Hard Place (31 page)

“Let’s get checked in. I’m feeling a bit knackered myself.”

La Coruna, Spain

Next morning Ratso and Jock crossed Maria Pita Plaza in good time for their meeting with Antonio Delgado. At this early hour, the sun was not warm and Ratso was glad of his fleecy lined windcheater. “I met him four years back on a bust at Torremolinos. He’s the best I’ve worked with in Europe. He’s a detail freak and none the worse for it but others call him anal retentive.”

“Those Pan-Europe Timeshare folk? Ye get anything on them?”

“If they exist, which I now doubt, their online profile is lower than a mole’s tunnels.”

“Sounds like they’re the guys, then, at the Hesperia Finisterre.” But Jock still did not sound convinced.

Ratso looked across to the Ferry Terminal. The cruise ship had gone and the red, blue and green fishing boats once again dominated the scene. “It could be an inaugural meeting. I just don’t know.” They breezed into police headquarters, which was a modern building, more smoked glass than concrete. “Makes our place look what it is.”

“A 1960’s shithouse,” Jock agreed as they were ushered into a small meeting room with chairs for six. The lighting was bright and the view looked onto a vast shopping mall designed to bleed money from cruise-ship passengers. The table and chairs were new, the glass table top matched the windows. They accepted strong, bitter coffee and sat in silence waiting for Delgado. At precisely 9 a.m., a small, busy-looking man aged about forty-three entered the room alone. Ratso did a double-take. It was not Delgado—not unless he had shrunk six inches and started wearing a toupee to cover the shining bald head Ratso recalled so vividly.

The man sat down at the head of the table, barely shaking hands. He smiled with the warmth of a coal fire that had gone out. From a slim, expensive wallet, he produced two business cards and handed them over. “Good morning. My name is Jesus Botía. As you see, I am a comisario from Unidad de Drogas Y Crimen Organizado, Spain’s drug squad. I am based in Madrid.” His English was impressive but spoken in sufficient accent that both listeners had to strain to be sure what was being said.

Ratso and Jock handed over their cards and showed their IDs, which Jesus seemed to expect. Ratso recalled that a Spanish comisario was the equivalent to a superintendent. He felt rather outranked. Although Delgado was an inspector jefe, a chief inspector, he had always treated Ratso as an equal and an old mucker. “Thanks for your support … but I was expecting Antonio?”

“Oh, him? You know him well?” The remark was heavy with contempt.

It was not a good start but Ratso tried not to show his irritation. “We worked together in Torremolinos.”

Jesus Botía nodded, uninterested. “He cannot be here.” With no explanation and barely a pause, he continued, “So I am in charge. You have any more news for me?”

“I believe you have forty men arriving to support the operation … but where is Antonio? Is he arriving later?”

“Inspector Delgado’s father died yesterday afternoon. And no, we do not have forty officers. Just fifteen. He exaggerated the difficulties of a simple affair.” Botía saw the horror on his listeners’ faces.

“Fifteen? That’s crazy—especially if this turns violent.” Ratso checked his notes. “Besides the ringleader, Adrian Fenwick, arriving this morning, also flying in is a contract killer called Erlis Bardici. He is the enforcer.” Ratso looked at Jock and saw his cheeks were growing redder by the second. “This could be a screw-up of mega proportions. Your officers may face unacceptable dangers.”

“You exaggerate too, Inspector Holtom.” Calmly, Jesus Botía poured himself a coffee and adjusted his heavy black spectacles. “Forgive me but I have read the file.” The remark could have been polite, perhaps even friendly but the look on Botía’s face was closer to contempt. “Your summary has left me in no doubt. We need one man at each hotel, watching for a meeting breaking up. But I am sure it will be the Hesperia Finisterre. Wherever Fenwick goes from there for a meeting, by car or on foot, we will follow. If the meeting is there, we can photo all of them and then follow to where the drugs are divided.”

Only that part made sense. A simple affair! The words almost made Ratso choke. “You’ll not follow the lorry to France?”

“No. We will arrest the truck as it leaves town. That will be cheaper. Less risk”

“And lose the chance of more arrests in France.”

“The value of the cocaine tells me to take no chance.”

“And the truck with the heroin?”

Botía smiled confidently. “The officers following that truck will report to me when the destination is reached. Six of my men in unmarked cars will stake out the area surrounding the truck and will move in when the dealers are dividing it.”

“And Nomora’s crew?” Ratso had been through every detail with Delgado and they had concluded thirty-five men minimum.

“There is no hurry to arrest them. They will have no reason to be suspicious. The ship cannot leave harbor—that has been arranged by you with Delgado. A Spanish naval vessel is patrolling close by at sea.”

Ratso could take no more. “This is useless. Nobody arresting the crew? They’ll be off, disappear at the slightest whiff of trouble. The skipper’s a slippery bastard called Micky Quigley. He’ll slip out of Spain quicker than Houdini.” Ratso found his voice had been rising with his temper.

Jock’s wrinkled face looked ready to explode, his cheeks deep crimson and the vein on his temple throbbing. “With respect, Superintendent Botía,” he began, before he was cut off by the little man standing up and slamming shut his notebook.

“You requested our help,” the Spaniard snapped. “Now you tell me—a superintendent of the drug squad—how to manage an operation?” He turned sharply and flounced toward the door with all the self-assurance of a matador. “You can observe but will not be involved, not now, not at the scene. Understood, Sergeant, Inspector?” He glared at each listener in turn. “You agree? Yes or no.”

Ratso’s mind was in ferment. He found himself chewing his lip as he realised the man would have zero interest in synchronising with arrests in the UK. But it was pointless reasoning with someone who thought he could walk on water. In turn, Ratso felt as if his own feet had been nailed but to the floor rather than a wooden cross. He glanced at Jock, who looked as if he’d found ten pence after dropping a pound. “The figure forty was Antonio Delgado’s decision, not mine. Let me take you through the breakdown.”

“Delgado is like an old woman—everything a big problem.”

Ratso caught Jock’s eye and shrugged. “You have us by the balls, Superintendent Jesus Botía, so our hearts and minds will follow. Only God can outrank you.”

Ratso watched the small man with the big ego flinch at the cheeky comment. He hesitated before returning to his seat. “I take that as a yes, Inspector.” His deep-set and cautious eyes still showed his distrust for these interferers from London. “Any update for me, Inspector Holtom?”

Jock wondered whether Ratso would take the piss but realised his boss saw this as too serious for that. “A London drug-dealer who swans about Estepona like villain royalty left there yesterday morning by car. We think he could be coming here.”

“His name?”

“He’s known as Foxy Boxy but his real name is Arnie Boxter. He’s got a sharp face. That’s how he got the nickname. He’s the only one of our suspects living in Spain who is on the move.”

“A car? He won’t get much in that. You have a photo of this … Foxy Boxy?”

Ratso tapped away on his iPad and then sent the superintendent several shots of a shrimp of a man, aged late fifties with a thin face, long nose and a slim moustache. “These were taken this week. We think Foxy Boxy could be a distributor for Spain.”

Botía nodded. “I think you leave here today, Inspector?” Jock showed no surprise as Ratso explained that no, he was staying on.

“So we meet at seven tomorrow morning.”

“I think I should be at the Hesperia Finisterre, where Fenwick is staying.”

“No. You look too English.”

Ratso had to give that to him. “Fenwick does not know me.”

“Seven unless I change it. I am convinced the meeting will be at Fenwick’s hotel. The memorial to the English general is the most significant.” Jock let the mistaken reference to an English general pass without challenge. The past twenty minutes had taught him that silence was the better option.

A short time later, Jock and Ratso were seated at the same small café as the day before. Today, as the clock struck ten, the sun was now striking the red tables so it was comfortable to sit outside. Jock ordered coffee and pancakes with apple, chocolate and whipped cream. Ratso, still inwardly fuming from the encounter, admitted to feeling drained and ordered a full English, a rarity for him. While Jock browsed yesterday’s Daily Mail, Ratso tapped away furiously on his iPhone. “I’m reporting to the AC.” The message to Wensley Hughes pulled no punches. “We’re facing the biggest snafu in La Coruna since General Sir John Moore died here over two hundred years ago. I want Jesus Botía outranked.”

“It’s cover-yer-arse time,” agreed Jock. “So … ye’re staying on?”

Ratso playfully punched Jock’s chest. “I’m covering your arse by staying on. Mine is up in lights! This could be a five-star balls-up if there’s a shootout with the Spanish outnumbered.”

“But Boris Zandro? You said …”

“He’s under surveillance again and there’s no sign of panic. I’ve told the AC. I’ve just implemented my Plan B.”

“Which is?”

“Turning a high risk of him escaping into a calculated gamble.” Ratso winked and Jock knew better than to probe.

The Scot signalled for more coffee. “So we kiss goodbye to arrests in France?”

Ratso nodded. “That’s the only part of Botía’s plan I’m not pissed off about. If we arrest the driver here, he might tell us where he was headed and we don’t risk losing the coke through a cock-up.” He looked at the two runny fried eggs and rashers of limp-looking bacon that had just arrived. “I wish I’d had yours now.”

“And Micky Quigley? Do another runner?”

Ratso shook his head and smiled as he dipped his bread into the egg’s yellow. “Nah. That was just me being awkward. He’ll be off quicker than a whippet if he hears something has gone wrong but otherwise, no way would he abandon Nomora here. The Spanish cops would crawl all over it and find drug traces.” He chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bacon before pushing the remains to one side. “Remind me—no more full English over here.”

“The pancakes are great.” Jock grinned. “So what do ye reckon Quigley will do?”

“Refuel and sail. He doesn’t know about the Spanish navy blocking him in. He might want to scuttle her in deep water. Off the West African cost is pretty deep. The crew won’t get their tootsies wet; they’ll be in the lifeboat with some cock-and-bull story. That’ll bury the evidence and the company can recover some insurance. Either that, or she’ll be sold in an obscure port somewhere.”

“So what’s yer big worry, yer biggest worry?” Jock wiped at smears of chocolate under his lower lip.

“That when the gang transfers and divides the smack, there’s a shootout with Botía’s young cops. Several die. Some of the distributors escape. Zandro and Terry Fenwick are tipped off and disappear. Quigley hoofs it overland in a stolen car.” Ratso’s scowl blackened his face. “Bad enough for you?”

“I’ll tell ye mine, boss. That meeting willna be at the Hesperia Finisterre Hotel. Botía’s wrong.”

“Evidence?”

Jock tapped the side of his nose. “No evidence. Just a sixth sense, that’s all.”

Ratso’s intent stare showed his respect as he drained the rest of his black coffee. “Antonio Delgado would agree with you.” Ratso stood up and said he would be in the hotel, waiting for the AC to phone. “And you?”

“I’m going over the hotels again. We must have missed something.”

For the next several hours, the Scot, having scoured the Web and bought a large-scale map of La Coruna, visited and revisited every war memorial and cemetery in the area. Somehow, he managed to ignore his aching feet and keep going. But nothing else fitted with HF or HS better than the ones they had checked out. While Jock was pavement-pounding, Ratso spent the day working on his plan for the UK arrests, the phone bill to Wensley Hughes costing a fortune. By the end of their third conversation, he had the AC as close to seething about Comisario Botía as Hughes ever went. “Damned cavalier approach. I can’t risk that. I’m getting this sorted.” Just after 3 p.m., Hughes phoned back. “I’ve spoken to someone I met at an Interpol convention in Berlin. You can assume Botía’s cojones are now on the line already.”

“Even better in a paella dish.”

“Your end? Anything?”

“Jock Strang’s been gone all day. He’s not happy at all. But the good news is that the satellite data points to Nomora entering harbour late this evening.”

On a whim, Ratso rang Tosh. “Anything?”

“Tomorrow I’ll be up in the Central 3000 room with the AC,” Tosh enthused. “Watching the action.”

“You like blood, do you?”

Ratso was sure Tosh was holding back. Something was not right. “It’s business as usual for Terry Fenwick in Lime Street and there’s been no messages using the pigeonholes at any of his London clubs.”

“He and Zandro are due to meet on Thursday night at the Poulsden. That won’t happen. I’d stake my pension that Terry will know instantly when Botía’s men move in down here. So keep up the surveillance on both Zandro and Terry Fenwick.”