoke from her other side. “Have they said anything about the girl?”
Beatrice dropped her voice still lower. “It’s vital that he thinks we’re just snooping, investigating the wine issue. We know nothing about any girl. Don’t even mention her name.”
“What do I say about Tiago?” asked Ana.
“Nothing. You’re taking over his story. As far as you’re concerned, he had an accident, and you are now chasing his leads. The fact that you know Tiago was murdered, probably by this lot, has to remain our secret. That’s our most likely chance of getting out of here.”
Matthew cleared his throat, but did not speak, as the group of men turned to look. After they’d returned to their conversation, Matthew spoke in a deliberate whisper.
“And the cavalry? Does anyone know we’re here?”
“Yes. Firstly, I left a message with Interpol, explaining my intentions. So if anything happens to us, they know where to look.”
“That’s comforting,” said Matthew.
“Secondly, ...”
Someone banged on the metal shutters, galvanising the men and shooting tension through the group on the pallets. One of the younger men opened the door, allowing Aguirre access.
Beatrice watched the body language of the group with curiosity. The men bowed their heads, in an oddly deferential gesture of respect. It reminded her of mourners at a funeral.
Rosado dabbed a handkerchief repeatedly to his mouth, staring at the ground with wide eyes, fidgeting and awkward, as if no comfortable position existed.
Aguirre spoke to the men in hoarse tones, indicating with his finger at every individual as he seemed to deliver instructions. Each nodded, crossed the vast space and left through the internal door. Leaving one of the twins. The young gunman moved forward to train his weapon on the seated group.
“Oh my God,” murmured Adrian.
“They won’t shoot us,” said Beatrice. She knew she was right. The hood held his weapon in a state of readiness, not with intent. And disposing of four executed bodies without trace would be a challenge for even Aguirre. Still, Beatrice could feel both Ana and Adrian tense against their ties.
Aguirre approached to stand in front of them. His expression, that of a wounded bull, bore equal measures of pain and rage.
“Ana Herrero. It was a simple enough instruction. Was ‘Go back to Portugal’ so hard to understand? Detective Inspector Beatrice Stubbs. I should have known. Bad luck to spill blood on my steps. An unfortunate day, for all of us.”
Her body immobilised, Beatrice had access to only two elements of her arsenal. Her mind and her mouth. Both of which had previously proved unreliable.
“Señor Aguirre, I acknowledge the fact that we have been trespassing, but I must insist you let us go. Such treatment is absurd. Feel free to call the police and have us arrested, but you cannot truss us up like so many turkeys.”
Aguirre shook his head, pressing his hand to his eyes. He swallowed twice and looked at Matthew.
“And you two? Bailey and Son, wine importers who conveniently forgot their business cards? I don’t think so. You are friends, or possibly colleagues, of Detective Inspector Stubbs. Which is your misfortune.”
“My name is Professor Matthew Bailey, oenology expert and my colleague is Adrian Harvey, wine importer. For your information, both of us have found our association with Beatrice Stubbs to be extremely fortunate.” Matthew’s tone was calm, measured and a little condescending.
Aguirre narrowed his eyes. The interior door reopened and Three-Fingers returned with a carafe of liquid. Aguirre nodded once, gesturing with his forehead towards Matthew.
“No!” Beatrice jerked forward, trying to get to her feet, but bounced back onto the bench. “If you plan to punish anyone with your brutal bully-boy techniques, you can bloody well pick on me. These people are not involved. Leave him alone.”
“Leave him alone? The way you left me and my family alone? I’m afraid not. We told you to go away and mind your own business. But I’ve noticed that women rarely listen. They can talk, oh yes, but cannot listen.”
Three-Fingers knelt beside Matthew. With a certain amount of weariness, he poured some liquid into a small glass, pointed at Matthew and mimed drinking it. He nodded and gave the thumbs-up. Then he mimed refusing the glass and averting his head. With a shrug, he pulled out a flick-knife and with a total absence of drama, demonstrated slashing a face. He opened his palm, as if to ask ‘What’ll it be?’
Before Beatrice could open her mouth, another voice rang out. Angel Rosado placed his hand on Aguirre’s shoulder, his eyes fixed on Matthew.
“No. Él no tiene la culpa. Deja-le!”
“He’s saying he’s not guilty and let him go.” Ana kept her eyes on the two men in front of them, but muttered, “You might have been right.”
Aguirre did not acknowledge the plea, turning instead to
the gunman. Rosado, who up until the last two minutes had seemed practically catatonic, shrugged off the gunman’s guiding hand and pulled at Aguirre. The gunman didn’t hesitate, bringing the butt of his weapon with full force against Rosado’s head. The pallets wobbled as all four observers recoiled. Rosado collapsed onto the concrete floor, clutching his head as he was dragged to the other end of the room. Aguirre had maintained his intense focus on Beatrice, but now turned to the gunman and yelled. The man dropped Rosado and exited via the door in the delivery bay. Aguirre barked at Three-Fingers.
“Vamos, Tomas!”
Spell broken, the man offered the glass to Matthew, the knife poised in his other hand. Beatrice writhed against her restraints.
“Stop! Aguirre, make him stop! What is that stuff? If you poison him, I ...”
“Women. Always talking. Cannot keep their mouths shut.” Aguirre shook his head and walked a few paces, like a general inspecting his troops. “It’s aguardiente. Fire water. Hooch. That’s all. He might enjoy it.” He stopped to observe the show.
Matthew pressed back from the glass until he could stretch no further. The glass, and knife, kept coming. Finally, after a pat on the cheek with the flat of the blade, Matthew opened his mouth. Tomas poured a small sip into his mouth, dropped the knife to the floor and reached in his pocket for a blue-checked handkerchief. So he was ready for the inevitable spluttering and coughing. He wiped Matthew’s eyes and mopped his nose, while patting him on the shoulder. He stopped short of a smile, but nodded and made the thumbs-up sign.
“Matthew, are you OK?” Beatrice asked, peering into his flushed features.
“Yes, it’s like grappa. Just a bit stronger than I’m used to. Powerful stuff.”
Tomas seemed pleased and raised the glass again. This time, he didn’t bother with the knife, but readied the hanky.
Aguirre sniffed. “You see, he’s enjoying himself. So he should. That’s a top quality product. He needs to be drunk, and this is the fastest way to do it.”
Beatrice understood. “You’re going to put us in a car, Matthew behind the wheel and shove us off a cliff. Your men are preparing the car right now, just to make sure we go up in flames and all evidence is destroyed.”
Aguirre watched the ritual once more, apparently ignoring her. A moan came from the end of the room, where Angel Rosado sat up and pressed a hand to his head. He seemed to be crying. Matthew swallowed once more, cheeks flushed, while Tomas patted him and wiped his face, as if he were a wrestling coach between rounds with a prize fighter.
Ana glared at Aguirre, her eyes black and furious. “You have no conscience whatsoever, do you? When’s it going to stop, Aguirre? Six deaths on your hands already and those are only the ones I know about.”
Aguirre looked at Ana. “Why is it that smart girls don’t know when to shut up? You know, I should just give you to Tomas. He knows the best way to keep a woman quiet, isn’t that right? Tomas sabe callar a una mujer?”
Tomas showed his top teeth, rendering him uglier than before, caught hold of his own crotch and gave it a shake.
Chapter 38
Four men shaking hands.
Three in suits.
Two carrying handguns.
One smoking.
Zero signs of target.
Cloud cover sporadic, night visibility variable.
Kev watched as the four men exchanged handshakes. The new arrival held something out to the older suit who took it and indicated over his shoulder. All four turned to look in Kev’s direction. He dropped lower on his forearms, but they weren’t looking as far as him. Their sightline was lower, towards the stream.
He tensed as he heard a sound behind him. Jase, returning from the recce. Kev squinted and frowned. They’d done their best with shoe polish but the white of his trainers still shone through the camouflage. Tyler, silent as a cat, approached from the other direction and crouched beside him.
“Nothing. She’s not in this side of the forest.” He looked up at Jase, who shook his head. “OK, so she must be inside. Lights are on in the depot but the rest is deserted. What’s going on with this lot?” He jerked his chin at the group of men.
“The Rhinestone Cowboy down there turned up three minutes ago. In that Peugeot. Handshakes, a friendly chat and there’s something interesting about that ditch.”
Jase squatted next to Tyler. “Access from the front and delivery bay. Four fire doors, two either side, probably alarmed. Roof this end has windows. Too high for surprise entry but helpful for surveillance assessment via metal service ladder twenty-six metres to our right.”
The three men breathed, waited and watched. A hum built in Kev. A hum born of training and experience. This situation was unknown and their role unclear. But when it came to scoping a location, identifying risks and minimising danger, he could rely on his team. Beatrice needed their expertise and anyway, he’d had enough of tapas.
The man in the leather jacket did the round of goodbye handshakes, but didn’t get back in his car. Instead, he revved up the Corsa and drove back up the access road.
“Shit,” spat Tyler. “Too dark to see the fooking number.”
Kev grinned. “Already got it, mate. What are those bastards up to now?”
Each of the three men hauled something from the back of the Range Rover and strode towards the delivery bay.
Jase took a deep breath. “Petrol cans. They’re gonna torch summat.”
Employing his stealth training: heel-ball-toe walk, deep breathing and low crouch, Kev crept through the trees, stopping, listening, watching and waiting; Tyler and Jase moving with him like shadows. Once their sightline cleared the corner, they dropped onto their chests. Two men were opening all the doors of the black sedan, while the other removed the number plates. One picked up a can and unscrewed the top. The smoker flicked his glowing butt into the ditch and they began soaking the whole vehicle in petrol.
“Right, while they’re busy, I’m having a look at what’s going on indoors.”
Kev checked out the route. Jase slipping through ten metres of trees, over the ditch and a sixteen-metre stretch of moonlit tarmac unseen in radioactive trainers? No way.
“Swap shoes. This is one hell of a sacrifice. Your feet have plagued me worse than any Afghani insurgent ever could. If you’re not wearing Odor-Eaters, I’ll kill ya.”
Tyler took point, Kev followed. Neither checked Jase. His feet might be rank but he could be trusted to do a proper job. The situation was risky. No doubt the suits were busy round the back, but if one of them popped back to check the coast was clear, he and the lads were unarmed and as vulnerable as rabbits. Rabbits in white trainers.
As they reached the stream, Kev nudged Tyler and pointed to his feet. “I’ll dip these in the ditch, see if a bit of mud will help.”
Tyler’s head scanned the area like an owl. He crouched into the scrub and Kev spotted a glint of metal in his hand. “Be quick, then. I got you.”
Kev slid down the bank into the blackness below. His feet hit mud and instantly the cheap trainers absorbed water. Typical. Kev focused on dirtying his footwear, revolving his ankles to attract maximum muck. As he turned to yank himself out, his left foot caught on some weeds. He pulled again, trying to release himself and looked back at whatever was holding him. Dark fronds wrapped his ankle. He lifted his leg and the fronds came with him, dragging behind them a human head.
Chapter 39
“Where are you from, Señor Aguirre?” Matthew’s authoritative tone caused everyone to turn, even Tomas.
Aguirre’s eyes hardened as he turned to face the tired, pale and bedraggled man who Beatrice loved more than anything in the world.
The jut of his jaw made Beatrice simultaneously swell with pride and cringe in dread. Matthew, powerless, vulnerable and faced with armed, violent men had chosen to pick a fight.
“I would have assumed you were Spanish, until now.”
Aguirre’s voice was quiet, but still carried the marks of an orator. “Spanish is a big w
ord. Each Spaniard has a complex identity, based on his country, his region, his language, his community, his family. You should be able to understand that, Professor Bailey. Being British used to mean something. Being Spanish still does.”
“True. The essence of Spain, I would suggest, is about honour, about pride. You have a sense of loyalty, despite the divisions and rivalries between the various regions, to the concept of Spain. Rather like The United States. Which is why I find you as an individual rather an anomaly.”
In a second, Beatrice caught up. Matthew may not have carried a SIG Sauer or a flick-knife, but his intellect and comprehension of the enemy had already exceeded hers. He stepped into the role of toreador, with every intention of baiting the bull.
Something flickered in her peripheral vision. Both the high walls to her left and right had windows at the top, presumably to permit natural light. At that time of the evening, internal light and external darkness made it impossible to see anything outside. But high up above Tomas’s head, there was a movement. Someone was out there. Her heart pumped faster and she tried not to stare.
Aguirre laughed. “That is because you are a snob. A typical British snob. You are offended by my business proposition, which is to give people what they want. Do you want to tell me the British are unhappy with my wines? That is ridiculous. They will drink anything, if it has the right label and reputation.”
Ana leant into her, applying pressure to her shoulder. She looked up and right as if stretching her neck, then returned to her previous position. Beatrice waited a second before looking in the same direction and forced herself not to jump. A face, streaked with dark marks, looked down at them. At that distance, she couldn’t recognise him, but whoever it was, that was army camouflage.
