The Nothing Job (11 page)

She had met Haram most recently and clandestinely on the waterfront at Kato Pafos, where they sat at a quayside restaurant called the Pelican, sipping mineral water. It was called the Pelican because a real live one wandered around the tables, seeking scraps from the diners.

‘I want to give you something,' he said in his quiet, gravelly voice.

‘That's always good to hear.' She was always cool with him, always in control, never wanting to give him the impression he was anything more than a piece of useful shit.

He held up his hands. ‘You want it, or not?'

‘Haram,' she began patiently, her brown eyes taking on a glint of steel. ‘Give.'

She knew that he still operated very much in the centre of the Cypriot underworld, often protected from the law by her, and that he had grown wealthy on the proceeds of crime because she had allowed him to do so. He could now so easily just be stepping out of a prison cell if the two of them hadn't reached that understanding – something none of her bosses knew about, incidentally.

‘A man has appeared on the scene,' he said gruffly. ‘An interloper.'

Georgia gave him a crooked smile. ‘And he's treading on your toes?' she ventured.

Haram looked quickly away. Georgia knew she had struck a nerve, read his mind. ‘Go on,' she urged.

‘He's Italian, mixing with the Maltese guys in Nicosia. Low profile, but starting to throw his weight around with us. He has good connections …'

‘And he's treading on your toes?' Georgia said again, knowing that many of Haram's snippets of information were given simply just to get the competition off his back. Such was the nature of informants. They were always in it for a reason, and Haram's was to keep operating unmolested – and not to go to prison.

Haram nodded. The pelican approached their table, its big beak clattering hungrily.

‘What's he doing?'

‘People, drugs, prostitutes … trying to set up a new line. Hookers, mainly, but also a lot of drugs … using Albanian girls.'

Try as she might, Georgia could not keep a sliver of interest out of her eyes.

‘I want him caught, neutralized,' Haram stated.

‘So you can continue to do the same?' she said cynically.

He raised his eyebrows. They were grey and overgrown. ‘And there's something else – a bit of glory for not much work on your part,' he teased. ‘I have checked out this man carefully. Here, on the island, he goes by the name of Corelli, but I have discovered he is really called Scartarelli.' Haram passed the detect-ive a scrunched-up piece of paper. ‘His details. Check him out on your computers. You will find something interesting that will get him out of both our hairs.'

Her hand covered the paper. She looked sideways at the expectant pelican. ‘And how will that happen?'

‘I will give him to you on a plate.'

It was just the sort of job a detective likes occasionally. A decent arrest, not much paperwork and some kudos to boot.

When Georgia checked out the name, the computer she was using became all bells and whistles. Corelli, also known more correctly as Paulo Scartarelli, was wanted by the English cops for murder. What better fun could there be? To execute a simple arrest and get a big-time player off her patch with hardly any paperwork.

There was a tense few days waiting for Haram to come through, but he did via a call to Georgia's mobile phone.

‘Tonight … he will be driving three Albanian prostitutes, illegals, from Pafos to Limassol using the B6 … Audi A4.' He recited the registered number. ‘Leaving Pafos seven-thirty.'

‘How good is this, Haram?'

‘The best. Take him, get rid of him, flush him down the shitter.'

She thumbed the end-call button and felt a pleasant tremor of anticipation shimmer through her.

Henry listened as the story unfolded, but something about the situation did not quite add up. ‘I take it it didn't go to plan?'

She looked squarely at him for a moment. ‘You could say that.' Her voice sounded bitter, upset. Her attention returned to driving as she negotiated her way through Pafos, a dusty town that struck Henry as sun-baked and not very picturesque.

Despite her fine arrest record, which outshone most other detectives on the island, she could only muster the use of one double-crewed car – and herself – to pull the vehicle a murderer might be in. She argued that two would be better, but the police in Cyprus had the same resource issues as every other police force the world over – i.e. never enough. One would have to do.

At seven on the evening on which Georgia had got her information she sat in the rear of a liveried Fiat Bravo on the B6, facing the direction of Limassol, waiting for an Audi A4 to pass them, a male and female cop in the front seats.

Which it did one hour later, four people on board.

The Bravo slotted in behind and followed for a couple of miles, passing Secret Valley and reaching Aphrodite's birthplace, where they decided to tug the Audi. Using blue lights, a tweak of the siren and flashing headlights, they indicated for it to pull off on to a scrubby parking area overlooking the two spectacular rocks in the sea below them, set against white cliffs. It was from out of the foaming water here that Aphrodite herself was alleged to have emerged from the ocean. The Audi pulled in as instructed and the three cops were quickly out of the Bravo, covering both sides of the Audi. It was all going very smoothly.

Georgia tapped the driver's window. The man behind the wheel looked up through hooded, dangerous eyes and just so he made no mistake about who was who, she flashed her badge at him and indicated that he get out of the car – now! He climbed out slowly, like a cat, doing as instructed, placing his hands on the roof and spreading his feet. The two other cops were doing the same with the female passengers. They were young, pasty-faced girls, immediately reminding Georgia of pimp-fodder.

She searched the man, asking him questions, then expertly cuffed him. He made only guttural, non-committal responses.

Georgia looked up as the woman cop searched the last of the females. She saw what happened next in slow motion, knowing she would be able to replay the scenario in her mind forever.

The female suspect acquiesced to the search, but as the officer spun her round to slap on the cuffs instead of doing it from behind, a knife appeared in the girl's right hand from somewhere, probably having been secreted up her sleeve. It had a short blade, no more than three inches, with one serrated edge. Georgia screamed a warning, started to hurl herself across the gap as the prisoner jerked up her hand and thrust the blade up to the hilt below the officer's ribcage.

‘There was no need for it,' Georgia said sadly to Henry. She reduced the acceleration of the Terrano as the road inclined up to the Coral Bay junction. ‘She was just a silly, frightened kid from Albania, she panicked and a cop got seriously injured.'

‘She didn't die, then?' Henry asked.

‘No, but she's still poorly and could die.'

‘I'm slightly confused though. How come we're moving on Scartarelli if he's already in custody?' But he knew he had answered his own question then. ‘The guy wasn't Scartarelli, was he?'

‘Just some pathetic low-life enforcer and gofer. He wasn't anyone, really, just a driver.'

‘What did your informant have to say about that?'

‘It was two days before I managed to speak to him again.'

From the back of the Terrano, Bill interjected, ‘Was it a set-up, then?'

They met back at the Pelican in Pafos, Papakostas and Haram, a desperate tense encounter. Haram had lost much of his laid-back cool, his eyes darting all around, and they were sitting inside the restaurant so he could have his back to the wall and watch both entry and exit. His hand shook as he raised his strong coffee to his mouth and he kicked out petulantly as the tame pelican waddled by.

‘He knows … he knows it was me,' he said jerkily.

‘How?'

‘I'm the only one who could have told you. He played me and I fell for it. No fool like an old one,' he said caustically.

‘No argument with that, Haram,' Georgia said. ‘Add to that one of my officers is fighting for her life. Unnecessary. For what?' she spat. ‘Three whores from a lawless country? Someone treading on your toes? And your useless information. Have you any idea how much I am suffering personally and professionally from this, this, cock-up?'

‘I think my life may be in danger,' Haram said bluntly as though he hadn't heard a word said.

She stared angrily at him, unable to speak, but then she said, ‘All you wanted me to do was take him off the streets for you, isn't it? Just to suit you, nothing else.'

He looked away, sucked on the last of his cigarette and stubbed it out. He fumbled in his trouser pocket and extracted a crumpled piece of paper, the second one he'd passed her in days. ‘It's up to you,' he said. ‘He stays there from time to time. That's all I can do.'

He stood up wearily, his joints showing his age. He gave a curt nod and left the restaurant.

Georgia's fingers took the paper, then she finished her bitter espresso in one swallow and went to the toilet at the back of the restaurant.

As she washed her hands after peeing, she clearly heard four cracks in quick succession and knew it was not a car backfiring.

Haram had twisted out of the Pelican and walked along the quayside towards the car parks and shops of Kato Pafos. It was early season and there were not many tourists yet, so the front was rather quiet. He reached the wide-open promenade area and stopped by the low sea wall, looking into the clear water where he could see big fish swimming lazily. He flicked a cigarette out of the crumpled packet and drew it out between his lips, clicked the disposable lighter and dipped his head between his cupped hands to light up.

He never saw who killed him. Whoever it was walked quickly up behind him, placed the 9mm pistol against the base of his skull and pulled the trigger four times. The force of the impact rocketed Haram over the wall and into the water.

Weapon drawn, Georgia raced out of the restaurant and ran towards the small knot of shocked onlookers gaping over the sea wall. And she knew Haram was dead even before she slowed down. He had foretold his own demise only moments earlier and now he was in the water, face down, floating, his head blown apart and the fish, over their initial panic when he hit the water, now in a bubbling frenzy of feeding on the blood and brain.

She went silent as she reached this part of the story, then pulled the Terrano into a space by the roadside.

‘Here we are,' she announced. ‘It's a hotel, but split into apartments. Hope that's OK.'

‘I'm sure it will be fine,' Henry said.

‘Cosy,' Bill said casting his eye over the apartment. ‘Which side are you sleeping on?'

It was a one-bedroom apartment, meaning a kitchen area, bathroom, lounge and one separate bedroom, a very common type of holiday accommodation for the unwashed masses.

Henry grimaced. The sofa obviously converted into a bed, but he wasn't sure if this was appropriate lodgings for two grown cops on an official job. The two would never have shared a normal hotel bedroom together and there was enough money in the kitty to have separate rooms, or at least a two-bedroom apartment, either of which would give a greater degree of privacy required by two men well into their middle age. It wasn't as though they were twenty-somethings on a piss-up holiday. They were blokes who had their own ways and foibles and needed somewhere private in which to do them.

Henry wished he had personally sorted out the hotel instead of leaving it to the judgement of the locals.

‘I'll go down to reception,' Henry said, ‘see if I can sort something out.'

‘I'm not after bumming you, y'know,' Bill reassured him. ‘But then again, after a few Keos I'm anybody's.' He blew Henry a kiss.

Appalled by the thought and related image, the recently married Henry hurried down to see if anything could be done.

The accommodation issue was easily sorted. They were transferred into a two-bedroom apartment overlooking the pool (even though the bathroom was still shared), which was a much better arrangement. They had quickly changed out of their travelling gear, showered (separately) and re-dressed in clothing more appropriate to a warmer climate. Henry was in a baggy T-shirt and three-quarter-length trousers and trainers; Bill was in a vividly coloured short-sleeved shirt with lots of names of cocktails splattered all over it, three-quarter pants and open-toed sandals.

‘Hey – we might only have one night of debauchery,' he defended himself against Henry's chides. ‘I'm into the holiday groove.'

‘We won't have
any
nights of debauchery,' Henry said sternly like some kind of police supervisor. ‘We're here on a job, OK?'

‘You won't be saying that after a pint of Keo.'

The duo strolled down the main street in Coral Bay, past restaurants, mini-supermarkets and tat shops. The place was reasonably busy and had a nice, easy feel to it. The evening was warm, a bit clammy, and Henry was already dripping.

‘She said meet here, didn't she?' Bill pointed to an open-air restaurant across the street to which they duly made their way. Bill treated Henry to a Keo, which came in an iced pint glass. It tasted better than any beer he had ever had before, immediately dissipating the dryness of the journey which, when everything was taken into consideration, had taken a full half-day. He could feel the beer spreading its icy tentacles out across his chest. ‘Good, eh?' Bill said. His own pint was already gone.

‘Bliss,' Henry gasped, his eyes half-lidded in ecstasy.

DS Papakostas walked into the bar accompanied by a surly man with a thick black moustache who looked like a stereotypical Greek straight from
Shirley Valentine
. However, Henry did not pay him much heed. His eyes were firmly fixed on Georgia, who, though dressed casually for the evening, looked more stunning than ever. Her hair was pinned up in a much more feminine way than earlier and now, with make-up expertly applied, she was the Greek beauty to the Greek beast that walked beside her, scraping his knuckles on the ground.