by Nick Oldham
‘I said I’m sorry, and I mean it.’
Georgia checked her watch. ‘Let’s go to the airport, make sure everything’s set there.’
The scheduled BA flight from Manchester touched down bang on time; 12 noon. There was a two-hour turnaround for refuelling and a fresh crew, then the boarding was due to begin at 2 p.m. for a 2.40 take-off. As the plane landed, Georgia was on her mobile instructing the escort to pick up Scartarelli and make their way to the airport.
Hopefully, everything was in place. The customs procedure would be carried out separately for the prisoner and then, before the embarkation of the normal passengers, Scartarelli would be driven out to the plane, still under armed escort. He would be taken to the top of the steps and handed to Henry and Bill. They had arranged seats right at the front, and the plan was to keep him sat between them, cuffed to one or the other, throughout the flight.
By all accounts, a foolproof plan.
Georgia’s phone rang. She listened and said a few words, then hung up. ‘They’re en route.’
‘How long of a journey?’ Bill asked.
‘Forty-five minutes.’
The three officers were in the police room at the airport. It was hot and cramped, the air-conditioning ineffective and overworked. Henry checked his watch and rose from the plastic chair, his back and arse dripping with sweat. ‘I’ll get some fresh air,’ he declared and went through the security door into the departure lounge, where he knew he could find an outdoor seating area overlooking the runway. He meandered through the duty-free shop and the bookshop, bought a coffee and went outside thinking the air would be fresher. However, everybody seemed to be smoking and it was fairly unpleasant in the heat of the day.
Even so, he found a seat and plonked himself down whilst contemplating life and this situation in particular. He ran through the plan in his head, which seemed pretty straightforward. It should be smooth as silk.
He gazed across the runway, the heat haze rising from the concrete. He thought about Scartarelli and how little he actually knew about the man, the criminal. He was the whole point of the visit to Cyprus in the first place yet he seemed to have taken second place to the relationship that had developed between him and Georgia – and Tekke. Henry knew he’d taken his eye off the ball a little where Scartarelli was concerned. He knew he mustn’t forget what a dangerous man he was, well connected and needing to be watched carefully, hence the armed escorts here and back home. He seemed to have the ability to move from country to country and mix in easily with the organized criminal fraternity and as such it had to be assumed that someone might want him released by any means possible. Or even try to kill him.
Better safe than sorry.
He gazed around as Georgia joined him at the table. She too had a coffee.
‘Bill has apologized to me about his outburst.’
‘Good, he needed to.’
‘Is it so outrageous that we could be lovers?’
‘Not at all. The thought is very, very nice. But it’s not going to happen, except in my dreams.’
‘You’re happily married. I understand.’
‘Yes, I am. I wouldn’t want to jeopardize that.’
‘I was hoping you’d make love to me when I came to your room.’
Henry sighed. ‘I almost did.’
‘But you were very gallant.’
‘That’s something I haven’t been called before.’
She leaned over and kissed his cheek. ‘Well, you are.’
‘Ta.’
‘And the prisoner will be here in ten minutes … we need to be ready.’
Since his arrest under the body weight of Henry Christie, Paulo Scartarelli had been held in custody in various locations in Cyprus, from the police station in Pafos to the jail in Larnaca. His background had been researched thoroughly and he’d been interviewed extensively but neither approach had really uncovered very much about him. He had some minor convictions in his younger years in Italy, mostly relating to violence and pimping. The last few years had not seen him come to the notice of the police very often. His name had appeared in a few intelligence bulletins across Europe on the periphery of gang-related activities in the field of human trafficking, but not much of great interest and nothing that could be formed into meaningful evidence.
His appearance in Britain had been a surprise and Henry had been doing some background checks. It appeared that Scartarelli could have been involved in prostitution rackets in the north of England, but he couldn’t seem to unearth much more than that. It was always difficult with foreign nationals, even more so now that they could virtually come and go across borders as they pleased, legally or otherwise.
Henry spent some time going through the murder file relating to the girl Scartarelli had killed. She was an Albanian national, sucked into prostitution and ending up abused in England. But again, her background was sparse. Just another statistic, really. The assumption was that Scartarelli had been her pimp and had murdered her for reasons unknown. Henry had hoped to be able to take over and complete the murder investigation but had been told no, in no uncertain terms. His job was simply to bring him back and let others – namely Dave Anger and DCI Carradine – complete the investigation.
It had annoyed him. After all, the case had been virtually closed for almost a year, but he had come to expect the worst from those two. He was no longer an SIO, so he just shrugged it off, accepted his lot and began to speculate if he could get a trip to Australia to bring back the third person on his list. Might as well get all the jollies he could, he reasoned.
Whilst in custody in Cyprus, Scartarelli had been spoken to by Cypriot detectives, including Georgia, but they could get no admissions from him in relation to Haram’s murder. In fact he said almost nothing and despite their best efforts, by the time the extradition proceedings were complete, Scartarelli still remained a bit of an enigma. An international man of mystery, no less.
But he wouldn’t remain one for long, Henry thought while he waited at the top of the steps leading into the aircraft on the runway at Pafos airport. He knew there was good DNA at the scene of the murder in England and once Scartarelli was linked to that, he would, in police terminology, be buggered.
Henry waited patiently, Bill by his side, cabin crew nervously behind with very worried expressions on their faces. He gazed across the apron at the terminal building, checked his watch again.
Scartarelli should have cleared customs by now.
Two vehicles drew away from the departure-lounge gates – a covered Jeep and a Fiat box van, similar to a Ford Transit.
The prisoner and two escorts were in the back of this van.
They accelerated towards the plane and screeched to a halt at the foot of the steps. Georgia jumped out of the lead vehicle, smiled quickly at Henry, then accompanied by two heavily armed cops they ran to the back of the Fiat, shouted a pre-arranged password to the occupants and the double doors opened. Another two uniformed cops sprang out, fanned away from the vehicle and Scartarelli appeared, blinking against the bright sun. His wrists were cuffed in front of him, a pair of rigid handcuffs provided by Henry. He dropped on to the ground and another officer came out behind him.
It was the first time Henry had seen Scartarelli since the arrest. He looked slim, but pale, his eyes more sunken than before. Even so, there was an air of arrogance about him. That would be knocked out of him by a life sentence, Henry hoped. Even if he only served ten years, he’d be knocking mid-forties when he got out and a big chunk of his life would be lost forever.
Henry watched Georgia walk up to him. She said a few words and he looked up the steps to Henry, who gave him a nice warm smile and wave.
Taking him by the arm, Georgia led him up the steps. He offered no resistance. They walked up side by side, an armed officer a couple of steps behind them, until they reached the flat landing at the top of the steps before the plane’s door.
Scartarelli looked blandly at Henry.
Henry kept his smile in p
lace, then looked at Georgia.
‘All yours,’ she said.
‘I’m grateful. The British justice system is looking forward to welcoming Mr Scartarelli with open, then closed, arms.’
‘I’m sure he’ll love returning to the UK.’
Henry stepped sideways so he was edge-on to Scartarelli, giving Bill enough room to move in and place a big hand on the rigid section of the handcuffs between the wrists.
Bill and the villain eyed each other.
‘You behave yourself and we’ll be fine,’ Bill said. ‘Misbehave and I won’t be responsible for my actions …’
At that point Henry had his back to the door hinges, Bill and Scartarelli were facing each other on the threshold, Georgia was standing just one pace to the right of the prisoner’s shoulder and behind her, on the top step, was a single armed cop who had his back to everyone else and was facing outwards. A machine pistol was slung across his chest and behind a pair of cool Ray-Bans he was surveying the terminal building and runway. The other cops from the security escort were milling about and chatting at the bottom of the steps, job done.
The sniper hit the cop on the steps.
The bullet slammed into his temple, the size of a five-pence piece at one side, exiting the size of a side plate the other, toppling him over the railing and sending him plunging to the ground which he hit hard – and dead.
Although Bill’s vision was restricted by Scartarelli, he was the first to react, but not before the second bullet slammed into the bulkhead just inside the plane, somewhere between Henry’s and Scartarelli’s head. Bill’s hand was already on the cuffs, so he gripped tight and hauled Scartarelli violently through the door, wrenched him round into the aisle and threw him to the floor. Then he dived on top of him.
He did this quickly and efficiently and by the time he’d completed the manoeuvre, Henry and Georgia had reacted. Henry backed quickly into the plane, shouting for everyone to hit the floor (actually screaming, ‘Down! Down! Down!’), whilst Georgia pirouetted and dropped into a crouch, drawing her weapon and crisscrossing the terminal with its muzzle. At the same time she yelled instructions to the cops on the runway. They, on seeing their colleague fall, had dived for cover behind their vehicles. They too yelled, shouted and got into a panic.
But it was over. As soon as a sniper has made a shot, the game is up and the job is either done, or it isn’t. It’s actually a luxury to get two shots off but to miss with both was not good. More shots could result in his firing position being revealed and no sniper wants that. They just want to melt away and live to fight another day.
So no more shots were fired.
There was just a dead cop on the tarmac and a bullet hole inside the plane.
And panic at the airport.
Henry and Bill found themselves surrounded by headless chickens, but were powerless to do anything about it because of language. English might well be the official language, but when the shit hits, Greek is the only thing anyone understands.
They had to sit tight, together with their prisoner, and allow it all to happen.
The police went into hyperdrive for about four hours and if it hadn’t been so tragic, it would have been comical.
The airport went into lockdown. Huge numbers of police and military personnel were brought in and an emergency was declared. All flights in and out were cancelled or diverted and no one was allowed to enter or leave the immediate area without express police permission.
In the police room Henry and Bill waited patiently for things to level out and as the day progressed, a kind of order came from the chaos.
Scartarelli sat numbly in a holding cage, still cuffed, saying nothing even when he was carted off for ‘interrogation’.
He came back having made no comment, a sneer of contempt on his face. Henry wanted to smack him.
Henry saw little of Georgia, other than in short bursts of breathless activity. She appeared to have taken some control over most of the response but Henry detected a lot of friction as senior officers and the military appeared on scene.
Five hours later the ring of steel was removed and the airport reopened. A mass of hot and angry tourists surged into the small complex.
A wasted-looking Georgia reappeared then, everything askew. She looked completely drained.
‘Nothing,’ she said despondently. ‘No trace of the sniper. We found his position, but nothing of evidential value. He was out by the seashore, hidden by tall grass. The bullet that hit the plane has been recovered, believed to be a 7.62 from a high-powered rifle. The dead officer hasn’t been medically examined as yet, no autopsy. His family has been informed.’
‘What do you make of it?’ Henry asked.
‘Hypothesis: someone didn’t want Scartarelli to leave the island alive. A hired gun, I’d say. Probably from Turkey. The Turks are cheap and numerous, some are very good and all are willing to do something like this for the money.’ She paused. ‘However, this doesn’t affect the extradition, if that’s what you’re thinking. The sooner that man is off the island the better.’
This time all the legitimate passengers boarded the plane first, leaving three seats at the front for the prisoner and escorts. Everything was accomplished safely in the dark of early evening. Henry didn’t have time to say a proper goodbye and good luck to Georgia. Scartarelli was seated between the two cops, scowling and surly. Henry hoped he would kick off, so he could batter him. Take-off happened without incident and within minutes they were at 35,000 feet.
‘So,’ Henry said, turning to Scartarelli. ‘Who wants you dead?’
The felon twisted his head to give Henry a look up and down. ‘Who’s to say it’s me they wanted dead?’ he responded.
ELEVEN
He was hot-desking again. In other words using somebody else’s desk, a bit like a cuckoo but without any of the benefits. This time it belonged to the DI who ran the Intelligence Unit at headquarters. Henry knew he was on leave for a week, so that’s where he parked his rear end whilst he worked out what to do with the remaining name on his wanted list, Jane Kinsella.
However, as he pushed papers around the pristine surface, he was unable to rid his mind of what had happened in Cyprus over the last month. Meeting Georgia – and Tekke, of course; being shot at, arresting Scartarelli; the legal to-ing and fro-ing and being shot at again. And a dead cop. He ran things continually through the mush that was his grey matter, eyes squinting as he tried to make sense of it all, then finding that he came to no real conclusions, although he was haunted by the words Scartarelli had spoken to him on the plane.
What in hell did he mean?
That Henry was a target? That Georgia was a target? Maybe the dead cop was the intended target.
Of course Henry could only speak for himself. There was no reason why he should have been the target, other than he was the cop charged with bringing Scartarelli back to face the British courts. Georgia said she was as puzzled as he was and could see no reason for her to be the target and the background of the dead cop had been investigated and he was found to have led a blameless existence.
And if Henry or Georgia had been the target of an assassin’s bullet, it made no sense. Even if they’d been killed, it would have made no difference to the eventual disposal of Scartarelli. He would still be in custody and killing one or more of his arresting officers would have achieved nothing. If his underworld colleagues had wanted him free they would have been better to arrange a prison break, or an ambush on the way to the airport.
Which brought Henry full circle.
The target had to be Scartarelli. That was the only hypothesis that hung together. Someone wanted him dead.
And yet … did the drive-by shooting have any connection?
Henry exhaled. Too many questions.
His brain hurt and none of this really mattered now. He was back on home turf and still had a third felon to apprehend. One who was supposed to be in Australia. He imagined a long – maybe three-week – chase across the outback, being
guided by some cop who looked like Crocodile Dundee. Maybe not …
He looked down the office and saw Jerry Tope’s back was towards him. Tope had been pretty aloof since he had returned full time from Cyprus and Henry hadn’t had much time to sop up to him.
Maybe now was the moment.
Henry picked up the desk phone and dialled Jerry’s extension. He watched him answer his phone.
‘Jerry, it’s me, Henry.’
Tope twisted and half-looked over his shoulder down the office. ‘What?’
‘Can we be friends?’ Henry said. ‘Pretty please – or shall I just pull rank?’
Tope’s shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. ‘Whatever.’
‘Come to my office, then.’
‘Do I need to bring anything?’
‘You can find out how much I’ve got left of my budget.’
‘I also still have some information for you – but you never rang back or asked.’
‘What information?’ Henry wracked his brain.
‘About a Yank living in Cyprus?’
‘Oh, God, yeah.’ Henry had a sudden recall and his face fixed in a shocked expression. But then his mobile phone rang. He hung up on Tope and answered it. Two minutes later, once again having put Jerry Tope completely out of his mind, he was striding through the corridors on the way to the chief constable’s office.
Henry breezed into the office that housed the staff officers working for the chief and deputy chief constable. Both higher-ranking officers had offices accessible only from this kind of ante-office. It was a bit like stepping into a depressurization chamber in a rocket before being flung out into space. The office was quiet, two secretaries tapping away at their keyboards, a space at the desk of the deputy chief’s staff officer, but there was someone sitting in the desk once occupied by Chief Inspector Andy Laker.
Henry’s breeze stopped abruptly two steps into the office. He halted in his tracks. Henry knew, of course, that Laker had been unceremoniously dumped and was presently causing havoc with the Special Projects Team, so rumour had it. Henry hadn’t even given a second thought as to which fool Laker’s replacement might have been in this office. It was a job Henry could not even have imagined himself doing. He would have hated it.
