Hard Place (20 page)

Fort Lauderdale, Florida

The meeting with Bucky Buchanan was cordial—an informal chat over stacks of pancakes at a fast-food joint just across from police HQ on Broward. But any secret hopes Ratso harboured of getting to meet Kirsty-Ann Webber were dashed when Bucky explained she had flown to Freeport on Grand Bahama.

Though Bucky’s pancakes disappeared at an alarming rate, along with crispy bacon, orange juice and decaf, the chief was still able to get his message across loud and clear: nobody was stopping Det. Inspector Todd Holtom from joining the dots linking Bardici to Lance Ruthven but on no account must anything like that become public. “Seen this?” Bucky handed over a Washington, DC, newspaper cutting.

Ratso got the drift from the headline alone. “I see,” he responded, taking in the spin that Ruthven had “most likely” drowned.

“The message from DC is that Ruthven must become a non-story.” The chief’s gray eyes bored uncomfortably into Ratso’s head. “You ain’t heard that from London yet?” He saw Ratso’s face break into a frown. “Then you sure will, son.” Recalling his meeting with the AC, Ratso turned away to take in the room, which seemed to contain half of Fort Lauderdale’s finest scoffing pancakes and maple syrup. “You do what you have to do. But if Ruthven’s real or false name becomes involved, you are to report to London at once. Assistant Commissioner Hughes, isn’t it?”

“I knew Wensley Hughes was speaking to the Feds yesterday. I haven’t heard what happened.”

“You will. They were very appreciative of the contact but I’d say they were crapping themselves at what you might uncover.”

Ratso tried to play dumb. “Politics involved?”

Bucky showed a full set of whitened teeth. “Right on! If this story blows back onto the State Department, Commissioner Hughes will be carpeted.” He waved his fork for emphasis. “Probably by someone in your Foreign Office or in Defense. If I’m wrong, then my name ain’t Bucky Buchanan.”

“So what is Detective Webber doing? I mean, she’s poking a hornet’s nest, surely?”

Bucky grinned. “If she found pointers, anything consistent with drowning, now would that surprise you?” He pushed aside his empty plate and ran his fingers over his en brosse gray hair.

Ratso thought he had the drift. “Look for the convenient facts only.” He saw a slight flicker in Buchanan’s eyes. “Did Ruthven enjoy snorkelling?”

“I’d bet you ten bucks to a dime that Kirsty-Ann will find someone who rented out the gear to a man fitting his description. She’s a smart kid.”

Ratso grinned. “Does that answer my question about snorkelling? Or your problem that nobody called Ruthven ever went to Grand Bahama?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed at the reminder before he nodded respect. He left twenty dollars on the table and started to shepherd Ratso toward the exit.

“Sounds as if there’s no point in my meeting Detective Webber,” Ratso continued as they stood in the morning sun. “If I’m right, my enquiries will point the other way.”

“Heck no. You two gotta meet. She’s staying at the Double Palm at Lucaya. Kirsty-Ann knows the time of day, okay. I ain’t worried for her. No, son, it’s you I’m worried about. One snafu and your career is done. Our guys in DC will see to that.”

Ratso’s pleasure at the thought of meeting Kirsty-Ann was immediately overshadowed by an image of another summons to the AC’s office. “I get the message.”

“Sure you do, son.” Bucky clapped him on the shoulder. “Sure you do.”

Freeport, Grand Bahama Island

It was 12:40 p.m. when Ratso dumped his bags in his room at the Pelican Pointe Motel on Grand Bahama Island. As he had waited at Fort Lauderdale International, he’d spoken to Wensley Hughes on the phone. The call had been short and to the point. The UK’s Foreign Office and the US State Department had shared a mutual love-in and the brief call emphasised Bucky’s warning. “So pull me from the job,” Ratso had challenged.

That suggestion met with a sharp rebuff. “Even the Foreign Office toffs accept you must discover the truth. It’s just what we do with our knowledge that’s making them twitchy. So go ahead—prove the Shirafi to Boris Zandro connection. Prove the link between Nomora and Bardici’s visit and somehow link Bardici to Terry Fenwick.”

“And Ruthven’s murder to Bardici?”

“We can nail Bardici on something without digging up a possible crime against a US citizen on a Caribbean island. Unimportant to us but …” The transatlantic connection went quiet while Hughes picked his words carefully. “If you prove a link between Bardici and Ruthven, fine. But if you proved that Bardici slit the American’s throat, that would be too much information.”

“I understand. A snorkelling accident would be, er, suitable to you, sir?”

“I knew you would understand. Tread carefully.”

“I have some ideas.” Ratso hoped his confidence was justified.

Just over an hour later, while waiting at the Freeport carousel for his bag, Ratso had called Detective Inspector Darren Roberts.

“Hi, Darren. Yeah. Good journey. Can we meet as planned? Excellent. Jerk chicken or curried goat? That’s what you recommend? Sounds good. The food’s shit at my hotel? Now you tell me! Okay. You pick a place and I’ll be there.” He scribbled down the name and directions. Almost at once he was alerted to an incoming text. He checked it and a satisfied smile played round his lips.

A burden had been lifted. But the smile faded as the wider implications became clear. Someone had indeed phoned the switchboard at Scotland Yard the afternoon of Tosh’s visit to Fenwick’s offices, asking where to contact him. So the good news was, there was no leak. But the bad news, the much worse news, was the certainty that Fenwick knew he was a suspect.

Just like Erlis Bardici and Lance Ruthven had done about twelve days before, Ratso parked in the sprawl of the mud earth car park of the Pink Flamingo Calypso Bar. Here and there were puddles from a heavy overnight shower. There were over forty other dusty and dented saloons and SUVs filling half the parking area. Lunch trade was obviously good. He had no briefcase, nothing to make him look like a London copper or someone on a mission. He had debated wearing Bermuda shorts but had settled for a tropical blue and white T-shirt with sand-colored slacks.

He locked the car, his head swirling with thoughts of what he could or could not say to Darren Roberts. The guy had done a great job photographing the shipyard and though Ratso had warm, comfortable memories ever since their wild night in London, Ratso’s concern was about secrecy and small islands. Maybe he was a tad paranoid but everybody on small islands seemed to know everybody else. That had been his experience in Guernsey and the Isle of Man and he doubted this Caribbean island was any different.

Last night’s evening chill in Florida had given way to a steamy heat that sapped his energy. The lush trees that surrounded the car park increased the sultry atmosphere as the sun beat down beneath scudding dark clouds. Overwhelmed by the oppressive steaminess as he strolled slowly away from the dusty orange Datsun, Ratso’s copper’s instincts never warned him that he was within a few paces of whatever remained of Ruthven’s body, buried in the unappealing tangle of mangroves and pines.

Having completed the walk down the footpath, he stood motionless, awestruck by the beauty of the scene that opened in front of him. To his right was the wooden cabin-come-shack from whence came noisy chatter and the smell of spicy cooking. A reggae number Ratso did not recognise was also blasting away. But in every other direction there was serenity, unspoiled views of white sand, swaying palm trees and turquoise water, with a ripple of salty white where the water lapped the shore.

Through the maze of both black and white faces surrounding the shack, Ratso struggled to find DI Roberts among the diners seated either on the balcony or under bright red sunshades on the terraced area beside the beach. He had not seen Roberts for close on two years but Darren Roberts spotted him at once. The inspector rose to his feet and hollered with a deep, booming voice and a wave of his arm. No name—just a single “Hey, mon!”

Unlike many of the locals, who were big, burly with gleaming muscled arms, Inspector Roberts was below average, standing only five foot nine with slim arms, toned but not bulky. He was wearing a short-sleeved purple shirt and navy flannel trousers with no sign that he was a detective, though Ratso’s paranoia warned him everybody here probably knew anyway. Ratso joined him at a table that seemed to be in a prime spot, shaded from direct sun yet with endless views of the curving bay.

“Not a pole-dancer in sight, Darren! What kind of place do you call this?”

The ice was immediately broken and within moments they were chatting, laughing and reminiscing about Kinky Katrina, the Nigerian dancer with thighs like a bison who had taken a shine to Darren.

“You owe me for rescuing you from her,” prompted Ratso.

The toothy grin appeared at once. “Ratso,” he said in his strong local accent, “I can tame her kind, two at a time. I do have them mewing like kittens.”

Ratso punched his arm playfully. “Dream on, pal! Kinky Katrina, mewing like a kitten? You’d have been having bloody kittens, more like! One flick of her hips and your arse would have hit the ceiling.”

The banter continued until beer and spicy chicken appeared, served by a young woman who obviously knew Darren as a regular.

“I’ve got the IMB working on the background to Nomora. Oh and remember Tosh Watson?”

“Big appetite, small bladder, right?”

Ratso laughed. “He’s working to prove Zandro’s mob bought the Nomora and how it was paid for.”

“How is Tosh?”

Ratso briefly updated Roberts on the attempted murder but moved on to what Bardici was doing in Freeport.

“You did say Bardici … he was a hammer?”

Ratso was not going to get into delicate areas. “Right but we think his visit was linked to Nomora. That’s what we need to prove. Any recent deaths linked to the shipyard? Any bodies found strangled—a favored method? If Boris Zandro was ripped off during the refit, he might have sent Bardici.”

Darren Roberts shook his head. “There were a coupla deaths last week but that was a domestic—husband he did shoot his wife and her lover while they goin’ at it like crazy. He done shot the man’s wedding gear first.” He cackled in a tee-hee-hee kind of way.

“Or what he could see of it,” prompted Ratso and they both laughed, Darren rocking in his chair. “So the shipyards? What’s known?”

The Bahamian shook his head. “They do repair the ships. They been done that since I was a kid. But business at this one is bad, kinda slack.”

The comment was not lost on Ratso. “You round the quay, the docks often?”

“Sure thing but my wife, she do work at the yard too. You got docks, you got crime. Muggings of drunken crew, smuggling, drugs, theft from ships, pilfering. Mon, we always is round them parts.”

“So the Nomora? How long has she been there?”

He scratched his receding curly hair and weighed his answer. “Maybe July.”

“Seems a long time. What’s going on?”

“You said low-key, correct?”

“If I’m right, Nomora is going to be carrying Class A drugs. The last thing we need is for anybody to know we have the vessel under scrutiny.”

Roberts grinned. “My wife Ida, she done work as PA to the boss, Lamon Wilson. I did ask her, not like I care. Just casual like.”

“And?”

“The owners they did buy the vessel cheap. They modernise it for studying seabeds and the like. But Ida, she don’t know nutting what happen on board.”

“When is the job complete?”

“I never done ask her. But I tell you, the work cost big bucks.” He whistled softly.

“In sterling?”

“In your money, over one million pounds.”

“What!” Ratso was startled. “Either Nomora was rusted to hell and back or there’s something really big going on.”

Darren grasped Ratso’s arm. “I got more, mon! My cousin’s son, Chuckie, he does work doin’ welding at the yard, so he and me, we done had a beer.”

As he listened, Ratso’s paranoia about small islands intensified. “Discreet, is he?”

“Relax, mon. We was just chilling out—me, him and his old man. And the boy, he did say that the ship, she rusted, filthy. Then, sudden-like, he did stop talking. Real sudden. Like he remember to keep the trap shut.”

“Did you press him?” Ratso had mixed feelings when he saw the Bahamian shake his head. “Like you said, I kept it cool.”

“You did well.” Ratso looked around and waved for two more beers. “Access to the yard?”

“There’s a guard at the gate. For to stop the kids—they get chance, they do nick the paint, the tools.”

“But I couldn’t get in? Or get aboard?”

“Without permission? No way. But me? I get in easy, go sniff around. Plenty reasons.” He saw Ratso’s doubtful look. “I done go there often. The boss there, he no way suspicious.”

Ratso felt his iPhone vibrating and checked his messages. There were four. The first was from Kirsty-Ann suggesting meeting at the Crow’s Nest bar at 5 p.m. The second was from DC Mason reporting the discovery of a burned-out 2004 Vauxhall Astra without plates on waste ground near Dartford on the Kent-London border. The front nearside wing was badly damaged. The last message was Tosh asking him to call urgently, very urgently. The fourth was from Jock hoping he had remembered to pack sun-oil and water-wings. He grinned momentarily before turning to Darren. “Excuse me. I must respond at once.” He accepted Kirsty-Ann’s offer and sent a text to Tosh promising to call within the hour. He wondered what had happened that was so urgent. Klodian Skela’s funeral, perhaps? Something with Terry Fenwick and Gibraltar?

Darren waited till Ratso had pocketed his phone before continuing. “I guess you wanna know when the ship’s gonna be ready.” He tapped the side of his rather bulbous nose in a familiar gesture. “I find out, let you know.” Two more cans of Kalik Gold were delivered to the table.

Ratso flipped his ringpull. “One more thing, Darren. I’ll send through a couple of photos. Either or both persons may have visited the yard. Show the gatekeeper and your wife, see if either recognise them.”

“Not ask the boss at the yard?”

Ratso shook his head. Something deep inside warned him that the yard might be involved, though he had no idea how.

“Got names of these two guys?”

“Not for sure, no.” Ratso put his fingers to his lips. “But keep it close, Darren.”

“Who are they?”

Ratso shook his head. “Persons of interest.” Ratso caught the resentful look on Darren’s face and so hurried on. “Nothing personal, mind. Just that we don’t yet know what’s going on.”

The inspector’s face brightened. “No sweat.” He drained the last of his can, left some cash beside it and stood up. “Send me the pics soonest, mon, huh?”

Ratso followed him down the three rickety steps from the balcony to the beach and they strolled side by side toward the cars. For a few seconds, Ratso wondered if he was letting Darren get too interested in the mission. It seemed absurd not to trust this dynamo of energy and enthusiasm. But it was a small island. The thought nagged away at his satisfaction that things were moving better.

After promising to meet the following day, Ratso drove into town, following Darren’s directions to the Crow’s Nest bar and Kirsty-Ann Webber.