Hard Place (22 page)

When she returned, Ratso gave her a potted version of the painstaking efforts to nail Zandro. She was a good listener, only asking occasional but very pertinent questions. When he finished, she turned to the matter in hand. “So you have our Homeland Security pictures of both men, right?”

“Yes. And my pal in the Bahamas police here is using them right now. On a pretext.” He spotted her concern. “Relax. Low-key. He understands where I’m coming from.”

“Anything I can do for you?”

There was no hint of flirtatiousness in her remark and Ratso played a straight dead bat. “Did you find out where Ruthven was staying? Did he have a hired car? Was it parked near a beach or returned to the airport?”

“No idea. Not yet. But I have no plans to go to every beach looking for a neat pile of Ruthven’s clothes.”

“Some of what I might discover may be, well, inconvenient in Washington.” Ratso looked thoughtful and rather sombre but then he brightened. “But with luck, I may not need to check out car rentals, hotels, bars, clubs. It all depends what I get from the shipyard.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning if both Bardici and Lance Ruthven went there, I’ve got the connection.”

“And the ship?”

“We’re working on who paid for it—the name of the owners, who is to be the master and so on.”

“You may look confident,” she paused, “and don’t take this wrong but to me you sound, oh, kinda worried. Cautious maybe.”

“Do I?” He had hoped it hadn’t shown. “Bitter experience, I suppose. It’s like Snakes and Ladders. Up the ladder only to slide down a snake!” Ratso grinned ruefully and shrugged. “Let’s change the subject, shall we?”

Kirsty-Ann leaned forward. “Sometime … oh, hell, right now—let me tell you about the stuff I’m dodging back in Fort Lauderdale.” She took a deep breath and then began. “I’m being investigated regarding a fatality.” She clasped her hands so tightly that the joints cracked. In a few clipped sentences, she gave Ratso the details. “So, it gets me down—the media, the assholes who phone in to the local radio stations, the tweets, the hate messages. Being over here is an escape from it.” She looked up and Ratso saw the bitterness in her eyes.

For a fleeting second, Ratso brushed his hand across hers in a gesture of solidarity. “It’ll blow over. I’d trust your chief. Bucky will back you. Anyway, something else will catch the public imagination. Your story will die.”

“You’re some listener, Todd. Thank you. Now let’s talk about something else. This was kinda funny. After I checked in last night, the concierge at my hotel must have thought I needed some male company. He told me about the Red Poppy Bar just along from my hotel.”

“I saw it.”

“He said if I wanted hot dates or to chill out some, that was the place.”

“Right! I saw the sign outside saying THE Singles Joint.”

“I didn’t need any hot dates. Or cold ones, come to that.” Her eyes danced as she spoke. “But anyways, I checked it out. Sure is a great pick-up joint. But not for a homebody like me. My priority back home is Leon, my baby son, not listening to testosterone-charged men in bars hoping for a one-nighter.”

Ratso nearly asked what her priority was when she was not in Fort Lauderdale but there was an iciness in her eyes that warned don’t go there. His mental image of Kirsty-Ann was falling apart. “Your husband? He in the police?”

“I’m a single mom now. My husband was murdered in the line of duty. He was FBI. Now it’s just me, my mom and baby Leon.”

“I’m sorry.” Ratso waited for further details but none came. “But the Red Poppy. Why were you telling me? You see a glint in my eye? You reckon I’m testosterone-charged?”

“No way,” she laughed. “Hey, that sounds kinda insulting whatever I answer! I was thinking about where you would find loose tongues. A place the crew of your ship or the shipyard workers might go to get laid.”

Ratso wiped the remains of lemon juice from his mouth. “I like it. This Red Poppy could be useful.” He watched her push aside her empty plate. “When do you leave the island?”

“After I’ve found a store owner who thinks he rented snorkelling gear or a wetsuit to a guy looking like Kurtner. Or any pointer.” She paused thoughtfully. “Or I’m getting nowhere. So maybe a coupla days.”

“But as I said to Bucky, Ruthven never came here. Sounds like someone is interested in why he came here but dare not admit it.”

“And no Feds involved. Fool’s errand isn’t it! But perhaps we can meet up, exchange news? Tomorrow evening.”

“Sure. I’d like that. And some escape from work.”

“Do we ever escape? Still, it sounds good to me.” Ratso looked out of the window, which was still wet with the rain. “It’s nearly stopped. Shall we?” He started to rise and she followed but neither moved away from the window. They stood, side by side, watching the rain dripping down from the trees and the roof above them.

“You’ll be back in England for Christmas?”

“I’m working there on Christmas Eve. We’re piggy in the middle—one gang stealing another’s gear. Could turn nasty.”

“Some thief in red with a beard going down the chimney?”

“Not a ho-ho-ho will be heard, I can tell you.” He paused to adjust his shirt, which was clinging unpleasantly to his back. “My Christmas present to myself will be banging up a few thugs and hopefully nabbing a key distributor.”

“You’ll be in charge?”

“Not at the scene. I’m leading the planning but the County of Sussex will provide what we call the Tactical Firearms Unit. They’ll handle the heavy stuff, even though I’m trained and allowed to carry a weapon.”

“Take care, then. You don’t want to be caught in a shootout.”

“Yeah. I’m working on a plan.”

She nodded abstractedly, obviously deep in thought and then glanced at her watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna ring Mom and say hi to Leon. If I wait till I’m at my hotel, he’ll be asleep.” Moments later, they had parted, an awkward moment when neither party wanted to be so formal as to shake hands or to be so relaxed as to throw in a hug. They parted very simply with a warm smile. Ratso hurried toward his car, the rain still dripping from the palms that lined the beach. As he walked away, Kirsty-Ann’s eyes followed his every step till he reached his car, admiring the athletic figure with the languid gait. Only then did she turn her attention to her phone.

Before Ratso had even started the engine, his phone rang. It was Darren Roberts. “I’ve some news.”

“Good or bad?”

“Urgent.”

“Let’s meet at the Red Poppy Bar.”

“You wanna go there?”

Freeport, Grand Bahama Island

After a swift shower and a change of clothes, Ratso approached the Red Poppy Bar. The evening air was fresh after the rain. The dust and windblown sand had all settled beneath a cloudless dusk and the drying foliage exuded scents to mask drifting diesel fumes and the salty sea tang. The unmade track to the beach had turned to reddish mud and his canvas shoes soon had a dirty rim around each sole. He enjoyed the image of DCI Caldwell ruining his poncy loafers as he squelched along here. Yes, I like that a lot! As he dodged the puddles, every step revealed his sense of purpose, what with action in Cyprus, Gibraltar, London clubs, Brighton and now right here. Dead-end streets now seemed to be opening up.

I’m coming to get you, Boris Zandro.

But who was JF? He still needed background about Terry Fenwick’s partners. The F pointed to Fenwick but Tosh had texted that his brother’s name was Adrian. Tosh was now checking on Google for Albanian surnames beginning with F in West London. “Like looking for a Mr Chin or Mr Li in Beijing,” Tosh had muttered on being instructed.

At the large mat outside the entrance, he paused to scrape off the worst of the mud, noting with irritation that some had splashed onto his sandy slacks. Above the double doors was the garish red strip lighting depicting a poppy. The bar was barely a mile from the shipyards, as the crow flew—conveniently close for ships’ crews to drop by. And it looked the type of place where loose tongues might wag after a few beers or stronger. Beyond the low-rise housing, he saw the distant, powerful overhead lights and the towering height of a giant cruise ship. From somewhere in that direction came the rumble of cranes. Though he could not see the Nomora, just knowing it was there quickened his pulse.

He pushed through the swing doors and was surprised how quiet the bar was. Not in terms of sound, because the thump of heavy metal shuddered round the dimly lit room. It was spacious but the dark colors and the alcoves and booths for canoodling made it seem smaller. Apparently, the island’s fast set had yet to appear. Ratso glanced toward each corner, wondering if the inspector was tucked away at a table behind a flickering candle. He took in the rock-star artefacts, the fishing nets, the conch shells, the stuffed flying fish and a blue marlin that all somehow blended to create the ambience.

Satisfied that Darren Roberts had not arrived, he swaggered toward the bar. Sitting at a table with a clear view of the door was a group of young women. Ratso reckoned by their raised voices and raucous laughter that they had been hitting the rum for several hours, maybe young Americans on a bachelorette party. Judging by the hungry way they eyed Ratso as he crossed the room, they were already flying. Quite reluctantly but with a cheery smile and wave, he refused an invitation to join them and headed for the line of barstools.

He shuffled up beside a couple of local girls who looked drugged out and who he assumed were anybody’s for a hundred bucks, perhaps even less. Their full lips were caked with red lipstick and their once unblemished skin was coated with blusher to highlight their cheekbones. The prettier one, relatively speaking, had dyed her hair a deep red to match her lips; the other had her hair close-cropped. She must have thought this improved her looks but Ratso reckoned it added ten years to her clapped-out eighteen.

The redhead gave him a tired smile but Ratso simply nodded hello and turned to the bull of a barman, who asked him his pleasure. Ratso ordered a Hurricane, picking it at random from the list of cocktails he had been handed. He stood, one elbow on the bar, watching in disbelief as the barman filled an hourglass-shaped goblet with dark rum, coffee liqueur, Irish cream and Grand Marnier. A green parasol, pieces of pineapple and a cherry added to the Del Boy appearance. He sipped cautiously, liked the flavor and so sucked a hefty draft through the twin straws as he skirted the empty dance floor and settled in a booth close to the pool table.

He had almost drained the glass when Darren appeared, beaming hugely as he crossed the room. “What you drinking, mon?”

“A Hurricane.”

Darren’s eyes rolled in amusement. “You looking to get laid tonight?”

“No plans but …” He grinned “Right now I’m flying high.”

“That’s just fine, Todd, ’cos I got good and bad news.”

“Better get me another Hurricane, then. More rum, less Irish cream.” As he waited for Darren’s return, he gazed at a faded photo of Freddie Mercury, arm defiantly raised. As if from nowhere the red-headed hooker appeared close to him, her large backside bulging around her white denim hot pants. She stopped beside the pool table and gave him what she assumed was a sly and sexy come-on. She picked up a cue, turned it upside down and suggestively stroked the thick end, rolling her eyes in apparent ecstasy. As her performance ended, she gave Ratso a huge wink of her false eyelash. “How ’bout it, big boy?” she suggested.

Ratso was wrong-footed. His immediate thoughts were to tell this overweight tart to piss off and stop imagining that a bloke like him had to pay. “Hi, sweetie! Tempting.” He looked round defensively. “But my wife.” He winked. “She’s arriving soon.” The woman shrugged and gave him a sad smile as she turned away, revealing an unsightly purple bruise on her left buttock.

Darren returned with a beer for himself and a reddish-brown Hurricane tinkling with ice. “Got an offer you could easily refuse from Cassie?”

“You know her? Both of them?”

“Sure, it’s our job to know the working girls.”

Ratso nodded to the four American women who were whooping over something. “With so many freebies around, I’m surprised they have any takers.”

Darren grinned hugely. “You’d be surprised. Plenty of guys, they do like the power when they buy a woman. But you right. These American women, they be plenty cutters, mon.”

“Cutters?”

“Freebies. After a coupla Hurricanes they is anybody’s.”

“Okay. Business. Give me the good news.”

Darren produced the photos of Ruthven and Bardici in disguise. “Ida, she done recognise both men. So did Hubert, the security guard at the gate.” He pointed to Kurtner. “He done been at the yard four, maybe five times.”

“Why?”

“He do check the progress.”

“Or not, as the case may be,” added Ratso, thinking how the drugs’ arrival in the UK had been postponed twice. “And Mujo Zevi?”

“Just one visit. He too do chasing Lamon Wilson. But …” The Bahamian put down the photos and fixed Ratso full in the eye. “Ida, she been check her boss diary. These two, they done both been booked to visit together.”

“And?”

“That guy never showed.” He pointed to Kurtner.

“Did your wife know anything about Kurtner’s visit to the yard?”

“She served him and the boss coffee. She do say it was a short meeting, maybe twenty minutes but mon, there was a shouting, plenty shouting. She do hear the visitor plenty much. Then they done gone inspect the ship.”

“Did she speak to her boss about the visit?”

“When the guy, he left, her boss he scared. Mon! Lamon, he was shakin’, just staring at a wall. She done fix him a large Johnny Walker.” Darren cackled at the thought. “Then later he did kick ass in all directions.”

“Why?”

“Because he say this Kurtner guy, he mad, wild-eyed mad.”

Ratso nodded thoughtfully and then sucked long and hard on the straws. “That fits.”

“So … you want the bad news?” Darren waited for Ratso’s shrug. “The ship surveyors, they a-gonna inspect Nomora. The crew, they all been done hired. That Panama Ship Registry they soon gonna approve the paperwork—certificates, crew an’ all. Then the Nomora she do sail.”

“Where to?”

“Ida not know.”

Ratso needed time. “Like when?”

“Ida say mebbe 10 days latest. Before the New Year.”

“What! That quick.”

“This guy,” he pointed to Mujo Zevi, “he do take no shit. He did dictate the date. Nomora she done gone, finished before New Year, he say. Or else big shit happen!”

“So Mujo Zevis cared the crap out of your wife’s boss.”

“Ida reckons the bosses, they is a barrel-load of monkeys. They always cackalin’ and sniggerin’ after Kurtner had gone. But Ida she damn sure she take care. Her bosses, they done bought the yard maybe a year back. They is hard men. But this guy from London, he did give their asses a right whipping.” He tee-heed loudly at the image.

Ratso heard what Darren was saying but his mind had moved on. With the crew arriving shortly, time was tight if the boys from Vauxhall Cross were needed to plant a bug on Nomora. He sensed Darren was looking at him, wondering about the long silence.

Ratso shoved over the pictures. “The barman know you’re a police officer?” He saw Darren’s toothy grin that said stupid question. “Check out if he saw either of them. Low-key. Pilfering enquiries or something. I’ve got to get a couple of texts away.”

As soon as Darren had moved off, Ratso sent an urgent text to the AC and another to Bob Whewell at the IMB. The messages gone, he checked the time. It was nearly 8:30 p.m., 1:30 a.m. in London. Nothing would happen until the morning.

He glanced across the room and saw that the tables and booths had now filled up considerably, with a wide cross-section of singles out on the pull. Many were locals but some were crew from the luxury yachts, sporting that perma-tan look from a day job cruising the Caribbean every day of the year. Others, their faces pallid, had probably flown in from wintry US cities for a whoopee weekend. The decibel level was rising with Van Halen reverberating from all corners. Ratso stifled a yawn until he noticed Darren sitting at a table for two in animated conversation with the red-haired hooker. As he drained the last of the Hurricane with a satisfying slurp, he idly wondered whether either of the two men had been desperate enough to dip their wick inside Cassie’s much-abused body. He did not have to speculate long before Darren bought the girl a drink and returned, beaming.

“My shout.” Ratso stood up.

“Thanks but I promise Ida, I not be late.”

Ratso sat down again and looked enquiringly at Darren, who explained, “The American, Hank Kurtner, he was a regular. The barman, Joel, he did recognise him for sure and pointed me to Cassie. She done been spent the whole night with him several times. She did know him as Hank. Just Hank. He sells auto spares and comes from Detroit, Michigan. He did always stay at different hotels.”

“When she last see him?”

“At the Marlin. The weekend he disappeared. He did spend Friday night with her. She did say he was a regular guy. Like plenty doggie-doggie.” Darren grinned at the thought. “Not like some weirdoes. Mon, she do say they kinky bastards.”

“She know why Kurtner came to the island?”

He shrugged. “The usual—to chill out, catch the rays. Maybe go snorkelling.”

Ratso nearly reacted at the word snorkelling but managed to remain poker-faced. “That it? That’s all she knows after four or five all-nighters?” Ratso shook his head. “Still, I guess he wasn’t paying for polite conversation.”

“Nobody know the other guy.” Darren stood up, keen to get away.

Ratso rose, dwarfing the Bahamian and clapped an arm round his shoulder. “You’ve done a great job. I’ll be in touch.” As he said the words, he was already troubled; if the IMB didn’t deliver, tomorrow was going to be tough. “I’m not staying.”

“Hey! After those coupla Hurricanes, you’d be flying soon. I thought you liked to party, mon!”

“Sad sod now, aren’t I? Too many things doing my head in. Besides Van Halen.” They walked to the exit. “I need some night air and then later a quiet place serving beer, chicken, peas and rice.

After parting from Darren, he decided to take a look at the shipyard. It was no distance but the route proved to be a zigzag maze of darkened backstreets, a mix of residential, auto repair and small industrial units, a rough part of town. Every step made him more wary. Stray mongrels roamed at will, trash fluttered in the light breeze. But there was nothing specific to make him feel uneasy.

Except experience.

He touched his belt for reassurance. He had bought it in a personal security store in Dallas, Texas. Though it just looked like a chunky buckle, it doubled as a knuckleduster that could be freed from the leather in a trice. On flights, he had to put it in his checked baggage for fear it would be confiscated. No question, it was a fearsome and effective means of self-defense. A snarling dog bounding up to a fence beside him convinced him to be prepared; he unclipped the buckle and gripped it tightly in his right hand, leaving the leather belt flapping freely around his waist.

Moving farther from the bright lights, he entered a broken-down area of strange smells, rusting bicycles, scooters and unloved cars, a part of Freeport that was full of unfamiliar sounds and voices drifting from the shabby single-story homes. He had never been close to these timbered shacks with their corrugated iron roofs but he had often seen ones like them on TV, wrecked after a Caribbean hurricane.

He passed a few locals, embryo basketball players judging by their height, all of them towering over him. They seemed uninterested in him but Ratso knew that walking in deprived areas where you look the odd man out or the richest guy around was a ticking timebomb. He’d learned that working round the backside of Kilburn in northwest London. But he soldiered on, hoping he looked more confident than he felt, all the while heading for the brightly lit port area and the massive cruise ship with its yellow funnel.