The Nothing Job Page 12

  ‘Something came up,’ Henry snapped. ‘Speak soon.’ He closed the phone. ‘Don’t let me forget to call him.’

  ‘Call who?’

  ‘My colleague.’

  The road curved under the wall of the restaurant. Peering up, Henry could see diners sitting under a vine-covered trellis. Georgia drove up and around the back of the restaurant on to the car park on which sat the Range Rover and the Nissan Patrol, amongst a half-dozen other cars belonging to customers.

  Problem was that two salty-looking men were lounging in the shade by the Nissan, smoking. They were young, mid-twenties, dark-skinned, wearing jeans and T-shirts. Henry clocked them straight away and sussed them as hired help. This observation was confirmed when they came erect and watchful as the buggy came on to the car park and pulled in a few cars away. Georgia had parked right on the edge, overlooking the gorge behind the restaurant. It was a beautiful view.

  The men watched them, feigning indifference, but Henry felt their eyes burning into him. He smacked his seat-belt release and turned to Georgia so his face was only inches from hers.

  ‘They’re watching us.’

  She looked into his eyes. ‘I know.’ Her eyes were clear and gorgeous. Henry knew his were old and bloodshot.

  ‘What do you want to do? It’s your play,’ he said.

  She released her seat belt and contorted towards him. Her right hand snaked around his neck. The touch made him quiver.

  ‘Better make it look convincing.’ Her fingers opened on the back of his head and she tilted him down gently, angling his face slightly so they could kiss. It was as though a charge of static had seared through Henry’s whole being, finishing up with a lightning strike somewhere around his balls. The first kiss more like a peck, just sizing up each other’s lips. The second one, however, was very different.

  Henry drew away, breathless, from one of the most wonderful kisses he’d ever experienced, even though there was the faint taste of tobacco in there somewhere. That addition made it even more delicious, although he could not recall Georgia actually smoking.

  She looked at him, lips parted.

  ‘For an Englishman you’re a good kisser,’ she acknowledged.

  ‘That’s very kind of you. Normally we’re such a cold-hearted race … that doesn’t completely answer our current predicament, though.’

  ‘Fuck that.’ She grabbed him again. This time it was a long, slow, exploratory kiss and Henry, two thousand miles from home in a hot country and on expenses, just went along with it.

  ‘We need a plan,’ he said when she eventually drew off him, a little groan of ecstasy escaping from her throat.

  ‘Those guys have relaxed,’ she said, sneaking a glance over Henry’s shoulder. ‘And I’ve very nearly climaxed, yeah? I think we should go eat, get the reinforcements in place and then pounce. How does that sound for a plan?’

  Henry pretended to consider it. ‘As a plan it’s as good as they come,’ he conceded.

  They disentangled themselves from each other, dismounted from the buggy and, holding hands – just for effect – they strolled past the two henchmen, who eyed them under dark, suspicious brows.

  ‘What if Scartarelli knows you?’ Henry asked.

  ‘No reason he should.’

  ‘But Haram was murdered straight after a meeting with you. And you’ve been shot at.’

  They stopped and turned to face each other before they walked down the side of the restaurant to the vine-clad terrace at the front. She had put on big sunglasses and she shook her hair loose, like a black-maned lion. ‘I’ll take a chance. The worst he can do is run and we chase him and if he doesn’t recognize me, we sit, eat and wait for the cavalry. And I’ve got my gun in my bag, just in case it turns nasty – and I’m not afraid to use it.’

  ‘OK.’

  She grabbed the front of his T-shirt and yanked him towards her, rising up on her toes, kissing him again.

  Then they walked to the front of the restaurant and Henry was stunned by the setting, the panorama, the cool-ish breeze wafting through the vines and the simplicity of it all. There was just a series of rustic benches and tables cut from rough-hewn wood. The place was busy but not packed and the meat was being cooked on a barbecue, emitting a wonderful aroma.

  They were shown to a table and Henry slid in opposite Georgia, who kept her back to Scartarelli. He was sitting at a bench at the far end of the terrace in deep conversation with another man.

  ‘I don’t recognize the other guy,’ Georgia said. A waiter appeared and took their drinks order. There was no choice with the main menu – you simply got what was on the grill, chicken and pork, together with a baked potato and salad. Georgia called Tekke on her phone. ‘He’s at the Last Castle,’ she told him. ‘Can you arrange for the ERU to be ready on my command? Have them on standby on the Akamas. Yeah, that’s it.’

  ‘What’s the ERU?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Emergency Response Unit.’

  He nodded, then said, ‘Tactics? I assume they’ll be arriving in liveried vehicles, which will give matey the chance to do a runner as soon as he spots them.’ He looked down the gorge to the sea, noting that the drive up to the restaurant was clearly visible most of the way from the coastal track.

  She matched his gaze. ‘I see your point.’ She stared thoughtfully at the view.

  Henry estimated even at speed over that terrain, it would take at least five minutes to get from the mouth of the gorge up to the restaurant. Time enough for Scartarelli to flee in the oppos-ite direction.

  ‘Perhaps we should wait for him to finish and leave?’ Henry advised. ‘Get him on the way out?’

  ‘He could be here for hours.’

  ‘Then so could we. I assume the ERU has the capacity to bide its time?’

  ‘Good idea.’ She laid a cool hand on the back of his. Henry saw that Scartarelli and his companion were being served their food. ‘We’ll just sit back.’ She phoned Tekke again, told him the plan, hung up. ‘Not a happy man,’ she muttered.

  ‘He’s got Bill for company. What’s not to be happy about? They can chat about bullets and stuff.’

  As promised, the meal was substantial, simple and superb. The conversation between Henry and Georgia flowed well and once again he found himself thinking what it would be like if things between them progressed further. His imagination ran riot, but he curbed it by being one hundred per cent certain he would not act on his impulses, even if the situation arose – so to speak. He’d learned too many hard lessons and would content himself with flirtation and laughter. No longer would he put himself in a position where he hurt Kate and the girls. And there was always the slightly menacing figure of Tekke on the sidelines, a guy he wouldn’t trust as far as he could chuck him, which was an amendment of his initial assessment of him.

  Georgia’s phone rang continually, Tekke insisting on regular updates and informing them the ERU was ready and waiting at the mouth of the gorge.

  Henry kept a beady eye on Scartarelli, who dawdled over his food.

  Henry flinched when the man’s companion stood up, but relaxed when he walked to the toilet block.

  ‘They could be getting ready to move,’ he warned Georgia.

  ‘I could stay here all afternoon,’ she replied dreamily.

  ‘I could, but business first.’

  He leaned in close so their foreheads were nearly touching and looked into her eyes. Her pupils dilated.

  ‘I’m only doing this because Scartarelli’s friend has reappeared from the toilets and he’s on his mobile.’

  ‘I understand,’ she breathed, her eyes playing over his face. ‘You’re very handsome.’

  Henry guffawed. ‘I’ve got bags under my eyes, skin tags popping up all over the place, a neck like a scrawny chicken, bloodshot eyes, hair growing in places it shouldn’t …’

  ‘Distinguished, then?’

  ‘I prefer handsome,’ he said. For a moment his eyes were directly looking into hers – at the exact moment they shouldn’t
have, because Scartarelli’s friend suddenly veered by and sat down next to Georgia in a flash, catching them both by surprise. In his hand was a gun, hidden from other diners, which he jabbed hard into Georgia’s belly, angled up under the ribcage.

  He shot a warning look at Henry. ‘One move and I’ll kill her here and now.’ He pushed his face right up to the side of hers and spoke into her ear. Henry watched, terrified. ‘All you have to do is sit here with me and don’t move.’

  Scartarelli stood up slowly from his table, tossing a wad of euros on to his plate. He sauntered unhurriedly across to the trio, then leaned with both hands on the end of their table, his eyes taking in both detectives, a smile playing across his features.

  ‘I don’t kill cops unless I need to,’ he growled at Georgia, then looked at Henry, then back at Georgia. ‘This is your first and final warning. Do not ever come for me – understand?’

  His greaseball mate twisted the gun harshly under her ribs, making her squirm. ‘Do you understand what he said?’

  She nodded, but there was no fear in her eyes, just defiance.

  ‘Otherwise I will kill you,’ Scartarelli said viciously. He moved away from the table, eyes on them like a panther.

  His friend moved the gun from underneath Georgia’s ribcage and both men sauntered towards the car park, leaving the duo shocked and speechless, but only for a moment.

  Henry felt something primitive build inside him. A rage, an anger. His eyes burned and his nostrils flared and his teeth grated while he gripped the edge of the table, knuckles pure white.

  ‘Are you going to let him get away with that?’

  ‘No way.’

  She picked up the phone, dialled Tekke.

  As she spoke, Henry leaned over the wall and watched the two vehicles that had brought Scartarelli’s party heading back down the dusty track, the Nissan leading, the Range Rover driven by Scartarelli following. He pulled Georgia to her feet while she spoke and they ran back to the buggy, jumping in and strapping up.

  ‘He’s going to get a good reception,’ Georgia said triumphantly, snapping her phone shut.

  ‘Let’s make sure we’re there to witness it.’

  She slammed the buggy into reverse and skidded backwards, a massive cloud of gritty dust enfolding them in the moments before she selected first and raced off the car park. The trail snaked back down in front of the restaurant wall and she hit it fast, the suspension throwing the two occupants around like crash-test dummies. Henry held on for dear life, his whole being jarring, his internal organs feeling as though they were loose inside him, up in his throat, then in his lower belly. He clung to the roll cage.

  Having run to the buggy at the back of the restaurant, they had lost visual with the two cars and even when they bounced on to the track along the bottom of the gorge, they still could not see Scartarelli’s transport. Henry assumed they had met the ERU by now – so it was a huge reality check when, as they skittered around a rock-strewn corner, they came face to face with Scartarelli’s Range Rover bearing down on them like a charging bull.

  Obviously they had met with the ERU but had managed to do a U-turn and evade capture and were now tearing away in the opposite direction. It looked as though the Nissan and its occupants hadn’t been quite so lucky.

  An expletive, coupled by a blasphemy, came out of Henry’s mouth. There was going to be a head-on crash.

  The Range Rover was almost on top of them – and if there was a collision, there would be only one winner. And it wouldn’t be the buggy. Henry and Georgia would be crushed and mangled and the Rover would clamber over the wreckage.

  Georgia screamed.

  An impact was inevitable.

  She wrested the steering wheel down to her right and the light buggy jumped off the track out of the way of the big 4WD at the last possible moment. However, the trackside wasn’t an even, tarmacked hard shoulder. It rose steeply and immediately. The buggy ran up it, but flipped over and suddenly Henry and Georgia were in the drum of a washing machine as it rolled twice, both of them screaming, then incredibly landed – crash/bounce – on all four wheels, the engine still running.

  They were covered in dust.

  For a second, Henry was disorientated, then his equilibrium came straight back. He was astonished to find that not only had they flipped three times, but they were back on the main track and facing the direction taken by the Range Rover, miraculously undamaged.

  He and Georgia exchanged looks. They knew how lucky they’d been.

  Her brown face had gone ashen, but though shaken, she was unhurt and determined.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked.

  She nodded, said nothing, struggled with the gear lever, then they were moving in pursuit of the Range Rover, a bit like a whippet chasing a tiger.

  Henry looked over his shoulder. ‘No signs of reinforcements.’

  ‘The Nissan’s probably blocked the track.’

  ‘Will the Range Rover have to go back up to the restaurant?’

  ‘No – the road splits below it. He can get away by heading further up the gorge. There are many tracks crossing the Akamas which a car like that could use,’ she shouted over the din of the two-stroke as she floored the gas pedal and went for it with grim determination.

  When they reached the split in the road below the Last Castle, the rising dust along the right fork indicated the route the Range Rover had taken – powered straight on, going deeper into the gorge.

  ‘I know these trails well,’ Georgia went on, not hesitating. ‘He could easily lose us if he gets too far ahead, but his options are limited in that basically there’s only two ways to go, left or right. Going left he could get across to Polis, but I guess he’ll be going right towards Pafos. It’s easier going, but I won’t assume anything.’

  They reached another split in the track – left, right? – but the rising dust indicated right. She swerved in that direction without stopping.

  She stuck doggedly to the trail of low dust, the springy buggy bouncing with delight over the boulders and rocks, skidding through corners, and judging by the height of the dust trail they followed, they were closing in on the Range Rover. Tantalizingly, though, it remained out of sight.

  During the chase Georgia managed to pass Henry her mobile phone and shouted for him to call Tekke.

  He looked at the display and saw it was set in her native language. ‘It’s all Greek to me,’ he shouted in her ear, eliciting a laugh from her.

  However, the buttons on most phones throughout the world do the same thing and Henry managed to connect to Tekke with the phone clamped tightly to his ear to eliminate as much of the sound of the buggy’s screaming engine as possible.

  ‘Where the hell are you?’ Tekke demanded urgently.

  Henry looked at Georgia. ‘Wants to know where we are,’ he yelled.

  ‘Heading in the general direction of the E709 – that’s the road leading over to Prodromi,’ she shouted grimly, concentrating on driving and not killing them.

  Henry relayed that to Tekke, who made some sort of response, but he could not tell what. Then the phone went dead and he looked crossly at it. No signal bars showed.

  The buggy careened around the next corner where the track narrowed and rose steeply for fifty metres before opening on to a barren plateau of rocks and harsh shrubs. But slewed across the track, barring any further progress, was the black Range Rover. Scartarelli and his companion stood ready to confront their pursuers.

  Scartarelli’s arms were folded across his chest. His henchman had a gun in his right hand. He was crouched in a marksman’s stance, left hand supporting the gun in his right. At the moment the buggy slapped on to the flat, his hands rose and he fired.

  Henry heard the crack of the shot. He jerked instinctively to his left and felt the disturbance of air as the bullet whooshed past his face, narrowly missing him and passing between the two detectives, out of the back of the buggy.

  Henry cowered as best he could, there being no protection afforded
by the open-fronted buggy. Georgia fought for control, won, and once more rammed her foot on the accelerator, changed down a gear and aimed the buggy at the two men.

  The man with the gun dropped into a crouching combat stance.

  Georgia twisted the wheel and zigzagged towards him, making aiming tougher and tougher for him – but not stopping him loosing off two more shots. Henry saw the muzzle flash, heard the bangs. The bullets went somewhere, but not into Henry or Georgia.

  She continued to bear down on the men until they realized she was not going to stop, meant business and they had better move fast. At the last moment they parted like synchronized swimmers, diving away either side, their faces a picture of disbelief and horror.

  Georgia slammed the brakes on hard. The buggy skidded and slithered on the gravel, and angled to a halt near the Range Rover. As it stopped, she smacked the quick-release catch of her seat belt and leapt out of the bucket seat, smoothly drawing her own weapon from her handbag as she rolled over. It was as though it was a move she practised in training: the lady draw, perhaps.

  As she jumped right, Henry went left, in the direction Scartarelli had scrambled. The man himself had rolled into the dirt and was rising to his feet, frantically trying to draw a weapon from his leather jacket. At least that’s the impression Henry got.

  Henry dived for him at the same moment as he heard the discharge of a gun from the other side of the buggy. But with no time to check this out – Scartarelli was pulling out a pistol – Henry had to move decisively.

  He threw himself at Scartarelli, smashing his right hand away, then following this up with a shoulder barge into the solar plexus, driving himself hard and forcing all the air out of the man’s lungs with a noise like a deflating football.

  The gun windmilled out of his fingers.

  Henry, now in his own world of determination, fixated on keeping himself alive whilst at the same time flattening and overpowering his opponent, continued to force him over. He landed squarely across him, then rose up like a demon and crashed his right elbow into Scartarelli’s cheekbone. He followed this up with a hammer-like blow to the temple with a fist, sending all the fight out of him.