The Nothing Job by Nick Oldham Page B

it weren’t – Haram would eventually be travelling south down the coastal E704 towards Polis, a town popular with backpackers. Once on that road, there would be no escape for him.
    That had been ten years ago and Haram, terrified by the thought of losing his liberty, had reached an ‘understanding’ with Georgia who, after successfully transferring to CID, used his intimate knowledge of the Cypriot underworld to further her career.
    She had met Haram most recently and clandestinely on the waterfront at Kato Pafos, where they sat at a quayside restaurant called the Pelican, sipping mineral water. It was called the Pelican because a real live one wandered around the tables, seeking scraps from the diners.
    â€˜I want to give you something,’ he said in his quiet, gravelly voice.
    â€˜That’s always good to hear.’ She was always cool with him, always in control, never wanting to give him the impression he was anything more than a piece of useful shit.
    He held up his hands. ‘You want it, or not?’
    â€˜Haram,’ she began patiently, her brown eyes taking on a glint of steel. ‘Give.’
    She knew that he still operated very much in the centre of the Cypriot underworld, often protected from the law by her, and that he had grown wealthy on the proceeds of crime because she had allowed him to do so. He could now so easily just be stepping out of a prison cell if the two of them hadn’t reached that understanding – something none of her bosses knew about, incidentally.
    â€˜A man has appeared on the scene,’ he said gruffly. ‘An interloper.’
    Georgia gave him a crooked smile. ‘And he’s treading on your toes?’ she ventured.
    Haram looked quickly away. Georgia knew she had struck a nerve, read his mind. ‘Go on,’ she urged.
    â€˜He’s Italian, mixing with the Maltese guys in Nicosia. Low profile, but starting to throw his weight around with us. He has good connections …’
    â€˜And he’s treading on your toes?’ Georgia said again, knowing that many of Haram’s snippets of information were given simply just to get the competition off his back. Such was the nature of informants. They were always in it for a reason, and Haram’s was to keep operating unmolested – and not to go to prison.
    Haram nodded. The pelican approached their table, its big beak clattering hungrily.
    â€˜What’s he doing?’
    â€˜People, drugs, prostitutes … trying to set up a new line. Hookers, mainly, but also a lot of drugs … using Albanian girls.’
    Try as she might, Georgia could not keep a sliver of interest out of her eyes.
    â€˜I want him caught, neutralized,’ Haram stated.
    â€˜So you can continue to do the same?’ she said cynically.
    He raised his eyebrows. They were grey and overgrown. ‘And there’s something else – a bit of glory for not much work on your part,’ he teased. ‘I have checked out this man carefully. Here, on the island, he goes by the name of Corelli, but I have discovered he is really called Scartarelli.’ Haram passed the detect-ive a scrunched-up piece of paper. ‘His details. Check him out on your computers. You will find something interesting that will get him out of both our hairs.’
    Her hand covered the paper. She looked sideways at the expectant pelican. ‘And how will that happen?’
    â€˜I will give him to you on a plate.’
    It was just the sort of job a detective likes occasionally. A decent arrest, not much paperwork and some kudos to boot.
    When Georgia checked out the name, the computer she was using became all bells and whistles. Corelli, also known more correctly as Paulo Scartarelli, was wanted by the English cops for murder. What better fun could there be? To execute a simple arrest and get a big-time player off her patch with hardly any paperwork.
    There was a tense few days waiting for Haram to