by Mari Hannah
Before leaving the UK, she’d spoken to the head of SOCA’s European operations. With the cooperation of Spanish police, they had launched Operation Captura on the Costa del Sol in 2006, an International effort that had led to the detention and prosecution of dozens of fugitives living abroad, organized British criminals who had either evaded arrest entirely or escaped from custody and fled the country. In the course of that conversation, Kate learned that any tip-offs SOCA received were fed through Madrid directly to Spanish police. Having added Brian Allen and Craig O’Kane to their most wanted list, Spanish police were already on the lookout for both men and primed to give her all the cooperation she required.
In the UK, Strathclyde force had offered to deploy officers to find Brian. But because Kate had initiated the enquiry in Newcastle to find Craig – a search that would involve tracing Brian too – Trewitt had agreed to wait until he heard from her. That made sense. Although technically they were after different men, even with Spanish law enforcement on board, there was a high probability that she might draw a complete blank. No point two forces wasting precious resources on what could turn out to be a wild-goose chase.
They were nearing a promenade of sorts. Kate could see tables and chairs, a collection of bars and restaurants, the sight of which put a smile back on Hank’s face. Not for long. On the way off the beach, they had to run the gauntlet of street-sellers shoving knock-off copies of watches and bags, CDs and other crap in their faces to the chorus of, ‘Good price for the lady.’
One scowl from Hank, despite his ridiculous attire, and they moved away.
That shirt was enough to frighten anyone off.
He was already leaking like a tea strainer and it wasn’t yet nine-thirty. ‘I wish they would shove off with their poxy stuff,’ he moaned.
‘Don’t be so mean. They’re trying to make a living. To be honest, I don’t like it either, but it’s the culture over here. No one minds.’
‘Well, I do.’
‘You can afford to.’ Kate walked off, smiling to herself.
They were already sounding like a proper married couple.
A transaction John Allen had made in the duty-free shop at Newcastle airport was niggling her. According to his credit card receipts he’d bought no gifts to suggest he was carrying out a clandestine relationship, travelling to Spain to meet up with a girlfriend. He’d made only two purchases and this raised her suspicions.
She glanced at Hank as he lumbered along after her.
‘What?’ He was responding to the perplexed look spreading across her face.
‘Carmichael said John Allen bought duty-free whisky and cigars at the airport.’
‘Wish I had,’ he grumbled. ‘And your point is?’
‘He didn’t smoke, Hank. Vicky told me he hated cigarettes with a passion. His old man, on the other hand . . .’ She let her sentence trail off. ‘Where’s that photograph she gave us?’
Reaching into his pocket, Hank scrolled through his phone and handed it over. She studied it for a moment. She had to admit the villa in the digital image was like so many they had seen the day before. There was nothing unique about it. It was probably one of hundreds of identical properties dotted around the estates, built by the same firm in the past twenty years before the recession hit.
A stagnant market meant that houses were two a penny – even two for one: Kate had seen an advertisement for buy-one-get-one-free in an estate agent’s only yesterday. She’d also witnessed people scavenging in rubbish bins in broad daylight, and hookers – no older than fifteen – plying their wares from the main road in order to make money, just like Bethany. Outside a supermarket, a young man had held out a begging bowl, a homemade sandwich board hanging round his neck with the words Dos niños – please help – scribbled across it in thick red pen.
So sad.
With no time to dwell on the appalling situation the Spaniards were facing, a state of affairs repeated in many other countries, she tapped the photograph and handed him the phone. ‘We need to find this place.’
Hank’s expression was his answer: Yeah, right.
‘We’ll be here for ever,’ he said.
‘Stop whining, that’s why we’re here. I could easily have brought Lisa along.’
‘Careful.’ He grinned. ‘You know what a jealous husband I am.’
Hank invited her to sit in the shade at one of the cafes along the promenade, offering to buy her a cup of coffee.’
‘Make it an espresso and you’re on,’ she said.
She sat down as he headed off to the gents, telling her he’d order their drinks on the way in. As he disappeared into the cafe, Kate glanced around her. Customers were sunning themselves, taking in the view, some already on the beer. The vista was stunning. Jo would love it here: slow pace of life, wonderful weather, warm sea – what was not to like?
Everything . . .
It wasn’t Bamburgh.
Kate couldn’t wait to go home.
Hank came back carrying a beer for him, a double espresso for her, a small biscuit to go with it. He set it down on the table, parking himself in the sun. He took off his shades, wiped his brow and picked up his beer bottle.
‘You think he’d make that kind of mistake?’
‘Mistake?’ Kate had no idea what he was on about. ‘Who?’
‘John . . . taking a photo of his father’s villa – if indeed it is Brian’s villa. It seems unlikely to me.’
Kate pointed at his San Miguel. ‘After a few of those, he might. I reckon it was a spur-of-the-moment thing to keep Vicky sweet, maybe to prove his cover story of playing golf. She was highly suspicious of his trips abroad. She said as much the second time we met. I’m betting he snapped that photo and sent it without thinking through the consequences. I’ve done a similar thing myself, only to realize, after I’d pressed send, that it was a stupid thing to do. I’d shown my hand when I shouldn’t have.’
‘Doesn’t sound like you.’
‘Yeah well, we all let our guard down sometimes.’ Kate smiled at the memory.
‘What?’ Hank was smiling too.
She hesitated.
‘C’mon, spill. I tell you things.’
‘When Jo and I first got together I was on a high-profile job and texted a photo to impress her. It could have . . .’ She corrected herself. ‘Would have, jeopardized the whole operation if she’d forwarded it on to anyone else.’
‘She wouldn’t though.’
‘Vicky did. We should count ourselves lucky. If she hadn’t, we’d be screwed. Taking that photo was a dumb thing for John to do. His old man would’ve gone ape-shit if he’d found out, but it just might work in our favour.’ Kate took a sip of coffee. ‘God knows we need the break.’
Even if her theory was proved right, that John had been visiting his father in Spain, Kate was well aware that Brian could have moved on since. It was a big country. They might never find him. That photograph could be leading them up a blind alley, wasting precious time. In order to rule the property out, first they needed to find it.
‘Living the dream, my arse.’ Hank shook his head.
‘What?’
‘These lot . . .’
Kate followed his gaze towards the other customers. Boredom registered on their faces. No one seemed to be having much fun. Mostly they were middle-aged couples, either staring out to sea or into the bottom of a beer glass. The rest were ignoring each other: eating English breakfast, drinking English tea, reading English newspapers. And suddenly she had an idea.
58
They spent the best part of the morning driving around Quesada, searching for the villa in the photograph. By lunchtime, they were beginning to wonder if they would ever find it. Exhausted and downhearted, they lunched in a tapas bar in the town and then started again – reluctantly.
Despite having lost a shedload of weight – almost three stones – Hank was feeling the heat. Kate dropped him off at the edge of yet another housing development and went to check out something else
on her own.
Back at the cafe, seeing all the ex-pats reading English newspapers had prompted her to canvass local newsagents to see if she could pin down a delivery to Brian Allen. She was thinking of sports magazines in particular. Like a lot of his countrymen, he loved his golf. Just as she was giving up hope, almost two hours after leaving Hank, a local man reacted when shown his photograph.
Kate wanted to hug him.
He was the owner of the paper shop in central Quesada. A nice guy, he understood English perfectly. Unfortunately, he spoke very little. He was short and stocky with dark curly hair, a goatee beard and sharp eyes. The gold crucifix round his neck matched a large filling in one of his eyeteeth. Kate envied his loose linen top. Having chosen a fitted shirt herself, one that wouldn’t crease, she was beginning to regret it.
Behind him, a young girl, possibly his daughter, was sweeping the floor and earwigging the conversation at the same time, occasionally throwing a comment their way.
‘Inglès?’ the newsagent asked.
‘Sí,’ Kate said. ‘You know him?’
He waggled his hand from side to side. He wasn’t sure.
Despondent, Kate patted her own chest enthusiastically. ‘Mi amigo.’
The Spaniard raised an eyebrow, a smile playing round his lips, as if he suddenly understood that she’d been dumped by Brian and was trying to make it up to him. Glancing at the photograph again, he struggled to put his thoughts into words, eventually managing to get his point across in broken English. The man in the photo resembled a customer, but Brian Allen was not the name he was using.
‘What name was he using?’ Kate asked, fanning herself with a leaflet she’d picked up off the counter.
The man’s brow creased. ‘Smeeth?’
You don’t say? His pronunciation made her smile.
Unable to understand what was so amusing, he turned his back on her, pressing a button on a desk fan. It whirred into action, making little difference to the temperature in the shop. A female dressed entirely in black pushed in at the till. Giving Kate a dirty look, she dumped some items down on the counter, gabbing away in her native tongue. Although the DCI understood none of what was being said, it was abundantly clear that the woman was making reference to her because the lass sweeping the floor was trying too hard to keep a straight face.
As the newsagent rang in the purchases, a dark look passed between him and his customer. When the woman left the shop, he returned the photograph, telling Kate he really wasn’t sure if the Englishman ‘Smeeth’ was the man he thought he was.
Had the female customer warned him off?
Kate wasn’t having that. ‘Señor?’
Another shrug.
Kate was about to push him on the matter when Hank entered the shop. He’d seen their hire car parked outside. In answer to her inquisitive expression, he shook his head. He’d lucked out. Giving him her keys, she told him to wait in their car. When he’d left the shop, she turned to face the newsagent, this time showing him a photograph of the villa she’d been trying to find all day, stressing the importance of tracing the Englishman.
‘Is this where you deliver the magazines?’ she asked.
The Spaniard screwed up his face, pointing at the photograph, specifically at the driveway. ‘La entrada es incorrecta.’ He moved his forefinger to the other side of the villa. ‘Here is possible.’
‘Ah . . . the driveway is on the other side?’
‘Sì . . . exact.’ He beamed proudly.
‘Is it far?’
Again he shook his head.
‘Por favor . . .’ Kate pointed through the open door at her excuse for a vehicle. ‘Can you show me where? Please, señor . . . it won’t take long and it’s very important.’ Holding up her hand, she spread her fingers. ‘Five minutes and I’ll bring you straight back.’
Rubbing his face, the Spaniard studied Hank slumped in the passenger seat of her car. Understandably nervous about taking a ride with two suspicious English strangers who were not what they were making out to be, he refused. Forced to lie to him, Kate explained that Hank was her husband, a great friend of the man in the picture. When that didn’t satisfy him, she took out her wallet and offered him cash.
Money talked when times were tough.
Barking something to his young assistant, the newsagent left the counter and followed Kate outside, lighting a Marlboro cigarette as he got in the car.
They drove out of the old town along a wide tree-lined avenue. Considering the time of year, it surprised the DCI how many homes were up for sale or empty. Some were like Fort Knox – behind big gates and high walls – ripe for hiding fugitives from justice. On her travels that morning, someone had mentioned Russian mafia living close by.
Nothing would surprise her.
The Spaniard opened the window, letting the smoke out and the searing heat in. Unsure of which was worse, Kate ignored the temptation to ask him to close it. Instead, she kept her eyes peeled for GB or Scottish registration plates in case John Allen had driven a car over from the UK and left it there as a runaround for his dad. Brian would need more than one getaway vehicle in case things went pear-shaped.
Tapping her on the shoulder, the newsagent told her to make a left-turn at the next junction a few hundred metres ahead. As she approached the turning, it wasn’t possible to complete the manoeuvre. Two motorcycle cops had parked their bikes right across the road, blocking her entry. They were standing in the middle of the carriageway, feet slightly apart, hands on hips, not far from their guns. Designer shades on – too cool for school.
They were clearly waiting for someone.
Like characters from the cult TV series CHiPs, they kept a watchful eye on her as she passed by. Not wishing to attract unwanted attention, she didn’t stop. Instead, she drove on with the intention of finding an alternative route, watching them get smaller in her rear-view mirror. With any luck, she’d require a police presence herself later. No point pissing them off by getting in the way of their current job.
One English expat she’d spoken to earlier had urged her to speak to the police if she was serious about finding her elusive ‘friend’, unaware that she was a detective herself. The woman had gone into elaborate detail on the difference between the Policia National, Policia Municipal and the Guardia Civil, telling Kate not to assume they ever talked to each other.
Kate smiled to herself.
There was a hierarchy the world over when it came to law enforcement. She’d communicate with Operation Captura when she had something to say.
Responding to more instructions from her passenger, she coasted round the block, turning left, left again, then sharp right, arriving in a wide avenue fringed with well-established palm trees. She was now in a much older part of town with some of the largest and most ostentatious properties she’d seen since arriving in Spain. About halfway down, the newsagent told her to pull over, pointing at a villa on the passenger side of the vehicle.
Bingo.
Tucked in between some much larger properties was the house in the photograph. There was no doubt about it. Pulling gently to a halt, Kate put on the handbrake and leaned across Hank to get a closer look. It was an unremarkable villa set back off the road. Nothing special – perhaps why Brian had chosen it – much easier to blend in with the locals than with a bigger place that might draw unwanted interest. The house was nevertheless well kept with a nice front garden laid to lawn, a selection of palms creating shade and privacy from neighbouring properties, a wonky For Sale sign in the front garden.
‘You think he was wise to us?’ Hank asked.
‘Something’s up,’ Kate said vaguely.
‘You got that right. We’re wasting our time.’
Kate’s eyes fell on steps that led up to a circular front porch that had arched windows and black decorative tiles. A shaded veranda ran around the whole of the ground floor. The railings enclosing it were repeated on the first floor. Each bedroom seemed to have patio doors and a private balcony. On the ver
y top, a privacy wall enclosed a square roof terrace.
She swivelled around in her seat.
‘Señor Smith?’ she asked.
‘Si.’ The Spaniard nodded.
‘Let’s go,’ Hank said. ‘Allen’s long gone.’
‘Out you get, Hank.’ Kate took one last glance at the property. ‘Keep your eyes peeled. I’ll be back in ten minutes.’ She handed him a bottle of water. As he climbed out, she put the car in gear. Pulling hard on the steering wheel, she did a U-turn, wincing as tyres squealed on hot tarmac as she drove away.
At the newsagent’s, Kate got out of the car, meeting the Spaniard on the pavement directly outside his empty shop. Seeing him standing there, his assistant yelled from within. She came to the doorway, pulling her jacket on, tapping her foot impatiently on the ground, acting like she should have been away home several hours ago. The universal language of those on low pay and long shifts.
Kate shook hands with the man. ‘Muchas gracias, señor.’
She stuffed some euros in his hand, got in the car and did a reciprocal. The police motorcyclists had gone as she drove by. Two minutes later she was back at the villa.
Telling Hank to hang fire, she walked up to the front door and tried the bell. Not that she was expecting Brian to arrive at the door and answer it. Hell, for all she knew, it might not even be the right house. She looked around as she waited. The steps were dirty, littered with dead leaves and spotted with signs of a recent downpour. Her heart sank as she examined the hardened ground around the base of the For Sale sign.
It hadn’t gone up recently.
She tried the bell again, heard it ring inside the house.
Nothing.
Signing to Hank, she walked round the side but couldn’t get access to the garden. The gate to the rear of the property was secured with a large padlock. It didn’t seem as if anyone was living there. But she couldn’t be sure. Brian Allen was clever. Maybe this was the impression he was trying to portray.
