Hard Place (14 page)

Clapham, South London

Ratso had spoken to Charlene the previous evening after nets. She sounded miffed that he had not been to see her. But her bombardment of text messages made him uneasy. He had no wish to become her permanent crutch. He had calmed her with a promise never to leave her side during the funeral and wake but had added that he would not be staying overnight. “With your sister back, you’ve no need for me. Stay strong.” He had ended the call to the sound of her blown kiss.

Afterward, his thoughts were only of the cryptic message that had hit his Blackberry yesterday afternoon, at 3:20 p.m. to be precise, when he and Tosh were on the Underground heading toward Lime Street. It had been from Klodian Skela and had been just a few words: Erlis go there about boat. No more. Ratso had scribbled the words on his pad. After the meeting with Tosh and Jock, he would pay Skela another visit.

A boat? A rich man’s toy, like you see at Monaco or Puerto Banus—seventy meters long at a million dollars a meter? A floating gin palace like Roman Abramovich might own? Or did Skela mean a ship?

He had to press Skela for more details. Bardici would hardly fly to the Bahamas to talk about a fishing boat. So it had to be flashy or commercial. Bardici would not want a gin palace for himself, nor could he afford one. Zandro already had the Tirana Queen moored at Gibraltar or somewhere on the French Riviera. Would he want another eighty-million-pound gleaming white hulk that shouted I am so stinking rich I can afford two? Maybe. But if Zandro wanted to buy one, he would go himself.

Ratso had breakfasted early on Cheerios and fruit but as the milk had turned, the cereal he ate dry and the coffee he drank black. The machine coffee now in front of him seemed unusually welcome as he flicked through his latest messages. Nothing new from Skela. He checked the time on his screen and saw it was coming up to seven. He hit the webpage for London area news to see what had been happening around the city overnight.

Below the national news items he saw that the trial of a rapist was about to start at the Old Bailey, there had been a double stabbing in Walthamstow and a shooting in Camberwell. He sometimes wondered why he bothered reading this stuff; the stories would be the same tomorrow and the next day. Same crimes, different locations.

He was about to turn to the cricket pages when he caught the headline Tube Incident: Victim Named. Immediately, his mind flashed back to the previous afternoon. He opened the page. He didn’t take in the details, not at first anyway. All he saw was the name Klodian Skela. His eyes went in and out of focus and for several long seconds he stared at the screen, not taking anything in at all. Klodian Skela, aged thirty-eight, of Chiswick. Pronounced dead at the scene. The female driver being treated for shock.

At 9:30 a.m. Tosh and Jock arrived together and over filled his office. After politely but impatiently listening to Jock’s news from Glasgow, Ratso told them of Skela’s death. But Jock wasn’t ready to work just yet. “Heh, get this. I meant to tell ye. Last month after Poppy Day, I went into Arthur Tennant’s office. Ye’ll never guess what the mean bastard was doing!”

“Using a teabag for the fourth time?” suggested Tosh.

“Go on, then,” said Ratso, always happy to hear the latest shit about his boss.

“He wis only putting his poppy in a wee box to keep for next year.” The listeners laughed. Tennant’s mean streak was the stuff of legend. When he had been based in Eltham, his nickname was Crime—because Crime never paid.

“Probably been using it for years,” Tosh summed it up neatly.

Ratso got them back on message with a decisive chop of the hand. “Right, then. Skela. I checked with Transport for London. Time of incident, 4:47 p.m.”

“So that was after I met Terry Fenwick,” suggested Tosh, already anxious to avoid any blame.

Ratso nodded reassurance. “If Fenwick is connected to Zandro. If Fenwick had smelled a rat.” He almost smiled as he used the word. “If he had acted at once, there was still no time for him to warn Zandro to get his lieutenants to tell Bardici to scare the crap out of Skela.”

“Even if Fenwick was suspicious,” Tosh added, over-hastily, “which he was not.”

“So you said.” Ratso watched Tosh pull a Mars bar from his cardigan pocket. The chocolate was cracked and the bar squashed but Tosh’s enthusiasm for it was not dampened as he took a huge bite. “Either Skela’s wife Rosafa was after him, or Bardici, or both. Whatever, he just couldn’t cope.”

Jock looked pensive. “Ye hadna spoken to his wife?”

Ratso shook his head firmly. “No. I preferred to keep the threat hanging.”

Jock looked thoughtful, his steely eyes staring at nothing in particular. “I’m no saying this is what happened. I’m just playing devil’s advocate. If Fenwick was suspicious when Tosh fixed the appointment, then Bardici might have been tipped off in time to intimidate Skela.” After being back in Glasgow, Jock’s accent was more pronounced than ever.

Ratso was not convinced. “Why should Tosh phoning about crime prevention trigger an alarm?” He saw that Tosh looked especially relieved at hearing this. “For now, we assume it was general pressure that drove Skela to jump.”

“He wasna pushed?” suggested Jock, showing teeth somewhat misshapen from his days of pipe smoking, a habit he had kicked seven years before.

“I checked. The poor woman driving the train was pretty cut up. She collapsed in the cab. But she was sure: Skela was alone near the end of the platform. Simply dived across the rails.”

“Whit aboot Lindita, his daughter? Would she be blackmailing him?” Jock’s Glaswegian hung for a moment as the listeners thought it through. Before Ratso could comment, Tosh responded.

“Get real, guys! His daughter was no prisoner. Not like the kid kept in a cellar for twenty-four years by that Austrian pervert.” Tosh lobbed the Mars wrapper into the dark green bin. “Lindita was gagging for it. Know what I mean?”

Ratso nodded. “You’re right. She didn’t live with her folks; just came round for dinner and nookie when her mum was away. Would she have put the screws on him?”

“Maybe it’s sort of the done thing in Albania.” He saw Ratso’s dismissive look and Jock’s smirk. “Shagging your kids—it can be legal in Belgium. Just the thing after moules and chips down Ostende. Lots of other countries too, like Turkey. It’s legal. Different sort of stuffing there, that’s all!” He was rewarded with a wry look from Ratso and a barking laugh from Jock. “So maybe that’s what they do in Albania when they’re not out shooting each other and dealing drugs.”

“You’re a sad, sick bastard, Tosh. Don’t let’s go there.” Ratso turned a page in his notepad. “Tosh, you interview Lindita. I reckon Skela was shit-scared of his wife; see if Lindita knows what drove him to it. See her on her own, mind. We never told her why we were interviewing her father. ’Course, we’ve no clue what he said to her later.”

“And Mrs Skela?”

“Question her too but tread carefully.” Ratso clasped his hands behind his head and stared at the cobweb in the corner of the ceiling as if seeking inspiration, like Robert the Bruce in his cave. Suddenly, he leaned forward and flattened his fingers on the table. “No. Scrub everything. We keep out of it for now. That block is too full of Albanians.”

“Aye,” Jock agreed. “Bardici, Zandro, whoever—they’ve got to believe Skela’s death is being treated as routine.”

“Tosh, check with the coroner’s officers. See what they’ve discovered.”

Tosh looked disappointed at his change of assignment. “You ask me, the kid won’t have mentioned our visit to her mum or the coroner’s officer.”

Ratso nodded, anxious to move on. He tapped his notes impatiently. “Item two. Take a listen. Skela’s last message—he left it about ninety minutes before he jumped.” He played back the dead man’s words. Erlis go there about boat. No more. The broken English hung over them till Ratso continued, “I was going to ask Skela today what he understood by the word boat.”

“Those words, no more,” Jock repeated them. “I’d say it either means Bardici was only there about a boat and nothing more …”

Ratso finished the alternative. “… Or no more help. Because he was pissed off with me … or with life.” Both sergeants nodded in agreement.

Jock leaned forward, hands clasped under his chin. “Boss, let me check out the Grand Bahama scene.”

“If you think you’re flying out tonight with your waterwings and sun oil, think again.”

“Wi’ my rugged charm, I dinna need a tan to pull the birds.” This was a dig at Ratso, who enjoyed a touch of bronzing. They all laughed. “Anyway, boss, hot sun and me are a no-no. Give me Copland Road, a Rangers home win and a fish supper any day.” His eyes showed he was momentarily living the thought. “No, I was actually thinking of using the Web.”

“Agreed.” Ratso was moving on. “Got your pics, Tosh?”

The sergeant pulled two photos from his folder and laid them on the desk. The first was the list of company names, each on a small plastic plate slotted into a board. “I had the photo of Fenwick enhanced for the surveillance boys.” The second photo showed Terry Fenwick seated at his desk, his right arm pointing across the room.

Ratso produced the picture from the DVLA in Swansea. “Here’s the one on his driving licence. Taken three years ago but looks very similar. Anonymous-looking bugger, isn’t he?” added Ratso, taking in the regular but thin features, the half-frame glasses low on the man’s nose, the traditional short back and sides and the smooth, well-shaven cheeks. “Height? Build?”

Tosh laughed. “Medium height. Medium build. As you say, anonymous. Say five ten. Not thin. Not fat. Not burly. Just average. Aged fifty-seven, according to Swansea. That surprised me.”

“The quick blast of surveillance gave us a taster. Now let’s go in depth. Get Google images of his home in Bickley. Get its value, the outstanding mortgage. Family circumstances. The usual.” The listeners knew there was more coming. “But I’m more interested in what he does during office hours. Surveillance morning and evening was pretty damned dull.”

Tosh leaned forward as he spoke. “You ask me, he sits at his desk and makes money.”

“Maybe. Let’s see how many clients come and go. Photo them too.”

“Use the O.P.?”

“Not a good street for that. I don’t want to overuse it, anyway. Try and fix an office opposite.”

Jock looked pensive. “Expecting Boris Zandro to drop in for a wee chat and coffee with Fenwick? Get real. Wensley Hughes would have got that years ago, when Zandro was under constant observation.”

Ratso snapped his fingers. “You’re right! Never once was Zandro near Lime Street.” He looked down at the list of company names. A quick glance showed maybe fifty names. But as Ratso knew already, there were more—probably many, many more where Arkwright, Fenwick and Stubbs were involved but with a registered office in the BVI, Isle of Man, Jersey, or Gibraltar. “You studied the names yet, Tosh?”

“Meant nothing to me.”

Ratso and Jock leaned over the photo and looked at each name in turn. Nothing jumped off the paper. No Albanian names. Nothing that linked in with Zandro or his address. They looked random, almost computer-generated. Anonymous like the thin-faced solicitor with the forgettable features. The typical city gent on the 8-17 from Bickley.

Tosh rose. “Sorry, boss. I need a leak. But the names, they’re meaningless. Right?” He got no reaction from Ratso, who was deep in thought, his brow furrowed. Tosh scurried out as Jock stretched out a hefty fist and picked up the list. He too admitted defeat after a second read-through. It was only when he handed the photo back to Ratso that something finally sparked.

Ratso’s eyes widened as he looked down the list. Suddenly he jumped up, punching the air. “I got it! I got it!”

“Explain, boss.”

“I was looking for anagrams. But it’s easier than that. Three are a dead giveaway.”

“All yer hours on the Daily Mail crosswords. Time well spent.” Ratso was unsure whether Jock was taking the piss or not.

Ratso grabbed his pen and pointed to three names, then read them out. “Etro, Oulsden and Egent.”

Jock looked puzzled. “Say it quickly and it could be a lawfirm.”

Ratso’s eyes disagreed. “Oh! I missed another one. Onduit Investments Limited.”

“Come on, boss. Give.”

Clapham, South London

After Tosh returned, Ratso suggested they all pop round to Caffé Nero to top up Tosh’s bladder and keep his urinary tract in regular order. While Jock and Tosh grabbed the only spare table, Ratso stood in a long line for the coffees. “You’d never think there was a recession,” grumbled Ratso to a total stranger. “Always the same. Every time you blink, there’s another coffee shop open and they’re always full.”

“Yeah, in my next life, I’m coming back as the guy who started all this in Seattle. You need a second mortgage just for an espresso and a muffin.”

“These places breed quicker than rabbits,” Ratso agreed as he handed over his money to the young Polish girl behind the counter. “I’m told you can still visit the daddy of them all—the first ever Starbucks in Pike Place Market, Seattle. I expect our American cousins would say, It’s kinda neat.” Ratso collected his tray with three coffees and muffins for the sergeants.

At the table, Jock had been joshing Tosh about the company names. Tosh’s frown said it all. Ratso sat as the sergeants wolfed down their muffins, though that didn’t stop Jock from almost choking with laughter. “I asked Tosh if he’d worked it out,” he spluttered to Ratso. “Okay, I said, I’ll give you a clue. These four names: Etro, Oulsden, Egent and Onduit. They’re code for four London clubs. So he only says, Spurs, Arsenal, West Ham and Fulham.” Ratso joined in the laughter while Tosh scowled, asking what was so bleeding funny.

“Tell him, Jock.”

But before Jock could answer, Tosh volunteered again. “Tit-and-bum clubs, then? Like those joints in Soho? Sunset Strip and that.”

“Come on, boss. Put the poor sod out of his misery.”

“Etro, Oulsden, Egent and Onduit. Add one letter to each you get Metro, Poulsden, Regent and Conduit.”

Jock put on a passable imitation of a Hoorah Henry’s London accent. “Each one is a posh, blue-chip London club—hangouts for toffs like the Lord Doodahs and Sir Willerby Muppets of this world. Oh yaah! Spiffing, what?”

“Plus loads of media types, city slickers, minor celebrities,” added Ratso. “The royals—some of the male ones, that is—belong to the Poulsden in Hill Street, Mayfair.”

Tosh was miffed at his ignorance being so exposed. “So what’s your point?” he asked huffily.

“I’ll explain, Tosh. I’ll use big writing to make it easier. Or would you prefer a cartoon?”

“Bollocks!” Tosh replied, grinning as he shifted uneasily.

“Okay, imagine you’re Terry Fenwick.”

“With his money, too?”

Ratso ignored him. “You form dozens of companies. Most names have been used already, so you can’t register them. You need to invent new ones. So you’re having lunch in the …”

“Metro Club in Charlotte Street,” suggested Jock.

“And you’re talking to a client who needs a new company,” continued Ratso. “So you think, what shall we call it? Ah! Metro Holdings Limited but of course you know that a good name like Metro will have gone.” Tosh looked up, his expression showing that he was now on message. “So today I want a list of members from those four clubs. I’m off tomorrow; it’s the funeral.”

“And no’ just off for an hour, eh, boss?” Jock’s remark was well loaded and Ratso saw Tosh smirk.

Ratso’s pokerface gave nothing away. “Afterwards? I’ll go to the wake. Meet the family.”

“Ye’ll be back the next day, will ye?” Now Jock’s voice was deadpan but Ratso had no doubt what the gossip had been behind his back.

“Why not?” Ratso ducked the bouncer as well as any England batsman. “After I’ve been through the membership lists, I’ll decide about surveillance but if Fenwick’s a member of these clubs, then we might get to fast-track what’s going on.”

He turned to Tosh.

“Tomorrow, for Neil Shalford’s funeral, I want you in an O.P. van. I want everyone who attends the service to be photographed. Plus, of course, anybody who might be hanging round watching.”

“Expecting Bardici?”

Ratso’s look was foxy. “If he heard both Hogans would be there as mourners, he might stop by.” He twirled his coffee cup. “They won’t be, of course. No way they want to be linked to Neil Shalford. Especially not to his corpse.” Yet the listeners knew Ratso had a subplot in mind. They had spotted the dancing look in his eyes.

“But?”

“But if my snout gets the word out …”

Jock thumped the table. “That both brothers will be there? Aye, that’ll attract Bardici like a fly to dung.”

“And in Bardici’s mind, link the bugging to Dan and Jerry Hogan.” Tosh was getting there in bite-sized chunks.

“He might try something. Or he’ll want to know who attends. So you will be there to watch any watchers, Bardici or someone we don’t yet know. Maybe we’ll add another photo to the whiteboard. Perhaps even ID him if you follow him onto a bus or tube. Or better still, into a car with a number you can scratch down. Got it?”

Tosh grinned. “Piece of cake, boss.”

Ratso was less confident. Jock had said nothing, his mind somewhere else. “Jock. Anything to add besides the shenanigans at Rangers?”

Jock stirred from his thoughts; Ratso had guessed his mind kept drifting back to Glasgow. The Scot shook his head and sighed. “It’s a right mess up there. Double-dealing. The fans deserve better.” He reached for the last crumbs on his plate. “Any special instructions for me, boss? While ye’re, er, comforting the widow?” But Ratso had already left the table and if he heard, he was not rising to the bait.

“He’ll be well in there,” volunteered Tosh with Ratso out of earshot. “Charlene’s a right little raver.” The two sergeants grinned at each other as they held back, watching Ratso hold open the door for a frail-looking pensioner.

“Aye, right enough!” added Jock. “Remember that night at yon pole-dancing place in Streatham? That piss-up after banging up those Yardies?”

Tosh looked sheepish. “I prefer to forget that night.”

Jock rewarded him with a belly laugh. “My money? The boss won’t be in next morning. Not early, anyroads.”

The two men laughed and were still laughing when they caught up with Ratso near the traffic lights. He looked at them suspiciously, pretty damned sure he was the butt of their joke. Ignoring their mocking grins, he crouched to chat with a scruff who was seated cross-legged on a coconut mat, an even scruffier mongrel beside him. The two sergeants looked on as Ratso exchanged some banter before slipping a fiver into the man’s grimy hand.

“God bless you, mate,” the man said with a strong Yorkshire accent. Ratso knew the beggar had started life in Rotherham.

“Don’t piss it all against the wall, will you,” Ratso responded as he smiled his goodbye and the three officers moved on.

“You’re a soft touch, boss. A fiver! Five quid to a lazy bastard who’s too idle to get off his fat arse.” Tosh’s face matched his indignant tone.

“Ending up like that is never so far from any of us. That fiver means more to him than to me.”

Tosh was unrepentant. “One day you’ll see the real him, all togged up in his best whistle and flute coming out of the Ritz after a slap-up dinner. Conmen, the lot of them.”

“You are so wrong. This guy likes a chat, a kind word.” Ratso’s voice had grown irritated. “And I know a damned sight more about him than you ever will, with that pig-ignorant attitude. Talk to him—find out for yourself.”

Ratso wasn’t going to give Tosh the pleasure of knowing the horrific story of the guy’s rail crash in Africa that stole his wife and his baby daughter. He had used a crutch since the age of twenty-nine. His frontal lobe brain injury had made him unemployable.

There was an embarrassed hush as they walked on before Jock broke the surly silence. “Reckon Zandro might be a club member, boss?”

Ratso shrugged but his face revealed a glimmer of hope. “I don’t know much about these pukka joints. You need a shedload of members to support your application to join. One blackball and you’re out. It happened to that Jeremy Paxman once at the Garrick. But maybe Zandro would get elected—all that patronage of the arts stuff and his swanky dinner parties.”

“I’ll check for his name anyway,” Tosh said as they turned into the car park and their drab, cheerless block.

Ratso stopped in his tracks and turned to face the sergeants. “I’ve an idea. Tosh, take five random pictures along. Any old sods—City types, landed gentry. Get them from the Web. Nobody well-known but include Zandro among them and then ask the porter at the entrance whether he knows any of them.”

“And if they recognise Zandro?”

“Act disappointed. Make out you were after one of the others.”

“And me?” Jock sidestepped a puddle and glanced up at the drizzle that was now settling on Ratso’s hair.

“When you’ve cracked Klodian Skela’s boat, help Tosh on the clubs.”