He was wrong; if she told anyone they wouldn’t believe her in a million years.
‘How can I help you?’ he asked.
He was the only chance she had, so Rio put aside his deadly history and ran him through her dilemma with Samson.
‘ . . . But I need it to stay within the law,’ she finished.
‘Surely your need is to get this young man as quickly as possible.’
‘I might be suspended, but that doesn’t mean I have to start behaving like some out-of-control gangster.’
He frowned. ‘Tell me the name of the owner of the casino where this Samson Larkin started behaving so badly.’
Rio pulled herself up and swung her legs to the side to face Zidane. ‘A Mr Popescu.’
‘Ah, yes.’ He pulled himself up and called out a name.
One of the men, who had bundled Rio into the boot of the car, appeared. They spoke rapidly in a language Rio didn’t understand. The man disappeared and came back with a mobile phone and a bottle of pills. Zidane swallowed two pills before taking the phone. He tapped in a number and started conversing quickly in Turkish. Less than five minutes later he was finished.
‘Well that was easy,’ he told Rio, lying back down.
‘What did you do?’
‘Mr Popescu agreed to drop all of the charges. He’s been wanting to do some business with me for a little while—’
‘Business?’ Rio was horrified. ‘I said nothing illegal—’
‘Just some oranges, Detective Inspector. As I said earlier my groves have an exemplary reputation on the island, but I usually give most of the produce to the neighbouring villagers for free. Popescu has wanted to have a delivery for a long time. For his wife.’
‘So what happens next?’
His voice sounded sleepy. ‘Mr Larkin will be released at precisely nine tomorrow morning.’
Rio thought of the hitman probably still lurking in the shadows ready to pounce on Nikki. She didn’t have time to sit around in Cyprus until another day dawned.
‘Can’t you get him out of there today?’
Zidane’s voice was slow and breezy. ‘Island life is much more relaxed and slow compared to London. Getting this Samson released tomorrow is considered quite fast by Northern Cyprus standards. Take this time to enjoy my hospitality.’
A plan stared forming in Rio’s head. ‘OK. Can I take your two men with me when I pick him up? I need them to help me with a little job.’
forty-six
The Hit: Day 5
9:00 a.m.
The next morning Rio waited outside the main entrance to the prison knowing she only had today and tomorrow to make sure Nikki was safe. She’d made a promise to the girl to get the job done in four days and by God she was going to keep it. Samson Larkin emerged, directing all her thoughts on to him, carrying a handful of possessions. Zidane’s two heavies were in a new hire car in a street, a half a mile away, parked outside a café.
Samson Larkin grinned as he swaggered towards her. ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mizz Wray with the magic touch. How did you swing it so I got out?’
‘That you don’t need to know,’ Rio replied, noticing that the damage done to his face was fading fast. ‘This better be worth all the effort I’ve put in.’
His grin widened. But he made no response, so Rio ploughed on. ‘I’m taking you to a café where you had better start talking.’
The café was one of those that catered to British tourists, advertising different types of English breakfast. Before she went in, Rio checked that the car with one of Zidane’s men stationed in it was where it was meant to be. The place was sunlit and empty. Rio chose a table in the middle of the room, but Samson stopped, pointing a finger at a table set in the corner. ‘I like to make sure I can see who comes through the door,’ was what he said by way of an explanation.
Rio shrugged; she didn’t have a problem with that.
Samson grabbed his menu as soon as they sat down. ‘Fancy something continental.’
‘Thought you’d be after an old-fashioned fry-up.’
He patted his waist. ‘A man has got to stay fit, especially when he’s not sure what’s around the corner.’
Before Rio could reply a balding, middle-aged man – who Rio assumed was the owner – came and took their order. She didn’t need anything but a strong cup of coffee and Samson went for a flaky pastry cheese twist and homemade lemonade.
‘You were saying, about the raid on the Bells’ home . . .’
Samson ruffled his lips like a naughty school kid. ‘Can’t a man eat—?’
‘Speak.’
He huffed and leaned his forearms on the table. ‘Uncle Gazza and his crew never done raid number six.’
Rio had not been expecting that. She looked at him stunned. ‘Are you saying that you have information to show the Greenbelt Gang—’
‘The first five Greenbelt jobs were done by my Uncle Gazza and three blokes he knew – present company excluded, of course. Gary was trying to raise some dosh to buy into a stake in a drug trafficking racket. He was fed up with being small time, wanted his place in the sun. So he decided to identify nice places out in the sticks and then go in there and threaten the occupants to get his hands on their valuables. He knew that would make a stink and the cops would be after him big time, but he thought he’d only need to do a few, then lie low.’ He shrugged. ‘He thought the fifth job would be the last. It was bad luck for him that he took someone with him on that last job who was a bit trigger happy – a total nut job. He lost it and shot the woman of the house.’
Rio twisted her lips. ‘And that trigger happy nut was you, was it?’
The food arrived. Samson tucked straight into his cheese twist.
He made a noise of utter pleasure as his eyes half-closed.
‘Dee-lish. You ever had one of these?’
Rio almost snapped, but she held her temper back. ‘Like I said, Samson, you were at those raids, weren’t you? Of course you’re going to try and blame the last raid on someone else because three people were murdered.’
For the first time Rio saw Samson really angry. His hazel eyes became more green than brown and a red blush crept up his neck. ‘I’m telling you straight, they didn’t do it. They did the first five and then cut out of the game.’
‘They hired a hitman to kill—’
That made Samson laugh out loud. ‘Reality check, Mizz Wray. They needed dosh quickly, which means they didn’t have any spare dollars to give away and a hitman costs mega bucks. Whoever paid that hitman, it wasn’t Uncle Gazza.’
‘What type of masks did your uncle’s gang wear?’
‘Clown masks – so I hear—’
‘They ever wear baggy cloth masks with a tube coming out of them?’
His face screwed up. ‘Sounds like a gas mask, except the baggy cloth bit.’ Then his face took on a shine like he’d won a prize. ‘Wait a minute.’ His eyes lit up. ‘During World War One, The Great War—?’
Rio wasn’t in the mood to play pub quiz with this annoying thug. His huge bank of general knowledge was starting to really pee her off. ‘How do you know Gary and his people weren’t involved in the sixth raid?’
But he didn’t answer her; instead he started singing in a rousing low-toned voice. ‘Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile . . .’
Rio stared at the youngster as if he’d finally lost the plot. Genius? No the kid was a total nutcase. She’d had enough of this craziness. Rio thumped the table. His singing stopped.
‘You listen to me,’ Rio said, teeth almost clenched tight. ‘And you listen good. You keep going with the Broadmoor routine and I’m going to march your crazy arse straight back to lockdown.’
He stared at her, his animation revving up into a cocksure smile. ‘You’re gonna wished you’d listened to me—’
‘The only thing I want to hear is how you know your uncle and his mob didn’t have anything to do with the Bell raid.’
He shrugged his
shoulders before answering. ‘My dad told me, and you’ll have to ask yourself why he’d lie to me. Uncle Gazza didn’t even know about the sixth raid. There’s that rule, isn’t there? You don’t read the papers or watch the TV in case the cops are putting out false information intended to spook you and make you panic. He only found out about it later when he was interviewed by you.’
Rio’s mind skidded back to the day she’d first interviewed Gary Larkin. He’d been dead calm until she’d mentioned the raid on the Bells’. Then he’d become so distressed with denial he’d had an asthma attack. But Nikki had said that one of the men had trouble with his breathing. If that hadn’t been Gary Larkin, who was it?
‘Uncle Gazza thought there was someone else, another crew, copying their MO,’ Samson said, putting into words what Rio was just starting to realise. ‘’Course he couldn’t tell your lot that because it meant admitting he’d done the other raids.’
‘Which you didn’t have anything to do with.’
Samson shoved his hands face up at her. ‘You see any blood here? I’m no Lady Macbeth.’
Beethoven, the Great War, and now Shakespeare. Rio was starting to think that Samson had most people fooled with the full-blown psycho ‘I’m a member of the dumb-ass Larkin family’ routine. He was highly intelligent, clever and cunning, so no way was he ever going to admit to being part of the Greenbelt Gang. Just as well she had plan B all ready to rock ’n’ roll.
‘I didn’t kill your uncle or the other men,’ she repeated. Samson lifted his left eyebrow at that, then bit into the last of his twist. ‘The house where Gary and the gang met their deaths – do you know anything about it or how they came to be there?’
Samson looked plain bored now. ‘Nope. And I don’t care either. I’m going to the john. That wasn’t as nice as the cheesy twists you get in Lidl’s; it’s gone straight through me.’ Catching Rio’s dubious expression he added as he stood up. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to do a Michael Corleone, find a gun hidden in the toilet thingie and then waltz back and shoot you in the throat.’
He cocked his hand into the shape of a gun. Pointed it at her face. ‘Pow! Pow!’
Chuckling he turned and swaggered to the back where the Gents was located. Rio immediately got onto her mobile and said, ‘Detain’. She stood up and watched the man in the car get out. Then he talked into his phone, speed walking to the café.
Shouting came from the rear of the café, followed by a man screaming and what sounded like pots and pans being scattered. A woman let out a high-pitched howl. Rio raced to the back where she found the café owner sitting on the floor of the kitchen, his back resting against a cooker. He clutched his shoulder where his shirt was stained red. Blood oozed through his fingers. The man’s wife was crouched over him, screaming uncontrollably.
Spotting Rio, the man said in halting English. ‘He steal . . . knife.’
Rio didn’t run, but took her time going out the back. She reached the narrow backyard just in time to see Zidane’s other heavy, who’d been stationed out back, land a punch on Samson’s face that had him flying backwards. Samson crashed into two stacked crates of empty bottles. Glass smashed and rolled against the cobbled ground.
Rio sighed as she moved towards him. As soon as she reached him she crouched down. Samson was blinking quickly and shaking his head.
‘Why did you have to be so predictable?’ Rio asked.
Samson opened an eye. ‘Because you’ve given me a headache banging on your drum about me being involved with Uncle Gary.’ He opened his other eye, with a wince this time. ‘You might be suspended, but you’re still a cop, which means you’re going to try to take me in.’ He had the nerve to grin. ‘But, bad luck for you there’s no extradition thingie this side of the island.’
Both of Zidane’s men were now standing strong behind Rio.
‘Oh yeah,’ Rio innocently said, ‘I forgot about that.’
Samson squinted his eyes at her. Then he jerked to a sitting position. ‘No, you can’t do this to me—’
Rio nodded to the men, who dragged Samson up by his arms. He had finally figured out what Rio was up to, but it was too late.
Rio asked one of the men, ‘How long will it take to cross the border?’
forty-seven
They headed towards Ledra Street also known as Murder Mile because of the history of terrorist activities during the 1950s. It was only a ten-minute drive away, the main shopping area and the location of the Ledra Palace Crossing. Samson was in the back with the man who had decked him. A gun, with a silencer, kept him firmly in place. Once they crossed the border Rio intended to hand the youth over to the police with information that he was wanted for murder in England. By the time the authorities worked out that there was no international arrest warrant out for him, Rio intended to be back home to ensure that there was. Samson was right; it went against her principles to simply let him go.
‘You can’t prove anything and you know it,’ Samson growled at her.
Rio ignored him. But he kept on trying to get under her skin.
‘I’ll tell them what I told you – I wasn’t there.’
Rio kept her eyes to the front, her mouth firmly closed.
‘I’ll tell them you jacked me and then smuggled me back. Didn’t you say you’d been suspended? You’ll be the one facing a firing squad, lady, not me.’
Rio finally spoke, but didn’t turn around. ‘It’s my friends here who’ll be handing you over to the authorities not me.’
But she knew she was badly exposed. Of course Samson was going to start yapping the first chance he got; he was right, it wouldn’t take long for the top brass to hear her name mentioned in connection with this. But she’d deal with that when it happened; for now she was all about Samson. Rio’s mind turned to the raid on the Bells’ home and what Gary Larkin’s nephew had told her. So if it wasn’t the Greenbelt Gang, who was it? Another set of criminals jumping on another crew’s MO? Or someone not connected to the underworld . . . like Cornelius Bell? The image of Cornelius hanging took over her mind.
I take the blame for everything.
By everything, had Cornelius meant the raid?
A mobile rang in the back of the car disrupting her thoughts. Rio shifted so that she could check out the back in the rear-view mirror. The man with the gun pulled out his mobile. His expression changed to one of surprise as he listened, then he spoke in rapid Turkish and ended the call. He looked over at the driver and continued his stream of quick Turkish. Suddenly the driver swung the car around.
‘Hey, hey. Hang on,’ Rio said, her hands coming up. ‘What’s going on?’
‘We have to go back,’ the man behind her replied.
‘No, we can’t.’ She twisted her upper body around to face him. ‘We’re almost there.’
‘The old man has collapsed. We need to make sure that we’re close.’
‘I know he’s sick—’
‘He’s dying.’ He responded with no change of his expression, but leaned forwards.
Rio started pleading. ‘Just drop us off inside the border. What’s that going to take? Another couple of minutes?’
He shook his head. ‘The old man pays our wages, not . . .’
Rio didn’t even see it happen; the next thing she knew the passenger’s door on Samson’s side of the car was flapping open and the youth was rolling in the dirt of the road. The car continued to accelerate forwards as Rio scrambled up on her seat, her gaze fixed on Samson who was growing smaller in the distance as he ran.
‘Stop the car,’ Rio demanded. But neither man listened to her as the vehicle continued to speed forwards.
She reached for the door, but the man behind her shot his arm forwards and grabbed her hand.
‘We have to get back before he dies. There is much that needs to be done if God decides that this is his last day.’
Rio desperately looked back at where Samson was. She could still make him out. And then the cocky boy did something that made her loathe him for
as long as she lived – he blew her a kiss. Then he was gone, disappearing into the secluded world of the trees and tiny side streets.
forty-eight
3:05 p.m. London Time
Rio’s plane touched down at just after three in the afternoon London time. Zidane’s men had dropped her off near the airport at Nicosia and headed back to the hills. Rio didn’t usually do pity, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself feeling like an orphan dumped in the baking sun with no mama or papa to protect her, not even a sun hat. There had been no point hiring another car to go in search of him; Samson was long gone. Rio had then flirted with the idea of hanging around town for one more day to see if he appeared, but knowing Samson he’d brazenly cross the border himself, mouth full of lies and then . . . puff, he’d have been eaten up into the stream of tourists.
Still, she hadn’t come back empty-handed; the sixth raid was a copycat. And the one lead she had was a very dead Cornelius Bell.
Rio cruised through Stansted’s immigration and then passed by the area, divided by glass, where passengers were gathering at the gate waiting to take them to Northern Cyprus. Probably going on the same plane that she’d disembarked from. Once she’d left the green channel she bypassed the crowd on the other side waiting for loved ones and pulled out her mobile to call Calum. She stopped near a crowded coffee house where a mounted TV was on the BBC 24 News Channel.
‘I’m back,’ she told Calum. ‘Everything OK?’
‘If it weren’t I would have called you. Did you find baby Larkin?’
She turned in the direction of the television. ‘Yep. Claims the raid on the Bells’ wasn’t his uncle’s people. And that they wouldn’t have the cash needed to secure a contract killer.’
‘You believe him?’
‘It fits with—’
Rio’s words halted as a face came up on the TV screen.
Her tone changed to one of urgency. ‘Is Nikki in the room with you?’
‘No, she’s—’
‘Turn on the telly. BBC Twenty-four News Channel.’
Death Trap Page 25
