Collusion: Chapter 10

It's a car crash in the Albaicin. Literally. Blood flows in Granada

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I’ll publish a section from the novel. Chapters 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 are here for those who missed them. The story so far: Men are looking for Ashton in Spain. Instead of hiding, Titch goes on the offensive

Chapter 10: Hit and run

It was late afternoon and Ashton could hear the householder stomping from room to room and muttering. He lay on his bed and was glad of the silence when Titch went down to the basement. About 6pm there were footsteps on the stairs.

“We need to talk,” Titch said from outside the door. “Downstairs.”

There was no makeup beer on the table. “Sit down. Who else knows you’re in the area?”

“Pierce,” Ashton said. “He was the one who said you weren’t what you seemed.”

“The well-connected drunk? Half of London will know where you are by now. Could he be setting you up?”

“No, no,” Ashton said. “I was talking to FLAG and ExSat before he got involved. He’s like family to Orlanda. He didn’t even know where I was when some of the incidents happened.”

They sat staring at their hands for some minutes. “Right,” Titch said emphatically. “Let’s get ready to go out.”

Ashton was a little surprised. “Really?”

“Yes really. You spoke to Ms York last night and to your alcoholic friend when?”

Rather shamefully Ashton confessed. “This morning.”

“They probably knew from airport records that you were in southern Spain,” Titch said. “So they probably already had people asking questions in the obvious places on the Costas. If that is the case, they could have men in Granada by now. There’s only one way to find out. We’ll go into town. I’m not missing the flamenco because an idiot compromised security. Tomorrow will be the time to reassess, when we have an idea about what they know.”

He rose. Ashton stopped him. “Why did you have to change your name?”

Titch hesitated and sat down again. “The last job I did in the army was Operation Tango in Bosnia in 1997. We were watching a couple of pretty serious people and quite a number of others. One of my main targets, an ethnic cleanser, murderer and rapist, was killed during the arrest attempt. He had some pretty powerful allies in Serbia. Oh, and Russia. Somehow my security was compromised and the decision was made to wipe my slate clean. I still did a lot of work for NATO, especially in the Balkans. I might not always be employed by the good guys but I like to think I work for the better guys.”

It was not quite the reassurance Ashton needed but it seemed to be the best option he had. After dressing, he came downstairs.

“Rightio,” said Titch, who had recovered some of his bonhomie. “You need to get a wriggle on. Your bus leaves in about 10 minutes.” That came as a surprise. “I will drive in to make sure I’m there earlier to check out the lie of the land. That’s what I do best.

“You go to Café Almeida – Chikito – and have a drink. If I’m not there at 8pm go around the corner to Puerto Carmen and have another. If I’m not there by 9.15 call this number – from a public phone.”

“Who is it?”

“Jose. He’ll know what to do.”

Titch handed Ashton his wallet, cards and phone. There was €500 in cash in the billfold. “Now don’t make any calls, credit card payments or bank withdrawals. There is the smallest possibility that you may not be coming back here. Go, go, get that bus. The next one isn’t until nearly nine and we don’t want to miss the show.”

It was chilly in the city. Melting snow in the Sierra had swelled the Genil. The sound of the gushing river could be heard above the light traffic. Very few people were about in the rain. The restaurant was quiet. Ashton sat, for luck, at a table that featured a statue of Lorca. Then he wondered if that was really an auspicious thing to do. Each time the door opened he hoped it would be Titch entering, shaking himself dry. The appointed time came and no one had shown.

The second bar was equally quiet. He sat at a barstool alongside a pair of elderly locals who downed balloons of gin and tonic with breakneck haste. Were they trying to get as many drinks as possible in before they died or did they think the spirit had restorative values? The pace of their conversation matched the speed of their drinking. Ashton sipped a beer first and moved on to the pink gin. By the time the second drink was almost finished the clock had ticked past nine. He took out the paper with Jose’s number and fingered it.

The alcohol had numbed him and introspection made him vulnerable. Someone snatched the slip from his hand. He almost fell off the stool but two big paws grabbed him tight. It was Titch. “G&T,” he announced. “You’re a convert.” He signalled to the waiter for two more and ushered Ashton to the table that was farthest away from any listening ears.

“They are here and looking for us,” he murmured. “They know you like beer – you told them, after all – so they were in La Hermosa this afternoon. They moved quick.”

Ashton took a deep breath. “They were asking about me?”

He waited. Surely they needed to return to the villa? That was not in Titch’s plans. “La Hermosa is full of my mates,” he said. “They are expecting these Brits to return. So, I told my amigos to tell our fascist friends that we’d been in earlier and would be going to the flamenco. Then I found a position and watched them go into the bar. Three of them. All ex-military. No scars.”

“Whoa?” Ashton said. “You want them to know where we’re going?”

“Yes,” Titch said. “It’s time we did some of the chasing.”

They left the bar and walked across the plaza towards the Ayuntamieto building with its strange statue of a horse and a blindfolded, naked rider. Ashton sympathised with the jockey’s predicament: he felt like he had no control over his own destiny. There was a Mercedes Citan van parked incongruously in the square. For a horrible moment Ashton thought it was Killer’s vehicle but Titch went straight to the rear doors, opened them and told him to get in. “Jose’s up front,” he said. The driving compartment was blocked off with a wooden partition. “It will only be a short journey.”

There was a large black box strapped to the floor hard against the divider. “Sit on that and hold on.” The pair squeezed themselves into position and Titch rapped on the side of the van to let the driver know it was time to move.

Ashton pulled an unhappy face. “We are going into the Albaicin,” Titch explained. “Lots of narrow, dark streets. Some of the buildings pre-date the Alhambra. Moorish ghosts stalk the tiny alleys. It is a place with duende. Lots of anti-fascists hid there during the Civil War. Some fought back when the Falangists entered the district and planes from the local airbase bombed the area. Disgusting cultural vandalism.” He reflected for a moment and then continued.

“Sadly, we will miss the flamenco tonight. It’s a shame. I was looking forward to seeing Alba Fajardo dance. No matter.

“The society is on the Placeta de Toqueros. The downhill entrance is a small passageway. There is just enough room for a car to get in and out of the square. At the top, there’s a flight of stairs. Our ExSat friends can easily watch the two entry points. We need to isolate one at the bottom end. Then we can put him in the back of the van and take him home with us. We will ask him a few questions.”

The vehicle came to a halt. Titch opened the side door and indicated that Ashton needed to get off the box but remain inside the van. He opened the container and pulled out a computer and various items of restraining equipment.

The laptop was connected to a night-view camera that was located above the windscreen. It gave an excellent view of the narrow street. After about five minutes Jose opened the back door. They were in a parking spot and the passenger door was tight to a low wall on the Calle San Juan de los Reyes, less than 100 yards from the lower entrance to the Placeta de Toqueros. It was at the point where the road narrowed so no one could park in front of the van.

Jose said a sentence or two that Ashton could not understand and then left without making eye contact.

“He is going to have a look around,” Titch said. “The man we want will be just around the curve in the street. You are going to have to draw him this way. You have to be bait.”

Before Ashton could assess the implications of this, Titch’s phone pinged. “They are coming up the hill. From now on Jose will be our eyes and ears. Oh, and a handy little camera that he’s placing somewhere unobtrusive.”

Moments later, another window popped up on the screen giving a view of the street from the other direction. It had gone 9.30 and the pictures showed flamenco aficionados happily strolling towards the show. The three Britons emerged from the Calle Horno del Oro and moved towards the square. They watched as the trio split, as expected. Two remained on this side of the placeta.

The last stragglers heading for the flamenco show arrived around 10pm, noisily chatting as they made their way. They barely glanced at the lurking strangers. The Albaicin was full of unusual characters. But five minutes later a heavy silence settled on the steep slopes.

It took another 20 minutes until one of the two men disappeared from the screen. Titch tapped Ashton’s shoulder. “We need Jose to confirm the other guy’s reached the top. Then we move. Sure enough, a text dinged.

“There’s only one at this end now,” Titch said. “OK. Give it a minute and get ready. Give Jose time to move back towards us. I do hope he picks up the camera. It’s a costly bit of kit. If not, he’ll have to come back for it tomorrow. It’s not something most people would notice.”

Titch climbed out and got into the driver’s seat. Ashton was beginning to panic. “What do I do?”

“Walk towards him until he sees you, run back towards me and get in the bloody van as quickly as possible.”

Slowly, Ashton edged forward. Jose passed him without any sign of recognition and he heard the van’s engine fire up. What the hell was the plan?

The whitewashed laneways were narrow and claustrophobic. Sections of this roadway could just about accommodate a car with both front doors open. At some points the residential alley was barely the armspan of two average-sized men and the lighting was very poor.

The ground was unforgiving, too. The surface was a nightmare of uneven cobbles, a protracted trip hazard.

Ashton was also conscious that the target’s comrades were little more than 150 yards away and would be coming downhill. Fast. Titch would have to act quickly. How, he wondered, did Titch plan to subdue someone with an army background so quickly?

He peeked round the slight bend. Now his quarry was in sight. The journalist stepped out to where he could see the man and said, “shit,” in an ostentatious manner. The pair locked eyes and Ashton took off running towards the van. He could hear his pursuer shouting, “He’s here!” The voice bounced off the buildings in the quiet of the night.

He raced past the Citan. “Come on Titch,” he thought, not daring to look over his shoulder. Then he heard a sickening series of noises.

First there was the roar of rapid acceleration, swiftly followed by the appalling thud of a human body being hit by a vehicle. Titch had run over the man.

Ashton hardly dared look. The scene was horrendous. The contorted body had slammed into the wall leaving a thick smear of blood on the whitewash. Worse, Titch rushed to the victim and smashed a punch into the lolling head. He picked up what Ashton thought was a corpse and flung it into the back of the Citan.

“Jesus, you knocked him over!”

Titch turned and grinned the sort of smile that Ashton never wished to see again. “Get in now.”

Jose had taken over as driver. The other two Brits appeared charging around the curve so the Spaniard gunned the engine and raced forward, clipping one of the men as he passed. Ashton was barely in the cargo compartment and would have fallen out without Titch’s iron grip on the back of his pants. The big man slammed the side door shut.

“You’ve killed him,” Ashton said in horror.

“No,” Titch said. “These boys are tough.” As if on cue, the man groaned and swore. He tried to get up but his injuries made him sluggish and Titch threw a vicious right cross that knocked him silent again. As the prisoner groaned, semi-conscious, Ashton noticed that his friend was wearing a knuckle duster. Iron grip indeed.

“Rightio,” Titch said happily, clearly enjoying his night’s work, “let’s truss him up.” He produced a set of plastic ties from his pocket and, after immobilising the arms, gagged the man and placed a hood over his head. Ashton blanched at the memory of his treatment in the mews.

After about 10 minutes they pulled into an empty carpark outside the football stadium. When they were stationary, Titch used leather straps from the workbox to secure the prisoner’s legs. Before they left he smashed the man’s phone and made sure there were no electronic devices secreted around his clothing. “You’ve done this before, then?” Ashton said.

There was no reply. “What next?”

This time Titch did speak. “Home. A drink. We’ll make our friend comfortable and then we shall have a beer. We have earned it. Jose will get rid of the van. It might be worth us all having a sleep tonight before we enter into discussions. He will keep until morning.”

Ashton was not so sure. “He could have internal injuries. What if he dies?”

“Then we will find a shallow grave for him. It won’t be the first one round these parts. But I’ll take his blood pressure when we get back. That should give an indication of internal bleeding.”

Yet again Ashton felt very, very scared.

*

He had slept well in the villa but not tonight. Twice he dreamt he was drowning and once he relived the horror of the waterboarding, the nightmare taking on a realistic quality that outdid all his sleep terrors to date.

When he rose to use the toilet he could hear Titch. It sounded as if he was shouting at his prisoner but, Ashton knew, the man was downstairs, strapped to a chair in the empty, locked and soundproofed interrogation room. The noises were coming from the master bedroom where the anguished cries echoed off the high roof. There was clearly a deep well of trauma in Titch’s psyche. He appeared so composed but it was impossible to hide from your own consciousness.

Since this madness began, Ashton had felt weak and emasculated. In some ways it was reassuring to find out that the demons lurked inside other minds but the destruction of decency was contagious. The life that Titch had chosen had undermined and destabilised his humanity. It was eroding Ashton’s too. This needed to finish soon.

He went back to bed and stared at the ceiling. The roaring continued across the hallway. It was obvious to Ashton that the nadir had not yet been reached. He turned over and wept, dreading the dawn.

• On Thursday, the hell of a romper room

• My other novel, Good Guys Lost, a very different story of gangsterism, the music industry and working-class Liverpool, is available here