Square Snapper (Detective Inspector Burgess)

by Middleton, Deborah

  Chapter 44

  The Croatian had gone on to the internet and spent several hours reading about Bermuda. He was hooked. He found the quaintness of the narrow leafy lanes with their abundance of flowers intriguing and was captivated by the white beaches, which he learned from a tourist website were actually a shade of pink. He found himself drawn to the unique architecture of the buildings. Having grown up in a war torn country, the purity of the white roofs and the pastel shades of the houses with their contrasting window shutters were a revelation. He had travelled to many Caribbean islands but this island stood apart in its isolation much further to the north, possessing a pristine beauty all of its own. He had been totally unaware of the island’s success as an international business venue and was amazed to learn that it was a huge insurance centre rivalling London and New York - Not bad for an island of twenty one square miles and sixty five thousand inhabitants. His eye had been drawn to one particular article in a local newspaper featuring a Bermudian to be honoured as Insurance Personality of the Year. He was finding Bermuda to be full of surprises and he made a mental note not to underestimate its sophistication. When it came to doing a job, he did not like surprises. He also spent considerable time looking over all the recent articles in the local newspapers. He studied the ongoing investigation into various murders and easily pieced together the reason for being sent over there. Pity he would have to kill the detective. From what he read of him and the few quotes there were, he seemed like a good man. He had a long look at his photograph. He knew he would receive a better one in his kit but he was glad to see him this early on. It was hard to read the man. He looked athletic in his well-cut suit – tall and lithe - probably a runner or basketball player. He had intelligent, watchful eyes; I bet he doesn’t miss much. No doubt too clever for his own good and getting too close to the truth. He wondered who was behind the hit. The government? He often worked for those, even though he never knew for sure. Was it a drug cartel? No mind. As long as they paid, he would do what was asked. This was business after all.

  It was time to start packing. Packing always took a while as he had to hide his various disguises and papers in hidden compartments. He had already decided which fake identities he would adopt and how he would appear on arrival in Bermuda. With the humidity, he had to be careful with make-up and false beards as they could peel away in the heat and moisture. No, he would keep it simple, dying his hair and giving his own beard a few more days to grow and wearing tinted contact lenses. He knew it was much more difficult to recognize a man without a beard after only being seen with one. With a beard and moustache you could hide jaw lines and lip contours which would take on a much more prominent role when removed, sometimes completely altering an appearance. If he needed to disguise himself in a hurry, he could change his hair and eye colour, wear glasses and leave clean shaven. He already had the matching identity papers for that. If things went badly wrong, he would look a lot younger when he left than when he entered as he would weave some grey into his hair and beard. He was quite the artist when it came to disguises. As always before any job, he felt the butterflies of anticipation in his stomach. He had to prepare for every contingency and plan thoroughly. His greatest worry was getting off the island.

  When he had finished his packing he put on his workout clothes and took himself down to the gym. Once there, he began his usual gymnastic routine finishing with climbing up several times to the ceiling using the ropes. Having thus “warmed up”, he then went to the outdoor track where he put himself through a gruelling course of running and then shooting with his bow and arrow. Afterwards, he changed weaponry firing a range of handguns at wooden targets in the form of humans that would spring up randomly. First he practised with a 9mm Glock, and a Russian TT33 Tokarev. Then, as he always did, he ended the session with his “companion” from the Bosnian war, a Yugo M70 9mm pistol which was actually a Yugoslavian variation of the TT33. He liked the feel of it, its longer grip, slide mounted safety and magazine that held one more round than usual. He wished he could take it to Bermuda. That weapon had saved his life on more than one occasion and felt more like a trusted friend. He would have to be content with the Tokarev he had ordered.

  He was able to change the sequence on the computer and his Filipino houseboy would move and hide the targets so that they were never in the same place twice. In fact, so good was his marksmanship and so powerful his ammunition, that the Filipino spent more time in the workshop with a jigsaw cutting out fresh targets than repositioning the old ones.

  Thousands of miles away, Nana was enjoying her cup of tea and listening to The People’s Corner. Sometimes it made her chuckle and other times it made her mad. She found herself getting agitated when they kept harping on about how long it was taking to wind up the investigation into the drug poisonings. Several times she thought about calling in and voicing her opinion. She knew, however, that it would probably have negative repercussions on her grandson. He could fight his own battles and besides, it would look like his grandmother was coming to his defence on national radio. No matter how much he adored her, he surely would not appreciate that. No, she had better cool down and switch it off. She walked over to the kitchen counter to refill her cup and turn off the radio when Officer Max began to bark. She thought she heard a bike starting up close by. It sounded like something was wrong with its muffler.

  “You know, Max, I sure wish those kids would quit souping up those bikes so that they sound like Harleys. It’s okay, girl.” Max’s barking and the presence of a motorcyclist near the house had, however, unnerved her. The cyclist high-tailed it out of the neighbourhood head low, hunched over his handle bars. He wondered where the dog had come from and if he had been spotted by the old lady.

  Chapter 45

  The ballroom of the Fairmont Hamilton Princess looked spectacular. The Insurance Association always spent a lot of money on this particular black tie event inviting a cross-section of Bermuda’s elite from Government and business. Both the Governor and the Premier would be in attendance with several ministers and prominent members of Bermuda’s business community. The ballroom was a sea of cream and gold with tables festooned with glittering crystal, silver candelabras and exotic flowers. Waiters checked the tables for any last minute touches, placing menus specially designed to mark the occasion, while the security detail followed behind checking underneath each table for any unexpected surprises.

  The guests were presently enjoying cocktails in the adjacent Gazebo Room and vying with a four-piece chamber orchestra which was attempting unsuccessfully to provide background music. The party was in full swing with paunches tucked into cummerbunds and jewellery glittering in the light of the chandeliers. There was much kissing of the air on both sides of the cheeks from the ladies and hearty handshakes and backslapping from the men. This was an occasion where you pulled out all the stops in terms of wardrobe and jewels and was a definite favourite event of the “who’s who” of Bermuda.

  “Bermuda’s equivalent to the Oscars, don’t you think?” One of the security detail, dressed himself in a rented dinner jacket, commented to another. They pretended to chat but their eyes were continually on the move as they clutched their soft drinks.

  “Yeah, we don’t have movie stars but we have insurance executives. Somehow, I think the movie stars are just a touch more glamourous… at least judging from some of those bellies. Obviously, these guys do a lot of lunching!”

  “What division do you normally work?”

  “I’ve been seconded from Narcotics. This is a nice change from arresting drug dealers and closing down the occasional crack house.”

  “I know what you mean. I work Traffic!”

  Both were relaxed and prepared to enjoy a leisurely evening effectively babysitting. Neither for one moment anticipated anything untoward; that would be a first for everyone. The Narcotics officer decided to take a walk around the floor surreptitiously checking out the different groups and trying not to dwell too much on the abundance of bejewelled
cleavages. Suddenly, he stiffened, his attention drawn to a group nearby who were talking animatedly. That voice… it was definitely distinctive. He turned his head imperceptibly trying not to be too obvious and froze. There, talking to the Premier was a gentleman with several brown moles on his face and a voice that sounded like shoes crunching on gravel. Surely, this could not be the famous Captain? He certainly fit the description... they had all had it drummed into them. And, if this was the mysterious drug baron, was the Premier in any danger?

  He made his way as unobtrusively as possible back to his colleague from Traffic and spoke into his ear with quiet urgency.

  “That man over there talking to the Premier, you know him?”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s André Perinchief. He buys and sells boats. Most of his clients are probably in this room. In fact, he’s some relation to Clayton Perinchief, the guy they’re giving the award to tonight. Probably why he’s here.”

  “Thanks. Mind if I leave you for a moment? I need to make a call.” The Narcotics officer tried to remain calm but intuitively he knew that this man had to be the man they all knew as ‘Captain’. Factoring in the yacht connection and nickname, it just felt right. He wanted to get a call in to Inspector Dill or Burgess just as fast as he could. As he walked out of the room his mind was whirling at the potential for breaking the drug ring if this man was the big fish they had all been trawling for. Only in a place as intimate as Bermuda, could you literally come across a suspect when you weren’t even looking for him. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. Flipping open his cell phone, he punched in his division. What a coup this was and what a huge scandal if he was related to the Clayton Perinchief. He secretly wondered if the island could stomach any more scandal.

  Chapter 46

  The Croatian had waited patiently crouched in the bushes near Burgess’s apartment for several hours. The neighbourhood had finally quieted down and the clouds were thankfully covering the moon from time to time. He was dressed ninja style all in black with his face covered in a ski mask. The fabric was a light-weight cotton that would hopefully ensure that he did not leave hair or other DNA behind. He was concerned, however, about sweat and how that could give him away. While he knew he was not on any database to which they could match any DNA, he did not want them to collect any for future reference. God, it was hot on this island. He had never experienced such humidity. It sapped his energy and kept him sweating non stop. He now had a greater appreciation for the difficulty of jungle warfare. He listened as the traffic decreased, trying to tune out the incessant peeping of the tree frogs. The only sound he had heard close to the house had been a bike with a throaty muffler about an hour or so before. He thought he had heard someone park it and had assumed they had gone into a neighbouring house.

  It was close to four o’clock in the morning, time to get moving. Nobody was awake either upstairs or downstairs. He was confident he could move so stealthily that the dog upstairs would never even detect him. Had the dog been outside, he would have had to slit its throat. He was glad that he would not have to do that. He liked a clean kill with no collateral damage, either human or animal. That was how he had made his reputation and that was how he wanted it to go down this time too. God, do those frogs ever shut up? He realized he was getting edgy. It was time for action. He had already reconnoitred the house for the last time that afternoon and had noted the gravel; a low concept deterrent. Smart guy, this detective, but not smart enough. He had his own low concept answer to that. With him he had brought a plank of wood which he intended to place over the gravel to disperse his weight and allow him to enter through the bathroom window, which was the least accessible and the last one the detective would expect anyone to breach. Was that a bedroom window that was left invitingly open?

  Strapped to the inside of his calf he carried a hunting knife. In a specially designed pocket of his body suit, he carried several shirken, the Japanese six pointed stars which were capable of immobilizing an arm or leg, if they hit the right nerve. In a holster he carried the Tokarev with silencer. He had been impressed that the powers-that-be had been able to provide one for him. He would have preferred his Yugo but no matter. He would get the job done all the same. He had practised with it in surgical gloves which he always wore for a hit and had noted that, even with the silencer which generally weakened the recoil, it still fired a little high and to the right. This was something to which he quickly had been able to adjust. He also carried some piano wire for use as a last resort but hoped that would not be necessary. He preferred to kill from a distance; both stabbing and garrotting were much too intimate for his taste.

  He waited for the clouds to blot out the moon and then left the safety of his hiding place, making his way stealthily across the lawn, freezing as something jumped in the grass close to his right foot, then letting out a breath as he recognized one of the many toads he had observed earlier in the moonlight. No doubt about it, this was an assignment like no other. He felt almost foolish with the plank in his hand.

  Three things happened as the Croatian climbed through the window and rapidly shot four bullets into the sleeping figure: There was the sound of glass splintering upstairs followed by furious barking and then a whirring sound as a golf club came down on his firing arm.

  Burgess had spent several nights sleeping on the floor in the living room, club at the ready, running shoes on his feet. He had stuffed his bed with pillows as a decoy, taped knives behind furniture and thought he was more than ready to fight to the death. However, he had never been in the heat of battle and right at the last moment, his nerve had left him and he had been unable to deal more than a disabling blow. Realizing this crucial mistake, Burgess immediately jumped away stumbling backwards into a chair and sending it crashing to the floor. The Croatian now came at him, gun in his injured right hand, which he held across his chest with his left. But what was that in the left hand? Horrified, Burgess suddenly noticed the hunting knife as it glinted menacingly in the moonlight. His body full of adrenaline, he was terrified but determined not to give up without a fight. He continued to push furniture in front of him, throwing chairs, knives, cushions, kitchen equipment – anything to distract the killer. He raced around the wreckage of his apartment searching for a way to get the upper hand… or just escape through the front door.

  For his part, the assassin cursed his complacency. He should never have underestimated this man. Instead, he now found himself in what effectively was a cat fight in close quarters with a next to useless right arm. The detective was fit and wiry and moved much faster than he had expected. He found himself ducking and weaving as the Bermudian kept dodging around the living room throwing whatever he could get his hands on - even the kettle - in an effort to keep his attacker at bay. At one point Burgess had held him off with a chair much like a lion tamer would a lion. In the back of his mind, the assassin found the fight almost comical but he was concerned at the amount of noise they were making and the time that was passing by. This was beginning to go wrong and getting just a little tedious. He had to put an end to it all and get out fast.

  Both men were dripping with sweat in the moonlight filled apartment. Burgess could hear himself panting. His heart was pumping so furiously he thought his arteries would explode. He desperately wanted to get to the knife he had taped behind the bureau by the front door but the Croatian kept blocking his exit. Although he had had some training in disarming crazies, and had taken Tae Kwon Do classes as a boy, the detective knew he was no match for a professional and cursed his naïveté at not taking the threat more seriously. How could he have thought he could protect himself from a professional killer with only a golf club? As Burgess feinted to the left, the assassin, anticipating his quarry’s evasive action, lunged forwards slashing him across the chest with his knife. Luckily, Burgess had jumped backwards far enough for the wound to be superficial but the searing burn and the wetness on his chest, made him realize the professional had drawn first blood. How much longer before he deals me the death
blow? Burgess did his best to keep out of the man’s way, hoping against all hope for rescue. His eyes kept scanning for makeshift weapons, anything to hold this man at bay. The golf club was somewhere in the back of the apartment and the bureau, where the knife was taped, lay between the Croatian and the door. He had to make a run for the door. It was his only chance. He was also growing tired. All this activity, even in a small room, was exhausting and the pain in his chest was excruciating, the front of his shirt now soaked in blood. The Croatian did not seem to have the same problem, his movements were smooth and economical, his breathing even compared to the panting of the Bermudian. Burgess’s mind began to freeze. All he could think about was getting to the door. The Croatian, sensing this, cut off his only means of escape.

  “Come on,” he said in an Eastern European accent. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Not fuckin’ likely.” Burgess was surprised at how strong his voice sounded. Was the guy Russian? Who the hell in Bermuda could find a Russian hit man?

  “You have no chance, my friend. I will be merciful. You have fought well.”

  “Yeah, how’s the arm - friend?”

  Burgess suddenly turned his back and made a run for the bathroom. The Croatian, however, ducked towards him, hitting him in the solar plexus with his left shoulder. As Burgess doubled up in pain, the assassin circled around behind him, grabbing him in a vicious choke hold while wincing from the pain in his damaged arm. He attempted to crush Burgess’s windpipe but his injury prevented him from exerting the usual pressure on his victim, something that Burgess was unable to appreciate as first pinpricks of light appeared before his eyes and then his vision began to dim. Was that him making that high pitched gurgling sound? He sensed that this was it. The life was slowly being throttled out of him. He clawed uselessly at the assassin, his hands only finding air. They say the hearing is the last thing to go and on a subconscious level, he was aware of barking, frogs and sirens. The assassin raised his left arm preparing to plunge the knife into Burgess’s side.