The Collectors Book Five (The Collectors Series 5) (35 page)

              After three hours had passed, Hawksworth’s the sergeant came out of the mess “The Superintendant asks that you attend his summing up of this affair before he leaves.”

              Hawksworth shut his file and pushed it to one side, stood, stretched his legs and back. He turned to the waiting men. There was a moment’s silence as his hand rested on the file. “I have statements from everyone involved except the cook, Marco, two lawyers, James Eden, Allan Vella, and an Adrian Sullivan, plus the two surviving hijackers.” He paused for a moment. “When I have those statements I’ll have completed the evidential stage of my enquiries. My team will scrutinise and produce an event schematic for our National Crown Prosecutor to analyse. A decision as to a realistic prospect of conviction will result. The hijackers will relax in our prison. You, Mr Kyriades, are to remain in Malta until a conclusion is reached as to the killing of Giovanni Silvio.”

              Petros angled his head. “No problem. I wasn’t going anywhere.”

              Hawksworth fixed him with a stare. “And I’ll take your passport.”

              “Bit difficult - it’s in my hotel room.”

              “Mr Kyriades, I’ll have an officer waiting at reception when you return to your hotel.” Their eye contact was enough to say everything.

              With his sergeant trailing two steps behind, Hawksworth left the mess and the ship.

***

James Eden and Allan Vella sipped their drinks while they waited in the bar of the Silver Sand Hotel.

              James peered over his glass. “Our mutual friend has arrived along with a uniformed police sergeant.”

              “Hawksworth will have demanded his passport. Wait here.” Allan, still in his boating kit, sauntered across. “Sergeant, why are you with my client?”

              “Orders from Superintendant Hawksworth. I have to take this man’s passport.”

              “Really and you have the necessary paperwork?”

              “I’m obeying orders.”

              “I suggest you return to your station and come back with the appropriate paperwork. In the meantime, I’ll vouch for and hold my client’s passport. You can collect it from my office tomorrow morning. Goodnight.”

              Petros was sure the man flinched.

              The sergeant, his face-hardened, thought for a few moments. “I will inform the Superintendant.” He turned and strolled out of the hotel.

              “Can you do that?” asked Petros.

              “No,” he grinned. “You have accomplished tonight what most men would have walked away from. The superintendant might agree self-defence but knows it’s not his decision. In the morning, I’ll talk to the Crown Prosecutor’s office. They decide whether prosecution is needed in the public interest. I will suggest another course of action to follow.”

              “Petros shrugged. “I couldn’t have done anything without the use of your boat.”

              “One thing bothered me. Would you have bought me a new boat if you had trashed Predator?”

              “Yes and no. If I was alive to tell the tale, yes, but if the operation had gone pear shaped, no.”

              Allan laughed. “All well that ends well. You must be knackered.” He checked the time. “Any problems with the law give me a ring.”

              “No doubt I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks again. Drive carefully.”

              Allan shook his head. “This is Malta, he who sounds his horn first is in the right.”

              “Great legal judgement.” He waited until Allan exited the building before strolling across to James. “I’m off to bed. Appreciate your help. See you in the morning.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Petros sat in the breakfast room with Amadou and ZZ. “You’re here early. What’s so urgent?”

              “The job’s finished and ZZ’s girlfriend high-tailed it last night. I could be home with my wife.”

              “I agree. I’ll have your money wired to your usual bank account.” He glanced around and whispered, “plus when I know what the gold’s worth, one percent of the total. Happy with that?”

              Amadou nodded and helped himself to a glass of water.

              “Thanks for your help, ZZ. Pity about Scarlet.”

              “I liked her a lot but apart from the sex, we both lived a lie. You have a saying in England, ships that pass in the night.”

              Petros stood and held out his hand. “Very true. If there’s another job could you be interested?”

              Amadou cleared his throat. “The next year might be a busy and profitable one for me in the arms trade to Syria. Unlike many, I trust you PK. Life with you has its exciting moments.” He checked the time. “Must go, we have a flight to Benghazi at midday.” They shook hands.

              ZZ fidgeted with his right ear. “Time to go.” He hugged Petros, looked him squarely in the eyes, smiled then walked away.

              “Don’t think about it, PK. He has the greatest admiration for you.”

              “He’s growing up. Look after him.” Petros strolled with Amadou to the hotel entrance and waited while he and ZZ jumped into a taxi and it drove away.

              “Morning, Petros,” said James.

              “And I thought I’d have a quiet breakfast and read the paper,” said Petros as he returned to his table.

              James sat opposite. “I’ve a suggestion. Land the gold and send Alfredo and his crew home. At the moment you’re spending a load of money for no return.”

              “That thought did cross my mind.”

              “I can arrange for an armoured car to collect it, with luck today or tomorrow.”

              Petros accepted James’ point. “You make the arrangements and I’ll talk to Alfredo.”

              James nodded thoughtfully and pointed to the coffee pot on the table. “Is that still hot?”

              Petros shook his head. “I’ll order another.” He lifted the pot and made eye contact with a passing waiter.

              “Certainly, sir.” The man grabbed the pot and scurried away, returning moments later with another. “He filled two cups and took a half step back. “ Anything else, sir?”

              “Brown toast and lime marmalade, please”

              James sipped his coffee and when the toast arrived helped himself to a slice. He glanced around making sure no one was within earshot. “How many bars did you recover?”

              Petros shrugged. “Not sure but I’ll count each one prior to depositing them in the bank.”

              “Well if you’ll excuse me, he doesn’t know yet but I’ve an appointment with the director of the Bank of Valletta.”

              Petros folded his arms. “Have a good look in the vault before you leave.”

              With a nod, James smiled. “Do you know there was a time in Malta when the locals would only deposit their money with the bank on the clear understanding they would be allowed into the vaults to see where it was kept.”

              Petros grinned. “Better than under the mattress.”

              “You may be right. Give you a call later.”

              Petros poured his fourth cup of coffee and sipped the luke-warm dregs. Outside the sunlight filtered by the one way glass gave a comforting glow to the room.

***

Later that morning Petros, wearing blue jeans, trainers and a white polo shirt, left the hotel. At a steady pace he threaded his way towards Quarry Wharf and the water taxi station.

              Once on the wharf he discovered to his surprise, not one water-taxi. He thought of jumping in a cab but glanced at his watch and decided he would wait. Five minutes elapsed before a water taxi arrived.

              “How much to Vittoriosa Yacht Marina?”

              The driver’s eyes sparkled. With a wrinkled face from too much sun, wearing a peaked cap and light blue cotton overalls he replied, “Today special offer, thirty Euro.”

              “I’ll give you forty if you can do the distance in less than ten minutes.”

              He laughed, sensed a kindred spirit. “Jump in and hold on.”

              The yellow fibreglass hull rocketed across the calm waters of Grand Harbour and passed Fort St Angelo.

              Petros pointed to the
Tuna Turner
.

              The sensation of clinging onto the side of a craft hurtling over the water concentrated his mind. The driver slammed the throttle shut and allowed the hull to glide alongside the jetty.

              Petros handed over forty Euro and stepped onto the wooden plank-covered pontoon.

              He straightened his back on seeing Hawksworth alight from his black Mercedes.

              Hawksworth stood with his feet apart and waited for Petros to arrive on the quay. “Mr Kyriades, you were next on my list but first I must talk with Captain Alfredo. You may wait in my car.”

              “Can you tell me what this is about?”

              “I have a few more questions.”

              “Questions about what in particular?”

              “Who, Mr Kyriades, who?” He stomped across the
Tuna Turner’s
gangway and entered the accommodation section.

              Petros sat in the front passenger seat and waited.

              Ten minutes later Hawksworth returned, sat behind the wheel, started the engine and drove sedately away from the marina.

              “Adrian Sullivan, Mr Kyriades, what do you know about him?”

              “Apart from the fact he operates a submersible for a living, nothing.”

              “Well he robbed my men and me of what little sleep we might have had last night. Shortly after leaving the marina, I watched him being pulled out of St Julian’s Bay at four this morning.”

              “Bloody hell. I assume as he was pulled out he was dead.”

              “Unfortunately he is and I want you to see him.”

              “Could it have been an accident?”

              “I keep an open mind until the facts tell me different.”

              They stopped in the small car park outside a building, which stood on its own to the west of the Mater Der Hospital.

              “Mr Sullivan wasn’t in the water long.”

              In a room at the far end of a long corridor and on the other side of a glass petition, two men wearing green surgical gowns and matching wellingtons waved at Hawksworth. On a stainless steel slab the body of Adrian Sullivan lay naked.

              “Mr Kyriades, can you confirm the man on the slab is Adrian Sullivan?”

              “From what I can see and the colour of his hair, it is.”

              “When did you last see him?”

              Petros paused in thought. “I’ll be honest, I can’t remember. Maybe two days ago. I booked a room in a hotel and never saw him again.”

              “Thank you. That’s all I need to know. You have confirmed the name on the driving licence in his wallet. We can now leave.”

              “Do you know who did this?”

              “I have my suspicions.”

              “Who?”

              “I believe it’s the same men who stole the
Tuna Turner
. We have a video from a shop’s security camera, which shows them and the victim walking from a car park. Only four returned.” He looked Petros straight in the eyes. “You mix with the wrong people, Mr Kyriades.”

              “I don’t know any of them.”

              “Somehow they knew you and what you discovered. I understand you have employed the services of Allan Vella. He’s a good man to have if you’re arrested.”

              Petros felt sick and did not reply.

              Hawksworth laughed. “I think you need a drink.” He drove from the hospital to Msida yacht marina and pointed. “My bar and restaurant. It will supplement my pension when I retire.”