Authors: Douglas Stewart
Freeport, Grand Bahama Island
Ratso had phoned as soon as he was parked close to the Crow’s Nest. “Hi, Tosh. How’re you doing?”
“I’m at my desk but I can’t laugh and I’m stiff as hell. How’s it going?”
“How’s the wall?”
Tosh’s laugh started and as quickly died. “No jokes, please, boss!”
“So what’s so urgent at your end?”
“One of my snouts got wind of something. Those Hogan brothers is going to do over a house in Brighton. Bankside Gardens.”
“And why am I interested?”
“Because there’s 30 kilos of cocaine stored there. At sixty grand per kilo, that’s a street value of, say, £1.8 million. Seems the Hogans are a bit short on gear, so they’re gonna nick this.”
“Stealing from a rival gang? Risky.” Ratso had come across this several times before—turf wars, hijacking gear from another gang. “Could start an all-out war, lot of tit-for-tat murders. How’s it relevant?”
“My guy only knew the address, not the owner’s name, so I checked it out. It’s a four-bedroom detached place. Upmarket. Sort of place you’d see a Mercedes outside and maybe a Toyota Land Cruiser.” Tosh paused to build the excitement. “The house is rented by an Albanian. Someone called Rudi Tare.” Ratso’s brow furrowed and he closed his eyes, deep in thought as he checked his internal database of names. “You still there, boss?”
Ratso feigned irritation. “So you thought the Albanian connection seemed significant? Worth bothering me with? You’ve nothing more?”
Tosh could tell his boss was now several moves ahead. This was a wind-up. “Not enough, boss? You want the size of his dick or what?”
“Check out that dead-end we reached early on. Remember? That story about a distributor for Zandro’s network. We thought he was in Sussex, around Crawley.”
“Oh, yeah. About seven months back?”
“Maybe six. We met omerta but my gut reaction was that the chain went from Zandro to a lieutenant and from him to this distributor in Sussex.”
“Terry Fenwick is from Kent.”
Ratso was dismissive. “Fenwick somehow gets instructions from Boris Zandro … we assume. But my take is he’s the brains on companies, not part of distribution. Besides Fenwick, there has to be a big distributor. The Crawley lead was wrong but Brighton’s just thirty minutes farther south, so an Albanian down at the coast seems tasty.”
“Rudi Tare’s place looks suitable to stash away a load of drugs. Discreet—set back behind a line of trees, with a courtyard big enough for cars to come and go without drawing attention.”
“Posh area, then?”
“Yeah—not Bishop’s Avenue posh but not Harlesden neither. Not a street where you live in your neighbour’s pocket. But you’re sounding more excited by this than me, boss. What gives?”
“Here’s why.” Ratso imagined the whiteboard in the Cauldron as he spoke. “Way back, I asked Jock to watch that meeting in Tesco’s car park between Bardici and someone unknown. Bardici was in a Mazda 4x4. The other hooded guy arrived in a Ford Focus. They chatted in Bardici’s motor. When the meeting broke up, the unknown man threw away what Jock thought was a ciggie. After they’d gone, Jock found it was a piece of screwed-up paper. On it were the initials JF, with an arrow pointing to the word Tearaway.” Ratso paused to let it sink in.
It was a few seconds before Tosh admitted defeat.
“Tare equals Tearaway.” Ratso almost heard the clunk as the penny dropped. “Back then, we had nothing to go on: the number plate on the Focus was false and trying to suss out the letters JF was a dead-end. We never could ID the mystery man. Now we may have Tearaway identified.” Ratso watched a group of white youngsters shouting cheerfully as they bounded their way into the Crow’s Nest bar. “Could JF be Terry Fenwick’s brother? I can’t remember his first name. Anyway, when’s Hogan’s mob going to attack?”
“Christmas Eve. About 11 p.m.” Tosh waited for the explosion and was not disappointed as Ratso broke into a torrent of abuse about inconsiderate bastards screwing up everybody’s Christmas plans. Tosh heard him out before continuing. “You’re wrong, boss. They had no intention of screwing up your plans. They don’t want or expect you around. They reckoned us lot, we’d all be wearing Santa hats and guzzling whisky and mince pies.”
Ratso saw his point. “I’ll be back in time. Just. Tell Arthur Tennant.” Ratso stopped in mid-flow. “Oh, he’s away, isn’t he? I’ll brief the AC, then. Ask your friendly if the Hogans are going tooled up. I assume so. Danny Hogan sometimes carries a sawn-off. We’ll need the works; this could be like the St Valentine’s Day massacre.”
“Boss, nobody else knows about this. Just you and me. So we could do nothing—just watch and move in afterward. Let these scumbags sort out their personal war. Leaves you free to sing falsetto at the midnight carol service.”
Ratso chuckled. “You’ve heard my balls are on the line, have you?” Then he fell quiet, chewing his lower lip, weighing up the position. The idea of these thugs beating the shit out of each other had its attraction. “No, Tosh. We must intervene. That damned Osman court case—the judges ruled we cannot stand back if we can prevent a crime.”
“Oh yeah, that crap decision about the Wood Green job. Bloody daft if you ask me. Let the ignorant shits fight it out, that’s what I say.”
“You’re not yet the Lord Chief Justice or Prime Minister. When you are, you can change the law. Till then, we abide by it. But if Rudi Tare is Tearaway and we intervene, we’ll find laptops, money-laundering chains—names, dates, dozens of pay-as-you-go phones. We may get pretty damned close to the beating heart of Zandro’s empire.” He paused, savouring the prospect. “And we put the Hogans’ hit squad away for a seven-to-ten stretch for armed robbery.”
“And we pull in 30 kilos of Class A—maybe other gear, too.”
Ratso was barely listening now as he watched a tall, upright and slim woman with shortish blonde hair park a Toyota Corolla at precisely 5 p.m. From a distance, he placed her age as thirty, certainly no more. His spirits rose. He felt sure that the woman walking with the swivel in her hips was Kirsty-Ann Webber. He certainly hoped so. “Tosh. I got a meeting. You’ve done good. We’ll talk about Gibraltar and the London clubs tomorrow. Just one last thing.”
“Yeah, yeah! I know, boss. I’m sure, at least I think I’m sure: a parked car did start its engine in Glebeside Lane shortly after I walked past it. But I don’t recall it passing me as I walked.”
“You reported that to the AC?”
“My statement went through an hour ago.”
“That makes me feel better. Talk tomorrow.”
Ratso got out, stretched and then walked the few meters to the beachside bar. It was less authentic than the Pink Flamingo, better painted and altogether too twee for Ratso’s taste. The Crow’s Nest was designed for tourists and as Darren Roberts had warned, so were the prices. But once again, the location was to die for and Ratso stopped to take in the sweep of the bay and the small craft that cruised or sped across the gentle swell.
He removed his shades as he entered. Inside, he saw the blonde buying a Coke that was more ice than Coke. Up close, she seemed even taller, slimmer and more naturally blonde than his first impression. But what struck him most was the tanned complexion, not brown but lightly colored, adding warmth to her oval face. He approached the bar, introduced himself and asked for a lemon and lime. “Outside or in?” he asked her.
“Inside.” Her tone was decisive and Ratso looked at her with the slightest question on his face. “It’s gonna rain in ten minutes, mebbe even five.” They headed to a table away from everyone else in the bar. “You met Bucky this morning?”
“Seems like years ago but yes. Over pancakes.”
“That’s his daily fix. Never varies but that guy just never puts on weight.” She laughed, flicking her hair so that it danced around the back of her neck before settling.
Ratso was about to comment when the sound of torrential rain started beating down on the corrugated roof. “You’re in the wrong job. How about TV weather presenter?”
She smiled, a gentle one, perhaps even affectionate. “You mean I’m a lousy cop?” She spoke in a slow drawl with an impish look on her face. Ratso guessed she had been brought up somewhere else in the Deep South, maybe America’s Bible Belt.
Ratso laughed, liking the way she had turned his comment around. “Sending you here on a job this sensitive—that says it all.”
“Well, thank you, kind sir,” she replied, raising her glass to chink it with his. “You Brits sure know how to say all the right things. I gotta tell you, I’m a ways outta my comfort zone doing this.” She let her deep blue eyes linger on him for a moment or so too long.
Ratso looked away. This Kirsty-Ann was cool, über-cool. He leaned forward so she could hear him above the rat-a-tat-tat of the rain on the roof. He smelled no perfume but vaguely recognised lavender soap. It was fresh and not overpowering. “Your chief explained you got one hand tied behind your back.”
“Is that what Bucky said?” She shook her head. “He’s wrong. It’s both hands.”
“Looking with one eye shut,” Ratso replied confidently, adopting an expression on the hoof that seemed to fit what she was doing.
“Nuts to that, Todd! There’s a hidden agenda up in DC. I call it perverting the truth. Concealing reality, if you will.” She grabbed a handful of pistachios and munched angrily for a moment, her serene face now revealing her inner confusion. “Not my scene. My job is to catch criminals, investigate crimes, not to play CYA games for politicians in the State Department. When I started checking on Ruthven, I made a good breakthrough. I was excited, just hoping to see it through.” She shook her head, eyes lowered. “And now I’m … you know … Washington’s gofer.” She tossed her head dismissively.
Ratso sympathised, knowing he would have felt the same. “You mean both eyes shut?”
“Maybe that’s what DC wants but Bucky, no way he would agree to that. Sure, Todd, I can look—maybe even find. But anything I uncover goes to Bucky, no media, no local cops. Bucky tells the guys in DC and …”
“Nothing more happens unless it suits the suits.” Ratso finished her explanation with a chuckle. “You’ve got to think big picture. If I’m right, this Lance Ruthven guy was helping a power broker called Adnan Shirafi in Afghanistan. Did you know that? Come to that, I don’t know what you know!”
Kirsty-Ann laughed. “Assume I know nothing.”
Ratso leaned forward. “For starters, Shirafi is king of the drug trade from Afghanistan but he’s off-limits, a no-go zone; he’s just too big in DC and London. Besides recent opportunities for contact in Kabul, Ruthven and Shirafi were at Harvard together.”
The American looked impressed. “I did not know that.” Each word was articulated to emphasise how important the information was.
“But I bet someone knows that up in DC. They just keep it close. Anyway, Shirafi deserves life sentences, keys thrown away.” He drained his drink. “You want some Coke with your ice this time round?”
She rocked back her head. “Your British humor slays me.”
He ordered more for them both. “The lives that bastard has ruined. But he’s not even on my radar. Shirafi sits at God’s right side and together with a guy called Boris Zandro, they dominate the European drug industry. But I can’t prove it. Yet!”
“And if you did?”
“Zandro will get life. Shirafi will remain untouchable.”
“So you and me both then. Same boat.” They laughingly chinked glasses.
Ratso paused to wipe the steam from the window, watching the rain bounce off the stacked chairs on the patio. “If you can prove Ruthven probably drowned, no I guess might have is closer, what happens next is for them in Washington. I guess they might like that. My position is worse.” He deliberately displayed one of his best smiles, demonstrating that the burden was light on his shoulders. “I’m here to find out why Bardici was here but if he killed Lance Ruthven, then either I bury the truth … or bury my career.” He chopped his right hand sharply downwards.
“So give—tell me what’s going on.” Her eyes extended an invitation that was hard to refuse. Though her hands never moved, Ratso felt as if she were caressing his arm to encourage him.
“It’ll take time.”
“Time I got.” It was her turn to grin but it was sardonic. “Tomorrow I’m to follow up information received—that someone was seen snorkelling the weekend Ruthven disappeared. Infer a shark attack. My guess, there were hundreds snorkelling.” She grabbed the menu. “Wantabite?”
“Is that what one shark said to the other?” Ratso’s comment stopped her short and she laughed so infectiously that he joined in. Though he had barely digested the fries from lunch, he wanted to be with her. “Yeah, I could murder some fresh conch, squeeze of lime. How about you?”
“A green salad. I’ll order. This is on FLPD, by the way. No expense spared—not till you put in the expenses claim, that is.” She made her way to the counter, her long legs and backside shown off to perfection by the pale pink hip-hugging slacks that didn’t seem to be slack anywhere at all. Ratso watched her chatting freely to the bartender, her face quite angular in profile, her nose slightly beaky and commanding. There was certainly a don’t mess vibe in her demeanour until she laughed or smiled, when her aura changed to I don’t bite really. Ratso found the mixed message to be a real turn-on but he guessed with looks like hers, she was bound to be propositioned constantly. Her deep pink cutaway vest top, decorated front and back with a couple of palm trees, showed off her breasts—slightly larger than average. Ratso bet no surgical enhancement; if he was right, Kirsty-Ann was a no-nonsense type who would never have contemplated silicone.