One photo in set two, though she couldn’t be sure; but then she twisted her mouth in the same way over another photo in set three. ‘Uuuh, again, I can’t be a hundred per cent sure.’
Stratton put the two photos side by side. ‘Strongest bet — if you were forced to choose?’
She pointed to one, but then seconds later became unsure and her finger wavered over the other. ‘I’m sorry… on this one his hair just isn’t right, too wild, too much of an Afro — but the rest, hmmm? Maybe his hair’s changed since this photo.’ Tracy tilted her head, as if to get a better angle. ‘If they were both smiling, I’d know for sure.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He’s got a big gap between his front teeth.’
Stratton could just imagine how that advice would go down with police departments: ensuring there’s no smiling on mug-shots might make perps look more severe and menacing, more like criminals, but you miss out on valuable dental recognition.
Stratton nodded with a no-teeth smile. In the end, not enough to choose between them; he’d just have to chase up both. ‘Thanks.’
And as soon as Stratton got back in his car, he called his contact again, Jack Harris of Fourth District, and got addresses for both names.
‘Last known for Roland Cole is Mid-City… and Steve Thelwood, along the coast at Long Beach.’
Stratton wrote down the addresses. ‘Great. Thanks, Jack.’ Then he tried Ayliss’s number to bring him up to date, but it didn’t answer. Still plane-hopping, no doubt.
When he got to the address in Mid-City, Roland Cole wasn’t there and the new apartment tenant didn’t know of his whereabouts. ‘I been here seven months now, and you’re not the first person called askin’ for him,’ a Biggie-Small look-alike in jogging pants and a vest informed him. ‘Easy to see now why he left no forwardin’.’
Stratton headed along the coast to Long Beach.
There were times when head-guard Glenn Bateson liked to stamp his authority on Libreville; that sense of power over the life and death of its inmates would hit him strongly, make his head almost swim with it, and he’d in turn mark his presence by making his boot-step heavier, more purposeful, along its corridors.
He could practically feel that step shuddering through prisoners from thirty or forty paces away, getting more intense with each stride, so that when he finally came alongside their cells, they could barely look at him, a scant fearful glance that said, ‘I’m not really here. You didn’t see me.’
He felt that way now; that sense of power over life and death stronger than he could remember in a long while, as he paced towards the cell of Tally Shavell. But his step wasn’t heavy now, in fact it was far lighter than normal, because he didn’t want to bring attention to where he was heading.
No scant or uneasy look as Shavell greeted him, those cold, soulless dark eyes stayed on him steadily, unwavering. Equal ground; equal control over life and death at Libreville. The only emotion Shavell showed was the faint lifting of one eyebrow as Bateson explained what he wanted.
‘I know.’ Bateson thought he hadn’t heard right at first and had asked Nel-M to repeat himself above the background activity and voices. Somewhere busy. ‘Hit me as strange too, given the timing.’
Shavell kept the eyebrow raised. ‘And for doin’ this good deed?’
‘Thirty grand. In cash to a named account, or translated into disposable goods in here.’ Bateson smiled crookedly; he was on the same, and they’d probably each make another thirty big ones from the pills or powder sold on. ‘If you know what I mean?’
Shavell’s eyes shifted from Bateson as he started planning things out in his mind, with no acknowledgement as Bateson left his cell.
42
When the call came through to Havana’s Jose Marti airport, it was taken first of all by a young officer named Ruiz.
Quickly realizing that he was out of his depth, he handed over to his Captain, Sebastian Moragues, who’d started looking over inquisitively as he’d repeated segments for clarification.
New Orleans. Suspected false identity. Cubana flight from Nassau. Moragues’ inquisitive frown deepened as the request was repeated.
‘So, let me get this clear. This Mr Ayliss arriving soon — you suspect that it might be someone else posing as him? False identity?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And do you have an official arrest warrant your end for that?’
Brief pause, conferring the other end. ‘No… no we don’t. It’s just a suspicion at this stage. Though a very strong one.’
‘And based just on this suspicion… you want us to stop and detain him?’ Moragues was old school Castro, and for them the unwritten rule book was clear: no favours for Americans, because they’ve done none for us the past forty years. So unless it posed a threat to Cuban national security or involved drug-trafficking, which Cuba was keen to keep itself free of, Moragues was going to take a lot of convincing. And with not even the right paperwork in place their end? Madre de Putas!
Heavier conferring at the other end, Moragues shaking his head with a wry smile towards Ruiz. Americanos!
In New Orleans, Derminget had become increasingly frustrated with the three-way conversation. A young sergeant, Tony Salva, had stepped up to the plate for the call. His family had left Puerto Rico when he was fifteen, and his Spanish, he’d explained to Derminget, was still ‘seventy per cent there.’
‘You tell that stiff-head in Cuba,’ Derminget barked at Salva, one hand stabbing for emphasis, ‘that the guy we believe is posing as Ayliss is actually wanted for murder. And that, we do have a fucking warrant for!’
‘I see. Murder. That is more serious,’ Moragues commented as the translation came over, his smile still there from hearing Derminget’s agitation in the background. ‘But this suspected connection between these two men. Have you taken that before a judge with some sort of proof to get an arrest warrant?’
Heavier background shouting from the other end, almost screaming at one point. Moragues held the receiver a few inches away from his ear, shrugging towards Ruiz before he brought it back again for the translation.
‘No… we haven’t got that particular warrant yet.’
‘Then I would kindly suggest that when you do have that… that would be the time to be troubling us here in Havana. Otherwise we could both find ourselves in an unfortunate mess if it turns out to be a false detention.’ Not good for tourism: complaints about foreign nationals being unnecessarily detained at Havana airport!
The background commotion hit fever pitch this time, with a fair few expletives — the only words in fact that Moragues understood. His smile widened. He couldn’t wait for the translation.
‘My… my boss hears what you say. But he’s still insistent that you stop Mr Ayliss when he arrives at Havana airport in half an hour’s time. In fact — as one recognized police authority to another — he demands it.’
‘He does now, does he?’ Moragues gently licked his top lip. ‘Well, you tell your Jefe from me that he can take his demand and, along with the trade embargoes of the past forty years and the exploding cigar the CIA sent to our dear Fidel — stick it in his culo!’
At the other end, Derminget’s nerves had all but snapped; and as he saw Salva’s face redden as he listened to something more lengthy, he started screaming, ‘What’s he saying! What’s he fucking saying?’
Salva looked up finally as he reached to put the phone down. ‘He says he doesn’t think he can help.’
Last shower… last time he’d feel water against his body. It felt strange, unreal; the same as it did accepting that seeing Fran and Josh earlier that day had been for the last time. And tomorrow, last meal, last time food would touch his lips, then…