Authors: Douglas Stewart
Clapham, South London
As soon as Ratso strode into the meeting room on the first floor, he could sense the mood. Expectation was in the air. There was no applause as he entered to address the dozen or so assembled officers but he saw renewed respect and eagerness in their faces. The Hogan gang’s destruction and the arrest of Rudi Tare had been a start but the coup at the Poulsden Club had changed everything. Everyone knew Boris Zandro would be dead meat if the drugs were seized in La Coruna.
Ratso had chosen to meet upstairs in one of the better rooms, airy and bright. Compared to the Cauldron, this room was clinically clean, containing rows of chairs facing a small dais. There was a computer, a fifty-inch screen for photos and movies, a laser pointer, a cork board and a giant whiteboard. Ratso reckoned that the clean, bright emptiness of the room empowered clear thinking compared with the airless clutter and cramped conditions downstairs.
Clutching a plastic cup of tomato soup, Ratso went straight to the empty whiteboard. “Good morning, or maybe good afternoon, as it’s just after twelve. Today’s meeting is pivotal. We have no time to behave like we’re pigs in shit just because we’ve nearly enough evidence to put Zandro and Terry Fenwick away.” He saw heads nodding. “Charging him just on that recording, an expensive brief would get Zandro acquitted. Piece of cake. So near, so far. So, we’ve plenty to resolve first. I’ve put the word out round the pubs that since we got the Hogans, we’re winding down. Zandro needs to feel his usual cocky self. We don’t want the bastard skipping the country. Meantime, we need to make some serious plans—and quickly. We need to cover our backsides from La Coruna through to Dover docks to Leeds.”
“Not forgetting the crew of Nomora,” Tosh chipped in.
“Right. No escape for Micky Quigley this time! And I haven’t forgotten Lamon Wilson at the shipyard, either. First, we need to review our priorities.” He started to write in capital letters on the board. “Timing is everything.” He put a picture of Nomora on the screen. “We know she will dock at La Coruna. The Class A could be worth near a billion at street value. So number-one target is to nab every distributor at this meeting. Second, or perhaps first equal, is to seize the drugs and stop them reaching the streets.”
“Will we be in Spain, boss?” It was Nancy Petrie.
Ratso said he would be coming to that. He displayed a large map of northern Spain and Southern France and pointed to La Coruna. “I reckon the coke for the UK will be trucked into France. There it will be broken down into bite-sized chunks. Whether it will all be shifted into the UK at the same time we don’t know, nor where in France it will be split up.” His laser traced a red road from the Spanish port into France. “My guess would be Toulouse on the route north and not far from the Spanish border. It’s a big industrial city with plenty of truck movement. In a warehouse, the coke could be transferred into other vehicles, large and small.”
“But the smack?” It was Nancy Petrie again.
“Zandro didn’t use the damning word smack or heroin. Anyone disagree that’s what he meant?” He saw nobody differed. “JF is Adrian Julian Fenwick, solicitor of Lime Street and he’s in charge of the split. And it must be no pay, no takeaway, as my local Chinese would say.” He was rewarded with a few chuckles and rather more groans. “No way can JF handle several dealers and their money on his own.”
“He’s a damned lawyer—soft hands,” Tosh added.
“Ye’re bang on, boss. On his own, he’d end up in a paella, ye ask me,” volunteered Jock. “But he’s done this before. That was clear.”
“So we assume Bardici will be protecting his backside,” He turned to DC Maynard. “Check all flights Bardici has made to Northern Spain under his own name or his alias.”
Nancy Petrie looked disconcerted. She whispered to Vick Maynard, who gave her a nod of encouragement. “Boss, can I put a different view?” Ratso was a touch taken aback but nodded for her to continue. “You’re assuming Zandro is selling off the smack to maybe French, Germans, Spaniards, Dutch. Right?” She saw Ratso nod. “Isn’t it possible that every person meeting the ship is part of a European operation owned by Zandro? They might even all be Albanians. Either way, that would make the meeting low-risk. No money changing hands—all friends together.”
Ratso noticed a few puzzled faces but also others were nodding in agreement. He debated what to say as he met Nancy’s penetrating stare. She could go far. Hard as nails and not afraid to voice different and even unconventional viewpoints. He looked away, apparently checking his notes but actually weighing up the options. He imagined Arthur Tennant being upstaged by a junior constable and being contemptuously dismissive. He decided to react exactly the opposite.
“Thanks, Nancy. Good thinking. It makes sense. You could be right.” He paused to lob his empty soup mug into a bin. “But even so, we must assume they will be a nest of vipers—hostile, edgy to each other, buying heroin from Fenwick with Bardici as a minder.”
“How will we know who’s to be there, boss?” Jock was the questioner.
“Only by staking out the place with the Spanish cops. Or other intelligence.”
“Because if it’s no all pals together, then each dealer will have his heavies. A meeting of even five buyers could mean fifteen arrests.”
“My guess? We’ll discover the Spanish buyer is one of our old South London friends now living on the Costa del Crime. There’s at least a dozen scumbags round Marbella I could name.”
“Still in the game, you reckon?”
“Jock … you don’t really believe those villains are just drinking San Miguel beer and sunning their tattoos all the time. Some of them have been laundering money via Internet gambling websites, so they must be doing the business. Anyway, anything more from the floor?” Ratso listened to a variety of opinions but most favoured Nancy’s standpoint. “Right. Let’s move on. We must assume it’s going to be a hostile, edgy meeting. We’ve got to be there mob-handed with cuffs for eighteen, maybe more but hopefully it won’t be so many.”
“Where is there, boss?” It was DC Paul Mason this time.
“Ah, Paul. Glad to see you here. I hope you didn’t injure your back picking up Detective Chief Inspector Tennant.” He milked the mocking laughter at Tennant’s expense.
“Mattrafact, boss, now you mention it …” To more laughter, Mason groaned theatrically on his tubular steel chair.
Ratso shook his head. “There is a hotel in La Coruna near a memorial. Name unknown but it should be no sweat—we know it is either HF or HS. Make that your job, Paul: checkout every hotel near a memorial with initials like this and give me the possibilities later today.”
“If I’m not signed off with a sickie, boss.”
Ratso joined in the laughter. “So they meet at a hotel but we can’t assume the gear will be divided in the hotel car park. We can assume there will be two trucks leaving the docks—one with the coke heading for France and the other with the smack. That means parking up on rough ground, in a seedy hotel carpark, in a backstreet or a warehouse where the gear can be shifted into other vehicles without attracting heat.”
“So we follow Adrian Fenwick, boss?”
“My guess is he flies to Asturias Airport, about eighty miles away.” He pointed it out on the map and traced the westerly route from there to La Coruna. “Check it out, Jock but I think only Easyjet fly there direct, so we’ll know when he books a flight.” He flicked over a page of numbered notes. “Nancy, you check with Easyjet for previous flights he’s taken. How long he’s away, how often he’s been—you know what I want. See if it fits with Bardici’s movements.
“Tosh, for you, there’s good and bad news. The bad: no way will you be anywhere near the sharp end on this. You’re damaged goods, too easily recognised now. Sorry.” He left the dais to approach his sergeant. “But the good news—before then, I want you to fly to Turkey with Paul Mason to watch the loading at Alanya. Rent a car at Antalya Airport. I want photos of the truck delivering the gear and a movie pinpointing where on Nomora the drugs are being stashed, okay?”
“Thanks, boss. And Turkish belly dancers on expenses?”
Ratso grinned. “Permission refused. Watch your own belly in a mirror, pal. How’s that 5:2 diet going?” Everyone laughed as Tosh sheepishly looked away and tried to conceal the remains of his KFC and fries. Ratso paused, as if debating whether to add something. “That reminds me, last week I saw a fat bloke, huge belly, sitting on the steps of St Paul’s. He was looking pretty damned upset, so I asked him what was the matter. He didn’t answer, so I suggested it was because he was so bloody fat. I said to him: ‘If I’d seen a belly like that on a woman, I’d have said she was pregnant.’ The guy looked up and replied, ‘It was … and she is! That’s my problem.’”
The room erupted in hoots of laughter. “Be warned, Tosh,” shouted a voice from the back. “Sounds like you.”
“No way. His missus winna let him near her. Not even with his new aftershave, Jock said.
Ratso joined in the noisy laughter before clapping his hands to get some order. On the board, he wrote Arrest ALL Attendees. “We move in as they divide the gear, trousers round their bloody ankles, bang to rights. No wriggle room for smart-arsed briefs to get them off. My guess, whether good mates or not, they just got to be present for the division. Too big to be trusting.”
“Are the Spaniards up to it? Do their police carry red capes and shout olé?” It was Mason.
Ratso never blinked. “If the guy I’m hoping for is in charge, yes, they’re well up to it. I’ve worked with Antonio Delgado from their National Police before. Top guy.”
Jock waved a hand. “Widna we do better to bug their meeting—with help from the Spanish guys, of course? That would fix them. We then get the Spanish navy to intercept the vessel as she is about to enter port. That way, ye get the crew, the Class A with no risk and ye get all the distributors.”
“Right but we’d need to know which hotel and which room.” He saw Jock’s wily old head move slightly in agreement. “And they might have the room swept. Then we’d be in deep shit.” He put a photo of the port of La Coruna on screen. “Another thing—if we intercepted the vessel before the meeting, as might happen because we don’t know the timing, we’d lose the distribution network. They’d disappear quicker than snow on the Las Vegas Strip.”
He wrote French Arrests on the board as the next target, followed by Arrest Crew and Arrest Shipyard Management—BUT evidence?
“So,” Ratso continued, “only after these do we reach Zandro, Terry Fenwick, the guy in Leeds and maybe their network of dealers. I’m less arsed about them, the small guys. We want to make this chicken headless. And that’s my job: to make sure Zandro does not escape.”
“Can we bug the solicitors’ offices?” It was DC Nick Millward speaking. “We might get the name of the hotel.” He rarely contributed much when it was a full house but one-on-one Ratso rated him a sharp cookie. This was no time to put him down; the lad needed encouragement.
“Trouble is that their offices are guarded better than the Crown Jewels, right, Tosh?”
“Terry Fenwick showed me himself. This was no DIY alarm system. This is high-tech stuff. CCTV cameras by the main entrance, motion sensors, all linked to a twenty-four-seven security company in Streatham.”
“I know even with all that stuff our boys could bug that place while playing a banjo with both hands.” Ratso swung himself onto a table top. “If I actually thought we’d tune in to a treasure trove of goodies, I’d call them in. But my guess, these Fenwick brothers won’t even chat freely in the office. They both use pay-as-you-go phones. We’ve had sightings of them walking toward London Bridge Station deep in conversation. They know to take care.”
“Aye, that’s why it’s taken us so long to uncover them,” added Jock.
“It’s as likely they’ll talk over a pub lunch. They were spotted in Dirty Dick’s and once in Corney & Barrow. Worth the thought, though.” He was about to sum up when he changed his mind. “Nick, I want a complete list of all known Brit drug dealers living around Marbella, Torremolinos, Puerto Banus. Rate them from one to ten as targets based on current lifestyle, unsubstantiated rumours, known online gamblers who may have been laundering drug profits through e-gaming. Oh yes and best of all—known to have visited La Coruna.” He saw the puzzled looks. “Okay, that last bit was a joke!”
He turned to Jock.
“I want you to get the French, Dutch, Spanish and German drug squads to watch their top suspects who might make a trip to La Coruna, especially any who are Albanian or have connections there. I want to hear from the French garçons, that’s ‘boys’ to you uneducated types, where they believe drugs from Spain might be distributed from. The rest of you, I’ll assign other tasks tomorrow.”
“And you, boss? Visiting the sick, are you?” Jock’s comment brought more laughter.
“Sorry but I’ve no time to drop grapes into Chief Inspector Tennant’s mouth. I’m too busy arranging for the Spanish navy to prevent Nomora leaving harbour. I’ll be setting up the Spanish police to help on the stakeout. Oh … and Jock and Tosh: a stakeout has nothing to do with barbequing prime Angus. Sorry!” He was rewarded with more laughter as the group broke up.
Asturias, Spain
Jock was driving the VW Polo hired at Asturias Airport while Ratso navigated, though the route was not difficult. Neither had ever been in this northwestern corner of Spain before. “So different from the Costa del Sol. That’s ruined since I went there on my honeymoon.”
“Greed, Jock. Corrupt politicians fixed by unscrupulous developers. This is how Spain ought to look,” Ratso observed as he took in wild, sweeping sand dunes and the swell of the Atlantic beyond.
“I’ve no time for Spain, mysel’,” Jock said, adding that he had spent his final holiday with his wife in Sitges. Ratso nodded sympathetically, knowing she had switched her allegiance to an elderly Celtic supporter with a Maserati. For the next fifteen miles, Jock whinged and chuntered on about how he had given Sheena everything she wanted—in bed and out of it—until Ratso had heard enough.
“Jock. Don’t kid yourself. You didn’t give her everything she wanted. You gave her what you thought she wanted. You were wrong. It wasn’t you she wanted at all—a decent and hard-working Glaswegian copper fighting crime and doing his best for young Gordy. What she wanted was an elderly Celtic fan with a big dick implant from Los Angeles, an even bigger bank balance, a flashy red Maserati and a grand house overlooking Loch Lomond.” Ratso jabbed Jock’s knee. “And that is just what she got.”
Jock fell silent for over a mile, all the while chewing his tongue. “Ye’re right—except for the big dick. She didna’ need to stray for that.” They both laughed, Jock cheering himself up with a Crunchie, Ratso with an apple. “Your pilot? You still reckon …?”
“He led you a right dance in Cyprus.” He examined his fingernails with lingering care. “I want to believe but … he’s only as good as his last task.” From his slim briefcase, Ratso produced a map of La Coruna and his sheaf of notes. “Head for the port and park there. We can have a late lunch and get our bearings. The Hesperia Finisterre Hotel is no more than ten minutes’ walk from the port.” He had downloaded Google aerial and some street views of the Spanish town.
“And ye ken Fenwick’s staying at this hotel?” Jock was now in the town, crawling at about fifteen mph along a wide boulevard with the port to his right. He saw Ratso nod slightly in agreement. “And Nomora’s on schedule?”
“Loaded and left Alanya on time,” Ratso acknowledged before his hand shot out and upward. “Just look at that! Jesus! They get bigger every year.” Ratso was pointing to a giant white cruise ship moored about four hundred meters away, towering over the entire area. “Like the Titanic, it looks so safe, so indestructible.”
“They’re top-heavy. I reckon you rip it below the waterline, it’ll roll over.”
“And afterward someone will say lessons have been learned.” Ratso pointed to a municipal car park on the left. “Park there.” As Jock swung over in a sudden swerve, he received a honk from a startled local who nearly collided with their rear. Ratso waited for Jock to finish manoeuvring. “Let’s hope we get those ducks in a row. Today’s Sunday. Fenwick arrives Monday and so does Bardici under his Mujo Zevi alias. Separate bookings, mind. The meeting is Tuesday and Fenwick’s definitely booked into the Hesperia Finisterre for two nights, flying back Wednesday.”
“We could have saved him the return ticket.”
Ratso laughed as he stretched. “JF has used this hotel before. The hotel name fits with the HF initials and if Mason is right, there’s a memorial to a famous British general, Sir John Moore, quite close by.”
“Never heard tell of him.”
“Shame on you. He was a fellow Scot. Born in Glasgow.” Ratso had never heard of him either but had checked him out on Wikipedia. “The guy’s a huge hero who died here fighting the French army in 1809. This has to be the best-known war memorial in town.”
Jock locked the car and they walked into the narrow streets, which were filled with passengers from the cruise ship looking to buy straw donkeys and leather purses. After a few minutes they found themselves in Maria Pita Plaza, an impressively large square dominated by what looked like a palace with a few bars and cafés open for business on the other sides. The sky was intense blue but it was too chilly to eat outside so they settled for a window table looking across the plaza.
“When do we meet your Spanish pal?”
“Tomorrow at nine. The heavy mob are coming in from Madrid.”
“How many?”
“At least forty.”
Jock whistled. “Jeez! That is mob-handed!”
“Antonio Delgado is good, damned good. He won’t take shortcuts.” Ratso pushed the menu aside. “His enquiries suggest Bardici has no room booked under any name. Maybe he gets shacked up with some señorita.”
“What about following the trucks from the docks? Reckon we can get trackers on them at the quayside.”
Ratso called the waitress over. “Can’t bank on that. Let’s order and then we’ll take it from the top again. See what we’re missing and plug the gaps.”
Forty minutes later, after a shared carafe of Rioja and some chewy beef, Ratso produced the map of the town. “There’s the Hesperia Finisterre Hotel and there, just up the road, is the memorial garden to Sir John Moore—the Jardin de San Carlos.”
“But the Spanish fought a civil war—Franco’s lot and Ernest Hemingway. There’ll be other war memorials.”
“You’re right but not with a hotel initials HS or HF close by.”
Jock still looked troubled. “We’ve just one chance. Is there no anything else we can do to tighten it?”
Ratso fell silent for a few moments while Jock studied the map, looking for war memorials. “Tell you what. JF’s room is just a single, so he won’t meet in there. Let’s check what meetings are booked to take place in the hotel.”
“Aye, that may help.” Jock still sounded unconvinced. “What other hotels are HS or HF?”
Ratso checked the details gathered by Paul Mason. “We can’t be sure about war memorials. Mason double-checked twenty miles around. There are just three hotels HS or HF: the Hispanio Flores, the Hesperia Finisterre and the Hispanio Sol. But according to Paul, only one has a war memorial nearby.”
“Let’s take a look at each one. I winna be happy until I’m sure.”
Ratso paid the bill and led the way outside. “You’re right, Jock. Let’s walk the town. Check out the hotels.”
“And ye’re okay about leaving me here for the arrests?”
“Sure! With Delgado here, I’m not needed. I need to be close to Zandro. Once we’ve met Antonio and I’m satisfied nothing’s been lost in translation, yes, I’ll leave you here.” He gripped the sleeve of Jock’s windcheater. “I personally want to arrest Boris Zandro and if I’m here, sure as hell he’ll have done a runner by the time I get back.” He then pointed. “That’s the hotel we’re staying in, the Hesperia Coruna. We can check in later.”
They turned onto the seafront, passing the long line of traditional apartments, each with large picture windows that looked out across the harbour. The skyline was still dominated by the soaring height of the cruise ship. After winding up the hill, they reached the Hesperia Finisterre and made their way to the desk.
“I’m interested in renting a meeting room,” Ratso said. “Tuesday and Wednesday.”
“We have rooms for over a thousand. I assume not that big at this late moment?” The svelte receptionist spoke excellent English. Her smile and rounded eyes were a delight. Ratso was so lost in admiring her lips he momentarily forgot to reply.
“Oh, sorry, no. Maybe twenty maximum?”
“I will show you a perfect room. Come!” She led them to a meeting room that would have been ideal had Ratso been minded to book it. They returned to the lobby and she checked on screen. “You could have it on Wednesday but Tuesday … is booked.” Jock tried to see her computer screen to get the name but he needn’t have bothered. “The Pan-European Timeshare Action Group have it booked for three hours, 11 a.m. till 2 p.m.”
She wrote down the price and Ratso gave an unmistakeable wince. “We’ll have to look at some other hotels. That looks like a budget-buster.”
Outside, the men exchanged knowing glances. The Pan-European Timeshare Action Group sounded a useful cover. They checked the map and continued a short way along the Paseo Maritimo until they reached the large, circular stone-walled garden that served as a memorial for Sir John Moore, a giant plinth taking pride of place in the centre. They walked round the memorial, pausing under the arch to take in the picture-postcard view of the port. They could see the ferry terminal and farther away to the left the cranes used for loading and unloading in the commercial port.
“Look at this, boss.” Jock was now thoroughly enthused by this place where a fellow Glaswegian had been buried. “See this poem on this wee plaque. Sir John, he was some boy, eh. We dinna respect our heroes enough these days.”
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
And the lanthorn dimly burning.
Jock paused, strangely moved by the deadly images. “Ye can almost hear the muskets, see the bloodied bayonets, smell the gunpowder. And today it’s so peaceful.”
“Like Starbucks, you Scots get everywhere. Come on.” Ratso led the Glaswegian out between the wrought-iron gates onto the narrow and winding streets of the old town.
“And to think that Zandro’s mob use this wee garden as a marker point for a meeting. Fair makes ye want to puke.”
“Y’know Jock, I’m coming round to your opinion.” They stood by the gate to the memorial as Ratso waved in each direction. “This is no place to divvy up the drugs into several vehicles. Bring a truck round here, into that swanky hotel? No way! Use one of these grand old homes with truck and vans parked up outside? Get real, or as the locals would say, No way, José.” He checked the map. “We’re looking for a quiet spot or a warehouse nearer the port. Somewhere that vans and trucks don’t look out of place.”
“A different hotel, then.” Jock sounded gloomy. Ratso reckoned it was the thought of more walking that brought it on. He and Tosh were two of a kind.
“If Mason’s right, neither hotel has a war memorial nearby but the Hispanio Flores is nearer to the commercial port.” Even as he spoke Ratso was striding off downhill. “Come on, Jock. Work up an appetite for dinner.”
“If it’s like that beef at lunch, I’ll go vegetarian.”
It took them nearly thirty-five minutes to find the Hispanio Flores, tucked away down a side street in an area where truckers might well doss down for the night. “I can see why JF isn’t staying round here.”
They both absorbed the broken-down scene. Washing hung from windows in the narrow cobbled street; the pavements were cracked and covered in dog turds. A skinny cat was gnawing at something that might have been a carcass and litter danced in the breeze coming in from the Atlantic. Ratso lashed out at an empty plastic Coke bottle that rolled beside him. From upstairs rooms, more than one baby was wailing its heart out and a broken pram opposite the gloomy entrance to the hotel completed the broken-down image. They toured the area and double-checked the map. Mason had been right; there was no memorial. A quick enquiry revealed the hotel had no meeting rooms and walking round the area proved the nearest parking was four hundred meters in a municipal park. Ratso had already dismissed this hotel. “The area’s seedy enough but that’s all it has going for it.” He shrugged dismissively. “The Hispanio Sol, then. Last chance! Somewhere near the cruise ship terminal.”
Ten minutes later, Jock spotted it, looking like what it was—a tourist three-star hotel. The front entrance was through open double doors and the shutters by every window badly needed painting. Ratso imagined that the Atlantic breeze, flecked with salt, must play hell with building maintenance.
“Let’s check out their meeting-rooms, if any.” Ratso led Jock into a compact reception area where a rather fierce-looking woman in her late fifties waved a dismissive arm and returned to her computer screen. After standing by the desk for what seemed an age, Ratso could take no more. “Hello! Anybody there? We want a meeting room on Tuesday or Wednesday.” He spoke slowly, spitting out each word. “Do you have one for twenty people?”
The woman adjusted her swept-back silvery hair, staring at them as if they had crapped on her lino. “Hablo Español?” she enquired in a deep voice. Ratso understood enough to know what she was asking and shook his head.
“Habla Ingles?” he replied. The woman seemed to understand but shook her head. Ratso looked around for any pictures of the hotel facilities but there were none. “C’mon. We’re outta here. Let’s go.”
The woman watched them leave, adjusting the needles in the bun at the back of her head. As soon as they had gone, she returned to her computer screen with just a fleeting glance at the two Brits deep in conversation outside.
“There’s no sign of any war memorial round here anyway,” volunteered Ratso as they entered a nearby café, ordered and sat down with their drinks.
“What did ye think of thon Pan-European Timeshare Group?” Jock was warming his hands round tea in a glass cup.
“When we’ve checked in, I’ll trawl the Web.”
“Having seen the other hotels, it must be the posh one but it still doesn’t seem right.” He stretched his legs out and complained about aching feet.