Hard Place

by Douglas Stewart

  A burden had been lifted. But the smile faded as the wider implications became clear. Someone had indeed phoned the switchboard at Scotland Yard the afternoon of Tosh’s visit to Fenwick’s offices, asking where to contact him. So the good news was, there was no leak. But the bad news, the much worse news, was the certainty that Fenwick knew he was a suspect.

  Just like Erlis Bardici and Lance Ruthven had done about twelve days before, Ratso parked in the sprawl of the mud earth car park of the Pink Flamingo Calypso Bar. Here and there were puddles from a heavy overnight shower. There were over forty other dusty and dented saloons and SUVs filling half the parking area. Lunch trade was obviously good. He had no briefcase, nothing to make him look like a London copper or someone on a mission. He had debated wearing Bermuda shorts but had settled for a tropical blue and white T-shirt with sand-colored slacks.

  He locked the car, his head swirling with thoughts of what he could or could not say to Darren Roberts. The guy had done a great job photographing the shipyard and though Ratso had warm, comfortable memories ever since their wild night in London, Ratso’s concern was about secrecy and small islands. Maybe he was a tad paranoid but everybody on small islands seemed to know everybody else. That had been his experience in Guernsey and the Isle of Man and he doubted this Caribbean island was any different.

  Last night’s evening chill in Florida had given way to a steamy heat that sapped his energy. The lush trees that surrounded the car park increased the sultry atmosphere as the sun beat down beneath scudding dark clouds. Overwhelmed by the oppressive steaminess as he strolled slowly away from the dusty orange Datsun, Ratso’s copper’s instincts never warned him that he was within a few paces of whatever remained of Ruthven’s body, buried in the unappealing tangle of mangroves and pines.

  Having completed the walk down the footpath, he stood motionless, awestruck by the beauty of the scene that opened in front of him. To his right was the wooden cabin-come-shack from whence came noisy chatter and the smell of spicy cooking. A reggae number Ratso did not recognise was also blasting away. But in every other direction there was serenity, unspoiled views of white sand, swaying palm trees and turquoise water, with a ripple of salty white where the water lapped the shore.

  Through the maze of both black and white faces surrounding the shack, Ratso struggled to find DI Roberts among the diners seated either on the balcony or under bright red sunshades on the terraced area beside the beach. He had not seen Roberts for close on two years but Darren Roberts spotted him at once. The inspector rose to his feet and hollered with a deep, booming voice and a wave of his arm. No name—just a single “Hey, mon!”

  Unlike many of the locals, who were big, burly with gleaming muscled arms, Inspector Roberts was below average, standing only five foot nine with slim arms, toned but not bulky. He was wearing a short-sleeved purple shirt and navy flannel trousers with no sign that he was a detective, though Ratso’s paranoia warned him everybody here probably knew anyway. Ratso joined him at a table that seemed to be in a prime spot, shaded from direct sun yet with endless views of the curving bay.

  “Not a pole-dancer in sight, Darren! What kind of place do you call this?”

  The ice was immediately broken and within moments they were chatting, laughing and reminiscing about Kinky Katrina, the Nigerian dancer with thighs like a bison who had taken a shine to Darren.

  “You owe me for rescuing you from her,” prompted Ratso.

  The toothy grin appeared at once. “Ratso,” he said in his strong local accent, “I can tame her kind, two at a time. I do have them mewing like kittens.”

  Ratso punched his arm playfully. “Dream on, pal! Kinky Katrina, mewing like a kitten? You’d have been having bloody kittens, more like! One flick of her hips and your arse would have hit the ceiling.”

  The banter continued until beer and spicy chicken appeared, served by a young woman who obviously knew Darren as a regular.

  “I’ve got the IMB working on the background to Nomora. Oh and remember Tosh Watson?”

  “Big appetite, small bladder, right?”

  Ratso laughed. “He’s working to prove Zandro’s mob bought the Nomora and how it was paid for.”

  “How is Tosh?”

  Ratso briefly updated Roberts on the attempted murder but moved on to what Bardici was doing in Freeport.

  “You did say Bardici … he was a hammer?”

  Ratso was not going to get into delicate areas. “Right but we think his visit was linked to Nomora. That’s what we need to prove. Any recent deaths linked to the shipyard? Any bodies found strangled—a favored method? If Boris Zandro was ripped off during the refit, he might have sent Bardici.”

  Darren Roberts shook his head. “There were a coupla deaths last week but that was a domestic—husband he did shoot his wife and her lover while they goin’ at it like crazy. He done shot the man’s wedding gear first.” He cackled in a tee-hee-hee kind of way.

  “Or what he could see of it,” prompted Ratso and they both laughed, Darren rocking in his chair. “So the shipyards? What’s known?”

  The Bahamian shook his head. “They do repair the ships. They been done that since I was a kid. But business at this one is bad, kinda slack.”

  The comment was not lost on Ratso. “You round the quay, the docks often?”

  “Sure thing but my wife, she do work at the yard too. You got docks, you got crime. Muggings of drunken crew, smuggling, drugs, theft from ships, pilfering. Mon, we always is round them parts.”

  “So the Nomora? How long has she been there?”

  He scratched his receding curly hair and weighed his answer. “Maybe July.”

  “Seems a long time. What’s going on?”

  “You said low-key, correct?”

  “If I’m right, Nomora is going to be carrying Class A drugs. The last thing we need is for anybody to know we have the vessel under scrutiny.”

  Roberts grinned. “My wife Ida, she done work as PA to the boss, Lamon Wilson. I did ask her, not like I care. Just casual like.”

  “And?”

  “The owners they did buy the vessel cheap. They modernise it for studying seabeds and the like. But Ida, she don’t know nutting what happen on board.”

  “When is the job complete?”

  “I never done ask her. But I tell you, the work cost big bucks.” He whistled softly.

  “In sterling?”

  “In your money, over one million pounds.”

  “What!” Ratso was startled. “Either Nomora was rusted to hell and back or there’s something really big going on.”

  Darren grasped Ratso’s arm. “I got more, mon! My cousin’s son, Chuckie, he does work doin’ welding at the yard, so he and me, we done had a beer.”

  As he listened, Ratso’s paranoia about small islands intensified. “Discreet, is he?”

  “Relax, mon. We was just chilling out—me, him and his old man. And the boy, he did say that the ship, she rusted, filthy. Then, sudden-like, he did stop talking. Real sudden. Like he remember to keep the trap shut.”

  “Did you press him?” Ratso had mixed feelings when he saw the Bahamian shake his head. “Like you said, I kept it cool.”

  “You did well.” Ratso looked around and waved for two more beers. “Access to the yard?”

  “There’s a guard at the gate. For to stop the kids—they get chance, they do nick the paint, the tools.”

  “But I couldn’t get in? Or get aboard?”

  “Without permission? No way. But me? I get in easy, go sniff around. Plenty reasons.” He saw Ratso’s doubtful look. “I done go there often. The boss there, he no way suspicious.”

  Ratso felt his iPhone vibrating and checked his messages. There were four. The first was from Kirsty-Ann suggesting meeting at the Crow’s Nest bar at 5 p.m. The second was from DC Mason reporting t
he discovery of a burned-out 2004 Vauxhall Astra without plates on waste ground near Dartford on the Kent-London border. The front nearside wing was badly damaged. The last message was Tosh asking him to call urgently, very urgently. The fourth was from Jock hoping he had remembered to pack sun-oil and water-wings. He grinned momentarily before turning to Darren. “Excuse me. I must respond at once.” He accepted Kirsty-Ann’s offer and sent a text to Tosh promising to call within the hour. He wondered what had happened that was so urgent. Klodian Skela’s funeral, perhaps? Something with Terry Fenwick and Gibraltar?

  Darren waited till Ratso had pocketed his phone before continuing. “I guess you wanna know when the ship’s gonna be ready.” He tapped the side of his rather bulbous nose in a familiar gesture. “I find out, let you know.” Two more cans of Kalik Gold were delivered to the table.

  Ratso flipped his ringpull. “One more thing, Darren. I’ll send through a couple of photos. Either or both persons may have visited the yard. Show the gatekeeper and your wife, see if either recognise them.”

  “Not ask the boss at the yard?”

  Ratso shook his head. Something deep inside warned him that the yard might be involved, though he had no idea how.

  “Got names of these two guys?”

  “Not for sure, no.” Ratso put his fingers to his lips. “But keep it close, Darren.”

  “Who are they?”

  Ratso shook his head. “Persons of interest.” Ratso caught the resentful look on Darren’s face and so hurried on. “Nothing personal, mind. Just that we don’t yet know what’s going on.”

  The inspector’s face brightened. “No sweat.” He drained the last of his can, left some cash beside it and stood up. “Send me the pics soonest, mon, huh?”

  Ratso followed him down the three rickety steps from the balcony to the beach and they strolled side by side toward the cars. For a few seconds, Ratso wondered if he was letting Darren get too interested in the mission. It seemed absurd not to trust this dynamo of energy and enthusiasm. But it was a small island. The thought nagged away at his satisfaction that things were moving better.

  After promising to meet the following day, Ratso drove into town, following Darren’s directions to the Crow’s Nest bar and Kirsty-Ann Webber.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Freeport, Grand Bahama Island

  Ratso had phoned as soon as he was parked close to the Crow’s Nest. “Hi, Tosh. How’re you doing?”

  “I’m at my desk but I can’t laugh and I’m stiff as hell. How’s it going?”

  “How’s the wall?”

  Tosh’s laugh started and as quickly died. “No jokes, please, boss!”

  “So what’s so urgent at your end?”

  “One of my snouts got wind of something. Those Hogan brothers is going to do over a house in Brighton. Bankside Gardens.”

  “And why am I interested?”

  “Because there’s 30 kilos of cocaine stored there. At sixty grand per kilo, that’s a street value of, say, £1.8 million. Seems the Hogans are a bit short on gear, so they’re gonna nick this.”

  “Stealing from a rival gang? Risky.” Ratso had come across this several times before—turf wars, hijacking gear from another gang. “Could start an all-out war, lot of tit-for-tat murders. How’s it relevant?”

  “My guy only knew the address, not the owner’s name, so I checked it out. It’s a four-bedroom detached place. Upmarket. Sort of place you’d see a Mercedes outside and maybe a Toyota Land Cruiser.” Tosh paused to build the excitement. “The house is rented by an Albanian. Someone called Rudi Tare.” Ratso’s brow furrowed and he closed his eyes, deep in thought as he checked his internal database of names. “You still there, boss?”

  Ratso feigned irritation. “So you thought the Albanian connection seemed significant? Worth bothering me with? You’ve nothing more?”

  Tosh could tell his boss was now several moves ahead. This was a wind-up. “Not enough, boss? You want the size of his dick or what?”

  “Check out that dead-end we reached early on. Remember? That story about a distributor for Zandro’s network. We thought he was in Sussex, around Crawley.”

  “Oh, yeah. About seven months back?”

  “Maybe six. We met omerta but my gut reaction was that the chain went from Zandro to a lieutenant and from him to this distributor in Sussex.”

  “Terry Fenwick is from Kent.”

  Ratso was dismissive. “Fenwick somehow gets instructions from Boris Zandro … we assume. But my take is he’s the brains on companies, not part of distribution. Besides Fenwick, there has to be a big distributor. The Crawley lead was wrong but Brighton’s just thirty minutes farther south, so an Albanian down at the coast seems tasty.”

  “Rudi Tare’s place looks suitable to stash away a load of drugs. Discreet—set back behind a line of trees, with a courtyard big enough for cars to come and go without drawing attention.”

  “Posh area, then?”

  “Yeah—not Bishop’s Avenue posh but not Harlesden neither. Not a street where you live in your neighbour’s pocket. But you’re sounding more excited by this than me, boss. What gives?”

  “Here’s why.” Ratso imagined the whiteboard in the Cauldron as he spoke. “Way back, I asked Jock to watch that meeting in Tesco’s car park between Bardici and someone unknown. Bardici was in a Mazda 4x4. The other hooded guy arrived in a Ford Focus. They chatted in Bardici’s motor. When the meeting broke up, the unknown man threw away what Jock thought was a ciggie. After they’d gone, Jock found it was a piece of screwed-up paper. On it were the initials JF, with an arrow pointing to the word Tearaway.” Ratso paused to let it sink in.

  It was a few seconds before Tosh admitted defeat.

  “Tare equals Tearaway.” Ratso almost heard the clunk as the penny dropped. “Back then, we had nothing to go on: the number plate on the Focus was false and trying to suss out the letters JF was a dead-end. We never could ID the mystery man. Now we may have Tearaway identified.” Ratso watched a group of white youngsters shouting cheerfully as they bounded their way into the Crow’s Nest bar. “Could JF be Terry Fenwick’s brother? I can’t remember his first name. Anyway, when’s Hogan’s mob going to attack?”

  “Christmas Eve. About 11 p.m.” Tosh waited for the explosion and was not disappointed as Ratso broke into a torrent of abuse about inconsiderate bastards screwing up everybody’s Christmas plans. Tosh heard him out before continuing. “You’re wrong, boss. They had no intention of screwing up your plans. They don’t want or expect you around. They reckoned us lot, we’d all be wearing Santa hats and guzzling whisky and mince pies.”

  Ratso saw his point. “I’ll be back in time. Just. Tell Arthur Tennant.” Ratso stopped in mid-flow. “Oh, he’s away, isn’t he? I’ll brief the AC, then. Ask your friendly if the Hogans are going tooled up. I assume so. Danny Hogan sometimes carries a sawn-off. We’ll need the works; this could be like the St Valentine’s Day massacre.”

  “Boss, nobody else knows about this. Just you and me. So we could do nothing—just watch and move in afterward. Let these scumbags sort out their personal war. Leaves you free to sing falsetto at the midnight carol service.”

  Ratso chuckled. “You’ve heard my balls are on the line, have you?” Then he fell quiet, chewing his lower lip, weighing up the position. The idea of these thugs beating the shit out of each other had its attraction. “No, Tosh. We must intervene. That damned Osman court case—the judges ruled we cannot stand back if we can prevent a crime.”

  “Oh yeah, that crap decision about the Wood Green job. Bloody daft if you ask me. Let the ignorant shits fight it out, that’s what I say.”

  “You’re not yet the Lord Chief Justice or Prime Minister. When you are, you can change the law. Till then, we abide by it. But if Rudi Tare is Tearaway and we intervene, we’ll find laptops, money-laundering chains—name
s, dates, dozens of pay-as-you-go phones. We may get pretty damned close to the beating heart of Zandro’s empire.” He paused, savouring the prospect. “And we put the Hogans’ hit squad away for a seven-to-ten stretch for armed robbery.”

  “And we pull in 30 kilos of Class A—maybe other gear, too.”

  Ratso was barely listening now as he watched a tall, upright and slim woman with shortish blonde hair park a Toyota Corolla at precisely 5 p.m. From a distance, he placed her age as thirty, certainly no more. His spirits rose. He felt sure that the woman walking with the swivel in her hips was Kirsty-Ann Webber. He certainly hoped so. “Tosh. I got a meeting. You’ve done good. We’ll talk about Gibraltar and the London clubs tomorrow. Just one last thing.”

  “Yeah, yeah! I know, boss. I’m sure, at least I think I’m sure: a parked car did start its engine in Glebeside Lane shortly after I walked past it. But I don’t recall it passing me as I walked.”

  “You reported that to the AC?”

  “My statement went through an hour ago.”

  “That makes me feel better. Talk tomorrow.”

  Ratso got out, stretched and then walked the few meters to the beachside bar. It was less authentic than the Pink Flamingo, better painted and altogether too twee for Ratso’s taste. The Crow’s Nest was designed for tourists and as Darren Roberts had warned, so were the prices. But once again, the location was to die for and Ratso stopped to take in the sweep of the bay and the small craft that cruised or sped across the gentle swell.

  He removed his shades as he entered. Inside, he saw the blonde buying a Coke that was more ice than Coke. Up close, she seemed even taller, slimmer and more naturally blonde than his first impression. But what struck him most was the tanned complexion, not brown but lightly colored, adding warmth to her oval face. He approached the bar, introduced himself and asked for a lemon and lime. “Outside or in?” he asked her.