Chapter Twelve
‘Barcelona Ground, November Two Six requesting taxi instructions.’
The Gulfstream G450 had just landed at Barcelona after the transatlantic flight for its single scheduled refuelling stop.
‘Two Six, Barcelona Ground. Take the first taxiway to the left and continue straight ahead. You’ll be parked at Terminal C for refuel.’
Three minutes later, Richard Watts applied the parking brake and shut down the engines. As the turbofans spooled down, his co-pilot, Frank Pertwee, selected the passenger-address system.
‘This is Barcelona, and we’ll be on the ground for about forty-five minutes while we refuel. You can take this opportunity to stretch your legs, but remember we’re parked at an active terminal so watch out for vehicles and aircraft. Directly in front of us is Terminal C, where there are restrooms and a cafeteria, if you really want a change from the delicious coffee and sandwiches you’ve enjoyed up to now. But make sure you’re back on board in forty minutes.’
The passenger door on the left-hand side of the aircraft opened and a set of integrated steps slid down smoothly. A few moments later Grant Hutchings walked down them, followed by Baxter, Franks and Middleton.
‘I know that’s a real comfortable aircraft, but I’m not sorry to be on the ground again,’ Baxter muttered, taking a deep breath and then wishing he hadn’t as his nostrils filled with the stench of burnt kerosene. Beyond the hardstanding, a Boeing 737 in the livery of a cut-price airline touched down on the runway, and moments later the air was filled with a sudden roar as the pilot engaged reverse thrust to slow down the aircraft. All around them was the constant sound of engines and the movement of vehicles, because despite the time the airfield was working at full pace.
‘OK,’ Hutchings raised his voice against the background noise. ‘Let’s go get ourselves something to eat.’
As the four men walked across the hardstanding, a bowser arrived to refuel their aircraft. This took about twenty minutes and, once it had been completed, the bowser driver went into the Gulfstream to process the paperwork, emerging a few minutes later.
Once the bowser had moved away, two men in white overalls approached the G450 and stood looking at something beneath the fuselage. None of the ground engineers nearby noticed anything unusual about them, and no one paid any attention when one of them climbed the steps to enter the aircraft.
Roy Sutter was wearing a set of white overalls, and a visual identification card showed his name as ‘Josep Matero’. Entering the cabin of the Gulfstream, he knocked on the cockpit door. Inside, Watts was reading notes attached to a clipboard, while Pertwee checked the route for their onward journey to Dubai.
‘Yes?’ Watts turned round and looked up. ‘What is it?’
Sutter smiled slightly nervously and gestured back over his shoulder. ‘It is probably nothing, señor,’ he replied, in heavily accented English, ‘but there is fluid leaking from underneath the aircraft. Perhaps you should take a look?’
Watts muttered something under his breath, and turned to his co-pilot. ‘Go check it out, will you, Frank? It’s probably just a spillage after the refuelling.’ On the Gulfstream, the refuelling point is more or less in the centre of the underside of the fuselage.
Pertwee stood up and walked into the passenger compartment. Just before they reached the exit door, Sutter swung a lead-filled cosh hard, smashing it into the back of the co-pilot’s head. Instantly knocked unconscious, he collapsed without a sound. Sutter grabbed him, lowering his limp body to the floor.
He glanced back towards the cockpit, making sure the pilot wasn’t coming out, then took a thin garrotte from his pocket. Looping it over the co-pilot’s head, he pulled it tight around his neck. Then, after a couple of minutes, he released it and checked for a pulse.
Satisfied, Sutter retraced his steps to the cockpit door. ‘The other pilot, señor,’ he said, ‘he would like you to look. It may be a problem with the hydraulics.’
Watts nodded wearily and stepped out of the cockpit. He stopped in his tracks the instant he saw Pertwee’s lifeless body in front of him, but by then it was already too late. The cosh crashed into the back of his head, cracking his skull and starting internal bleeding. Watts toppled forward, already dying. Sutter completed the process with his garrotte, then stood back. Two down, another four to go.
Carole-Anne Jackson lay comfortably beside Richter in his double bed. The lights were out, the curtains pulled open. Through the picture windows, the yellowish glow of the lights of Manama provided enough illumination to distinguish objects in the darkened room.
‘Another drink?’ Richter asked. ‘The champagne’s all gone, but I think there’s still some white wine left.’
‘If there is another microscopic bottle, I might just be able to force it down.’
Richter climbed out of bed and padded across to the minibar.
‘Thanks.’ She took the glass. ‘You haven’t forgotten my offer to act as your guide in Dubai, I hope?’
‘Certainly not.’
Carole-Anne Jackson took a sip, then gazed across at Richter, who was now lying back and staring at the ceiling.
‘You seem a bit preoccupied, Paul. What is it?’
Richter turned to her and grinned. ‘Sorry. You’re right — one thing has been puzzling me. Something Caxton told me about this horse, Shaf. What happened at those stables makes no sense.’
‘To be ruthlessly accurate,’ Jackson said, ‘we still have no idea what happened there. So far, nobody who worked or lived there has turned up, dead or alive. It’s as if they all just vanished into thin air.’
‘People don’t vanish, Carole, and especially not leaving several million dollars’ worth of equine assets behind. Not unless they want to, and I can’t think of any reason that makes sense. Somebody else made them disappear.’
‘You mean coercion — blackmail or something?’
Richter shook his head. ‘Nothing so mundane. Not with that many people. That sheikh…’
‘Qabandi,’ Jackson supplied.
‘Right, Sheikh Qabandi. He said there should be at least a dozen people permanently at the stables. There’s only one way you can get that many to vanish and have absolutely no trace of them turning up. My gut feeling is that they’re still somewhere nearby, but dead and buried. And there’s another piece of evidence that everybody seems to have ignored.’
‘The trace of urine?’
‘Exactly,’ Richter agreed, ‘the urine. Human urine in a bathroom makes sense, but in the entrance hall of a really expensive property it doesn’t, except in one context, of course.’
‘You mean someone was killed there?’
‘When somebody dies violently, they often lose control of their bladder.’
‘There wasn’t any blood found in the hall,’ Jackson pointed out.
‘That just means the victim was killed using a method that didn’t involve a puncture wound. He wasn’t shot or stabbed, but he could have been strangled or suffocated. The killers obviously wanted to avoid leaving traces of their crime. Bloodstains immediately suggest foul play, but urine is more of a puzzle.’
‘I suppose that makes sense. So what are you going to do about it?’
‘Not a lot. I’ve no authority here, and my only task is to investigate Holden in Dubai. Getting involved in the disappearance of a dozen people in Saudi lies well outside my remit. But I think it would be worth your while suggesting that the Saudi police take a close look at the entire area surrounding the stables, using sniffer dogs if they’ve got them. I think they’ll find the bodies if they look hard enough.’