Hard Place (16 page)

Jock shook his head. “Impossible. No women.”

“Who did you speak to? Discreet, is he?”

“The club secretary. Roger Herbison. Good guy. Ex-military. One of the chaps. At each place, I spoke about Fenwick only to the club secretary, not the main entrance staff. I’ll come to them in a moment.”

“Reliable, then?”

“The club secretaries? I’d say! Shit-scared about any scandal. That was the reaction I got from every one. Not on our doorstep.”

“And Boris Zandro? His name appeared nowhere. Tell me he’s a member.”

Jock laughed. “I will if it’s what ye want to hear … but it’s no true. He’s no a member of any of them.”

“But?” Ratso looked expectant.

“Zandro is known at each of them as an occasional guest. Comes in for lunch or dinner. Never with Fenwick. The porters never mentioned that name once. At the Regent, Zandro’s usually a guest of Lord Brockstone or Sir Ian Templemore. The door staff recognised him but none of the others in the photos.” Jock pushed across the photos he had used—all suited individuals, well turned out, the types you would expect to find in London clubs with pedigrees dating back two or three hundred years. Ratso looked at the photo of Boris Zandro and his knuckles whitened at the aura of respectability and charm.

“He gets signed in?”

“No, not exactly. Typically, the front entrance just need to know from their members who to expect as a guest.”

Ratso was disappointed; he had hoped for a paper trail. “Anything else?”

“At the Metro, Zandro’s sometimes a guest of Lord Tramoyne from the Arts Council. The Conduit, he’s been there just once as the guest of some songwriter I’d never heard of. At the Poulsden, he’s usually the guest of Sir Antony Pulvenhof, the city financier, or Lord Brewham, the former prime minister.”

Ratso’s voice rose in excited enthusiasm as he stood up—his stand-up, sit-down routine, familiar to his watchers when the adrenalin was flowing. “Jock! Tosh! There’s the link. Bent solicitor and Zandro with regular chances to meet, to exchange messages, whatever but never seen together or linked at all.” He fell silent as he turned to watch a bus go by beneath the huge swaying trees running toward the Common.

“Fenwick’s partners are no members at any of the clubs.”

“I still want them checked out.”

“Fenwick doesn’t use the Poulsden that often. Never goes to their steamroom or sauna. Rarely goes into the library. Doesna’ spend hours in the bar. Just the occasional lunch or dinner.” Jock looked at his listeners in turn. “But as I said, sometimes he kips there.”

Tosh had been silent, locked in his own private hell. “Being a member of the Poulsden is the dog’s bollocks. Isn’t that what you said, Jock? Royalty and all that. Perhaps it’s a status thing for Fenwick.”

Ratso was dismissive, his fists still clenched. “Nothing about Fenwick suggests he’s interested in profile. No, he’s a member there for a reason. Let’s prove what it is.”

He doodled for moment, drawing interlocking squares, fired up. Then he looked at them both, his eyes once again alight after looking so drained just moments before.

“We’re coming to get you, Boris Zandro.” Ratso said the words slowly and with relish. Suddenly, they did not ring so hollow. “Check out Terry Fenwick’s travels. We presume he yo-yos back and forward between Bickley and his office. But let’s see if occasionally he goes to the Bahamas, Gibraltar—any offshore places. I reckon he could be a key part of the money laundering, setting up companies and trusts to receive the drug profits once laundered, then buying properties, shares, art, whatever. Let’s prove it.”

“But it’s still dirty money, even if he uses Persil on every note.” Jock made the word Persil sound like a long wash at the Laundromat. “We need to see if any of these companies like Egent, Oulsden, Etro show up in Gibraltar. Could be he uses variations of the same name over there.”

“Sure. But he needs a sloppy or corrupt banker and maybe some relaxed, complacent professionals in Gibraltar.”

“The City’s full of greedy banks, even the big clearers. So why not in Gibraltar?”

“Why not indeed!” Ratso stood again and clapped Tosh on the shoulder, though the sergeant had contributed nothing. “Cheer up, Tosh. You’ve got life insurance.”

“Fat lot of good that’ll do me. I’m not dying just to make the missus rich.” Tosh was beyond banter. “I’m going down the Nags Head. Gonna sink a skinful. Anyone up for it?”

Ratso shook his head. “Not tonight, Tosh. But not the Nags Head. Go somewhere different. The Flute & Flag. Remember my warning, right?”

“I’ll join ye,” Jock said. “And maybe a fish supper after?”

The two sergeants were almost out of the door when Ratso stopped them. “Jock, check out if there’s any pattern to the club visits. Particular days. Know what I mean?”

“Aye, right enough. But I dinna think we’ll get lucky.”

“Try anyway.”

“We going to follow Zandro?”

Ratso shook his head. “He never does nothing that isn’t kosher.” He broke into a huge smile, cheeks creased in places rarely used. “Waste of time watching … just yet.” He opened his arms expansively. “But now we have the golden key. Terry Fenwick. Let’s use it.” After the sergeants had closed the door, he said it again. “We’re coming to get you, Boris Zandro.”

He felt good. Good enough to trek back to Kingston Station. Good enough to buy a couple of bottles of red and help Charlene get over her loneliness.

Fort Lauderdale, Florida

Detective Kirsty-Ann Webber yawned, though it was barely 10 a.m. Leon’s teething pains had given her a tough night. She stretched across her cluttered desk to answer her ringing phone. It was Bucky Buchanan. “Mind droppin’ by?”

“Now?”

“Sure. Convenient?”

“On my way, Chief.” She immediately felt more alert. She’d done two hours of paperwork and needed a break. She stretched to her full height of six feet, arms high above her head, the bottom of her fawn-tailored slacks rising to show a hint of ankle and black shoes with a generous bow on top. She tossed her hair into place and touched up her pale pink lipstick. Satisfied, she set off down the long corridor. She spurned the elevator and climbed to the top floor, nodding distractedly to colleagues who muttered support.

What could the chief want? Probably that damned car chase again! But just maybe it was about the disappearance of Lance Ruthven. She hesitated before knocking and then entered the anteroom to the chief’s office, which straddled the end corner of the building and boasted large plate-glass windows with great views of nothing worth looking at. “Go right on in,” said the bespectacled secretary.

“Ah! K-A, take a seat.” Buchanan was in a short-sleeved shirt, his arms bronzed and covered in light brown hair. He stretched to pour her a black coffee. “Family okay?” It was his regular opening remark unless there was trouble ahead. She relaxed at once.

“Just great. But Leon’s teething. That guy has the loudest yell this side of the Rockies but hell, I wouldn’t change a thing.”

The chief grinned in agreement. He had five kids from eighteen down. “You gotta know when you’re blessed.” He flicked open a slim folder. “This is not about the media feeding frenzy. Toughing it out’s done good; it’s goin’ quiet. And this is not about Lance Ruthven either.” Kirsty-Ann raised a pencil-thin eyebrow. “Not yet, anyway.” The chief’s grin was infectious. “We had a request from London. A guy they regard as an enforcer for a drug baron entered Florida with a false passport and went on to Grand Bahama. They know that was his destination but …” He sipped a 7-Up. “They don’t know why he was there.”

“Not our problem, is it, Chief?”

His smile was wolfish. “Come on, K-A. I wouldn’t be wasting your time and mine for no reason. You work it out.”

“Brit killer goes to Grand Bahama. Lance Ruthven goes missing, probably in Grand Bahama.” She tapped her head with a well-manicured finger. “US State Department honcho parties with London drug enforcer? Not sure any jury will buy that.” Her dry humor was well received. “What’s the connection?

“None yet that they’ve made in London.”

Kirsty-Ann smiled as a thought struck her. “But we know Ruthven visited Afghanistan.”

Buchanan whistled through his teeth. “Hey, K-A. We need guys like you out there.” He pushed the file toward her. “Right on.”

She first looked at the two photos—one of Erlis Bardici and the other from his false ID for Mujo Zevi. She flicked over the few pages of notes. “Thirteen suspected executions in three years, the most recent just two weeks ago. Don’t those Brit cops ever catch their murderers?”

“He kills scumbags. Does Scotland Yard a favour. But they’re cutting the guy some slack to get evidence to arrest their untouchable, a drug baron called Boris Zandro.”

“Okay but why would Bardici want to kill a State Department high-up? Even one who worked as a diplomat in the world’s heroin capital?”

“No reason. Yet.”

Kirsty-Ann laughed. “C’mon, Chief! Give. Whaddaya holding back?”

“Both on Grand Bahama the same weekend. Both using a false ID.”

“And Ruthven never returns. That’s game, set and match! Slamdunk! High-fives all round.” They both laughed.

“There’ll be fingerprint ID for Bardici—once when arriving from London and once on returning from Grand Bahama.”

Kirsty-Ann scanned the details. “These papers were sent over by a Detective Sergeant Jock Strang care of his boss, Detective Inspector Todd Holtom. Know them?”

Buchanan offered her a cookie. “Never met them but Todd—he’s called Ratso by his pals—he’s helped us a few times with tips. Y’know, drug stuff. We owe him.”

“Okay, Chief. What next?”

The chief shrugged. “Maybe you get a trip to Freeport. Get a break from the baby. That’s if your mother can cope?” He saw her cautious smile, almost wistful, as if a night or two without comforting Leon would be more than welcome. “Washington liked your work and would rather have you check it out than get the island’s cops involved. Discretion, I am told, is still king.”

“You reckon Ruthven’s a spy working at State? And maybe close to exposing Zandro’s drug empire?”

If the chief knew, he was not saying. He looked out of the window, staring at an ugly red-brick. “Guy’s bound to know confidential stuff. He worked the Middle East for ten years.”

“This Ratso, he over on the island now?”

The Chief shook his head and patted down the thinning hair on his tanned scalp. “He’s still trying to figure out why Bardici went there with a false ID. But as you’ll read, he … er … lost an informant. His trail is cold.”

“So I guess he wants fingerprints from Homeland Security and anything suspicious at the airports. Like him meeting someone.” Kirsty-Ann saw the chief glance at his wall clock. She rose at once. “Anything more on Ruthven?”

“Nix. Just stay alert. I know you don’t need to be told that, K-A.”

With a smile, the detective turned and left.

Kingston, Surrey, England

With a bunch of flowers and two bottles of Argentinean Malbec, Ratso felt a bit like a kid on his first date as Charlene let him in. She gave him a kiss in the doorway. Not caring if Caldwell was snooping again, he deftly kicked the door shut. He’d picked up the last rather tired flowers at the shop near Kingston Station, a place that did a roaring trade selling peace offerings to city gents returning home late.

“They’re beautiful,” Charlene breathed in his ear. “Thank you.” She stepped back to stare at him. “This evening, tonight—we start a new chapter. The past is gone. We can hold hands in public. Be an item. Go shopping, the cinema, be seen together.” Her green eyes were heavy with intent.

Ratso felt queasy as he listened, trying to look more enthusiastic than he felt. No, he wasn’t like a kid on his first date. He felt more like a co-respondent slipping in for a quickie while hubby was working nights. But she didn’t want that. She was talking commitment. And with Neil dead less than two weeks. Buried just ten hours ago. I mean, Charlene’s just great—smart, cute, sexy, fun. But I need a no-strings deal. “Sorry I’m so late. But I brought these too.” He pulled the two bottles of red from a carrier.

“Perfect! I’ve got lasagne on standby. It’ll take twenty minutes.”

“Just time for a shower, then. Okay?” He hesitated. “But I’ve no change of clothing. I came straight here.”

Charlene laughed. “Can’t have you sitting around in the nuddies, can we? You’ll find Neil’s dressing gown hanging on the bathroom door.” She eyed him up and down. “But it won’t cover, er, everything.”

“I’ll chance it. But no peeking on the stairs.” He was rewarded with a dirty chuckle. What in hell am I doing? Silly question, Ratso. Your dick’s in charge. Not for the first or last time either.

The purple hem of Neil’s dressing gown barely reached his thighs and the material strained across his back. As he’d looked at himself in a full-length mirror, he felt even queasier. Dead man’s shoes. Wasn’t that the expression?

“Get you!” Charlene giggled as she saw him, not in the least abashed by him wearing Neil’s clothes.

“Besides you, something else smells good. I’m famished. I’ll open the wine.” He joined her in the kitchen and busied himself with finding glasses and unscrewing the bottle tops. Meanwhile, Charlene lit a cinnamon-scented candle and adjusted the cutlery on the small square table with its bistro-style red check cloth. She disappeared into the next room and soon the soft, sultry sound of Sade singing “No Ordinary Love” seemed to come from all corners of the room.

“You sit down and pour. I’ll dish up,” she told him as she sashayed over to retrieve the lasagne from the oven. He admired the wiggle and then the deep red as the Malbec tumbled into the glasses. Moments later she joined him, sitting opposite but very much within reach. “Here’s to the future.” She raised her glass and chinked with his.

“But never forgetting the past.” He looked into the endless depths of her eyes and saw them harden for a moment, as if memories of life with Neil were far from her mind. “Hard to believe what we’ve been through today. And I’m not just talking of the funeral.”

“Meaning?”

He quickly explained about the Observation Van being in an accident and the funeral being watched by a woman. “Unexpected! Can’t say no more than that.”

“You knew her, then?”

“Yes.” He spoke the word slowly, realising he might be painting himself into a very unwanted corner.

“And Caldwell. How’s he doing? He’s pretty smart.”

“Smart as in Carnaby Street or smart as in streetsmart?”

Charlene paused, head cocked appealingly to one side. “He dresses well, I’ll give him that. But he’s a clever bastard. Know what I mean?”

Ratso nodded. “Oh, yes.” He played with the beef and tomato sauce. “Delicious. But Caldwell? I’ve not heard of any progress.”

“What about you? You getting anywhere?”

“It’s Caldwell’s case, not mine. But if I hear anything, I’ll give him a bell. His sort makes me puke.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Loafers … tasselled and all.”

“His sergeant told me he was a high-flier.”

“Yeah. Right up his own arse. Let’s change the subject, shall we?”

Charlene fell silent for a moment and then brightened. “You got a load of Frankie today!”

“A right tosser! I know more about bad debts from selling sanitary ware than I ever wanted to know.” He smiled. “I suggested he went round collecting with a pair of Dobermans. He thought I was being serious!”

She laughed in an exaggerated fashion, as if everything in her life tonight was in full, glorious Technicolor. “You’re right! Can’t see what my sis sees in him. He’s not just boring—he’s boring and unattractive.” She clinked glasses again. “Unlike you.” Her other hand stretched out and stroked his. “Todd, y’know I’ve dreamed about an evening like this ever since we first met, that night up West.” Ratso looked at her quizzically. “I wanted so much, y’know, you and me spending time together. Quiet dinners. The cinema. Dancing in clubs. Picnics in Kew Gardens.”

“You’re a dark horse. I had no idea. That must have been … God … years ago. That joint in Bruton Street.” He pushed aside his empty plate and wiped his lips.

“Don’t get me wrong. I never strayed.” Ratso’s face was blank and he said nothing but Neil had told him differently. He reckoned she had done her thing with more than one work colleague while he had been away. What had she said the other day—we had an understanding. Charlene gazed dreamily across the table. “Sometimes, I just thought, well, sod it, two can play that game. But I never did. Why? Because it was you I fantasised about. You were the one I always wanted to, y’know …” She squeezed his hand tighter. He still did not believe her—certainly not the faithful bit.

Ratso cleared his throat. “Since it’s confession time,” he spoke slowly, “I can only say I always reckoned Neil was a lucky sod. But I never thought of, well … making a play for you. Never thought you were interested.”

“Good things come to them that wait. Isn’t that an expression? And I’m not just talking about you. I’m talking about me.” She blew a kiss over the candle, which flickered in the slight breeze. “I’m not looking for wham, bam, thank you ma’am. I need a relationship. I need you. And from today, I’m free.”

Ratso gathered the crumbs from his bread roll and marshalled them together. Then he looked across the check tablecloth and absorbed her loose-fitting cream cutaway blouse, an open invitation to feast. “Charlene—I mean, you don’t feel … well, getting serious like this is just a bit hasty. We were only burying your numero uno and my good mate this morning.”

The remark did not go down well and Ratso saw the irritation on her face before she rose sharply and rounded the table. Standing beside him, she leaned forward, kissing him hard, forcefully, on the lips. Ratso felt himself pushed against the chair back. He responded by clasping his arms round her buttocks and pulling her closer. Perfumes did little for him but nevertheless he was acutely aware of her scent. She eased back, seated herself on his lap and stroked his bare thigh. “Neil’s not sitting up there on God’s righthand watching us and saying tut-tut. He’s not saying me old mate Todd’s dicking my missus too soon. He’s not saying no sooner am I dead than the missus is getting serious for a best mate. I don’t believe any of that crap. Neil is gone. History. Six foot under. He couldn’t give a damn.” She kissed him again. “And neither do I.”

Ratso found that his hands were caressing her buttocks rather more intensely now, sensing the outline of her briefs under the burgundy skirt. Her delicate fingers were sending a powerful message and he knew he was losing control, even if he had the will to fight. Another gentle touch and any thought of challenging her visions for the future were gone. Suddenly, he didn’t give a fig either. Forget your good intentions. Go for it, Ratso. Sod the future! For now, relax, relent and feast.

But just as her cool, slender fingers slid between his muscled thighs, they were both startled by the intrusion of his phone, its metallic ring creating an unwanted barrier between them.

“Sorry. That could be important.” He pushed her off as gently as he could and stood up. His dressing gown parted, revealing his erect manhood, which immediately seemed like an intruder in the new situation, already starting to wither as he looked round for his phone. Charlene sighed, her face tense as she followed him to retrieve it from the mantelpiece.

Ratso stood, elbow against the wall as he answered.

“Boss, it’s me. Jock. Sorry but …”

Charlene flung her arms round his neck from behind him, piggy-back style, hot breath on his neck.

“It had better be important.” Ratso listened, his mind somewhere between Charlene’s gentle massage and the urgency in Jock’s voice. He listened for maybe thirty seconds, all the while acutely aware of Charlene’s excited breathing. “St George’s, you said? Okay. See you there. Maybe forty minutes.”

He killed the call and tousled Charlene’s hair.

“I’ve got to go. Can you call me a minicab to go to Tooting?” She rose, her eyes that had been wild with excitement now narrowed and hard. He stroked her cheek “Sweetie, I’m sorry, really I am. Everything’s changed.”

“Do you really have to go?” She pouted. “This was going to be such …”

He quietened her, pressing a finger to her lips. “I know. For me too. I think you could see that I was … er, up for it.”

“Is it really so important? There’s enough bloody coppers in London. What’s the problem?”

Ratso eased her away, more gently than he felt. If this was how she was going to be, she never would understand what it meant to be in a relationship with him. “One of my sergeants was attacked a short while ago. He’s being taken to hospital, condition unknown.”