“I want Cyprus watched. Send your Scotsman. Sergeant Strang, isn’t it? You’ve convinced me Tirana Queen is headed there. It’s still being tracked?”
“Yes, sir. But unfortunately we couldn’t wire it for sound. An oppo of ours on the Gib force got aboard delivering veggies. Reported it was too risky to get up to the bridge.”
“I gave up ideas of bugging Zandro in 2008. He has his home, his jet and Tirana Queen swept for bugs, though I gather the latest tracking devices can beat the sweep.” He checked his screen again. “Your friendly—Giles, isn’t it? Is he reliable?”
Ratso nodded. “Giles Mountford? Good guy. So far, sir, straight as a gunbarrel.”
“Good, good. Then we can be sure Zandro’s Gulfstream flies to Cyprus tomorrow. I’d guess he must be meeting up with his boat. I want Strang and one of the women on your team in Cyprus tonight. There are two airports, Larnaca and Paphos. Could be either. They must cover whichever airport Zandro will use and track down the Tirana Queen.”
Ratso thought for a moment. “As I recall, those airports are about fifty miles apart. I’ll get Giles to tell me which it is once Zandro files his flight plan.”
“You say heading to Cyprus is outside Zandro’s normal routine?”
“Normally, he has the vessel sent to Barbados for Christmas. He’s been there every year since 2003.”
“Oh, yes. That’s right. I was always green with envy. So this trip is not pleasure.”
“Important enough to screw up his usual Christmas routine. That’s a pointer that he’s up to something.” As he thought back, Ratso realised why he was disappointed. “But you don’t want me in Cyprus then, sir?”
“No.” The AC’s face broke into a warm smile. “I want you to sniff around Grand Bahama.” He checked the time on a clunky Sekonda watch. It had been a twenty-fifth wedding anniversary gift and it gave him a load of data he never needed. “I think there’s a BA flight to Miami after lunch. Be on it today. Susie will book it and a hotel. Stop off in Fort Lauderdale to meet that police chief.”
“Bucky Buchanan.”
“You know him?”
“No, sir but he owes me a favour or two.”
“Good. See that detective, too. Keep her in the loop. On the downside, I’ve got to inform the Feds in DC about the possible link between Bardici and Ruthven’s disappearance.” Ratso’s face screwed up, showing his concern. The AC was quick to spot it. “I can see what you’re thinking, Todd. But if you’re correct, the link is very bad news for the State Department.” For the first time during the meeting, Ratso got the finger treatment. Everybody who had a one-to-one with the AC was liable to get it at some point. The AC’s wagging finger pointed straight at Ratso’s chest, delivering the message that this was deadly serious. “So when you’re out there, do nothing to upset Washington’s low-key approach. Understood?”
Ratso’s look said he would obey orders but through gritted teeth. “Of course, sir.”
“I want you to find out everything about the Nomora. Owners, when the work will be finished, what’s happening next. Itinerary. Where the crew will come from. Maybe there’s even a master signed up.”
“I was thinking about how the Nomora was paid for, sir.”
“I like that. Link it to that solicitor in the City. One of those companies he formed.” The AC typed a note onto his computer.
“Someone will have to get aboard the Nomora to plant a tracker. Not a job for us.”
“Report back to me on how to get aboard. I’ll get the boys to do it.” Hughes looked thoughtful, rubbing his chin slowly. “No. Second thought, no tracker on board. I’ll get the boys at Vauxhall Cross on it. They can do it remotely.”
“It’s in a secure shipyard.”
Wensley Hughes stroked his smooth-shaved cheek as a sly smile played out around his lips. “Don’t underestimate your own ingenuity to get aboard if it’s essential. Lawfully, I mean—use a pretext, got it? As for the boys if we have to use them, a locked gate and a couple of guards won’t stop them. I say boys but there’s some damned brave women in that team working under the radar.”
“Anything else, sir?”
“Before you jet off for those piña coladas, get Sergeant Watson to send me a report on why he ignored your warning last night.” He paused. “And to provide a full debrief on his walk home. Because if he was not followed along Glebeside Lane and Trinity Road, then someone in your team is …” He let the unspoken words hang. “And I don’t want to think that.”
Ratso rose and shook the AC’s hand. “Me neither, sir.”
“When Watson is able to return, keep him close to base. And make him a damned sight more careful.”
“He’s learned, sir.”
“Lost any weight, has he?” For a moment, Ratso was puzzled at the question, so the AC continued. “You saw that report saying Met Police are very overweight. Those jokes about Scotland Lard or Blobby Bobbies. If the rumours are right, we’re unfit for purpose. Watson, as I recall, has the body mass of a humpback whale.”
“Unfair on the whale, sir.”
“He ought to lose weight. He might have dodged that vehicle if he’d been more nimble.”
“But how would McDonalds survive, sir?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Fort Lauderdale, Florida
Ratso had never found the drive north from Miami on I-95 to be a pleasant experience. Even by day you needed the skills and courage of an F1 driver to survive. The multi-lane highway linking Miami to the rest of the USA was always busy. Now, after a disturbed night, a tiring day and a long flight, it was distinctly unnerving. In the dark, after a squally shower, his headlights showed a constant sheen of water and sometimes blinding spray, thrown up by the thundering wheels of the huge trucks and semi-trailers. His rental car felt tiny and feeble with such awesome power speeding by.
Each driver behaved as if they’d discovered the secret of how to stop suddenly in the wet, when in truth they had no more chance than a puck on an ice rink. With constant lane-changing for the stream of exits up the eastern coast, the slightest error and carnage was just a second away—more fodder for the contingency fee attorneys who advertised on billboards, TV and the radio, all promising massive accident compensation.
Ninety minutes later, Ratso was relieved to be turning the little Nissan off I-95 rather than being carted off in an ambulance or to the morgue. He headed eastward, letting the nasal-voiced sat nav guide him to the Blue Ocean Motel. It had been a long day that had started twenty-three hours before when he had awoken in his chair at home.
But the flight had been smooth and after the economy-class meal, a vodka tonic and some red wine, he had slept soundly. When he awoke, the 747 had been only eight hundred miles from touchdown. Surprisingly refreshed, he had pulled out a scribbling pad from his black carry-on, intending to create an action plan but thoughts of his conversation with Charlene kept intruding.
After throwing a few clothes into his grip, he had called her. Looking back on it, the call had been good or bad depending on how he wanted matters left. Hell, he liked her enormously, sympathised with her hugely, fancied her something rotten. If he could be sure her only demands would be in bed, then, as his mother would have said, everything would have been just tickety-boo. But his copper’s instinct had flashed too many warnings.
Being a twenty-four-seven detective put the mockers on rose-tinted views of parenthood. Look at your mates, Ratso! Half of them are divorced or separated. But for his kids, Tosh would have been. Rare were the wives who could say, Don’t worry I know your job comes first—and really mean it. He had ended the call promising Charlene she’d be the first to know when he was back, whenever that might be. Before Christmas for sure. Christmas lunch together? If I’m not working that day.
He swigged his bottled water before putting the perplexities aside to return to his to-do list.
His top priority, besides meeting Detective Kirsty-Ann Webber and her boss Bucky Buchanan, would be assessing whatever data arrived from the IMB about the Nomora. While in the departures lounge at Heathrow, he had spoken to Bob Whewell, the director of the International Maritime Bureau in London’s Docklands. Formed over thirty years ago to fight crime at sea, the Bureau had become a treasure trove of information. On several occasions, Ratso had received valuable support when drug trafficking by ship was involved.
As the aircraft’s wheels came juddering down, he felt heartened. So many new leads had opened up. Soon, after Christmas, he could start piecing together the final strategy. Nomora was the key. Surely it had to carry Colombia’s finest from the Caribbean and collect a huge stash of heroin from Cyprus or Turkey. His dream of Boris Zandro being frogmarched from his mansion in handcuffs was interrupted by the bump, bump of touchdown and then the screaming engines, reverse thrust at full bore. Welcome to Miami and the horrors of the US Immigration system. Not that the cabin staff announced it in quite those terms.
As he finally turned into the parking lot of the Blue Ocean Motel, it was gone 11 p.m. local, 4 a.m. in London. He killed the Nissan Versa’s engine and abandoned it among a line of similar nondescript small saloons. He stood for a moment, shivering in the chill evening air, then flung his black leather jacket over his plain white T-shirt. He stretched, rubbed his tired eyes and walked stiffly to the car’s boot to retrieve his grip. But the prospect of some beers, a hotdog and a shower—in any order—brought a spring to his step as he crossed the asphalt toward the brightness of the sparse but efficient-looking lobby. Inside, he took in the desk clerk, lines of drink machines and a cash dispenser. Nobody else was checking in. Perhaps everybody was in the bar watching ESPN.
An hour later, he was seated in the bar himself. It was busy with sales reps, roadwarriors, mainly under thirty-five and mainly staring at the TV screens dotted around the soulless room. In front of him was a giant hotdog with lashings of mustard. It was ludicrously large for any normal person but no doubt the Americans around him would take such a monster in stride. As would Tosh, he told himself, briefly wondering how to tell his sergeant that the AC wanted him on a diet.
Ratso had grabbed a vacant barstool. Though basketball filled most screens, there were also a few on Fox News, talking heads without sound. Best way to listen to them, Ratso thought as he turned away. Neither programme was of the slightest interest. With these tall black guys, basketball seemed far too easy. After the third beer, he vowed to email the NBA telling them to raise the baskets.
An oaf sat down next to him, wanting to pour out his heart after a skinful. With a curt nod, Ratso picked up his beer and moved to a corner table. En route, something alerted him to a new idea—something he should have concluded a great deal sooner. Perhaps, he decided, it was simply distance giving him objectivity. As he plumped himself down on the tired red leather banquette, it was all so blindingly obvious.
No way could Tosh Watson have been targeted just from a fleeting sighting in the cemetery. Bardici’s daughter may have told her father that a copper who had interviewed Skela was skulking between the graves—assuming she dared tell him that she was being humped by his cousin. He drained the beer and signalled to the bartender for another. Tosh could never have been traced by anything Lindita had seen. Tosh hadn’t left any details with Skela after the interview. The chain of events must have started at Terry Fenwick’s office. Tosh had flashed an ID card but the print of name, rank and warrant number was so small that a casual glance would reveal nothing. Where Tosh was based was not on his ID anyway.
Had Fenwick, suspicious, gotten his PA to try a dial-back after Tosh phoned for the appointment? No. That would have revealed nothing. Then a thought struck him. He grabbed his iPad and started typing furiously as the bartender arrived with another bottle, the condensation running down it onto the absorbent mat. When the message to London had gone, he felt satisfied, confident now about what had happened. It was the only way. Now he just had to prove it. There should be a reply in the morning.
In just six hours, he would meet Bucky Buchanan, to say nothing of Kirsty-Ann Webber. He was still thinking about her as he drained the bottle and headed for his room. He peeped round the closed curtains but found himself staring at the darkened window in the next building barely twelve meters away. Despite the name, the Blue Ocean was several blocks back from the Atlantic. He might just as well have been at home in Hammersmith. At least there he got the screech of gulls from time to time.
And the cricket would have been on TV.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Fort Lauderdale, Florida
The meeting with Bucky Buchanan was cordial—an informal chat over stacks of pancakes at a fast-food joint just across from police HQ on Broward. But any secret hopes Ratso harboured of getting to meet Kirsty-Ann Webber were dashed when Bucky explained she had flown to Freeport on Grand Bahama.
Though Bucky’s pancakes disappeared at an alarming rate, along with crispy bacon, orange juice and decaf, the chief was still able to get his message across loud and clear: nobody was stopping Det. Inspector Todd Holtom from joining the dots linking Bardici to Lance Ruthven but on no account must anything like that become public. “Seen this?” Bucky handed over a Washington, DC, newspaper cutting.
Ratso got the drift from the headline alone. “I see,” he responded, taking in the spin that Ruthven had “most likely” drowned.
“The message from DC is that Ruthven must become a non-story.” The chief’s gray eyes bored uncomfortably into Ratso’s head. “You ain’t heard that from London yet?” He saw Ratso’s face break into a frown. “Then you sure will, son.” Recalling his meeting with the AC, Ratso turned away to take in the room, which seemed to contain half of Fort Lauderdale’s finest scoffing pancakes and maple syrup. “You do what you have to do. But if Ruthven’s real or false name becomes involved, you are to report to London at once. Assistant Commissioner Hughes, isn’t it?”
“I knew Wensley Hughes was speaking to the Feds yesterday. I haven’t heard what happened.”
“You will. They were very appreciative of the contact but I’d say they were crapping themselves at what you might uncover.”
Ratso tried to play dumb. “Politics involved?”
Bucky showed a full set of whitened teeth. “Right on! If this story blows back onto the State Department, Commissioner Hughes will be carpeted.” He waved his fork for emphasis. “Probably by someone in your Foreign Office or in Defense. If I’m wrong, then my name ain’t Bucky Buchanan.”
“So what is Detective Webber doing? I mean, she’s poking a hornet’s nest, surely?”
Bucky grinned. “If she found pointers, anything consistent with drowning, now would that surprise you?” He pushed aside his empty plate and ran his fingers over his en brosse gray hair.
Ratso thought he had the drift. “Look for the convenient facts only.” He saw a slight flicker in Buchanan’s eyes. “Did Ruthven enjoy snorkelling?”
“I’d bet you ten bucks to a dime that Kirsty-Ann will find someone who rented out the gear to a man fitting his description. She’s a smart kid.”
Ratso grinned. “Does that answer my question about snorkelling? Or your problem that nobody called Ruthven ever went to Grand Bahama?”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed at the reminder before he nodded respect. He left twenty dollars on the table and started to shepherd Ratso toward the exit.
“Sounds as if there’s no point in my meeting Detective Webber,” Ratso continued as they stood in the morning sun. “If I’m right, my enquiries will point the other way.”
“Heck no. You two gotta meet. She’s staying at the Double Palm at Lucaya. Kirsty-Ann knows the time of day, okay. I ain’t worried for her. No, son, it’s you I’m worried about. One snafu and your career is done. Our guys in DC will see to that.”
Ratso’s pleasure at the thought
of meeting Kirsty-Ann was immediately overshadowed by an image of another summons to the AC’s office. “I get the message.”
“Sure you do, son.” Bucky clapped him on the shoulder. “Sure you do.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Freeport, Grand Bahama Island
It was 12:40 p.m. when Ratso dumped his bags in his room at the Pelican Pointe Motel on Grand Bahama Island. As he had waited at Fort Lauderdale International, he’d spoken to Wensley Hughes on the phone. The call had been short and to the point. The UK’s Foreign Office and the US State Department had shared a mutual love-in and the brief call emphasised Bucky’s warning. “So pull me from the job,” Ratso had challenged.
That suggestion met with a sharp rebuff. “Even the Foreign Office toffs accept you must discover the truth. It’s just what we do with our knowledge that’s making them twitchy. So go ahead—prove the Shirafi to Boris Zandro connection. Prove the link between Nomora and Bardici’s visit and somehow link Bardici to Terry Fenwick.”
“And Ruthven’s murder to Bardici?”
“We can nail Bardici on something without digging up a possible crime against a US citizen on a Caribbean island. Unimportant to us but …” The transatlantic connection went quiet while Hughes picked his words carefully. “If you prove a link between Bardici and Ruthven, fine. But if you proved that Bardici slit the American’s throat, that would be too much information.”
“I understand. A snorkelling accident would be, er, suitable to you, sir?”
“I knew you would understand. Tread carefully.”
“I have some ideas.” Ratso hoped his confidence was justified.
Just over an hour later, while waiting at the Freeport carousel for his bag, Ratso had called Detective Inspector Darren Roberts.
“Hi, Darren. Yeah. Good journey. Can we meet as planned? Excellent. Jerk chicken or curried goat? That’s what you recommend? Sounds good. The food’s shit at my hotel? Now you tell me! Okay. You pick a place and I’ll be there.” He scribbled down the name and directions. Almost at once he was alerted to an incoming text. He checked it and a satisfied smile played round his lips.
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