Val Mcdermid - Clean Break

I pulled Richard into a tight embrace as Turner and the bodyguard went on board, just in case Turner was looking. When they’d disappeared below, we carried on strolling past the Petronella Azura III. I can’t say I was surprised to see that the expensive motor cruiser was registered out of Palermo.

“Fucking hell,” Richard murmured as we passed the boat. “It’s the Mafia. Brannigan, this is no place for us to be,” he said, casting a nervous look back over his shoulder.

“They don’t know we’re here,” I pointed out. “Let’s keep it that way, huh?” At the end of the quay, we stared out to sea for a few minutes.

“We’re going to pull out now, aren’t we?” Richard demanded. “I mean, it’s time to bring in the big battalions, isn’t it?”

“Who did you have in mind?” I asked pointedly. “This isn’t Manchester. I don’t know the good cops from the bad cops. From what I’ve heard of Italian corruption, I could walk into the nearest police station and find myself talking to this mob’s tame copper. Can you think of a better short cut to a concrete bathing suit?”

Richard looked hurt. “I was only trying to be helpful,” he said.

“Well, don’t. When I want help, I’ll ask for it.” I can’t help myself. The more scared I get, the more I bite lumps out of the nearest body. Besides, I didn’t figure I was obliged to feel guilty. As far as I was concerned, Richard had drawn the short straw from choice.

I got to my feet and started to stroll back down the quay. After a moment, Richard caught up with me. We were just in time to see the chauffeur and a young lad in shorts and a striped T-shirt trot down the gangplank and start unloading suitcases from the boot of the limo. They ferried half a dozen bags on board, not even giving us a second glance. We walked back to my car and stared at the receiver in a moody silence neither of us felt like breaking.

After about half an hour, Turner and the bodyguard came off the yacht and got in the car. “You want to follow them?” I asked Richard. “I’ll stay here and watch the boat.”

“No heroics,” he bargained.

“No heroics,” I agreed.

He just caught the lights at the end of the road where the limo had turned right. It looked like the chauffeur was taking Turner back to the villa. And judging by the screen, the buckle was now aboard the yacht. One of two things was going to happen now. Either the yacht was going to take off, complete with buckle, or some third party was going to come to the yacht and get the buckle. My money was on the former, but I felt duty bound to sit it out. The phone rang about twenty minutes later. “They’re back at the villa,” Richard reported. “Do you want me to wait and see if Turner takes off?”

“Please,” I said. “Thanks, Richard. Sorry I bit your head off earlier.”

“So you should be. You’re lucky to have me.” He ended the call before I could find a retort.

Suddenly the receiver screen went blank. I sat bolt upright. I pulled the connector out of the cigarette lighter socket where I’d been recharging the batteries and slid the power compartment cover off. I broke one of my nails getting the batteries out in a hurry, and stuffed replacements in. But when I switched on again, the screen was still blank. Given that it wasn’t the batteries and the yacht hadn’t moved out of range, there was only one possible reason why my screen was blank. Someone had discovered the bug and put it out of action. I took a deep breath and thanked my lucky stars that my name wasn’t Nicholas Turner.

Ten minutes later, the lad in the shorts was back on the quayside, casting off. Within twenty minutes, the Petronella Azura III had disappeared round the point. Pondering my next step, I drove back up the valley and found Richard sitting in the BMW a couple of hundred yards up the road from the turnoff to the drive. I parked my Merc at Casa Nico and walked up to join him. I filled him in on the latest turn of events. It didn’t take long.

“So, do we go home now?” he asked plaintively.

“I suppose so,” I said reluctantly. “I’d like to get inside that villa, though.”

“You said yourself it was impregnable,” he pointed out.

“I know, but I never could resist a challenge.”

Richard took a deep breath. “Brannigan, you know I never try to come between you and your job. But this time, you’ve got to back off. Go home, tell the police what you’ve got so far. They can pick up Turner and they can talk to the good cops over here and get them to look at the villa and the boat. There’s nothing more you can do here. Besides, you’ve got another case you’re supposed to be working on, in case you’d forgotten.”

Part of me knew he was right. But there is another part of me that responds to being told what to do by doing just the opposite. It overrides all my common sense, and it’s one of the reasons why I prefer to work alone. Besides, I knew that all we had was an address and the name of a boat. That wouldn’t necessarily take the authorities anywhere at all. I wanted more.

But I didn’t want to get into that right then. “Let’s book in at Casa Nico for another night,” I said. “We might as well get an early start tomorrow and shoot straight back to Antwerp in a oner,” I said. “We don’t have to eat there,” I added hastily. “Sestri Levante looked like it might have a few decent restaurants.”

Richard scowled. “So why don’t we go the whole hog and book in at a decent hotel too?”

“I’d like to stay up here, keep an eye on the place, see if there are any more comings and goings,” I told him. “You can go down to Sestri and potter round the shops if you want.”

The scowl deepened. “I’m not some bloody bimbo,” he complained. “If you’re waiting here, I’ll keep you company.”

It was a long afternoon. I finished the thriller and Richard started it. We played I Spy. We played Bonaparte. We played “I went to the doctor’s with…” right through the alphabet. The only break was when I nipped back to the Casa Nico to book us a room for the night. I was about to give in to Richard’s pleas to call it a day when there was movement. An Alfa-Romeo sports saloon shot out of the drive heading up the valley. Even at the speed it was traveling, I recognised the bodyguard behind the wheel. “Move it,” I told Richard. He pulled the BMW round in a tight arc and shot after the Alfa.

We didn’t have far to go. A few miles up the road was a bar whose owner could have taught Nico a thing or two. Even from our slow cruise past, it was obvious that Bar Bargonasco made Nico’s look like a funeral parlor. The music was loud and cheerful, the car park didn’t look like an apprentice scrapyard and there were more than six people in there. “Pull up round the corner,” I said.

When the car stopped, I opened the door. “Where are you going?” Richard said, panic in his eyes.

“I’m going to get into that villa one way or another. If I can’t do it Dennis O’Brien style, I’m going to do it Kate Brannigan style. I’m going to chat up the bodyguard.” I shut the car door and took off the shirt I was wearing over the cotton vest that was tucked into my jeans. As I was stuffing the shirt into my handbag, Richard jumped out of the driver’s seat.

“You’re out of your mind,” he yelled at me. “Have you seen the size of that guy?”

“That’s the whole point. He’s obviously been hired for his size, not his brains. He probably keeps them in his trousers, which gives me a head start.”

“You’ll never get his keys off him,” Richard exploded. “For fuck’s sake, Kate. This is madness.”

“I’m not planning on getting his keys off him. I’m planning on getting him to take me home with him,” I said, starting off toward the bar.