Page 73 of Savage Obsession

“Don’t suppose you know the registration number of that cab?”

“Let me check. Yes, it’s here.” She recites the number, and I jot it down.

“Thanks. I owe you.”

“It’d take me a while, but I could probably hack into the Canary Islands police database and take a look at their ANPR records. Locate that vehicle…”

“No need, but thanks. I can use my local contacts to get that information.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then. Good luck.”

My next call is to the captain of the Policia Local, an official as corrupt as they come who is inordinately fond of our products. In return for the promise of a free supply for a month or two, he’s more than ready to grant me access to their automatic number plate recognition system. From there it’s the work of moments to locate Timo Amado and his taxi, cruising for customers in Playa de las Americas. I despatch a team of soldiers to pick him up.

I check my watch. It’s going up to seven o’clock, just over four hours left.

“Did they say what happens if we don’t meet them? Or we’re late?”

Kris regards me under lowered brows. “You know what happens.”

I flex my jaw and bite back an oath. “How long will it take to get there?”

“An hour, tops.”

“Maybe we should?—”

“Señor.” I’m interrupted by Henio, gesturing for us to come over and see what’s on his screen.

Kris and I crowd behind him.

“What’s happening?”

“Boats. Two of them. Unloading men.”

Our drone is about a mile high, so the men under observation look like ants. Nevertheless, we watch around two dozen men streaming from two large speedboats which have beached on the shore. They appear to be unloading weaponry as well, then they fan out to take up positions in the dense woodland surrounding the cove.

“Let Aleksy know they’re already there. He’s to surround them, observe, listen, but not move in without my say-so.” I issue the instructions then return to watching the activity on the beach.

One of the speedboats puts back out sea.

“Can you tail him?” Kris demands.

“Sure, señor.” Henio deploys a second drone to follow the launch, while maintaining the surveillance onshore.

Our concentration is broken by the commotion at the door as our men return from Playa de las Americas with a somewhat battered-looking Spaniard bundled between them.

Timo is hurling threats and epithets in a language I suspect to be Spanish, but a gutter form even I wouldn’t recognise. Our men dump him unceremoniously on the concrete floor, from where he continues to hurl abuse at everyone and anyone. The soldier closest puts a stop to the ear-grating din with a sharp kick to his ribs.

Kris and I stroll over to circle him. “Timo Amado, I assume. I can call you Timo, can I?”

More furious swearing emanates from the scruffy individual at our feet.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. I believe you know my wife, Timo.” I speak to him in Spanish.

“No! No wife. Know nothing,” he insists, and attempts to get to his feet.

“Stay where you are,” I snap, kicking his knees away to emphasise my point. I bend over, sniffing, to inspect him more closely. “Have you wet yourself?”

He subsides into silence, curling into a ball.

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