Питер Мэй - A Silent Death

The Guardia slid the hatch shut and resumed his seat. But instead of coming to a stop immediately, the van swung right and made a long looping curve down the off-ramp before coming to a juddering halt.

‘What the hell...?’ The officer was on his feet again and pulling the hatch open. He could see quite clearly that they were at the tollbooth on the exit road. ‘Where are you going?’ They were all jumpy.

‘Diversionary route,’ the driver shouted above the rumble of the engine. ‘They said the autopista would be too risky.’ The guard glanced at the armed officer who sat up front with the driver, but all he did was shrug. Nothing to do with him.

Again the hatch slammed shut and the officer sat down heavily as the truck lurched off on the uneven surface of the road. This would not be as smooth a journey as the motorway. He glanced at his fellow Guardia then glared at Cleland. The prisoner sensed eyes on him and raised his own to meet them. The guard immediately looked away, uncomfortable.

They bounced and bumped over a deformed and potholed road, the truck leaning dangerously at times on its camber. Ten or fifteen minutes passed before Cleland felt the driver turn the wheel sharply, and the tarmac beneath them gave way to a rutted uneven surface. Cleland’s eyes were fixed now on the guards opposite. He could see that they knew there was something wrong. Then apprehension morphed to alarm as the truck skidded to an abrupt halt. The guard nearest the hatch was on his feet again. But before he could open it, raised voices and gunshots resounded from the cab beyond. And then silence. His hand withdrew from the hatch as if his fingers had made contact with red-hot metal, and it moved instead towards his holster.

He caught Cleland’s eye and the almost imperceptible shake of the prisoner’s head caused his hand to freeze on the leather. Slowly he sat down again, and lowered his gaze to stare at the floor. Perhaps, Cleland thought, like a child this guard believed that if he couldn’t see he wouldn’t be seen.

There were more voices now, shouting beyond the rear doors of the truck, before a single gunshot reverberated around its interior and the doors swung open. Sunlight flooded in, blinding the three men inside. Half a dozen men clustered in silhouette at the back of the vehicle, the dust of a dry dirt road still hanging in the air behind them. Cleland rose calmly to his feet and walked to the open doors. He held out his hands for someone to unlock and remove the cuffs. Then someone else placed a pistol in his open palm. He weighed it for a moment, checked that the safety catch was off, and that there was a round in the chamber before turning back into the darkness.

The two guards remained seated, side by side, inert with fear.

‘Hey!’ Cleland shouted at them, and both men reluctantly looked up to meet his eye. ‘Which of you is Paco?’

Paco’s eyes opened wide with alarm, and he glanced at his fellow officer, the one who had been so preoccupied with the hatch. Then returned them to meet Cleland’s. Paco was a young man. Twenty-six or twenty-seven. Short dark hair, a well-defined jaw shaved to a shadowed shine. His mouth was as dry as desert sand. He could not summon enough saliva even to swallow. His voice came in a whisper. ‘I am.’

Cleland nodded and raised his pistol to shoot Paco’s colleague in the head. Warm blood and brain tissue spattered across Paco’s face and he released an involuntary cry as his fellow Guardia slumped heavily to the floor.

Cleland leaned in, using the barrel of his gun to force Paco’s face around to meet his. He said, ‘You tell Cristina that I’m coming for her. You understand?’ Paco nodded. ‘Good.’ Cleland raised his gun to point it at Paco’s head and for a moment the young man thought he was going to die. Then Cleland smiled and lowered his weapon to shoot Paco in the thigh. Paco screamed and Cleland leaned in again. ‘Don’t forget now.’ And as he straightened up. ‘Better get that seen to before you bleed to death.’

The last Paco saw of Mad Jock was his shadow as he jumped down into the blaze of light beyond the truck, and the callused hands that reached up to grasp him.

Sunlight cut sharp shadows into the mountains that spread their volcanic tendrils down through the coastal plane to the sea. Malaga gathered itself around the long curve of the bay and spilled out along the coastline east and west, as well as reaching back through fertile valleys into the plantations that climbed up into the Andalusian interior.

Mackenzie’s plane banked as it came in to land, and he saw the vibrant blue of the sea shimmering in the afternoon light. The plane had encountered some gentle turbulence as it descended over the mountains, but the sky was cloudless, and the pilot had told them that the temperature on the ground was in the high twenties. It was hard to believe that just over three hours ago he had been standing in the departure lounge at Glasgow watching rain run like tears down the glass, blurring the runway and reducing the sky to a grey smudge.

He tried not to think too much about his uncle, or the strange compassion which had overcome him as he watched the old man weeping at the kitchen table. He had not, Mackenzie was certain, deserved his nephew’s sympathy. And yet Mackenzie had found himself making a pot of tea, sitting down with him at the table, talking him through Hilda’s illness, the life that lay ahead, and how he would have to adapt to it.

Advice, he thought ironically, that he might have given himself in the wake of his separation from Susan. But separation was not death, even if it felt like it.

He had phoned to order a delivery of Indian from the restaurant at Clarkston Toll, and the two of them had shared a bottle of cheap white wine and eaten lamb bhuna Madras in an oddly comforting silence.

As suspected, he had barely slept, and climbed stiffly out of his bed to dress while it was still dark. At the foot of the ladders, he had heard the old man breathing heavily through his sleep in the back bedroom, and crept into the kitchen to leave him a note. He thought for several long minutes with the pen in his hand before scribbling his address. Then, I’ll be here for the next few weeks if you need me. And signing it simply, John.

He did not expect to hear from him, and hoped that he would not, but something had compelled him to make the offer. He had no idea what or why.

The terminal building was crowded with holidaymakers. Men in cargo shorts and brightly coloured shirts wheeling enormous suitcases, women in short skirts and print dresses and oversized sunglasses, anticipation in their raised voices of sunshine and sangria. Mackenzie felt conspicuous in his dark suit, and although he had dispensed with the black tie, he wore his depression like a shroud. Had anyone paid him the least attention, they would have known he was not here on holiday.

In his briefing he had been told he would be taken to a secure room at the airport where Cleland would be held under armed guard. There would be paperwork to be signed. A formality. But it was important that Mackenzie read it all carefully before signing. Which is why they had wanted someone fluent in Spanish. He and Cleland would then be escorted on to the aeroplane by armed officers who would leave the aircraft only when all other passengers had boarded and it was ready to depart. Cleland would be hand and leg-cuffed, and be removed from the plane on landing by officers of the Metropolitan police. Mackenzie, Beard had told him, would be no more than a glorified babysitter.

Mackenzie was expecting to be met by someone at the gate. He stood waiting impatiently for fifteen minutes, during which time his fellow passengers disembarked and headed off along a concourse that vanished into a lost and echoing distance. Announcements over the public address system made no reference to him in either English or Spanish.