Fire Hawk

by Geoffrey Archer

  ‘Oh yes. Many regulars. This very smart place. Smartest in Limassol. Many rich people who live here, they come for drinks in the evening.’

  ‘But I don’t suppose you ever get to know them. I mean, their names.’

  ‘Sometimes. Depends. They give me good tip, I take an interest in their name.’

  ‘I see.’ Sam took the photo from his pocket. ‘Maybe you can help me then. There’s a man I’m trying to contact.’ He pointed to the face in the photo.

  ‘You police?’ the barman asked, not looking at the picture.

  ‘Good heavens no. I did some business with him once but can’t remember his name, that’s all.’

  ‘Because police, you see they already been here ask questions.’

  ‘About him?’

  ‘Sure. Because of Mrs Taylor. You know? She the Englishwoman who was killed. She stay here, in this hotel. Sat just over there.’ He pointed to the table where the silent couple sat. ‘I remember her, because she beautiful woman.’

  ‘Haven’t heard much about it,’ Sam said, trying to sound just mildly curious. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Yesterday they find the body. Dressed in skirt but no pants, you know?’ The barman leaned forward meaningfully, dark eyes concentrating on Sam. ‘Police they look for the men she was with here, but me, I think maybe British soldiers do it. Often they drink too much at night-club, then become like animals. And take drugs.’ He flicked a hand in the air to show that such people were beneath his contempt.

  Sam swallowed hard. ‘Why? Why d’you think it was soldiers?’

  ‘Because I don’t like them,’ the barman answered, moving away to deal with another customer. Two Greek-speaking women also arrived at the bar and quickly monopolised his attention.

  Sam looked down at the photo. It wasn’t soldiers who’d killed her. He sensed that in his hand he held a picture of the men who had.

  Eventually the barman finished serving and began polishing glasses.

  ‘My friend,’ Sam called to him.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He checked to see if Sam’s glass was empty.

  ‘Do you know this man’s name?’

  He held out the print, but the barman ignored it and picked up the towel again.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know if I can help . . .’

  Sam took a Cyprus ten-pound note from his pocket and laid it flat on the counter next to the print.

  ‘Okay. I have another look.’

  The barman covered the money with his hand and slipped it into his pocket. He took the photo to the cash register so he could look at it under a better light.

  ‘He been here many times,’ he announced.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s the one the police want to find. But they never,’ he added contemptuously.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Our police not very clever. They ask his name, but we don’t know it. Nobody know it.’

  Thanks for taking my money anyway, thought Sam.

  ‘He’s Russian, I think, so anyway, name is impossible to pronounce.’ The barman screwed up his face. ‘He always like that.’ He tapped the photo with a finger. ‘Drink very much and always with different girl. Prostitute, you know? Romania, Bulgaria – pffh. Normally we don’t serve such women. But when they with him . . .’ He raised his shoulders in despair. ‘Manager say I must serve. Because he spend lot of money in bar and restaurant. Always cash – so they don’t even get his name from credit card slip,’ he confided.

  ‘He wasn’t a guest in the hotel?’

  ‘No. He just come here for drink and restaurant. Many Russians have apartment in Limassol. They come here for few days then go back to Russia, you understand why?’

  ‘Money.’

  ‘Of course. Sometime one Russian he live with three or four dirty girls, you know? Live off them like pimp. But this man I think is different. I think he very rich. Maybe he have big villa here. You see them – many, many big, big houses. On the roads to Troodos.’

  ‘Has he been here again, since Tuesday?’

  ‘No. Maybe we don’t see him ever again here because he know the police look for him now. In Limassol there are other place, many restaurant, many club where Russians go.’

  ‘Any in particular? If I wanted to try to find him tonight, where should I look?’

  The barman scowled as if it would be a waste of an evening. ‘If I was him I go back to Russia by now. But you can try Paradiso Club,’ he said. ‘But later on. Ten, eleven o’clock maybe. They have girls there who dance in your face, you know?’ He cupped hands in front of his chest to denote the dancers were topless. ‘What you call it what they wear? I work in south France one time. They call it cache-sex. You know what I mean?’

  ‘I know,’ Sam nodded.

  ‘You put fifty pounds in – in wherever you find some place to put it,’ he smirked, ‘then after the show maybe she go with you. S’long you don’t mind get sick after,’ he warned. ‘Many these girls have HIV. And make sure you don’t bring back here to Mondiale. Because night manager he not let her in.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Thanks.’

  ‘But I don’t tell you any of this. Understand me? Because I don’t trust that man. He could do anything, you know?’

  The barman snapped to attention as another customer arrived. Sam pocketed the photograph, finished his beer and headed for the elevators.

  Back in his room he placed the photograph under a desk lamp. He stood staring at it for a full half minute. Then he backed off, crossing to the window. He looked down into the car park wondering if he was deluding himself. It was all assumptions. Two and two make five. There was no proof this was Chrissie’s killer.

  The central question was why. Why when she was in Cyprus to observe three Iraqis had she let her attention be diverted by a Russian? There was one reason, of course. The only one that made sense the more he thought of it. The reason was that her investigation of the activities of Salah Khalil had led her to the Russian. Khalil and this man in the photo had done business together. But what sort? A contract to supply gold-plated toilet bowls for Saddam Hussein’s latest palace? Or something more sinister. Something like the technical and logistical assistance the Iraqis needed to ensure their anthrax weapon reached its target.

  Or was he letting his imagination run crazy?

  He picked up the phone and dialled room service. When the number answered he ordered a club sandwich and a beer.

  Just two days ago, Chrissie had been here in this hotel. In this very room for all he knew. He closed his eyes, trying to feel her presence, but there was nothing. Just an emptiness inside him.

  The phone rang. He half expected it to be room service saying there was a problem.

  ‘Sam?’ Mowbray’s voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve got something for you. Perhaps you could ring me from a call box?’

  ‘Sure. You’re in the office?’

  ‘I will be in half an hour.’

  ‘Fine.’

  He rang off, his heart jumping. Mowbray had sounded low.

  The door bell chimed. He let in the waiter, scribbled his signature on the bill and gave the man a pound.

  Twenty-nine minutes later he stopped the red Toyota next to a call box outside a pizza restaurant a couple of kilometres along the coast road into Limassol. Mowbray answered immediately on his direct line.

  ‘There’s been a development from the police,’ he announced without preamble. ‘I told you they’d come up with some trick to avoid a proper investigation.’

  ‘What, for God’s sake?’

  There was a pause at the other end of the line.

  ‘I’ll be blunt. Chrissie had had sex with someone, Sam. Some time around the time of her death. There was, you know, semen in her.’

  Sam bit his lip. His mind flashed, remembering the feel of her body on him last Sunday.

  ‘The police doing DNA tests on it?’ he asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

  ‘I don’t kno
w. The man at the High Commission here didn’t ask. Look, the police pathologist insists there’s no sign of brute force being used. On the relevant parts of her body, I mean.’

  Sam closed his eyes.

  ‘No bruising, no contusions,’ Mowbray continued, as if treading on eggshells. ‘No sign of forced entry.’

  ‘Hang on. What d’you mean no signs of force? Didn’t you tell me earlier there were bruises on the body and marks on her wrists and ankles as if she’d been tied up?’

  ‘Ye-es.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘They’re saying they believe that could have been voluntary. Part of the er, part of what they were doing.’

  Sam held the phone away from his ear. He took in a deep breath, then spoke firmly into the mouthpiece.

  ‘No, Quentin. That’s simply not on.’ Chrissie wasn’t into S&M.

  ‘Well, it’s what they’re saying. She was seen in the hotel earlier that evening with some heavy drinkers they haven’t been able to identify. The bottom line is that they think she was having a wild night on the town which just went wrong.’

  ‘Just? She ended up half naked in a car park, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘They’re putting that down to panic on the part of the man, or men, she was with. They think she might have been, you know.’ Mowbray sighed, acutely uncomfortable in such territory. ‘Well, that they were actually doing it when she had the seizure.’

  ‘What seizure? What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Because of the nuts she’d eaten. Peanuts. Apparently she had an acute allergy.’

  ‘Peanuts? Oh my God,’ Sam mouthed, remembering things that Chrissie had told him years ago.

  ‘They found bits of nut in her stomach and mouth. That and vodka. She’d not eaten anything else. The police pathologist’s theory is that she realised she’d drunk far too much and when things started to go a bit further than she meant she grabbed the only food available to try to blunt the effects of the booze.’

  ‘That’s insane.’

  ‘Anaphylactic shock. There’s no question of any doubt about cause of death apparently. They’re claiming it was an accident, Sam. Just a dreadful, horrific accident.’

  18

  THE MAIN BEACH road through Limassol had a depressing end of season feel to it. Against a backdrop of dark, empty tower blocks, a dribble of late holidaymakers in pale fawns and greys defied the autumn chill, searching restaurant menu boards for novelty in a cuisine that was all too standardised.

  Sam aimed the car towards the centre of town, weighed down by the unfolding horror of Chrissie’s demise. Accidental death was nonsense and he’d told Mowbray so. There was no way she would have touched a peanut, however drunk she might have been. To do so would be suicide for her and she’d known it only too well. If there were peanuts in her stomach it was because somebody else had pushed them down her throat. Someone who knew that to do so would kill her.

  Since the phone call with Mowbray, Sam had struggled to shut out the personal in what was happening. The details of Chrissie’s death would bury him if he let them.

  He had another reason for not allowing his thoughts free rein. There was a quality in Chrissie he’d never wanted to acknowledge, a ruthlessness that could take her past the bounds of normal human restraint. To get what she wanted she would use every asset she had. If it was information she’d been after from the Russian on Tuesday night and had been using her body to extract it from him, then it wouldn’t have been the first time she’d resorted to that.

  He shook his head like a dog.

  It was approaching nine. Too early in the evening for the Paradiso Club. He drove into the downtown area, past fish restaurants half-obscured by parked-up Suzukis and BMWs. He turned by the floodlit medieval castle, passed a winery and the old port, and headed down the promenade to where Chrissie’s body had been found.

  There was a quiet prosperity about Limassol. Young, dark-haired men in jeans and leather jackets perched with their leggy, lipsticked girls on chromed scooters outside bars and fast-food restaurants. Mopeds and small four-wheel-drives zipped about like flies round a fish market.

  He pulled into a car park and checked Mowbray’s map to ensure he’d identified the right one. He switched off and opened the door. The place was less than half full and most of it was in deep darkness, the only illumination coming from street lamps on the promenade a short distance away. He sat there listening – for what he didn’t know. He sniffed the air. Salt and decay; the sea was just beyond a narrow stretch of park. No other smell. He realised that subconsciously he’d been expecting one – a trace of her smoke-tainted perfume.

  Had she died here, in this bleak rectangle of cracking tarmac, he wondered analytically? Probably not. Anaphylactic shock acted quickly. She’d have died in whatever place it was they’d forced the peanuts into her.

  He tried to feel the reality of it but couldn’t. Still couldn’t believe in his heart of hearts that she didn’t exist any more.

  He became practical again, looking about him. As Mowbray had said, the buildings along the promenade that overlooked this place were offices. No one to see a body being dragged from the back of a car in the small hours of the morning.

  The body of a woman in an early stage of pregnancy.

  ‘Fuck!’

  He got back into the car and switched on. This was not a place for him to be.

  The Paradiso throbbed to a disco beat that hurt his ears. He’d never liked night-clubs, particularly this kind where sex was offered with the finesse of a cocktail with a sparkler stuck in it.

  The ten pounds he’d paid on the door entitled him to one free drink. He selected a small unoccupied table close to the exit and was confronted by a broad-hipped waitress in black fishnet tights and a clinging top in see-through black chiffon. Her unfettered breasts beneath the tissue reminded him of steamed puddings topped with raisins.

  ‘Just a beer,’ he said, giving her his drinks coupon.

  ‘Jus’ one?’ she asked, checking him out and glancing at the empty chair beside him. ‘You all ‘lone tonight?’

  ‘My boyfriend’s joining me later,’ he replied stonily.

  She pursed her bright-red lips and shimmied away in rhythm to the music.

  The walls of the club, which had the size and shape of a large garage, were painted black. Tall, artificial palm trees marked the corners of a woodblock floor on which a handful of couples danced under the UV lights. On the dimly lit stage at the far end of the room a bilingual DJ sat behind a bank of equipment, almost fellating the microphone through which he announced the tracks.

  It was just after ten. Thirty or so tables in the place, fewer than half occupied. In a club that might hold two or three hundred, a quick tot-up suggested less than fifty customers in so far, most of them men in groups of three or four. Sam slid low in the chrome-framed chair hoping to avoid being seen by the blonde pony-tailed woman from the hotel who’d said she would be here. Another check suggested she and her friends hadn’t arrived yet. No sign of the man in the photo either.

  The waitress returned with the beer.

  ‘Anythin’ else you wan’, you jus’ call me okay?’ she grinned cheesily, shouting above the noise of the music. ‘My name Ellie. I your waitress for the evening. You want anything, you tell me and I fix. We got great dancers tonight. I send one over for you later?’

  ‘Any of them fellers?’ he asked insouciantly.

  ‘No,’ she laughed, not convinced he was serious. ‘But sexy girls. You never try girls?’

  He beckoned her closer.

  ‘Where you from, Ellie? How long you work here?’

  ‘I come Nicosia. An’ I work here jus’ few month,’ she explained, bending over him on the off chance that a closer examination of her chest might arouse some cash-generating interest.

  ‘Oh, right. Only a few months. You see I’m looking for someone. Friend of mine. Comes here a lot, I think. But if you’ve only been working here a short time . . .’

&n
bsp; ‘Wass he look like? He gay boy?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. Rather the opposite. Can I show you a photo?’

  ‘If you want.’

  One corner of the print was bent over now from being pushed in and out of his pocket. He pointed at the face in the middle. She bent forward, then recoiled sharply. She stood up abruptly, shaking her head.

  ‘No. Never see him.’

  She scowled and turned smartly away. The face in the photo meant trouble and she didn’t want any of it. She hurried off in search of another table to deal with.

  ‘Bet your mum doesn’t know you work here,’ Sam murmured, putting the photo back in his jacket.

  So he was in the right place to find this man – if he was still in Cyprus. This killer. He would need to be careful. He sipped at his beer. The club was filling up. Half a dozen lads with heavy shoulders and short haircuts barged in, beady eyes on the search for mischief. They had ‘British squaddie’ written all over them. Materialising from the shadows, a couple of girls wearing leather skirts of pelmet length homed in, scenting business but not appearing to relish it.

  More customers arrived in a steady stream, mostly men. He locked his eyes onto each new face, scanning it for the features in the photograph, features now fixed in his mind like a scar. No sign of the man, but all of a sudden the blonde called Sophie walked in. Still accompanied by her two work colleagues, the girl from the hotel was no longer without a partner, clinging to the arm of a dark-haired smoothie in a navy blazer. There’d be a BMW outside, Sam guessed. Or maybe a Ferrari. Proof, were it ever needed, that persistence pays off.

  The girl, however, was looking around as if the man she’d caught wasn’t quite the sort of fish she’d been after. She spotted Sam. The diminutive lower jaw dropped an inch, merging with her stalk of a neck. She managed an embarrassed smile, then nudged her friends, who turned to look. Sam waved but stayed put.

  She broke away from her new-found partner and crossed to his table.

  ‘You made it!’ she shouted, her voice straining to beat the music. ‘Didn’t think you would.’

  ‘So I see,’ Sam grinned.

  ‘Oh come on, don’t be like that,’ she laughed.