Hard Place by Douglas Stewart

silence.” Strang was all too familiar with that from time spent around the tenements and tower blocks around Glasgow’s Castlemilk.
    “Ten murders, maybe thirteen. All dealers, pushers. Tortured and dumped, almost certainly by Bardici. Keeps the rest in line. A loose word and they’re dead meat.”
    “So the chain’s broke in two spots: Zandro to his lieutenants and below them to the distributors.” Strang saw the resigned nod of agreement.
    Ratso turned to the waiter. “Keep the change.” He looked toward the door and his eyes turned sad as an elderly woman struggled to push a man in a wheelchair through the narrow entrance. For a moment he was back to his childhood. He looked at the flock wallpaper to conceal his inner thoughts. “Klodian Skela was expendable. He was used to remove the car. If he and his woman’s remains had been catapulted all round Hounslow, Bardici would have shrugged and moved on.”
    “The bastard.” Strang slipped the nearly empty bottle into his fleecy coat.
    Ratso stood up. “Klodian Skela had no idea why he was doing what he did. Just briefed to drive, torch and then report a theft.”
    “So it wouldna’ get us any closer to Boris Zandro.” He looked all of his forty-nine years as he struggled with the zip on his windcheater. The wrinkled, lined face, like a relief map of the Grampians, showed he had lived his life to the full. “But Bardici? Where’s he? Why didn’t he report the theft?”
    Ratso had no idea. The man was unpredictable. “The truth or his cover story? Listen, guv, I was away when it happened. Been staying wiv me aunt in Bexhill. Ask her.”
    “He speaks London English, then?” The Scot was unsure whether he was joking.
    “Like the best of them.”
    “Ye reckon he’s lying low?”
    Ratso’s shrug said it all. “Life’s a bitch.” Ratso gripped the Scot’s arm as they headed for the exit. “You know what bothers me? How was Neil caught?”
    “Ye mean?” Jock’s face showed his concern.
    “Can’t rule it out.” Ratso looked grim. All the way back from the burned-out car, the thought had been troubling him. “I’d hate to think one of my lads had been turned by the Albanians.” Jock looked at his clumpy black shoes before acknowledging the possibility. They both upped their collars against the wintry blast that was shifting empty cans and burger wrappers down the street. “We know the leak isn’t coming through the Home Office. They’re blindsided.” Ratso’s face showed his concern and not just because a few snowflakes were fluttering around them as they headed for the traffic lights. Ratso tugged Strang’s sleeve in a sudden movement. “We need Klodian Skela’s mobile.”
    “It’ll be pay-as-ye-go.”
    “Maybe not. The big guys, they change phones more often than socks but this guy was expendable. Doing a relative a favour for a few quid. He phoned to report the vehicle stolen. We have a number. Check it out, can you?”
    “I’m on compassionate leave.”
    Ratso playfully punched his bicep and rather wished he hadn’t. He was about to enter the tube station when Strang turned to face him.
    “There’s something you need to know boss.”
    Ratso looked at him cautiously. “You sure I want to hear this?”
    Strang looked at a young woman staggering drunkenly across the road, carrying what looked like a bottle of Smirnoff. “This afternoon. When we joined the A40.”
    “Chasing the Beamer, yes.”
    “Tosh needed a leak. Desperate. We had to stop. Lost a couple of minutes.”
    Ratso studied a discarded fag end, eyes fixed downward. At last he looked up and laughed. “Tosh and that bloody weak bladder of his.” He clasped the sergeant’s arm. “Thanks for telling me. Keep that away from Tennant. He’s looking to shit on us from a great height.”

    CHAPTER FOURTEEN

    Kingston-on-Thames

    It was a long, miserable walk from Kingston Station to Wolsey Drive. The wind driven, intermittent sleet and snow was a right bloody