Hard Place

by Douglas Stewart

  Ratso enjoyed the chance of a wind-up. “Good exercise, though, standing here. Keep moving your legs. Stand on tiptoes and back again.” Their immediate neighbours grinned and the Aussie was obviously debating whether to make a dig about Tosh’s waistline when the driver came back on.

  “Sorry, ladies and gentlemen. The District Line controller says we’re to stay on the train. Maybe twenty minutes.”

  “Pity. I fancied walking. There’s rats down there the size of cats.” In the near silence, those close by looked toward Ratso, ahead higher than everyone around him. The women and even some men looked uncomfortable at the thought.

  “You’d eat them an’ all,” added Tosh, enjoying the attention.

  Ratso grinned from ear to ear. “Nothing like a bit of rat, eaten raw. Maybe a dash of Worcester sauce.”

  The Aussie laughed and several others joined in, enjoying the banter that kept their minds off the mounting sense of claustrophobia in the packed carriage. Had it been a blazing hot August day, the panic factor would have been ten times higher. “You think he’s joking,” Tosh said.

  “Only about the Worcester sauce. Rat tartare. Goes down a treat.”

  “Will you shut up?” The sharp interruption came from a woman in her early thirties, with disapproving eyes set behind severe glasses and an accent from one of the finest finishing schools. Her glare showed her contempt but Ratso gave her what he thought was a sexy wink, forcing her to look away and then return to her Guardian. Tosh caught Ratso’s eye and said nothing. Fortunately, the driver came on soon after.

  “Better news. We’ll be on the move in two minutes.” And they were. The relieved passengers settled down into silence again.

  At Embankment, Ratso and Tosh changed to the Northern Line. Between the two platforms, Tosh regaled Ratso with more details of his meeting. “Not the shyster type you see down the Old Bailey or Southwark Crown Court. Fenwick’s more like an accountant. About fifty. Quiet voice, shrewd face. Mean with words. Almost like a Gestapo officer in a movie. Calculating.”

  “If he’s so clever, you sure he didn’t rumble you?” Ratso was worried, not just about Tosh’s cheerful optimism but because even a company lawyer like Fenwick might know that crime prevention for a Lime Street address was the role of the City of London police.

  Tosh was adamant. “No. He fell for the cover story. I gave him some spiel about a gang targeting professionals to launder money on the pretext they were buying a chain of motels. He said he’d never been approached but would alert us if he was. I also lobbed in some crap about a spate of break-ins—a gang nicking computers. Fenwick said he was pretty safe, showed me his security system. Plus he’s one floor up, so a ladder in Lime Street is the only other way in. He said they kept little cash on the premises but I warned him that laptops, iPads, computer chips and techie things were the hot targets.”

  “What took you so long?”

  “Ah!” Tosh tapped the side of his nose. “I saw a brass plate for some accountants above Fenwick. I visited them too, just in case Fenwick was suspicious.”

  Ratso was surprised. “Good thinking. Anything else at Fenwick’s place?”

  They descended the escalator, Ratso noticing he had a missed call. Tosh looked uncomfortable. For a moment, Ratso was concerned but it was just Tosh’s bladder sending urgent messages. “The offices were pretty dull. Low-key. Cheap carpeting, no magazines. Not even a Financial Times. Just four rooms off the reception. One PA for the three fee-earners and the girl on reception.” He paused to think. “As we knew, there’s Terry, his brother Adrian and a young woman partner called Lynda Dorwood. Adrian was out but I glimpsed Lynda—she’s about thirty. No artworks. Just the bog-standard legal prints on the walls. Practical furniture, rather old and faded but the computers in reception and Fenwick’s office were the real deal.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No other clients. Just the list of companies with a registered office. Shall we go through them tonight?”

  Ratso checked his watch and shook his head. “It’ll keep overnight. I’ve cricket nets at Shepherd’s Bush. I’ll just shift some crap from my desk and then be off. Anyway, Jock’s back tomorrow. My office—nine thirty before meeting in the Cauldron.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Clapham, South London

  Ratso had spoken to Charlene the previous evening after nets. She sounded miffed that he had not been to see her. But her bombardment of text messages made him uneasy. He had no wish to become her permanent crutch. He had calmed her with a promise never to leave her side during the funeral and wake but had added that he would not be staying overnight. “With your sister back, you’ve no need for me. Stay strong.” He had ended the call to the sound of her blown kiss.

  Afterward, his thoughts were only of the cryptic message that had hit his Blackberry yesterday afternoon, at 3:20 p.m. to be precise, when he and Tosh were on the Underground heading toward Lime Street. It had been from Klodian Skela and had been just a few words: Erlis go there about boat. No more. Ratso had scribbled the words on his pad. After the meeting with Tosh and Jock, he would pay Skela another visit.

  A boat? A rich man’s toy, like you see at Monaco or Puerto Banus—seventy meters long at a million dollars a meter? A floating gin palace like Roman Abramovich might own? Or did Skela mean a ship?

  He had to press Skela for more details. Bardici would hardly fly to the Bahamas to talk about a fishing boat. So it had to be flashy or commercial. Bardici would not want a gin palace for himself, nor could he afford one. Zandro already had the Tirana Queen moored at Gibraltar or somewhere on the French Riviera. Would he want another eighty-million-pound gleaming white hulk that shouted I am so stinking rich I can afford two? Maybe. But if Zandro wanted to buy one, he would go himself.

  Ratso had breakfasted early on Cheerios and fruit but as the milk had turned, the cereal he ate dry and the coffee he drank black. The machine coffee now in front of him seemed unusually welcome as he flicked through his latest messages. Nothing new from Skela. He checked the time on his screen and saw it was coming up to seven. He hit the webpage for London area news to see what had been happening around the city overnight.

  Below the national news items he saw that the trial of a rapist was about to start at the Old Bailey, there had been a double stabbing in Walthamstow and a shooting in Camberwell. He sometimes wondered why he bothered reading this stuff; the stories would be the same tomorrow and the next day. Same crimes, different locations.

  He was about to turn to the cricket pages when he caught the headline Tube Incident: Victim Named. Immediately, his mind flashed back to the previous afternoon. He opened the page. He didn’t take in the details, not at first anyway. All he saw was the name Klodian Skela. His eyes went in and out of focus and for several long seconds he stared at the screen, not taking anything in at all. Klodian Skela, aged thirty-eight, of Chiswick. Pronounced dead at the scene. The female driver being treated for shock.

  At 9:30 a.m. Tosh and Jock arrived together and over filled his office. After politely but impatiently listening to Jock’s news from Glasgow, Ratso told them of Skela’s death. But Jock wasn’t ready to work just yet. “Heh, get this. I meant to tell ye. Last month after Poppy Day, I went into Arthur Tennant’s office. Ye’ll never guess what the mean bastard was doing!”

  “Using a teabag for the fourth time?” suggested Tosh.

  “Go on, then,” said Ratso, always happy to hear the latest shit about his boss.

  “He wis only putting his poppy in a wee box to keep for next year.” The listeners laughed. Tennant’s mean streak was the stuff of legend. When he had been based in Eltham, his nickname was Crime—because Crime never paid.

  “Probably been using it for years,” Tosh summed it up neatly.

  Ratso got them back on message with a decisive chop of the hand. “Right, then. Skela. I checked with Transport for Lon
don. Time of incident, 4:47 p.m.”

  “So that was after I met Terry Fenwick,” suggested Tosh, already anxious to avoid any blame.

  Ratso nodded reassurance. “If Fenwick is connected to Zandro. If Fenwick had smelled a rat.” He almost smiled as he used the word. “If he had acted at once, there was still no time for him to warn Zandro to get his lieutenants to tell Bardici to scare the crap out of Skela.”

  “Even if Fenwick was suspicious,” Tosh added, over-hastily, “which he was not.”

  “So you said.” Ratso watched Tosh pull a Mars bar from his cardigan pocket. The chocolate was cracked and the bar squashed but Tosh’s enthusiasm for it was not dampened as he took a huge bite. “Either Skela’s wife Rosafa was after him, or Bardici, or both. Whatever, he just couldn’t cope.”

  Jock looked pensive. “Ye hadna spoken to his wife?”

  Ratso shook his head firmly. “No. I preferred to keep the threat hanging.”

  Jock looked thoughtful, his steely eyes staring at nothing in particular. “I’m no saying this is what happened. I’m just playing devil’s advocate. If Fenwick was suspicious when Tosh fixed the appointment, then Bardici might have been tipped off in time to intimidate Skela.” After being back in Glasgow, Jock’s accent was more pronounced than ever.

  Ratso was not convinced. “Why should Tosh phoning about crime prevention trigger an alarm?” He saw that Tosh looked especially relieved at hearing this. “For now, we assume it was general pressure that drove Skela to jump.”

  “He wasna pushed?” suggested Jock, showing teeth somewhat misshapen from his days of pipe smoking, a habit he had kicked seven years before.

  “I checked. The poor woman driving the train was pretty cut up. She collapsed in the cab. But she was sure: Skela was alone near the end of the platform. Simply dived across the rails.”

  “Whit aboot Lindita, his daughter? Would she be blackmailing him?” Jock’s Glaswegian hung for a moment as the listeners thought it through. Before Ratso could comment, Tosh responded.

  “Get real, guys! His daughter was no prisoner. Not like the kid kept in a cellar for twenty-four years by that Austrian pervert.” Tosh lobbed the Mars wrapper into the dark green bin. “Lindita was gagging for it. Know what I mean?”

  Ratso nodded. “You’re right. She didn’t live with her folks; just came round for dinner and nookie when her mum was away. Would she have put the screws on him?”

  “Maybe it’s sort of the done thing in Albania.” He saw Ratso’s dismissive look and Jock’s smirk. “Shagging your kids—it can be legal in Belgium. Just the thing after moules and chips down Ostende. Lots of other countries too, like Turkey. It’s legal. Different sort of stuffing there, that’s all!” He was rewarded with a wry look from Ratso and a barking laugh from Jock. “So maybe that’s what they do in Albania when they’re not out shooting each other and dealing drugs.”

  “You’re a sad, sick bastard, Tosh. Don’t let’s go there.” Ratso turned a page in his notepad. “Tosh, you interview Lindita. I reckon Skela was shit-scared of his wife; see if Lindita knows what drove him to it. See her on her own, mind. We never told her why we were interviewing her father. ’Course, we’ve no clue what he said to her later.”

  “And Mrs Skela?”

  “Question her too but tread carefully.” Ratso clasped his hands behind his head and stared at the cobweb in the corner of the ceiling as if seeking inspiration, like Robert the Bruce in his cave. Suddenly, he leaned forward and flattened his fingers on the table. “No. Scrub everything. We keep out of it for now. That block is too full of Albanians.”

  “Aye,” Jock agreed. “Bardici, Zandro, whoever—they’ve got to believe Skela’s death is being treated as routine.”

  “Tosh, check with the coroner’s officers. See what they’ve discovered.”

  Tosh looked disappointed at his change of assignment. “You ask me, the kid won’t have mentioned our visit to her mum or the coroner’s officer.”

  Ratso nodded, anxious to move on. He tapped his notes impatiently. “Item two. Take a listen. Skela’s last message—he left it about ninety minutes before he jumped.” He played back the dead man’s words. Erlis go there about boat. No more. The broken English hung over them till Ratso continued, “I was going to ask Skela today what he understood by the word boat.”

  “Those words, no more,” Jock repeated them. “I’d say it either means Bardici was only there about a boat and nothing more …”

  Ratso finished the alternative. “… Or no more help. Because he was pissed off with me … or with life.” Both sergeants nodded in agreement.

  Jock leaned forward, hands clasped under his chin. “Boss, let me check out the Grand Bahama scene.”

  “If you think you’re flying out tonight with your waterwings and sun oil, think again.”

  “Wi’ my rugged charm, I dinna need a tan to pull the birds.” This was a dig at Ratso, who enjoyed a touch of bronzing. They all laughed. “Anyway, boss, hot sun and me are a no-no. Give me Copland Road, a Rangers home win and a fish supper any day.” His eyes showed he was momentarily living the thought. “No, I was actually thinking of using the Web.”

  “Agreed.” Ratso was moving on. “Got your pics, Tosh?”

  The sergeant pulled two photos from his folder and laid them on the desk. The first was the list of company names, each on a small plastic plate slotted into a board. “I had the photo of Fenwick enhanced for the surveillance boys.” The second photo showed Terry Fenwick seated at his desk, his right arm pointing across the room.

  Ratso produced the picture from the DVLA in Swansea. “Here’s the one on his driving licence. Taken three years ago but looks very similar. Anonymous-looking bugger, isn’t he?” added Ratso, taking in the regular but thin features, the half-frame glasses low on the man’s nose, the traditional short back and sides and the smooth, well-shaven cheeks. “Height? Build?”

  Tosh laughed. “Medium height. Medium build. As you say, anonymous. Say five ten. Not thin. Not fat. Not burly. Just average. Aged fifty-seven, according to Swansea. That surprised me.”

  “The quick blast of surveillance gave us a taster. Now let’s go in depth. Get Google images of his home in Bickley. Get its value, the outstanding mortgage. Family circumstances. The usual.” The listeners knew there was more coming. “But I’m more interested in what he does during office hours. Surveillance morning and evening was pretty damned dull.”

  Tosh leaned forward as he spoke. “You ask me, he sits at his desk and makes money.”

  “Maybe. Let’s see how many clients come and go. Photo them too.”

  “Use the O.P.?”

  “Not a good street for that. I don’t want to overuse it, anyway. Try and fix an office opposite.”

  Jock looked pensive. “Expecting Boris Zandro to drop in for a wee chat and coffee with Fenwick? Get real. Wensley Hughes would have got that years ago, when Zandro was under constant observation.”

  Ratso snapped his fingers. “You’re right! Never once was Zandro near Lime Street.” He looked down at the list of company names. A quick glance showed maybe fifty names. But as Ratso knew already, there were more—probably many, many more where Arkwright, Fenwick and Stubbs were involved but with a registered office in the BVI, Isle of Man, Jersey, or Gibraltar. “You studied the names yet, Tosh?”

  “Meant nothing to me.”

  Ratso and Jock leaned over the photo and looked at each name in turn. Nothing jumped off the paper. No Albanian names. Nothing that linked in with Zandro or his address. They looked random, almost computer-generated. Anonymous like the thin-faced solicitor with the forgettable features. The typical city gent on the 8-17 from Bickley.

  Tosh rose. “Sorry, boss. I need a leak. But the names, they’re meaningless. Right?” He got no reaction from Ratso, who was deep in thought, his brow furrowed. Tosh scurried out as Jock
stretched out a hefty fist and picked up the list. He too admitted defeat after a second read-through. It was only when he handed the photo back to Ratso that something finally sparked.

  Ratso’s eyes widened as he looked down the list. Suddenly he jumped up, punching the air. “I got it! I got it!”

  “Explain, boss.”

  “I was looking for anagrams. But it’s easier than that. Three are a dead giveaway.”

  “All yer hours on the Daily Mail crosswords. Time well spent.” Ratso was unsure whether Jock was taking the piss or not.

  Ratso grabbed his pen and pointed to three names, then read them out. “Etro, Oulsden and Egent.”

  Jock looked puzzled. “Say it quickly and it could be a lawfirm.”

  Ratso’s eyes disagreed. “Oh! I missed another one. Onduit Investments Limited.”

  “Come on, boss. Give.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Clapham, South London

  After Tosh returned, Ratso suggested they all pop round to Caffé Nero to top up Tosh’s bladder and keep his urinary tract in regular order. While Jock and Tosh grabbed the only spare table, Ratso stood in a long line for the coffees. “You’d never think there was a recession,” grumbled Ratso to a total stranger. “Always the same. Every time you blink, there’s another coffee shop open and they’re always full.”

  “Yeah, in my next life, I’m coming back as the guy who started all this in Seattle. You need a second mortgage just for an espresso and a muffin.”

  “These places breed quicker than rabbits,” Ratso agreed as he handed over his money to the young Polish girl behind the counter. “I’m told you can still visit the daddy of them all—the first ever Starbucks in Pike Place Market, Seattle. I expect our American cousins would say, It’s kinda neat.” Ratso collected his tray with three coffees and muffins for the sergeants.