Ken McClure - The Anvil

‘It’s a bit like Brighton,’ said Leavey.

‘It’s a lot like Brighton,’ said MacLean.

They swam in the sea which still had the chill of winter about it but, after the heat of the afternoon, no one was complaining and it was good to rid their bodies of the sweat of the tough climb down the mountain. As they towelled themselves down, all three agreed that they had worked up an appetite.

The sea-front cafes and restaurants were busy with tourists so they took a walk along the back streets to find a better alternative. ‘Jose’s looked like the kind of place they had been searching for. It was just opening after the afternoon siesta and the owner welcomed them as his first customers.

Jose proved to be a very likeable man who, on discovering their nationality, was keen to discuss the football of the previous evening. In that, he found a kindred spirit in MacFarlane and readily accepted Willie’s invitation to join him in a drink. The match had ended in a draw so this put the conversation on an even keel. MacFarlane sat at the bar talking to Jose while Leavey and MacLean sat down at a table by the window, neither having any great interest in football.

‘What’s the plan now?’ asked Leavey.

‘We’ll have something to eat, a few drinks and then get a cab along the coast to Malaga to pick up the car,’ said MacLean.

‘That isn’t exactly what I meant,’ said Leavey quietly.

MacLean nodded and replied, ‘We may have to go to Geneva after all.’

‘So be it,’ said Leavey.

MacLean smiled at him and said, ‘Nothing gets you down does it?’

‘I don’t let it,’ said Leavey.

‘I wish I could say that,’ said MacLean.

‘Don’t lose heart,’ said Leavey. ‘We’ll get the stuff for her. One way or another, we’ll get it.’

MacLean looked at Leavey and nodded. ‘Thanks Nick,’ he said. ‘I almost believe you.’

A beautiful white Mercedes coupe, driven by an equally beautiful blonde woman drifted past the door of the cafe. It was moving slowly because the streets were so narrow and the sound of the engine was barely audible. All conversation stopped in the bar until she had passed.

‘Very nice,’ said MacFarlane.

‘Hacienda Yunque,’ said Jose.

MacLean found the name familiar and remembered that they had sat in the shade of its walls on their way down the mountain. ‘Is she the owner?’ he asked.

‘No Senor, she will be staying there.’

‘It’s a hotel?’

Jose adopted an expression that said it wasn’t a hotel but he couldn’t think of the right English word to describe it. ‘Ees for health,’ he said.

‘A health farm?’ suggested MacLean.

The bar owner made ambivalent gestures with his hands and said, ‘Ees for wealthy ladies who want to look better than God intend.’

They laughed but MacLean felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand on end. He exchanged glances with Leavey who had also caught on to the significance of what Jose had said. ‘So it’s not so much a health farm, more like a clinic?’

‘Si!’ exclaimed Jose, raising his hands in the air with exaggerated relief. ‘Ees a clinic. Hacienda Yunque ees a clinic.’

‘Oh sweet Jesus,’ said Leavey under his breath.

MacLean’s pulse was racing. He had to caution himself to be calm and take his time in asking questions. Was there really a chance that Tansy had been right after all and that the Hacienda Yunque was the place they were looking for? Surely fate could not have been so unkind as to put a clinic carrying out cosmetic surgery in Mijas as an innocent red herring?

‘The Hacienda is a very beautiful place,’ said MacLean.

‘For many it was not so beautiful on the inside Senor,’ replied Jose.

‘How so?’

‘In the time of Franco the Hacienda was owned by the government. The state police used it. Many people were brought to it for questioning. Some were never seen again.’

MacLean grimaced.

Jose said, ‘The whole truth never came out. Almost as soon as Franco died, foreign people came and the building became a clinic. My daughter worked there for a while when it first opened but she got scared and left.’

‘Scared?’ asked MacLean.

‘Do you believe in ghosts Senor?’

‘No,’ said MacLean.

‘Me neither,’ said Jose. ‘But many people say that at night you can hear the cries of the people who were locked up and tortured in the Hacienda all these years ago. My daughter said that she heard them too. I believe her.’

‘Is that Maria?’ asked MacLean, nodding to a pretty, dark-haired girl who appeared at intervals in the doorway leading to the kitchen.

‘Si,’ said Jose. He called to the girl who joined them at the bar. She rested her arm on her father’s shoulder while he slipped an arm round her waist. ‘We are talking about the Hacienda Yunque, Maria. I was telling the Senors that you once worked there.’

‘Briefly,’ said the girl.

The word took MacLean by surprise. It was not one he had expected to hear and had been said with very little trace of accent and clear-eyed confidence. There was clearly more to Maria than a local girl who helped out in the kitchen.

‘You’re a student Maria?’ asked MacLean.

‘Yes, why do you ask?’

‘Your English is perfect.’

‘Thank you.’

‘What are you studying?’

‘English,’ replied Maria with a smile.

MacLean asked Maria about the ghost stories and she joined MacLean and Leavey at a table while her father and Willie MacFarlane went back to discussing football.

‘Do you have an interest in the Hacienda?’ asked Maria.

‘In a way.’

‘I didn’t work there for very long, just a few weeks during one vacation but it was long enough to frighten me.’

‘The sounds in the night?’

‘Not just that,’ said Maria, ‘Although I did hear something, I swear.’

‘Then what else?’

‘There’s something very odd about the place. People go missing.’

‘Missing?’ asked Leavey.

‘No less than six local girls have disappeared since they went to work at the Hacienda.’

‘But surely the police… ‘

‘No you don’t understand. They go to work at the clinic then suddenly they decide to leave and seek jobs in other parts of Spain. They send post-cards saying that they are all right but they never write letters with addresses on.’

‘Maybe they see the rich clients at the clinic and get a taste for the good life. It happens.’

Maria shook her head. ‘Not my friend Carla!’ she insisted. ‘Carla Vasquez and I were best friends. We played together when we were children; we went to school together; we told each other everything. She would never have gone off without telling me first.’

‘And you’ve heard nothing since? asked MacLean.

‘Nothing. Her mother has had two post-cards saying that she is well and happy but I don’t believe it. There’s something wrong, I’m sure of it.’

‘What about post-marks?’

‘Madrid,’ said Maria.

‘And Madrid is a very big place,’ conceded MacLean.

‘Si, and far away.’

MacLean asked about the patients at the clinic. What were they like?’

‘Rich women,’ said Maria. ‘Nearly always from the north of Europe, Germany, Holland, Scandinavia, England. Many have titles.’

‘Why do they come here? Do you know?’

‘The Hacienda has a reputation for being the best,’ said Maria. Everything is of the very highest quality. Even the most difficult patients seem pleased.’

‘What sort of treatment do they come for?’

‘Oh, the usual,’ said Maria. She cupped her hands unnecessarily under her own small breasts and made a lifting movement then she gripped her right thigh as if it was much larger than it was and said, ‘The riding breeches.’