by Iain Cameron
The car park was full of little white Seat’s just like theirs, but it was easy to spot the hire car with its clean and spotless paintwork as it glowed like a beacon in a sea full of dusty and dirty cars.
‘So what do you think was the important thing the Inspector was rushing off to do?’ Hobbs said as he climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘Maybe it was a reminder to buy his wife’s birthday present or a neighbour informing him that the garage door was still open in his villa up in the hills?’
Henderson laughed. ‘No, it’s much more serious than that. The mayor’s wife needs a lift to the hairdressers.’
Hobbs eased into the street while he fiddled with the sat-nav and tried to direct them to the Alto Golf and Country Club Apartments. Impatient as ever, Hobbs couldn’t be bothered waiting for the technology to fire up and instead, forced his way into the flow of traffic on the main road outside the police station. More through luck than judgement, they were heading in the right direction as confirmed by the sat-nav when it chirped into life a few seconds later.
It was mid-morning and the sun was climbing into a cloudless sky and for the next few minutes, all conversation was temporarily halted as the air-con fan began to blow at its highest setting, trying its best to cool the inside of a warm and humid car. The traffic was heavy and their progress through town was slow, passing sparsely populated streets with seemingly endless rows of shops selling beach accessories, smart clothes and light fittings and for a moment, Henderson imagined this was his patch. Could he go back to domestic burglaries, drunken assaults and the occasional stabbing in return for a nice lifestyle and more sunshine than he could shake a cocktail stick at?
The fan gradually subsided, its relentless whine suddenly replaced by the roar and rumble of traffic noise.
‘Harris is a bit of a dark horse, is he not?’ Hobbs said.
‘Just a bit, hidden talents for boozing, storytelling and networking. What’s next, he’s an expert at water skiing or para gliding? No wonder the ACC thinks the sun shines out of his arse.’
‘I mean, I never knew…’
‘Hang on. There’s the place, over to the right. Do you see it?’
All other thoughts were instantly cast aside as they drove through the gates of the Alto Golf and Country Club. The only receipt Pat Davidson could find relating to Cope’s trip was an acknowledgement email from Easy Jet for his flight and a leaflet about the golf club but they couldn’t find a booking receipt for the accommodation, leading them to assume he carried it with him, he was staying with someone else or it was an apartment owned by Samuels.
The first one could be discounted on account of Cope’s flight itinerary, as he travelled out to Portugal last Thursday, the day before Samuels was arrested, and was returning to the UK on Sunday. This he was told was out of sync with the system tour operators and letting agencies used for their holidays and lettings as they worked on a week-by-week basis and most often, this meant Saturday to Saturday. Gut instinct pointed him towards the last option as Samuels was rich and he wouldn’t put it past him to own a property here, perhaps as a reward for Cope doing what he wanted.
It looked to be an easy job to ensure Cope stayed here for the next few days and follow him to the airport without being seen, but he was a little concerned there was no Plan B. What if he suddenly disappeared from his apartment or didn’t make his way to the airport on Sunday? They didn’t have any jurisdiction in Portugal and no access to surveillance cameras, computers, police radios and no power over the deployment of police officers. He hoped Cope would play ball and stick to the plan, but was that asking too much?
FORTY
When they arrived at the Alto Golf and Country Club, Hobbs made a point of parking the car under the shade of a leafy tree. They strolled towards the main reception area, a white, two-story building with yellow edging around doors and windows, trying to look like tourists but feeling conspicuous with white faces and no golf equipment.
Through the trees, Henderson could see sun-worshipers lying around a large pool and wearing a lot less than they were and he was momentarily thankful that the resort offered something more than golf otherwise they would have been forced to don the garish pullovers and check trousers favoured by some players, bad examples of which could be seen striding across a fairway in the distance.
They left a few minutes later, armed with a map of the sprawling complex, given to them by the smiling, over-dressed, middle-aged lady after Hobbs charmed her into revealing the number of Cope’s apartment when he told her they were work colleagues paying him a surprise visit.
They drove slowly around the sprawling resort, one block of apartments looking much like another with long rows of terraced two and three-storey buildings, painted in eye-dazzling, brilliant white with a variety of coloured towels and bathing gear drying on pulleys or hanging precariously over balconies, a welcome interruption to the all-white monotony.
The Alto Praia do Vau apartments overlooked the thirteenth fairway and from where Henderson was standing now, it didn’t seem such a bad place to be. The buildings were uniform in design with clean, Mediterranean lines and well-maintained gardens with ample places to park and Hobbs particularly liked the wide, quiet roads as driving a left-hand drive car made him feel like a learner once again.
The narrow strips of earth beside the road were planted with geraniums, marigolds and several plants he didn’t recognise and bordered by large bushes of red-flowering bougainvillea. The planting scheme successfully brightened up the access paths in what was essentially the back of the building and probably a place where few people loitered as he was sure all golfers wanted to do after a hard day’s play was to sit with a beer in their hand and gaze longingly at their playground.
Hobbs sat in the car and kept watch while Henderson walked purposefully towards an apartment at the end of a block where a set of steps, almost obscured by sprawling vegetation, led down to Cope’s ground floor apartment. All the buildings in this street were built on a slope, presumably to maximise the view, and all the windows seemed to face the same way too as there was only one at the rear, small and frosted, presumably a cloakroom.
At the bottom of the steps, he was standing between Cope’s apartment building and the one next door. A path ran alongside each building and the gap between them was planted with small, green plants in readiness for blooming in the summer. By the look of the soil, which was dark and moist, it had recently been given a rich topping of compost, which would help water retention and provide nutrients, leading to a bright, colourful display a few months from now, but here endeth the gardening lesson from an otherwise ignorant flat-dweller, as he knew little more.
He was being more cautious now as his photograph had featured in many newspapers over the last couple of weeks and if the wall display at the Saltdean house was anything to go by, Cope knew exactly what he looked like. If he was preparing for a proper stake-out he might have shortened his hair, grown a beard or worn different clothes, but he made the best of a bad lot with dark sun glasses and a Portimão-inscribed baseball hat pulled down low.
The metal roll-down shutters outside the apartment windows were only half-way closed and after first checking he was not being watched by a couple of puzzled golfers, having a fag outside a neighbouring apartment, he carefully sidled up to the first window and peered in. The bed was unmade, the wardrobe doors were open and clothes were strewn across the room. It was too much to expect that a shirt would be lying close to the window so he could confirm the collar size, but he could see bottles of after-shave, a hairbrush and a can of Nivea Men antiperspirant on the dresser, indicating for this room at least, a man slept there.
Next along was the entrance door and beyond that, large windows of the living room. Slowly he made his way past the door and just as he was about to take a look, he heard the shuffling of feet behind him.
Panic seized his senses like a vice as he immediately thought it was Cope, coming out to investigate a strange man lurking outside his apartment
or returning from breakfast in one of the restaurants nearby. Christ! If Cope caught him snooping, it would blow the whole case wide apart. He would scarper to Spain or Italy and it would be his fault for failing the families of the two murdered girls and letting a violent killer go free to kill again. Hobbs was supposed to warn him with a phone call to vibrate his silenced phone but what if he couldn’t do so because he was asleep or incapacitated?
A deep voice suddenly said, ‘Are you all right, senhor?’
Henderson turned. Five yards away and partly camouflaged by foliage, was a walnut-faced old fellow, wearing a wide brimmed straw hat and the green uniform of the ground maintenance team.
‘I’m just ... enjoying the view.’
‘Sim senhor. Eet is a fine view from here.’
For a moment or two, he looked at Henderson as a small smile creased his lips on what was otherwise an inscrutable face before bending down slowly and weeding carefully between the plants. His slow and careful stabs with the two-fingered hoe convinced Henderson he was there for the rest of the morning and so he decided to continue his recce but to finish it quickly and then get the hell out. Nonchalantly he moved forward.
The huge living room window, which was glazed on three sides, giving him visibility throughout the rest of the apartment, the seating area around the television, the kitchen, the dining area and through floor-to-ceiling glass patio doors at the end of the room, out to a patio and barbecue area. At the back of the apartment and to the right, an open door led into a second bedroom but unlike the one he saw earlier, it was tidy and looked unused. Thank the Lord, as shadowing Cope was one thing, but the presence of a companion would make this job much more difficult.
He turned and followed the path back the way he came and after calling a passable and hopefully casual, ‘obrigado’ to the old man, he made his way up the stairs and over to the car. Hobbs was not asleep or incapacitated as his over-active imagination suggested, but reading the paper with the casual air of a man waiting for his dilatory wife and daughters as they finished doing their hair or was simply enjoying some peace away from a noisy apartment.
‘How was it?’
‘It’s a two-bedroom place but there’s only one occupant, which reinforces my view that it belongs to Samuels. The room he’s sleeping in looks untidy but I didn’t see any golf kit, so maybe he didn’t bring any out with him as he’s away doing other things or he’s got it with him and he’s out there right now, playing a game.’
‘It’s a bit odd coming out here on your own, don’t you think? I mean, golf’s a sociable game and you need other players to make a game of it, so either he knows some people out here or he isn’t here to play golf.’
‘Yeah, take your pick, brass rubbing in local churches or raping and murdering local women.’
‘Ha, he looks the churchy kind, doesn’t he?’
‘Maybe we should ask Inspector Giraldes if any local women have gone missing. That is, if we haven’t scared him into doing it already, the very thought of having someone like Cope holidaying twice or three times a year in this place would get me worried.’
‘So, I don’t suppose we can go for a beer just yet?’
‘Nope. We need to wait here until he turns up.’
‘That’s providing he’s in these apartments at all and it’s not some bloody ruse.’
‘Cynic.’
The afternoon dragged past, Henderson taking naps while Hobbs read a book or fiddled with the radio, trying to find a station that didn’t play old fashioned tea-dance music, American oldies or endless military marches.
At four fifteen, yet another car drew up and parked outside the apartments. Henderson took little notice until two men stepped out.
‘Gerry, wake up mate. I think we’ve got company.’
‘Christ,’ he said sitting up. ‘Somebody should hire that dj for late-night radio in the UK, he could cure the nation’s insomnia overnight. Two minutes of him and I was out like a light.’
‘They’re on the other side of the road, about five cars up.’
He rubbed his eyes and leaned over to look in the rear-view mirror. ‘Yeah I see them, two guys taking their stuff out of the boot of a silver 4x4?’
‘Yep. That’s them.’
Cope bent over the opened boot and picked something out before stepping back. It was a bottle of water or juice, which he put to his lips and drunk greedily.
‘Bloody Norah!’ Gerry exclaimed. ‘It’s him all right. Would you credit it?’
‘Bow down all you nonbelievers, bow.’
‘Healthy scepticism I call it boss, comes in handy sometimes.’
‘Yeah, that’s our Mr Cope all right. He’s a big bastard and no mistake.’
Martin Cope towered over his smaller companion and there was no trace of a beer belly. He was a regular body-builder in prison and although many used the gym as cover to hatch plans and do deals, he clearly didn’t and must have kept up the same regime on the outside. The two men stopped on the pavement for a chat and a couple of minutes later said hearty ‘goodbyes.’ His companion headed for the path in front of the car while Cope walked towards them, pulling his clubs behind him on a trolley.
‘Excuse me Mr Hobbs, I seem to have dropped my last mint imperial. I’ll just duck out of sight and see if I can find it.’
‘Don’t make me laugh you clown. If Cope sees me smiling at myself he’ll think I’m as mad as he is and come over and talk to me.’ He lifted the newspaper and glanced at it while speaking softly, as if mouthing the words he was reading or singing along to the radio.
‘He’s getting closer, two cars away, one car away; he’s level with us. I’m looking up at him...he’s still walking, eyes to front, not looking left or right. He’s not worried about being watched, then. He’s past us, doesn’t turn round like he suspects anything. He’s stopped at the top of the stairs. He picks up the golf bag and trolley as if it weighs nowt. Now I can see his big head bobbing down the stairs.’ He paused a moment. ‘I think you can come up now, boss.’
FORTY-ONE
The funeral of Jon Lehman took place on Friday morning at the Church of St Thomas A-Becket in Lewes. Although born in Morden, Surrey his wife Annabel decided that as Jon spent most of his adult life in Lewes and loved the town, particularly its women, beer and history, it would have been his wish to be buried there.
Bollocks, was all Alan Stark would say when he heard of her decision. It was the sterile bitch’s last opportunity to take her spite out on the man she believed was responsible for screwing up her life. Maybe, he thought with a wicked smile, when she found out about all the oodles of cash the little squirrel had been salting away, she would not be quite so outspoken and acerbic as she was now.
The pastor was babbling on about the afterlife and what a good place our brother would find himself in, yes he thought, nodding in agreement, but only if he could be provided with twelve young virgins and limitless supplies of Cabernet Sauvignon, or whatever the hell he drank, as he was never quite sure himself. He could be so decisive and commanding in class, yet became a dithering idiot when it came to his private life, such as choosing what to eat in a restaurant, who to talk to at a party or picking the woman he intended to marry, but on reflection, those were the very reasons why he liked him so much.
It took him years to realise it, but he, Alan Stark was a good-old fashioned control freak which permeated every aspect of his life, from the way he placed banknotes around the same way in his wallet, to the months in which he wanted his children to be born as he liked to have a handle on everything in his life and he would do battle with anyone who sought to disrupt it.
Jon on the other hand, took life in his stride in a way that he could never do and which seemed so carefree, so bohemian, even. Yes, it was hard to admit, but there were times when he envied him. Perhaps if those words were said to his face, it might have changed things and made for a more favourable outcome.
He allowed himself a tear, even in this exalted group of the great an
d the good. They came from all over; from the university, students and lecturers alike, from government, minor officials from many of the esoteric and arcane committees of which Jon was a member, from his wife’s coven of interior designers, style gurus and gays and of course, close friends like himself.
For all his failings, he was a good friend to Alan Stark. He was loyal, trustworthy and reliable, much like his Golden Retriever, Randy now he came to think of it. He dismissed that impudent thought from his mind as the preacher finished speaking and invited them to stand and sing.
After the psalm, which was far from uplifting as it made him feel more miserable, he walked to the lectern with a heavy heart. There were no nerves or apprehension as this was what he did for a living, although the charges he normally spoke to were somewhat younger and a darn sight prettier than this lot.
What he wasn’t used to doing, was speaking from the heart and so in preparation for this, he did something out of character, he let other people read one of his speeches before he gave it. He wanted it to convey the right level of affection without a trace of the terse and serious law professor he usually became the moment he stood up to speak to his students or fellow lawyers at a legal gathering.
A few minutes after he started, he realised he was enjoying talking about his friend, summarising his eminent career at the university and the extracurricular activities he was responsible for, including the chess club and the badminton team and the secondments he organised for his business students as he had numerous contacts in many large, international companies. He, of course omitted to mention the other extracurricular activities that Jon was involved in and approached with equal vigour, as they were approached with significantly less clothes and with little deference to rules.
Clearly, his short eulogy was striking the right note as he spotted much dabbing of the eyes and coughing into the hands, although he was alarmed at the number of men that seemed similarly affected. One girl at the back of the church burst into tears when he concluded in a deep, solemn voice ‘that Jon would be sorely missed,’ and few moments later, a few more joined in with her wailing sobs.
