A Personal Favour, page 9
When Kirsten got out, she was cold with just a leather jacket and leggings on but she felt more alive. The sheriff had threatened her, keen to get her out of town but why? Was he simply manhandling his investigation? Keen to keep anybody else off it. Did he think she was a hit woman there to solve the problem that way, or did he just not like investigators? He said he knew what she was but that didn’t mean that he knew everything. Maybe the news had got through from Zante, although she thought she’d got out of there fairly clean.
The first thing to do was to go and see her four potential buyers for the mine. That’s where the answer to this story would be, amongst them. She pulled out her phone, checked through addresses she’d obtained for them, and realised that Federico Montalbano was not that far away. Somebody Italian, she’d thought. There was an Italian guy in the car outside Martin’s house before. At least he looked that way with the skin colour and the Roman nose, but one can never be too sure.
One thing the sheriff had said was right; the weather was closing in. She could see it in the air around her. She could feel it in her bones and the app on her phone confirmed it. Three days until the bids closed, and the weather was getting worse. Time to break this thing apart, she thought. Time to find out what’s really going on. Time to really annoy people.
Chapter 13
Having left the sheriff behind, Kirsten drove out to the haulage company of Federico Montalbano, the Italian haulier who had placed a bid for the mine. She was interested in knowing what his purpose was in doing so, and maybe if she went and posed as a real estate agent, she might be able to obtain that information.
If that wasn’t forthcoming, she could always try and break in to find out, but at the moment she didn’t want to get too close to a man who may have nothing to do with this actual situation. On the other hand, he may be knee-deep in it, in which case she wanted to tread carefully.
The haulage yard of Federico Montalbano was a rather smart set of buildings on the edge of town, and Kirsten placed a phone call, finding the company number on the internet, to see if she could get an appointment with Mr. Federico. Apparently, Mr. Federico was indisposed today, and Kirsten was advised to ring back on another day.
Kirsten couldn’t wait and she saw a rather plush house at the rear of the haulage yard, its front looking away to a wooded clearing, possibly the site of the family home. It wouldn’t cost anything for Kirsten to scan around and get the lie of the land with this individual.
Kirsten took the car a little down the road and parked it at a diner. She popped in to use the facilities, grabbed a takeaway cup of coffee and left it in her car, disappearing out the back of the car park. She walked knee deep in snow trying to remain on previously walked paths where the ground was more compacted, but in the end found herself having to struggle in gaining a reasonably direct route to the house.
The snow was still falling and the wind continuing to pick up. Kirsten believed that the worst weather couldn’t be far off. It was all good cover though for trying to get close in. The only thing that bothered her was she was currently dressed in black with her leather jacket on and not the big padded warm coat that she had bought at the airport.
The front of the house, which Kirsten couldn’t see when looking from the haulage yard, was impressive. Several pillars, large bay windows, and yet a modern look to the building caused her to feel a little bit of jealousy. Sometimes she thought it’d be better than the small flat she existed in. Craig had been a town man. It’s what he would’ve wanted. Again, the thought about Craig brought an unwelcome feeling, one where she felt that he wasn’t coping, that she needed to be back there, not here. There wasn’t a lot she could do about that, so she used it to spur herself on. Get to the bottom of this case quick and get out.
Kirsten approached the house from the side and as far as she could see, it was all shut up. No doors open, no windows. That was unsurprising given the weather conditions. She saw the alarm system on the side. Carefully, she stole up to the side of the house looking in through the ground floor windows.
There was no one about and she wondered if Federico lived alone. The interior had the look of a man’s touch, everything quite simple. A number of golf trophies were on one side of a room along with a large drinks’ cabinet. Through one window she saw a pool table, a large TV, and some sports memorabilia. Kirsten looked around the open-sided front porch and thought she saw a rapidly disappearing set of footprints. She approached the front door which she had thought to be previously closed but on closer inspection found it was ever so slightly open.
Standing to one side, she reached over with her hand, pushed the door open and then glanced inside. There came no movement despite a howling wind now gusting through the front door. Kirsten carefully stole in but aware that she was dropping snow from her legs and her boots onto a rather plush carpet. She glanced across, seeing a security system just inside the interior porch. As far as she could tell, the system wasn’t armed.
Slowly she put some gloves on, closed the door, letting it lock behind her carefully. She walked into an elaborate hallway, and saw that many of the doors from it were open into other rooms. She knew she could glide quietly to get around the place quickly, but the windows were uncovered and the chance of being seen from the outside was increased. If there was anybody inside, they could spot you from a room before you’d even got close to it. There was nothing for it though.
Kirsten quickly swept through the ground floor. Having found nothing except an elaborate kitchen, several well-decorated but mostly unused rooms and a large gun closet, Kirsten crept upstairs. As she approached the landing, she noticed a dark stain on the carpet at the far end emanating from a room. Rather than race to it, Kirsten checked the two rooms before it, finding them both empty, guest bedrooms, and then raced to where the blood was coming out by a door. It had soaked into the carpet. When she reached the open door, she understood why.
A man lay there on the floor, arms above his head but his belly slashed completely open. There was a stab wound up towards the heart. Kirsten was repulsed by the view she had. Only surgeons should see a body like that, and only if they were going to do some good with it.
A red flag was waving in Kirsten’s mind and she quickly stole to the windows, took a glance outside. Was this a setup, was anyone there? She kept out of view, and she looked around the house wondering if anyone would come. No one did.
After ten minutes, Kirsten returned to the man’s bedroom and began to check through his belongings. He had two pieces of weaponry in the room, both small handguns, and that, along with the armoury that was down below, gave Kirsten the impression that he was a man used to trouble. The weapons didn’t look like hunting items although they may all have had licenses. This was America after all. People didn’t react the same when somebody had a gun in their house. But Kirsten kept hers well hidden, more so now that she’d left the service.
Exiting the bedroom, Kirsten found a study further along the hallway and tore through the man’s belongings. There was an address book on a large oak table, and she photographed every name and number in it. She noted that a lot of the numbers, names, and addresses seem to be from the far south of America and she felt very out of her depth. There was a time when she used to be able to pick up a phone, call the office, and numerous people would’ve checked that information for her. Nowadays, it was Craig back home, but he was in no frame of mind to do it. Dom and Carrie-Anne had gone their own way and she didn’t want to bring them back into anything. Something like this she couldn’t thrust on Macleod. He had to be kept out of any nefarious activity and he would’ve wanted to know everything about what she was trying to do.
She did have one hope though. Justin Chivers was still in the service. He’d helped her, albeit he’d been the guy who fired the rocket that had eventually led to Craig losing the bottom half of his legs. Craig had never forgiven him. Cursed his name if ever it was brought up, but Justin had been doing his best to save Craig and despite being part of the service, he had come out and he’d worked with Kirsten when she was trapped in Zante trying to save her love. He was worth a shot.
Kirsten grabbed up her phone, called through on a number and knew it would probably be monitored. She didn’t care, for she was operating in the best interest of a British national. Even if the service saw Justin helping, they wouldn’t bat that much of an eyelid, and he wouldn’t tell her anything too significant on this line.
‘This is Justin. How are you?’
‘Well, not the best, to be honest.’
‘Is that you or is that Craig?’
‘I don’t think you should speak his name. He doesn’t speak yours.’
‘No, everything went a little south, didn’t it? Anyway, you didn’t call me for a social event, and I take it you’re not inviting me to your wedding. How can I help you?’
Justin was quite a maverick in some ways, someone who’d been beside Anna Hunt, Kirsten’s former boss, for a long time. Someone who Anna Hunt had put a lot of faith in. Because of that, Kirsten knew he could be trusted to get the right details but also not to spill too much on an open line.
‘I’m in Alaska,’ she said. ‘I’m hunting for a British national.’
‘Hunting? You’re freelancing now?’
‘No,’ said Kirsten. ‘Been asked a favour. One of Craig’s old mates—their daughter’s gone missing. I’m looking to find her, bring her home. However, I think she’s mixed up in something quite big. I’m in the town of Kyler’s Peak.’
‘Never heard of it,’ said Justin.
‘Five hours north of Anchorage. That’s not the important bit. I’m looking at the body of a Federico Montalbano, at least I believe it’s him. There’s plenty of photos in this house of him and the house belongs to him, so two and two together. I’ve got a list of addresses as well from down south. I’d like a little bit of information about him if you can stretch to that. Like I say, it’s an attempt to get a British national back.’
She heard Justin laughing on the other end of the phone. ‘You know they’re listening. Yes, I like that,’ he said. ‘It’s quite funny selling the British national thing as if we don’t know where you are.’
‘I take it the Americans have put a request in about me then?’
‘With Craig’s injuries,’ said Justin, ‘Godfrey said that you would be quiet; you would settle down. The two of you would just live a life watching over your shoulder for the rest of it in case anything from the past came back. Anna told him, “bollocks”, said you’d be out there in no time. She put money on it as well.’
‘Like I say, it’s a favour and if you know that’s what I’m doing, you can give me a hand with this.’
‘I’ll do a basic search for you,’ said Justin. ‘Beyond that, I’m not giving you anything.’
‘Okay, fair enough. You don’t owe me anything.’ Kirsten sent through images of the numbers she had found.
‘Okay, Federico Montalbano, believed to be connected to the Bianchi family, and those numbers that you’re sending through to me, they appear to be a large part of the Bianchi family.’
‘The Bianchi family?’ queried Kirsten.
‘Mafia from down south. Italian gang. Quite into investments, run haulage sometimes to move illegal stuff about. FBI very interested in them. The service over here less so. They don’t operate around the UK. I think that’s about it. I hope that was of use.’
‘Always. Hope you’re keeping out of trouble. My best to Anna.’
‘And to Godfrey, of course,’ said Justin, almost cheekily.
‘Godfrey can shove it up his arse,’ said Kirsten and closed the phone call. Godfrey was the head of the service and Kirsten felt he had abandoned her on several occasions. He had taken in a Russian spy and killed her, which had led to the reprisal attack that caused Craig to lose his legs. Godfrey was not a word to be spoken lightly to Kirsten. If she got the chance, part of her would kill him. The other part would make him suffer greatly before doing it.
So, what did she have? Not much really. She looked round at the body lying in the bedroom, still untouched, blood continuing to slowly stain the floor. Her phone vibrated and she looked at it. A message arriving from an unknown phone. Rumours of something going down with Federico. Someone’s been sent up to him; Bianchi is not happy.
Good old Justin. Kirsten knew she could trust him to gather a fuller story. What he’d sent through was classified, but he’d have done it separately, bypassed all the systems. He was good like that, and that’s why they kept him in the service, because he’d be more of a threat outside of it. As she put the phone back in her pocket and wondered if there was anything more to do, Kirsten could hear cars pulling up outside.
She looked down as two large SUVs parked up and men in suits got out. They looked snappy, well-dressed, and definitely not ready for the wind and the snow that pummelled them as they stepped out.
Kirsten raced down the stairs into the rear of the house. As the men approached the front, she opened the back door, closed it, and raced off towards the haulage yard, disappearing around the perimeter and back into the woods she had come from when she had approached the house. She didn’t wait to find out who the men were, but she had an idea. By the looks of it, somebody had taken out Federico, and she guessed that the Bianchis had just turned up and wouldn’t be happy that their man was no more.
Chapter 14
The arrival of the Bianchis was going to drive the pace of investigation. Kirsten knew she had to start acting quicker though it was three days until the declaration of who had won Howlett’s mine. If Kirsten dragged her feet, the Bianchis might start correcting any mistakes that were made. It struck her that the new buyer had to turn up on the day when they would announce who had won, and then if nobody turned up, the mine would revert back to still being owned by the local authority or maybe there would be one remaining bidder.
Could it be there was a killer on the loose? Somebody who knew the value of the mine. Then again, Kirsten reckoned, didn’t all four of these people know the value? If they were putting bids in, surely they knew the value of the mine? She was struggling to work out who knew what. It was time to start meeting these people and asking them questions that put them on the spot rather than pussyfooting around.
She would have liked to have talked to Federico, but that option had been taken away. With the mob involved, Kirsten thought he must have known about the fake report. It would be something they could get into, a money spinner for them and why not? Out of the way, legitimate in one sense, even if the way that they find out about it was possibly not. She saw some pieces beginning to fall into place and she understood why Melissa would be taken out of the way if she was going to publish, but by whom? Would they silence her forever?
If it had been the Bianchis, then she could see that Melissa would not make it back. If they were coming up to sort things out and Federico was dead, somebody else must have been the main player, surely. Kirsten decided she would visit the remainder, Orla Fontaine, Wendy Dumas, and then Peter Germaine as well. One of them must have been the instigator behind this. Well, at least one. She’d have to work hard to find out who, but she didn’t have time to do the background work. She wanted to see them face to face.
Orla Fontaine owned a ranch and raised hogs for slaughter. Her business was sizable according to the investigative work that Kirsten had done so far but when she saw the ranch in real life, she was more than impressed despite the fact that snow seemed to be covering everything. Underneath, there were barns, some of which were heated given the thinner amount of snow on their roofs.
She noticed a distinct lack of hogs in any of the fields and remembering that whenever she’d gone off the main tracks, she’d disappeared down to her knees and struggled to walk, Kirsten thought that would be a problem for the hogs too. After all, they were heavy beasts.
Kirsten drove up to the ranch, now early afternoon, and was told at an office that Orla Fontaine was in the main house possibly having her lunch break. As Kirsten arrived, Orla Fontaine came to the porch of a large, almost bungalow-type building and gave a wave.
‘Hello there. Afraid I don’t recognise you,’ said Orla as Kirsten stepped out from the car. ‘You’re not really kitted up for out here, are you? I dare say that jacket will do well in town but you’ll freeze to the death out here if you keep going about like that.’
Kirsten threw her hair back and gave a bit of a laugh. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘and you’re right, I’m not used to here. You can probably hear it in the accent. I’m just trying to locate a friend’s daughter. Her name was Melissa Carson. She was . . .’
‘The new girl who came to report, ran part of the paper. Read some of her articles. Very good, but then she disappeared. Some of the boys on the farm said that Martin had a thing with her.’
‘Martin? Do you mean the newspaper reporter? The editor who was her boss.’
‘Yes. Well, Martin’s not had a great life. Maybe he saw a girly light. She was very attractive but thinner and taller than you. You look more like you’re built to fight. Hiding some decent muscle under there, I take it.’
Kirsten kept the smile on her face, but she wondered if this woman knew about her background. She didn’t normally get people recognising her as a mixed martial artist straight off. Yes, she had some muscle, but she didn’t look like an out-and-out fighter. Certainly not when fully clothed. When she was down to the armless top and shorts, well, yes. What she was wearing now disguised a lot of the muscle.
‘She was indeed an excellent-looking girl. I was just wondering because I saw your name mentioned at some point in a report; had she ever come out to you; had she said anything to you about what she was doing? Her family back home is very worried.’
‘Come on, on up here,’ said Orla. ‘I got some hot chocolate on the go, put something in it as well. A wee bit of brandy, or is it whiskey you Scottish people like?’
