the lift-call button.
‘Oh yes, Fazil’s definitely dead… hell, these Malts wouldn’t know security if it jumped up and bit their asses.’
Karl Donaldson sat on one of the sunloungers on his hotel room balcony. With his left hand he held a bag of crushed ice, wrapped in a towel, on to the back of his head. In his right, the mobile phone was to his ear. He alternated holding the ice pack with picking up the triple measure of whisky he’d assembled from three miniatures in the hotel room minibar. Two Black Label and one Jack Daniel’s. An unusual but effective mixture.
‘I can’t believe it. I’d only been gone a matter of minutes before I decided to turn around and speak to him again.’ His head pounded from the blow he’d received, arcs of pain pumping out like circles in a pond. Fortunately, his nose hadn’t been broken and the bleeding had been easily stemmed, although the two cotton wool balls jammed up his nostrils did make him look ridiculous.
‘You’re damned lucky you didn’t buy it, too,’ Don Barber said.
‘Don’t tell me.’ He made a puzzled face, wondering why he hadn’t ‘bought it’ as Barber succinctly termed it. ‘Guess something musta spooked ’em and they were happy enough with Fazil.’
‘How in hell did they get into the freakin’ cop shop anyway?’ Barber demanded yet again.
‘Like I said, they’re way behind with security over here — and that’s where the accomplice came in — one of the gaolers. The desk sergeant obviously saw what was happening and got killed for his troubles.’
‘How did they escape?’
‘When they hit me, they went out through an emergency exit that’s usually chained up, but wasn’t in this case — they took the keys from the sergeant’s key ring. Bastards.’
‘Damn… and no video evidence?’
‘None… the gaoler must’ve fixed that too, tampered with the recording equipment.’
‘What a mess,’ Barber said.
‘Means we’re running outta witnesses,’ Donaldson said.
‘Yeah… you’re certain Fazil was the gun-dropper?’
‘As can be.’
‘Then he got what was coming to him… I know it ain’t the perfect scenario, but there’s some justice in it. And he wasn’t coming across to you, was he?’
‘But I’m still way behind the American,’ Donaldson moaned. ‘Fazil was a helluva good lead.’
‘You’ll get to him,’ Barber reassured him. ‘That’s why I put you on him, because I know you’ll nail him sooner or later.’
‘Whatever…’
‘Hey, don’t sound so despairing. A bad man’s bit the dust, let’s not mourn,’ Barber tried to sound upbeat. ‘And you’re still alive.’
‘OK, OK, I get the message… ahh!’ A jolt of pain crackled through his head. He took the ice pack off his head and took a mouthful of the whisky mix. There wasn’t much left in the glass.
‘What can you tell us about the killer?’ Barber asked.
‘Not much. Biggish guy, mask on, gloves on, overalls, I think, didn’t even make the weapon, which seriously annoys me, other than it was revolver with a silencer, probably a. 38, so no ejected shells. And he’s probably got one sore face, because I managed to land a good one on him.’ Donaldson thought he heard Barber sigh at the other end of the line. ‘Sorry, Don?’
‘Nothing, pal. You sure you’re OK?’
‘Positive. Heck of a sore head, that’s all. And pissed off. I should’ve realized the danger, though, but I’m still trying to work out why Fazil was important enough to take such a risk to nail him. Real heavy stuff.’
‘Shit like that happens. We deal with desperate people, Karl.’
‘Oh God, do we!’
‘What are your plans?’
‘Ugh… tidy up here, make peace with the locals who are running around like headless chickens. Finish my statement for them, then I want to get back to Lancashire… see where, or if, Petrone’s death fits into all this.’
‘I can deploy someone else to that if you like?’
‘No. I know them up there, especially the guy in charge of the investigation. We go way back and he always needs my help.’
‘Only if you’re up to it, but don’t overdo it, OK? If it’s eyeties versus eyeties, let’s not get too involved, eh?’
‘I hear ya.’
Their conversation ended. Donaldson groaned as he stood up, unsure whether it was injury or old age — or possibly a combination of both — and a lifetime of law enforcement. He stood by the balcony railings overlooking the harbour and noticed, peeking over the frosted glass panel separating his balcony from the next one, that the sliding doors into the room were open. Gentle jazz music filtered out. He edged along until he could see on to the balcony, also empty, although there were signs of recent activity on the lounger and table. An empty glass, a half- full bottle of wine, a paperback book, cigarettes and a lighter. Donaldson’s eyes honed in on the cigarettes and something moved inside his chest. A yearning. He’d been a light smoker in his teens, but hadn’t had a cigarette for many years and was very much against them — usually. But there and then, with a bad head, in a horrible situation, he found he had an irrational need for a cancer stick.
A movement caught his eye. He glanced up, moving his head a little too sharply, causing him to emit a muted howl.
Still clad in her bikini, the forward Scandinavian lady stepped out through her net curtains on to her balcony. There was a wry smile on her face.
‘Spying on me now?’ she admonished him. Then she saw he was holding the ice pack to his head. ‘My, what happened to you?’
‘Long story, ma’am,’ he replied, quickly pulling the blood-soaked cotton wool out of his nostrils and dropping them on the floor. ‘But I wonder if I could trouble you.’ She regarded him with deep misgiving. ‘I know, I know.’ He held up a hand to reassure her he wasn’t the sick pervert she thought he was after seeing the photographs on his laptop. ‘I’d really love a cigarette. Been a bad day.’
‘O-K,’ she said unsurely, but took the pack, shuffled one out for him and one for her. They were Superkings and as he inhaled the smoke spread into his lungs with a deeply pleasurable sensation.
He exhaled deliciously. ‘First one in twenty-five years.’ He held the cigarette between his first and second fingers and pointed it at her. ‘I’m not going off the wagon, though, even though this is absolutely wonderful and I thank you kindly, ma’am.’
She too was smoking and regarded him through a cloud of her own.
He took another deep draw and as he exhaled this time it was with a growl of pleasure. Then he looked at his neighbour. ‘Sorry for freakin’ y’all out earlier,’ he said in his best Yankee drawl.
‘Yes, I was freaked.’
‘OK, understood. My name is Karl Donaldson and I’m an FBI agent,’ he said, not even beginning to understand why he was telling her this, because he did not need to, nor should he have done really. ‘The photos you saw were of a dead guy, obviously, and I was asked if I could identify him.’
‘You’re an FBI agent,’ she asked in disbelief.
‘Really, I am.’ He didn’t wish to explain exactly what he did in the Bureau because that made things complicated. Everyone sort of understood the concept of an agent.
‘What are you doing in Malta?’
‘Interviewing a witness… that’s where the bad day came in.’ He showed her the ice-packed towel, then tilted his head. ‘Hit on head
… long story. See it, touch it.’
She reached across the partition and felt his scalp and the quail egg-sized lump on it. Her fingers withdrew quickly.
‘Ooh, the witness did not like you?’
‘Something like that.’ He took another drag, enjoyed it, then said, ‘I think that did the trick. And you are?’ He knew she had introduced herself at their previous encounter, but that hadn’t gone too well and he couldn’t quite recall the name. Then it clicked. ‘Vanessa.’
