by Roger Hurn
Greenstick had given us hookey passports but they looked kosher. I was Brian Ridley and Carly was Kelly Broom. It helps if you keep the fake names as close to your own as possible because that way they’re easier to remember. But I wanted extra insurance so that’s why I was giving DK Kapoor a bell. DK is a local businessman and entrepreneur with fingers in more pies than you’ll find at Sainbury’s. He’s the guy who gave me my start in the private investigation business and he’s as crooked as they come, so he was just the bloke I needed.
Anyway, I arranged to buy two “off the peg” dodgy passports from him. They didn’t come cheap but, as Crispian Hunt is about as trustworthy as a banker with his hand in your wallet, I figured it could turn out to be money well spent.
The passports were delivered to the office at the last possible second by Sampson “Sammy” Oyewole. He’s a lad who plays for my old Sunday league team, All Nations United. Sammy was born and bred in Catford, but he’s of Nigerian heritage and tries — and fails miserably — to talk like a gangsta from East LA. He thinks he’s a top footballer but in fact he’s like a card player who can do the tricks but can’t be arsed to learn how to play any proper games. Still, that’s his loss. As it happens, All Nations United is bankrolled by DK Kapoor. He likes to have hard young geezers like Sammy at his beck and call.
Sammy smirked and flicked his fingers when he saw Carly standing there with her little suitcase, all ready to go.
‘Hey man, does yo’ missus know who you taking wid you ta Spain?’
I smiled at him. ‘Possibly not, Sammy. But, more to the point, does your mum know you’ve been kicked out of the All Nations first team squad so there’s no reason why you can’t go to church with her and your granny on Sundays now?’
Sammy scowled and sucked his teeth. He tossed the package with the passports over to me and snatched the cash I gave him. He spun on his heel to stalk out but when he got to the door he turned back and said, ‘Promise you won’t tell her, man?’
I nodded. ‘You got it, Sam. My lips are sealed – as long as you stay schtum.’
He gave me a clenched fist salute and was gone.
Well, thanks to Sammy’s late arrival with the backup passports, we now had a mad scramble to get down to Gatwick. But, although Carly gave me grief the whole way about them being useless (I was Peter Frame, a 40 year old from Leeds and she was Cynthia Catchpole, a 25 year old from Barnsley), as well as a stupid waste of money and time, we managed to catch the last flight of the day to Malaga.
A couple of bottles of Chateau EasyJet helped improve her mood and, by the time we touched down, she was acting like we were going on holiday together. We weren’t, we were working. But then there is that saying about all work and no play, so I didn’t discourage her. I mean you never know your luck, do you? I did know mine and it’s nothing to write home about, but I live in hope that one day it’ll change for the better.
We picked up our hire car and drove for about 50 minutes down the coast road to Puerto Banus. We had a room reservation at the Hotel Pyr. It was what they call a “value” hotel but it was clean and comfortable so I wasn’t complaining. In fact, my heart was thumping with excitement as we rode up in the lift. I know I should have been focused on getting some shut eye so I’d be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning, but I had other things on my mind.
After three failed attempts on my part to open the door to our room with the electronic key card, Carly sighed, took it off me and opened it on her first go. Women are good at that fiddly stuff — I don’t know why but they are. Anyway, I nearly tripped over my case in my eagerness to get in, but I think I recovered myself without looking too much of a prat and went and sat on one of the twin beds.
James Bond eat your heart out, I thought as I grinned at her and said, ‘Hey, come on in. The bedroom’s lovely — and so is the bed.’
Carly gave me an unreadable look. Then she marched across the room, dumped her case on the other bed, put her hands on her hips and looked at me. ‘In your dreams,’ was all she said.
In fact, I didn’t dream much at all that night. The physical reality of Carly lying two feet away in the next bed wearing only her T-shirt and knickers had the same effect on my system as mainlining caffeine. But, judging by her gentle and regular breathing, I don’t think lying next to me was doing that to her. This was a bit disheartening, but I reckoned that I’d have time to work on that over the next few days. I was sure that sun, sangria, and the old Ryan Kyd charm would work wonders on Carly’s libido. Yeah right. Remind me never to go into the fortune telling business — I’d starve.
The next morning while we were sitting eating breakfast — well, I was slurping down black coffee in an attempt to keep awake while Carly was laying waste to the international buffet — I had a brainwave.
I’d remembered that Graham Duggan, a bloke from Special Branch who I’d worked with on my first ever night op., had retired from the job and was living in a villa in the hills above Marbella. I made a couple of calls and got his number, and then I gave him a bell. As I suspected, he was bored out of his crust and was only too keen to meet up with me and Carly. We arranged to get together with him at a bar called Patrick’s 19th Hole right on the Marina.
I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Puerto Banus, but it’s a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde place. It used to be the best kept secret of the rich and famous but it’s gone down the pan ever since the z-list celebs of reality TV discovered it. Now you can hardly move for projectile vomiting stag and hen parties, “looky looky” men offering to sell you cheap tat, and hookers from every country under the sun trying to get you to go into the tacky bars and clubs in the streets behind the marina.
Having said that, the marina itself is still chock-a-block with yachts so expensive they’d have made King Croesus’ eyes water. Mind you, I’m no expert. My experience of boats is limited to going on a pedalo down at Margate, so anything with a mast is an improvement for me.
As we strolled along the front line Carly was working overtime not to be impressed. There were shops whose whole window display consisted of three items artfully arranged on velvet cushions, but with no price tags. The truth was, if you needed to ask how much those things cost, you couldn’t afford them. But when we passed a shop selling designer shoes, it all got too much even for Carly’s studied indifference. She stared at the Jimmy Choo’s in the way I wished she’d stare at me. But then I’m not a couple of bits of fancy leather hand-stitched by some kid in a sweatshop in Asia. Hey, don’t go thinking that I’m bitter or jealous or anything because I’m not. It’s just that it bugs me when people get their priorities all wrong.
Anyway, Carly has got the kind of pins that would make a pair of flip flops from Tesco look like a million dollars, so I knew she was imagining what kind of stir she’d make walking around Puerto Banus in a pair of those shoes from the window. I hurried her on before some passing multi-millionaire decided to help her find out.
Chapter 5
Graham was already sitting at a table outside the bar when we arrived. He was a heavy-set guy in his late fifties. His thinning hair was swept back from his forehead and he was beginning to develop that leathery look that northern Europeans get when they spend too long in the Spanish sun. He and I shook hands but he only had eyes for Carly.
We ordered coffee and made small talk about the flash gits who drove their powerful sports cars up and down the strip and the bling-covered, silicone-enhanced women who tottered by on impossibly high heels. It was a great place for people watching but I figured we’d have to watch for a hell of a long time before Constantin Stere came wandering by, so I asked Graham for his advice on how we might nab him.
He took a sip of his café con leche and appeared to give my question some thought.
‘You say this bloke is a bit of a one for the ladies, right?’
‘You’d better believe it, Graham. The dossier we’ve been given says he’s a pushover for young blonde beauties and he’s a regular user of escorts and mas
seurs who specialise in “happy endings”.’
Graham rubbed his chin. ‘Is he now? Well, I think I may be able to help you.’ He treated Carly to a cheesy grin. ‘Though I’m afraid what I’m about to suggest involves you my dear and I really hope you won’t take offence.’
Carly looked at him with just the hint of a smile on her lips. ‘Oh, I hang out with Ryan a lot so I’m pretty much immune to taking offence.’
Graham nodded uncertainly. ‘Ah, good…good. Well, the thing is I’m chummy with Sandy Gosling, the editor of Euro Weekly. It’s an English language free-sheet that’s pretty widely read here on the Costas. Sandy’s always banging on about how it’s got over half a million readers — though how true that is I wouldn’t like to say. But the point is, Sandy is a golfing buddy of mine and I’m pretty sure I can persuade him to put a fake advert with a photo in the triple X classifieds offering your services as a high class whore.’
Carly raised her eyebrows and said in a voice so sarcastic it could have peeled an orange. ‘Oh, how exciting, Graham! Thank you. I’ve always dreamed of being a high class whore.’
Graham suddenly became flustered.
‘Err…pardon my French, my dear. But Sandy will give you top billing and, with your looks, chummy is bound to come calling.’
I nodded my approval. ‘Yeah, don’t be so sensitive, Carly. It sounds like a plan to me. All we need to do is take a snap of you looking hot in your bikini, put it in the paper with a contact phone number and sit back and wait.’
But somehow Carly didn’t seem as sold on the idea as Graham and I.
‘Yeah and how are we gonna know which of the punters who phones is Stere? Or do you expect me to give them all “happy endings” until the right guy finally shows?’
I shook my head. ‘Of course not. Look, we can rule out all those callers who don’t have an eastern European accent. Then I’ll screen the punters who do turn up. If they’re not our boy I’ll step in and tell them to piss off. Then, when Stere does put in an appearance, we’ll be the ones getting the happy ending — not him.’
After more to-ing and fro-ing she finally agreed, but she made Graham wait downstairs in the hotel lobby while I went up with her to the bedroom to take her glamour shot. The bloke looked like a kid who’d just been told that Santa won’t be bringing him that big, shiny present he’d been begging for. I knew how he felt.
Funnily enough, Carly wasn’t difficult when I went all David Bailey and started snapping her. In fact, she seemed to really get into the whole sex siren role, but I had a horrible feeling she was just enjoying winding me up. Still, window shopping can be fun even if you haven’t a hope in hell of ever getting your hands on the goodies on offer.
When Graham saw the photo I thought he was going to have a heart attack. Instead he bought us all a beer and showed us a copy of Euro Weekly. The XXX classifieds fairly sizzled off the page and we based our ad on them. After a hell of a lot of giggling on Carly’s part we came up with this gem:
I’m Carly, the dirty blonde English rose of your most intimate fantasies. I’m 19 and beautiful with large firm breasts, a naughty ripe mouth and a gorgeous curvaceous body. I can’t wait to enjoy intense sex without limits with you. I offer complete discretion and pure pleasure. Call me.
When we were satisfied it was sleazy enough, Carly sashayed off to powder her nose. As soon as she was out of earshot, Graham mopped his brow and said, ‘Well, I don’t know what effect that’s going to have on your quarry, Ryan, but by god, it’s had an effect on me. And I thought I was well past all that sort of nonsense.’
Then he got up. ‘Tell, Carly I said goodbye,’ he said as he took the photo and the copy for the paper, ‘but I’m going before I make a complete prat of myself.’
Chapter 6
Our advert was due to appear in Euro Weekly a couple of days later so we spent the intervening time checking out likely clubs, but we’d found absolutely no trace of Constantin Stere in any of them.
During the course of our travels up and down the 340 Costa, Carly yakked on about her mum, her mates and music I’d never heard of. Whilst I, on the other hand, talked entertainingly, and not at all boringly, about my old Sunday league football club, why Arsenal are a top team, and my time in the DPG. But Carly didn’t talk about boyfriends and I didn’t talk about my missus. It was a kind of unspoken agreement.
There were also times when we didn’t talk about anything and that was good too. It was a comfortable silence, not an awkward one. Of course, we still bickered and sparred with each other about everything under the sun, but that was par for the course. Then, early one evening, just as we were leaving a hostess club called Scandalo, she asked me the big question.
‘Hey, Ry, do you think Greenstick and Crispian really don’t know what it is this Constantin Stere guy is selling?’
I shook my head. ‘Not a chance. They know exactly what it is but they’d rather have someone stick red hot needles in their eyes than tell us.’
‘So it’s gotta be something really bad then?’
‘Yep, I reckon so. The boffins at Porton Down don’t spend their days dreaming up new recipes for cupcakes. Stuff goes on down there that not even the government knows about.’
Carly shot me a glance. ‘Whoa, hold up Ryan! You’re starting to sound like a conspiracy theorist.’
‘You reckon? Listen hun, it’s not me saying it. It was the guy who was Chairman of the House of Commons Defence Select Committee and he’s certainly not some swivel-eyed, tin-foil-hat-wearing loony.’
Carly shivered even though it was a warm evening. ‘So why aren’t they telling us?’
I shrugged. ‘Because if we knew what it was, we probably wouldn’t touch this job with a barge pole.’
‘So why are we then?’
I looked at her and smiled sadly. ‘You know why. We don’t have any choice in the matter. But at least this way we can plead ignorance and do what we’ve got to do with a clear conscience. It’s like my old nan used to say, “What you don’t know can’t hurt you”.’
Carly eyed me sceptically. ‘Did she really say that?’
‘Yeah, she did, but then she died when a train hit her. She didn’t know it was coming!’
Carly did a double take. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah, really!’ Then I laughed. ‘Hey, kid, you’re so gullible it’s like shooting fish in a barrel!’
Suddenly her face flushed with anger and she snarled, ‘Yeah, I must be to be stuck on a wild goose chase with a guy who only ever talks about football and what a hot shot he was when he stood around in Downing Street scratching his arse and making the tea. Jeez, Ryan, are you on a mission to bore me to death?’
She said it with such venom that my face fell. Then she giggled and slapped her fingers together. ‘Hey, fish, consider yourself well and truly shot.’
I grinned back at her with relief flooding through my veins, but before I could think up a snappy reply, my phone rang. We’d hooked our first punter.
The bloke had a thick brummie accent so, using my amazing powers of deduction, I ruled him out. But from then on the phone kept ringing nonstop. I had no idea of just how many desperate blokes there are out there who want to pluck a dirty English rose. Carly was loving it though.
‘Hey, Ry, if I ever get tired of being your associate, I can make a bloody fortune doing this game.’ She winked at me. ‘And if you keep droning on about football that may be sooner than you think.’
Now football is the love of my life but I figured that, for the duration at least, it was going to have to be the love that dare not speak its name. That would be tough, but it was a sacrifice I was prepared to make. Anyway, things were really hotting up and there was no time to chat about anything other than her would-be suitors.
This is how we played it. When Carly got a caller whose accent fitted the bill she’d say in a voice that was all husky and posh, ‘Hey, that’s such a cute accent, it’s really turning me on. What is it and where are you from?’
Yea
h, I know it was well cheesy and I hold my hand up because it was my idea, but it worked like a charm. For the next three nights, the bars at the swankiest hotels in Puerto Banus must have been crammed with Russians, Poles, Germans, Finns and Swedes all holding roses and expecting to meet up with our Carly. Sadly for them, they were doomed to disappointment. But then on the fourth day, we hit paydirt. There’s only one Moldovan, as we almost sing at the Emirates Stadium, and he was on the line and hot to trot!
Chapter 7
Carly arranged to hook up with Stere in the bar at the Pyr. She was perched on a stool sipping a cocktail and looking fabulous when our lad walked in. She hadn’t noticed him but I had. He was standing staring at her like a glutton in a cream pie factory. He couldn’t believe his luck. Carly was actually even more stunning in the flesh than in her photo. The phrase “sex on legs” could have been coined just for her.
Carly glanced across the room and Stere gave her a shy little wave. She opened her mouth slightly and then a slow smile lit up her face. It was so hot I could almost hear the ice melting in the ice bucket on the bar. Then she waved back in a way that was the dictionary definition of coquettish. He swallowed hard, straightened an imaginary tie and then made as if to join her. But at that moment his mobile rang. He glared at the screen but answered the call. Conflicting emotions fought for supremacy across his face and then he nodded, cut the call abruptly and walked over to Carly, looking like a man who’d stumbled on the gates of paradise only to find that they’re shut until further notice.
Stere had a brief conversation with Carly and then pulled out a pen and scribbled something onto a coaster and handed it to her. She glanced at it, smiled and nodded. Stere kissed her rather formally on both cheeks and then turned and hurried away. He couldn’t help but keep glancing back at her as he went though, and, as a consequence, he bashed into a fat German couple. They weren’t best pleased and Stere became flustered but Carly smiled sweetly at him and waved again. He beamed and waved back, the irate Germans totally forgotten.
