Hard Place (11 page)

Fort Lauderdale, Florida

At the end of her third day making casual investigations, all low-key with no media on her back yet, Kirsty-Ann Webber edited her report. Everything seemed to point in one direction as she scrolled down the screen to check her Summary and Conclusions:

1. Ruthven had stayed in the Hilton on five occasions but never once had he charged anything to the room from the poolside or restaurants. He had never eaten there on a card, or even paid cash as far as anybody could recall. He was not a familiar figure around the hotel.

2. The computer confirmed he always left on Sunday at a similar checkout time of just before noon.

3. His personal toiletries were slightly unusual (all never ever used).

4. Without a false driving licence, he could not have hired a car because his driving licence was in the safe.

5. The bellmen and carjockeys have no recollection of him leaving the hotel this trip. He always arrived by taxi. The bell captain thought he remembers him arriving.

6. Enquiries of local restaurants and bars within walking distance were negative.

7. His Gladstone bag was interesting. First examination revealed nothing but on closer inspection, it had a false leather base that could have concealed a few items. It was empty but might have been used. The bag has been seized as evidence.

8. Forensics confirmed a couple of long brown hairs found in the suitcase’s hidden section were from a wig; see their report in Appendix A.

9. The return ticket to Washington had not been used.

Conclusions

10. Ruthven left the hotel on Friday (almost certainly) and definitely by Saturday.

11. He must have taken cash because his Amex card was in the room.

12. He was never seen in a rented car and was not recognised at rental agencies at the airport.

13. Assuming this trip was like the others, he never used his credit card while in Florida (see printouts from Amex for the periods covered by every trip, nil usage). No other company has any record of him owning a credit or debit card.

14. Taxi drivers have not been approached. Their testimony would be a long shot but may be essential. Speaking to them would lead to immediate media awareness. So far, I have kept this under wraps.

15. Assuming Ruthven did not plan to disappear on this trip and was following a familiar routine, he would have returned to DC on Sunday. Therefore, either this trip was the one he was building up to for a planned disappearance in a brown wig OR something unusual has happened to him while wearing a brown wig and operating under an identity other than that of Lance Ruthven.

16. The false bottom was just large enough to conceal false identity cards, passport(s), the wig and other odds and ends.

17. Ruthven could enter the Bahamas with only a photo ID but would need a passport to return to the US. I suggest a search be made in DC for his genuine passport. If not found, he must be carrying his real one as well, UNLESS he has hidden/stored it somewhere in the FL area.

18. Enquiries at nightclubs, saunas and gay bars have been negative.

19. As this was his sixth identical trip, he either (a) visits a friend(s) here under an assumed ID or (b) uses the airport to fly to a destination easily reachable from here but not from DC. That could include many cities on the mainland but more probably islands like the Bahamas or Grand Cayman. Alternatively, (c) he may use a cruise or other ship.

20. There are about forty international flight destinations from Fort Lauderdale Airport. I discount twenty-seven as being either too far (e.g. Germany) or inappropriate to reach from Fort Lauderdale (e.g. Quebec, Canada) rather than using a better/more direct routing. I have not checked US city destinations, of which there are sixty-three excluding Washington DC.

21. In effect, Ruthven has barely fifty hours unaccounted for on each previous trip, so I infer he does not travel far. We should check airlines to the Bahamas, Grand Cayman and short-cruise companies. I will work to identify a passenger using another name, sailing from here or flying to the islands on dates consistent with all of his visits. Failing that, checking other destinations for the six visits could be done.

Satisfied with her conclusions, she took the report to Bucky Buchanan’s office two floors up. She wanted to take it further. She had no idea where this was leading but finding out could be just the boost she’d been looking for.

Heathrow, West London

Ratso and Tosh had been delighted that the Miami flight was due at Terminal Five at 9:35 a.m., so they hadn’t needed to start out early. Ratso had even given himself extra time for his shower and breakfast, catching up with the cricket from Down Under. The previous night he had not spent at Kingston, a decision over which he had agonised. However, as he sat in the swaying clatter of the speeding train, his thoughts were neither of Charlene nor cricket. Amy Winehouse belted out a bluesy number, filling his ears but not his mind. Instead, he was reliving yesterday’s meeting with Wensley Hughes as the train swayed and rocked westwards.

He always got a buzz passing the familiar revolving sign outside New Scotland Yard, headquartered in its otherwise featureless tower in the heart of Westminster. In here, decisions to make or break police careers or operations were being made every day. During the meeting with the AC, Ratso had felt pleased; he even got in a couple of digs against Tennant. Hughes had said nothing in response and his taciturn face gave away nothing but Ratso was confident that a black mark, maybe two, would go into the book against his superior. He liked the thought. And as for Jock’s idea that the word reach Caldwell but not from Hughes directly, the A Chad been impressed. Fixing Caldwell with no fingerprints left behind suited him well enough to offer Ratso a chocolate digestive.

After leaving the meeting, Ratso had grabbed the District Line westbound from St. James’s Park and was looking forward to getting home in time to watch the West Indies match from Antigua. After breezing cheerfully out of Hammersmith station, he had crossed the Broadway and chatted supportively to Charlene, saying all the right things. But in truth, he was quite glad for a night away from her. He needed some space before going to Wolsey Drive drifted into something permanent.

Am I just a straw for a drowning woman to cling to? Or am I indispensable? Once the funeral’s over, will she still need me? Would she want to settle down—two kids and a nine-to-five routine? She had pressed Neil. Is that for me? Nine-to-five—that’s a non-starter. Kids? Love ’em to bits but giving them the time they deserve … now that would be a problem. And I’d be living a big secret, a huge guilty secret that it was me who sent Neil to Westbrook Drive. And if that ever came out, what then? Shitsville, baby! He killed the line of thought as the train slowed for Northfields.

Something else had been nagging away at him, like a sore tooth or a stone in his shoe. The previous evening, as he’d been scrambling eggs, he’d had a flash of inspiration. St Paul en route to Damascus had nothing on this—but writing the idea down had been impossible. As quickly as it had come, it was gone, that momentary flash of inspiration. He wished now he had let the eggs stick to the pan while he scribbled it down. Try as he did for the rest of the journey, he never retrieved the lost thought. He knew it had to involve Skela and as he made his way up to T5 Arrivals, he ran through everything from the past thirty-six hours, searching for a trigger. But the thought died when Tosh Watson appeared from a food outlet.

“Baggage in hall,” volunteered Tosh, devouring the remains of a McMuffin dripping with brown sauce. He gulped down a mouthful of coffee as both men confirmed they were wired up with covert body sets and tiny wireless earpieces.

“Tosh, you stay at the end of the walking-out area. I’ll watch as they come out of Customs. Is Varley in position? Wired up?”

“Up there. And Madden too. I checked. They’re both ready.” Tosh pointed to a middle-aged man in a dark gray coat, who held a miniscule camera trained to film every person coming through.

“Where’s Madden?”

“By the bookshop.”

“They know Bardici’s codename is Alfonso?”

“Correct. You ID Bardici and Madden and Varley will be ready.”

They moved into position about thirty meters apart. After ten, Ratso saw new labels on the luggage coming through, showing that travellers from BA’s Miami flight had arrived. But first would come the ones with EC passports. Non-EU citizens like Bardici were held up by the longer queue waiting for Immigration clearance.

From last night’s great report by young Nancy Petrie, Ratso was confident they had identified Bardici by elimination. Nobody had travelled using the name Bardici—no surprise there. Eight passengers had changed flights to Nassau from Miami but their return dates were not even close. Only three persons from the Miami flight had flown to Grand Bahamas. The honeymoon couple had been quickly eliminated. That left a Mr Mujo Zevi. The UK Border Agency had been most helpful, producing a photo taken of someone calling himself Mujo Zevi from Montenegro, who had passed through Immigration on his outward journey. The man had the same frame as Bardici.

It had been easy to persuade the AC that Bardici must be allowed to continue to use the false ID if he wished. Knowing his false ID could be a godsend on some future date. In turn, Wensley Hughes had persuaded top brass at the Border Agency that on arrival, Zevi should be waved through, nothing done to make him feel threatened or suspicious.

Ratso was on edge for the next toe-tapping twenty minutes. Every new face had to be checked and discarded but just as he was starting to wonder if he’d crapped out again, he saw his target. Zevi stood out because of his bulk and familiar swaying walk, like a gorilla looking for food. His large right hand gripped an overnight bag, just as he had gripped Neil before savaging him to death. For a moment Ratso was consumed with hatred and wanted to leap out at him—but now was not the time for an arrest.

Mujo Zevi looked somewhat different from his outgoing Immigration photo. Today, he wore a Miami Dolphins cap pulled low across his forehead and it looked as if he had not taken a razor on the trip. But that walk, swaying from side to side, was a dead giveaway. Ratso had watched hours of film of Bardici and he had no doubt Zevi was their man.

As the Albanian ambled past him, Ratso spoke softly. “Standby, standby. Contact. Alfonso entering walkway from Arrivals Hall. Subject wearing Miami Dolphins cap, unshaven, no beard, gorilla-like walk. Brown bag in right hand.” He gave his callsign and said over. Within a few seconds, he got confirmation of eyeball from Tosh, Madden and Varley. Satisfied, he imagined Varley filming the unsuspecting target’s every movement. He saw geek-like Madden half visible behind a revolving bookstand. The target showed no reaction to anybody or anything, as far as Ratso could judge from his disappearing back.

Just to be sure, Ratso wanted to be there when Zevi reached Westbrook Drive. DC Nancy Petrie was already by the corner shop in the white O.P. van—the abbreviation for an Observations Post vehicle. Normally it would be plain vanilla, no name on it but Ratso had used it before for watching Bardici, so today magnetic signs had been fixed for Wickers, Plumbers & Heating Engineers.

He and Tosh hastened to the car park, a relative term where Tosh was concerned as he panted to keep up. They grabbed the VW Golf that Tosh had brought out and headed for Hounslow. While Tosh drove as fast as he dared, Ratso warned Petrie that Zevi could appear by taxi or private car within twenty minutes.

Tosh dropped Ratso close to Ali’s corner shop. In seconds he was inside the Wickers van. “He should arrive from this end of the street, so drive past number 22, turn round and park beyond it so we can move toward him as he enters the house. Camera ready to roll?” Ratso heard the grunted yes, of course, though he had suffered five-star snafus when nothing had been recorded at all. Slowly they advanced to the apex of the bend, where he had lost sight of Klodian Skela and his missus last week. Now they had a perfect sightline to number 22 without being so close as to be obvious.

Within four minutes, a black cab appeared and slowed outside number 22. Ratso felt his pulse race. From ninety meters away, he watched Mujo Zevi emerge and pay the driver. As the cabbie moved slowly away, the Wickers van was cruising by number 22 and captured a great full-face view of Bardici as he picked up his bag and rolled his way to the front door.

“You got all that?” Ratso saw a satisfied nod. “Okay! Drop me off round the corner. I’ll go back with Tosh. And you, Nancy? Coming with us?”

“I’ll go back in the O.P. van. Leave you men to talk cricket or whatever.”

“That’s our loss, then.” Ratso almost smiled goodbye as he climbed out and joined Tosh in the Golf.

They had barely travelled for ten minutes when Ratso sensed his companion needed a leak. But Tosh didn’t like admitting to it. “Mattrafact, boss, I was just thinking I could murder a steak and kidney pud. I missed out on that yesterday. There’s the Waggoners in about a mile. You up for it?”

Ratso was not up for it. He’d been fighting to retrieve that flash of inspiration, running through every step taken since they had arrived at Skela’s squalid flat. “What! At this time? No, we’re not stopping to eat. Get me back. I’m onto something even bigger than your steak and kidney pud—if I can only remember what the hell it is.”

“Take my advice, boss. You can never, will never, forget a good steak and kidney pud and that’s a fact.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Ratso laughed. “Stop for a piss if you must. But I want to get straight back.”

After watching his sergeant scurry across the tarmac and through the side door of the dreary-looking pub, Ratso returned to his mental filing cabinet, opening and closing each drawer and each file in turn. But still that nanosecond of inspiration eluded him.