Episode 15 - Nigel's jaunt

Tuesday cont.

Nigel arrived at Cap Pastilla early on Tuesday evening, unpacked his belongings in the modest single room he had booked, changed into casuals and went out to find the pub where Crab had worked and met Delilah’s former landlord.

Nigel liked being back in Mallorca. He had spent a week there with his parents when he was still quite small. That was, as far as he could remember, the only time his parents had been anywhere abroad. They had not chosen Mallorca. Mallorca had chosen them. Nigel’s mother had won a crossword competition after donkey’s years of trying to. Nigel had been almost a freebie, thrown in by the tour operator after agreeing to being used for advertising purposes. After that week in the heat, his mother had been careful only to enter competitions with British locations as prizes. The one in a million winning factor did not apply to her. She was not going to risk winning another foreign prize when there were perfectly good seaside resorts at home.

***

The pub was done out like a British local; the landlord was British; the beer was British ale except for the Danish lager ladies laced with lime-juice that was  a standard ladies’ drink when they did not order sweet sherry; the customers were mostly Brits on holiday. It could not be said that Nigel felt at home there, however. He was not by nature a pub-crawler, but relieved that he would not have to try out his school Spanish, which was limited to a smattering thanks to lack of interest and attention.

“Half a pint, please,” he ordered in a sublimely middle-class British accent.

“Mild or Bitter?”

“Mild, please.”

I haven’t seen you here before,” said the landlord. “Sound like you are from the Midlands. I’m Jack.”

Jack was a northerner.

“I’m Nigel from near Oxford. You have a nice place here.”

“Home from home for my customers, Nigel.”

“Is Brian here?”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

Nigel noticed a change of tone in Jack’s voice. He could detect a note of caution, he decided.

“More of an acquaintance, but he tipped me off,” said Nigel.

Jack seemed to misunderstand.

“So you are in the know, are you?”

“That depends,” said Nigel, reflecting the caution he had detected in Jack’s voice. Surely the guy would be a bit more careful if he was up to something.

“Looking for a deal?” said Jack. “Want to work here? Crab’s taking time off. Some business or other to see to in the homeland. Went off weeks ago – clean, for a change.”

“So I won’t get to see him or Josh,” said Nigel. “Brian is on a mission. He wouldn’t tell me what.”

“Josh has gone back to Bristol for Christmas,” said Jack.

“Of course. I’d forgotten that,” said Nigel. He was quite proud of himself for getting Jack to admit knowing both men. How much more would Jack risk if egged on a bit.

“I’ll be back and forth from Birmingham,” Nigel said. “Got to finance my parents’ retirement somehow. Watches, mainly.”

“Then you’ll need to transport more than yourself and them, won’t you?” said Jack. “Fake Rolexes from Turkey can’t be that lucrative.”

“No. That’s why Brian told me to come here.”

“He must trust you.”

“I suppose he does.”

“Come back tomorrow and I may have something for you,” said Jack. “You have an honest face.”

Nigel could hardly believe his luck. He nodded conspiratorially and raised his glass.”

***

Wednesday December 9

Nigel was sure Gary’s briefing had covered all aspects of his trip to Mallorca, but as he left the pub at midday with a quantity of white powder in his pocket, he felt vulnerable and foolish.

Of all possible scenarios, this was probably the worst Nigel had ever lived through. He was going to have to solve the same problem as the drug-dealers he wanted to hand over: How could he get back into the UK without being caught? In fact, getting out of Mallorca would already be a big headache. He had absolutely no idea how he could deal with the situation into which he had got himself. Being entrusted with his first (and last) job as courier was something neither he nor Gary had taken into account, but now it was happening and he was out there on his own.

Airport security would not believe him, he was sure. He wouldn’t in their place and there was no knowing if Gary would deny having anything to do with what he was up to. From being a self-styled D.I. in MI5 on an undercover mission for the UK police, he was now a dealer with a packet of heroin to deliver.

Nigel was, to put it mildly, out of his depth. He yearned to be back with the patrol cops, or tapping away on his computer in the office, but most of all to be back on stage enjoying the frivolity of his travesty show. Jack had trusted his honest face and provided him with smuggle goods to deliver to a certain gentleman in a place called Upper Grumpsfield. He would get a text telling him exactly who and when. But he would not get that far, he was sure, and not because he was a cop, but because he was now a smuggler. Any tracker dog worth his salt would sniff out his cargo immediately. His guilty face would do the rest.

Nigel was scared. He would have to ask Gary for advice, which meant the humiliation of admitting what he had let himself in for. He managed to get a seat on an early flight to Luton next morning. He had about seventeen hours to solve his dilemma. He did not give a thought to how he was going to get from Luton to Middlethumpton. He would probably be handcuffed in a police car, he mused. What a mess he had made of his mission, and it had all started off so beautifully!

***

Nigel curled up on his bed at the hotel after a scratch lunch of fruit and something that looked like a cold pizza but wasn’t, purchased at a nearby supermarket. He slept for two solid hours. Escapism, he told himself on waking. As a kid he had curled up and slept when he had a problem. He had usually woken up with a solution, But this time he just had a headache.

At five thirty he phoned Gary on his mobile.

“Can I talk?” said Nigel.

“You obviously need to. What’s up?”

“I’ve done a very silly thing,” said Nigel.

“Are you going to tell me what?”

“I’ve got a pocketful of heroin to deliver.”

“Say that again, Nigel.”

“That pub owner where Crab worked thought I had an honest face, so he hired me for a job.”

“Did he now? I’m starting to get interested,” said Gary, who was talking into his cell microphone while driving home.

“We didn’t discuss that possibility,” said Nigel.

“We did not think there would be such a possibility, Nigel. How on earth could you get into such a mess?”

“I’ve told you how I got into it. Now please tell me how to get out of it.”

Gary could hear that Nigel was hysterical. In the meantime he had arrived at the cottage, unhooked his cell phone, and was walking to the front door, telling Nigel to calm down and let him think.

“Can I call you back, Nigel?” he said. “I’ll talk it through with Cleo. She might have a bright idea. I’d rather you were not arrested on suspicion of smuggling.”

“So would I,” said Nigel. “I’m in my hotel room. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

***

Gary was not really sure whether Nigel was appealing to the father figure he seemed to see in him, in which case he would no doubt expect to be rescued.

“How do you rescue an incognito cop with a pocketful of heroin?” was the question he put to Cleo.

“Nigel, I suppose. What did you expect?”

“Not that, my love, but I can’t let him be arrested on Spanish soil. They’d put him behind bars.”

“What did he do?”

“Took Brian Crab’s job of supplying someone here of all places with heroin.”

“It’s Pensioner’s Paradise again. I knew we’d have trouble there,” said Cleo.

“Well, it can’t be that manager,” said Gary. “What was his name again?

“Barclay, like the bank.”

“News of his death must have reached Mallorca by now if he was involved. Surely no one would send heroin to a corpse.”

“Meaning there is someone else with criminal energy at the home who’s still alive and kicking.”

“Exactly.”

“Ask Crab,” said Cleo. “He must know who he gave his heroin to.”

“He might not. The recipient might have told him to put it under a plant pot,” said Gary.

“That would be amusing if it’s were not so serious. I tip on Mrs Peel.”

“I’ll take bets later. I’m sure Dorothy would be of the same opinion. But first we have to disentangle Nigel, Cleo. How are we going to do that?”

“Make him a diplomat,” said Cleo. “Even if the trial run is only with cornflour – and we don’t know that, do we? - it won’t do him any harm and he won’t have to face any scrutiny.”

“Are we still talking about Nigel?”

“I’d go for undercover diplomacy so as not to embarrass the Spanish, since they seem to have overlooked the deals going on via that pub,” said Cleo. “Even if the guy was only a go-between, he’s a criminal, and the local police must be turning a blind eye to it.”

“And sharing in the profits, you mean.”

“Sure. Can you send him a diplomatic pass, Gary?”

“Only a digital one and not without Roger’s permission.”

“Then get it.”

“It’s our only chance, isn’t it? If Nigel is treated normally, security will find the heroin and arrest him.”

“Exactly.”

“What would I do without you, my love?”

“You’d have to make your own coffee.”

***

Roger was astonished at the request for diplomatic immunity for Nigel, but having heard what was at stake, he agreed with the plan.

An hour or so later, Gary was able to send Nigel a personalized digital diplomatic pass.

“Will it work?” Nigel wanted to know when he phoned to acknowledge the email.

“If it doesn’t we’ll get you out somehow, I suppose,” said Gary, who did not really believe what he was saying. Extradition would be the only way for Nigel out of a Spanish prison. “Has Greg phoned?”

“Yes. He’s meeting me at the airport. I’m so grateful. I just hope I’m able to get on and off the plane.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve tested that white powder, have you Nigel?”

“Well, no. Should I?”

“You’d be less nervous if you knew the stuff was cornflour or baking powder.”

“I don’t know what heroin tastes like,” said Nigel.

“Neither do I, but I know that it smells like vinegar. Don’t get it up your nose, just in case.”

“I’ll look it up on the internet, Gary.”

“Better not, Nigel. You might not be alone out there. Hotel WIFIs are not safe.”

“I’ll just have to go through that diplomatic act then. Luckily I dressed properly to come.”

“I’m sure everything will be OK,” said Gary, and Cleo rolled her eyes. “Good luck!”

“Thanks. I’ll need it.”

***

Nigel did not test the powder he was to smuggle into the UK. He had no way of re-sealing the plastic bag containing it. He decided it must be what Jack had said it was. An hour later he had viewed the diplomatic pass on his mobile and was impressed. He would be dressed smartly and use a very posh accent. He would go to the airport in a taxi and warn the driver not to divulge that he had transported him because he was on a secret, diplomatic mission. That way he could be sure that news would get around that an undercover diplomat was at the airport. It was a calculated risk, but the taxi driver gratified Nigel by phoning around, speaking quickly and sounding urgent in a language that did not sound much like the Spanish Nigel had once learnt at school. Nigel was not being driven in a diplomatic vehicle so he would appear like one of the crowd while getting in through the back door, as it were. The survival instinct had gripped Nigel in his folly.

***

Thursday December 10

Gary’s assistant and beginner sleuth’s feelings were awry as he showed his diplomatic pass and was escorted politely to the gate to get on the plane prior to the other passengers. He had not even given a thought to the fact that a tracker dog might be there to ‘defend’ him, so he was immensely relieved that there was none in sight. He took care to appear mysterious throughout the flight, drinking his coffee black and scorning the curious selection of edibles that were served wrapped in cellophane on little plastic trays.

At Luton airport Nigel went through the routine in reverse and was proud of keeping his cool throughout. Greg Winter was waiting at the barrier. They shook hands to keep up the diplomat image. Greg then bundled Nigel into his car and made a fast exit. Only when they were well away from the airport did Greg say anything at all.

“What the hell are you playing at, Nigel?” he said under his breath. He felt like screaming.

“I didn’t mean that to happen,” Nigel said.  “It was sort of thrown at me.”

“Not by Gary it wasn’t,” said Greg. “Where’s the stuff?”

Nigel took a flat packet out of his inside blazer pocket.

“Well, is it heroin?” said Greg.

“I don’t know,” said Nigel.

“Does that mean that you put us to all this trouble without actually knowing if you were smuggling?”

“I could not have resealed the plastic,” Nigel said. “There was no time to sort that out.”

“It does actually tell us quite a lot about diplomatic immunity though, doesn’t it?” said Greg. “I suppose you were able to take your bottle of water through as well.”

“That isn’t smuggling.”

“According to airport security, it is. Liquids have to be declared unless they are in the luggage. Water can be added to substances to turn them into explosives. Tiny amounts of liquid have to be taken out of the hand luggage and put through the scanner in a plastic bag.”

“I only had my board case,” said Nigel. “My bottle of water was in my other jacket pocket. It was nearly empty anyway.”

After listening to that gratuitous information, which did nothing for his irritation at Nigel’s immunity to his own folly, Greg relapsed into silence for quite a long time. Nigel could not think of anything to say.

“Judging by your ignorance, you don’t go abroad on holiday, do you Nigel? You don’t seem to be informed about security regulations.”

“Not since my schooldays, Greg. I’ve always helped my parents with their dry cleaning business when I had a few days off.”

“I suppose that explains things.”

“Explains what?” said Nigel.

“It’s a long story,” said Greg, washing his hands of Nigel. “Ask Cleo.”

***

Greg drove straight to HQ and left Nigel standing in the foyer while he took the packet of suspected heroin to Chris in the forensic lab. Chris would probably know at a glance what the substance was. He himself would have tested it, but he did not want to open the sachet. It was a forensic job. The street value would have to be calculated, depending on the quality of the drug. Greg then suggested that they go to Gary’s office and wait there for the result. Greg had decided on the drive back from the airport that on no account would he take Nigel on as an assistant. Gary was more than welcome to him.

***

Nigel was relieved that Gary had not yet arrived at HQ, but hardly had he put the espresso machine in the general purpose cubby-hole to work when he did, fuming after a short altercation with Greg, who had stepped into his own office acress the corridor to check his mails. He could have done without getting into an argument, since Greg was taking over as head of the homicide squad while he was going to be a manager. It would not do to have bad blood between them. They had to work together. Gary and Roger had been a perfect team. Was he authoritative enough to keep the homicide squad under control if Greg was going to be difficult?

“For God’s sake, Nigel,” said Gary as a gform of greeting. “Switch your brain on before you do any more investigating. You are now to all intents and purposes a wanted man!”

“No I’m not. I had no problems at the airport.”

“You have problems with a ring of gangsters, Nigel.”

“Oh.”

“Better get that stuff delivered, and fast.”

Nigel was indignant.

“I’ve got to wait until Jack tells me who to give it to,” he said.

“So you have. Well, keep me posted.”

“Have you forgiven me?”

“This is not a travesty show, or any other show for that matter. This is real life, Nigel!”

“I’ve said I’m sorry.”

“Greg is furious with me for letting you go to Mallorca in the first place.”

“He was really nasty on the drive back,” said Nigel.

“He would be. He won’t want an office full of chumps.”

“I’m not working for him. I work for you, remember?” said Nigel, now fearing the worst.

“In this case you were officially working for Cleo.”

“So I was.”

“So please write your report and send it to her but not to me. I will get it from her. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Don’t ‘Sir’ me. Just get that report written. I’m going to talk to a chemist who apparently took a fatal pot shot at a thief and then I’m going home for lunch. Tell me exactly what Jack instructs. Would you prefer Cleo to hand over the spoils?”

“No. You said it’s dangerous.”

“Exactly, and we’ll want to arrest the receiver of that drug, so don’t give any clue to your identity, will you?”

***

The rest of Gary’s day passed smoothly enough, if you can count as smooth an interview with a chemist who not only sported an unlicensed gun, but killed someone with it. It did not take long for Gary to learn that the victim was female and a temp. It was the old story again: medical students earning their academic fees by dishing out prescription drugs and helping themselves. Gary had seen it many times, but the chemist usually left justice to the authorities. He would have to take the chemist in.

“I though students were honest,” the chemist explained. “She was so pretty.”

“Looks and criminal energy are unconnected,” said Gary curtly. “Wielding an unlicensed gun is illegal. I don’t suppose you even knew that girl was stealing.”

“If putting hundreds of pills in your backpack isn’t stealing, I don’t know what is.”

“That backpack might have saved her life, Mr Peterson,” said Gary. “It’s ironic, isn’t it?”

“I only meant to scare her.”

“You shot her in the back, Mr Peterson. I’ll order a patrol car, and you can think out a few more excuses for aiming at the back of a defenceless person. You’d better tell your wife that you won’t be home for a day or two.”

A phone-call later saw Mr Peterson being transported to HQ. Two phone-calls later, Gary had ascertained at the hospital that the student was still alive, but in intensive care having had a guardian angel. Three phone-calls later, Cleo had heard the worst about Nigel’s exploit, been asked to attend the hospital for an informal chat with Mr Peterson’s victim – needing to know if the pills were for herself, for sale, or for her friends - and been told what to buy at Robert Jones’s family butcher’s shop, since Cleo liked to avoid her ex-husband’s chit-chat whenever she could. Gary knew that Cleo’s motherly instinct would combine with her shrewdness to create an atmosphere at the hospital in which the student would talk. Sometimes Cleo was Gary’s best weapon.