‘ C’mon then, y’ cunts,’ one sneered.
Normally Rider would have been happy to wade into troublemakers, but something held him back here; that nod given by one to the other which meant premeditation, not simply drink. He was wary.
‘ Hang back, Jacko,’ Rider hissed through the side of his mouth. He was aware of Isa hovering by his shoulder and the eyes of every other punter focused on the scene, something witnessed all the time in bars throughout the world. ‘OK lads, we don’t want any trouble here. I’m sorry you don’t like the place, but you’ve had some fun. So now get out.’
‘ Or what, pal?’
‘ Look, if you want me to call the cops, I will. But we can call it a draw now, you can leave, nobody’s suffered and we’ll all put it down to experience.’
‘ Boss,’ Jacko began. ‘The damage…’
Rider held his hand up to silence him.
‘ What if we don’t wanna leave?’
‘ Yeah, pal, what you gonna do?’ they taunted.
Rider became controllably angry. Not afraid. Still cautious.
He pointed a finger at them. ‘If you don’t get out of here, boys, you’ll face the consequences, one way or another. If you think me and Jacko here can’t handle you, then you’re very much mistaken. We’ll lay you both out until we’re satisfied — then we’ll call the cops. It’s that simple. If you want hassle and aggro, fair enough, the choice is yours. You can call it quits or end up in a police cell with matching injuries.’
Rider held his breath. The two youths looked at each other and nodded reluctantly after weighing up the odds.
It was all too easy, but Rider’s relief clouded his judgement. Perhaps after all they were not the sort of people he believed them to be. Maybe they were just kids flexing their muscles.
Angrily they shouldered their way to the exit, accompanied by Rider and Jacko. They left peaceably.
‘ What about the damage?’ Jacko said into Rider’s ear again.
‘ Chalk it up to experience.’ Rider held up a finger when Jacko began to say more. Jacko shook his head disgustedly and made some under-the-breath remark about ‘every Tom Dick and Harry thinking they can get away with it from now on.’
Rider ignored him.
When he was sure they’d gone, Jacko returned to the bar. Rider stood alone at the club doors. He lit a cigarette, noticing his hands were shaking. Whether it was drink or nerves he wasn’t sure.
Puzzled, he tried to figure out what that had all been about. At least they’d gone without a fight. He blew out a lungful of smoke and turned back into the club.
Karl Donaldson walked slowly along the sea-front in Funchal, the port on his right, towards the marina and restaurants. The night was cool and fresh, pleasant for walking.
He was dissatisfied by the way things had gone. Sam had died tragically — accidentally — and he could not prove otherwise.
Hard to accept.
What he really wanted to do was bring in a team and get a real investigation going with real detectives. He knew it was an irrational desire and that he’d never get the go-ahead for it. What he was trying to do, as Santana had rightly hinted, was blame someone for her death, just like a grieving relative.
But there was no one to blame. Sam had died accidentally and that was an end to it. It hurt him to think he hadn’t known her as well as he thought. She could well have been a secret drinker, an alcoholic
… and yet somehow that wasn’t Sam.
All that remained for him to do was arrange for the body to be flown back to the States, tidy up the loose ends here paperwork-wise, and fly home to London and his wife. He missed her like mad.
‘ You speak English?’ a female voice said to him.
‘ Yes, I do,’ he replied without thinking.
‘ You’re American,’ she said, picking up on the accent immediately.
Donaldson held back a swearword. He’d been so wrapped up in his melancholic thoughts, he’d walked straight into it without realising. The timeshare tout. That dreaded disease, now a worldwide plague which had even reached the tiny island of Madeira.
‘ Yes — and I’m not interested, thanks.’
‘ I’m not selling anything,’ she persisted pleasantly, smiling.
‘ Of course not.’
‘ Please,’ she said as he began to outpace her. ‘Give me a minute of your time.’
Fuck, what did it matter. He was going home tomorrow. And ever the sucker for the pretty face — which the girl did have, along with other attributes — he gave in. Within five minutes he had promised to visit a timeshare development (although the words ‘time’ and ‘share’ never reared their ugly heads), had been given some literature, and was on his way.
He turned down onto the marina and wandered past the series of restaurants there, finally plumping for one where he received least hassle from the salesmen-cum-waiters. He ate a good meal. Tomato soup and onions with a poached egg floating in it, followed by espada, the island’s very own fish which looked like a creature from a horror movie, and a bottle of Vinho Verde.
Ninety minutes later he emerged full, light-headed and completely resigned to Sam’s fate to be branded a closet drinker.
He was back in his room fifteen minutes later, emptying his pockets and undressing with not much coordination. The wine had had more effect on him than he’d imagined. His eyes managed to focus very briefly on the leaflet the timeshare tout had foisted on him. He was about to screw it up and bin it when he stopped, laid the paper out on the bedside cabinet and thought for a moment, difficult though this was.
Out of curiosity, he went over to where Sam’s belongings had been piled up and dug out a flight bag; he unzipped it and pulled out a money pouch, the type worn around the waist. He remembered Sam wearing it on the Lake District trip. Inside was all the money she had left in her possession — about five hundred pounds in sterling travellers’ cheques and six thousand escudos. There were other bits of paper folded up: restaurant and bank receipts, a receipt for a coach tour of the island — for tomorrow — and the thing Donaldson had been looking for… the same timeshare information leaflet he had been given.
He unfolded it carefully and laid it next to his on the bedside cabinet.
Yes. Exactly the same. Other than the time and date of the visit, written in by the tout. He sighed heavily. So what?
Then he turned the sheet over and saw that Sam had written two extra words on hers — two words which he had missed when he’d originally gone through her belongings. Donaldson recognised her writing — big, loopy, almost child-like.
Scott Hamilton!!!! The exclamation marks were Sam’s.
Donaldson, after removing his socks, visited the bathroom. Whilst he sat there he thought, Maybe timeshare is for me, after all.
11 p.m. Monday. A continuous tour of duty of seventeen hours. At last, Henry Christie wrapped up his day. He was fast approaching a state of zombie-dom.
He rechecked his ‘to do’ list in front of him, hoping that everything which needed to be done, had been.
Dundaven had been charged with some firearms offences, bail refused. He would be up before the Magistrates tomorrow, when the police would apply for a remand in custody for seventy-two hours, otherwise known as a ‘three day lie-down’. This would enable Henry’s team to question him at a more leisurely pace and complete further enquiries. Several addresses had come to light in the east of the county and they were all going to be hit at six the next morning. Everything was arranged for that: firearms teams, Support Unit officers and detectives. All coordinated by Henry, who sensed something big and nasty lurking behind Dundaven.
The three days would give a clearer indication of Nina’s condition. Whether she lived or died would affect further charges. Murder or Attempted Murder? In any case, Dundaven was going to be charged with McCrory’s murder.
