I’ll give you a good rate!’
His hands left the wheel. The taxi veered across the road as Ron produced various cards for his other careers.
‘Please concentrate on the road,’ Anna instructed.
‘What I’ll have to do is pull over. Check me map.’
The taxi lurched to a stop. ‘Right. What was the name of the area?’
‘Alcona Way.’
He turned the pages, frowning, flicking from one page to another. It was obvious Ron didn’t have a clue where the villa was. Anna was gritting her teeth as he got out of the car. He crossed the road to a traffic policeman. Sighing, Anna watched them confer, look at the map dubiously, up and down. Then followed lots of arm gestures and hand flapping before Ron eventually returned to the taxi. Anna looked at her watch. It was almost two o’clock.
‘Right, I just gotta turn round. Head back towards the marina, then go left, up behind the old town.’
‘That’s the opposite direction,’ Anna snapped, on the verge of losing her temper.
‘It’s quite hidden. Part of a new development … that’s not quite developed,’ he laughed. ‘If you know what I mean.’
Fifteen minutes later, they left the old town behind them. Some distance further on, they came to well-cut hedgerows and good roads. The villas were now very exclusive, walled properties with glorious coloured bushes in full bloom. For a moment, Anna wondered how a retired ex-Vice cop could afford to live in this area; then the roads became uneven. Suddenly, she saw a lot of half-built properties and then Ron turned up a dirt track.
‘Should be up at the top here. Look for the road sign. It’s gotta be up here somewhere.’
Stones flew as the taxi bumped along the road, swaying and dropping into the occasional pothole. The sign ‘Alcona Way’ was lying on its side. Ron backed up a few yards and turned in to what was little more than a cart track. At the end of the track there was a large, electronically controlled gate. ‘Villa Marianna’ was picked out in scrolled wrought iron with a Spanish dancer beside it.
Anna climbed out of the back seat of the car and pressed the security button. Before she could say a word the gates opened, revealing a paved driveway curving to the right. The taxi passed a large swimming pool with various sun loungers nearby, all in a bad state of repair. A ripped canopy hung limply, providing limited shade to the pool area. And there, behind the flowering bougainvillaea, was a sprawling villa: two storeys high, with white shutters, many of them hanging loose.
Ron had been silent until they drove to the front porch, where a number of very expensive cars were parked: a Porsche, a Saab convertible and a yellow Corniche, its white roof pulled back to reveal creamy white leather seats.
‘Bloody hell! Very nice. Very nice,’ Ron muttered, pulling on the handbrake.
‘Can you wait to take me back to the airport?’ Anna asked.
‘I’ll have to charge fer waitin’ time.’
‘Charge me. But don’t leave, I have a plane to catch.’
Anna got out of the car and pressed the intercom. She waited a good few minutes before she pressed it again and then had to jump backwards quickly as a man swung open the door. He was tanned, with dark, silky, shoulder-length hair. His washed-out denim shirt was open to his navel.
‘Yes?’ he said, bored.
‘I’m here to see Barry Southwood.’
He hardly glanced at her again as he led the way into a large tiled reception area.
‘Barry! Barry!’ he shouted up a sweeping wide marble staircase. ‘BARRY!’ Without another word, he ran up the stairs two at a time, disappearing past a landing.
Anna stayed in the hallway, only turning as she heard the sound of an electric wheelchair behind her.
Ex-detective Barry Southwood wheezed as he brought the chair to a standstill. He was grossly overweight, his belly almost resting on his knees.
‘Barry Southwood?’ she asked.
He stared at her, red-faced with thinning, greased-back hair.
‘I am Detective Sergeant Anna Travis.’ She was about to open her bag and show her identification.
‘Jesus Christ! How old are you, for God’s sake?’
‘I’m twenty-six.’
‘Twenty-six and a DS? Fucking ridiculous! My day, you’d have to have been in the force a good ten years. You come out of university a penpusher and they bump you straight up through the ranks!’
‘Could we go somewhere to talk?’ Her jaw felt tight.
Southwood shook his head, sweat drops flicking like the spray from a shower. ‘They took their fucking time, then they send me a fucking kid! Disrespectful load of shites. Well, you can fuck off, tell them to send me a real copper.’
‘Mr Southwood, I’ve come a long way to talk to you. I am on the murder enquiry and you said you had some information that might help us.’
‘Well, you can just go back and tell them to fuck themselves.’
Stepping closer, Anna could smell the alcohol.
‘Moira Sedley sends you her regards. She spoke very highly of you,’ she lied.
‘Who?’
‘Moira Sedley. She was with the Vice team you used to be on. Blonde.’
‘Oh yeah, big tits. Slag.’
From above came the sound of moaning, then a high-pitched howl, followed by further moaning. Southwood started to turn his chair round, wheezing as he did so.
‘Don’t pay any attention. Come on through.’ His chair disappeared through two open double doors at the end of the hall.
Anna could identify the sound of a girl’s moans and groans and then, as she entered the massive open drawing room, the sound behind her changed to shrieks of laughter.
Southwood was pouring himself a drink. ‘Used to have a view of the marina before the cunts built up that block of flats.’ He indicated the bottle of Scotch.
‘No, thank you. But I wouldn’t mind a glass of water.’
‘Help yourself.’ He opened a bottle of soda and poured some into a tumbler half full of Scotch. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Anna. Anna Travis.’
‘Cheers.’ He gulped at his whisky and then burped loudly. The chair buzzed over to the open window.
‘I have a return flight,’ she said, following him. The floor-to-ceiling windows opened on to a terrace. ‘I have to be at the airport by three.’ She was grateful for the slight breeze from the window.
Southwood gazed out to his empty pool.
‘Is there a reward?’
‘I’m afraid not, no,’ she said matter-of-factly, sipping some water.
Opening a flap on the side of his chair, Southwood took out a pack of cigarettes. Heaving for breath, he lit up. Anna watched his face getting redder as he sucked in the smoke.
‘You said that you had information,’ she repeated.
‘Maybe. Sit down.’
Anna sunk into a large sofa with pale pink floral cushions and gilt fringes hanging loose. She positioned herself away from the overflowing ashtray on the coffee table in front of her. Southwood had aimed his ash towards it, but missed.
‘Who’s heading up the enquiry?’ he gasped.
‘DCI James Langton and the chief superintendent is Eric Thompson, Commander Jane?’
He waved his hand, impatiently. ‘All right, all right … never heard of them. Bloody female commanders now. I know they gotta put the friggin’ women up the ranks, ‘cos it’s all discrimination nowadays, but they’re bloody useless. Never met one that knew what she was doing.’
‘How did you hear about the case?’
He sipped his drink, clutching the glass with puffy fingers stained with nicotine.
