Питер Мэй - A Silent Death

As if in punishment for lying, the sun seemed to strike him a blow as he stepped again into its relentless heat. He breathed a long sigh of relief. Deception was not his forte. Still, he had established one thing. Cleland kept a boat here, registered to Templeton, at berth number 405 on Pantalán 4 .

A motor launch had pulled in to Pantalán 5 to refuel from the Repsol pumps, and he glanced down the quays that stretched away towards the port, gates all locked. No way to take a look at Cleland’s boat without going through official channels. He began to walk back along the access road towards the port and took out his phone, resigned to reporting his discovery to the Jefe . He stopped at Pantalán 4 and saw that the nearside berth was number 401. Counting along, he saw Cleland’s boat berthed at 405. It was a sleek white motor yacht with a long nose like a shark, an impressive superstructure rising towards the stern of the vessel. The sweep of its smoked-glass windows wrapped around the front of the cabin and either side, hiding its interior from the casual observer. Clip and zip canvas covers sealed off the rear entrance. He saw a maker’s name printed high up beneath an external cockpit. Princess 52.

He looked at his phone and saw that he had a 4G signal, so initiated a Google search for the make and model. A second-hand boat for sale came up on his screen almost instantly. This was an expensive beast, 15.95 metres long, or 52 feet 4 inches, which was the source of its model name. It had twin 630-horsepower Volvo diesel engines with a cruising speed of 22 knots. This one had been built in 2000, and still commanded an asking price of €200,000. He had no idea what vintage Cleland’s boat might be, but it looked brand spanking new, so was worth, perhaps, anything up to a million. The Princess 52 had three cabins with room for six guests.

Mackenzie swiped through photographs of the interior. This was a luxury vessel. Beneath the external cockpit, a generous lounge and kitchen area of white leather and polished wood gave on to the internal cockpit. Stairs led down to sleeping quarters below, where the three cabins shared two bathrooms and a shower room.

He stood gazing at it through the bars of the gate with something like awe. He could never have dreamed of owning something like this, but had never aspired to. Boats, he knew, were notoriously expensive to run and maintain, and for most owners would provide only occasional use. A measure of the affluence that Cleland had accumulated by trading in other people’s misery, the price of all the ruined lives he had left in his wake. Mackenzie felt his hackles rise.

‘Hello again.’

He turned, startled, to find the teak-coloured girl in the bikini smiling at him, a bucket and mop in one hand, a box of cleaning fluids beneath her other arm. There was a key dangling from a tab held between her clenched front teeth.

‘Open the gate for me?’ She had difficulty with the p and the f and the m.

It took a moment for him to realize what she meant. He blushed. ‘Of course.’ He removed the key delicately from her mouth to unlock the gate and hold it open for her.

‘You can just drop it in the bucket,’ she said, indicating the key in his hand, and it occurred to him for the first time that she was speaking English. ‘My name’s Sally.’ She glanced at him, inviting a response.

‘John,’ Mackenzie said reluctantly.

‘Dreaming, were you?’ She nodded towards the yachts.

For once the lie sprung quickly to Mackenzie’s lips. ‘No, I just came down to check on my boat and realized I’d left my key at home.’

‘Oh. Which is yours?’

‘The Princess 52.’

She looked along the pantalán and picked it out. ‘Nice one, John. You don’t fancy taking out a little cleaning contract on it, do you?’

‘That’s what you do, is it?’ he said. ‘Clean boats?’

She started walking along the quay and he fell in step beside her.

‘It pays for me to spend the whole season down here. And get a great tan at the same time. I sleep on the boats, too, so I have no accommodation costs. Next year I might go back to Cambridge and finish my degree.’ She smiled. ‘Or the year after. Or maybe I’ll meet some rich yacht owner who’ll sweep me off to some distant blue horizon and I’ll never need to graduate.’ She cocked a mischievous eyebrow in his direction.

He laughed. ‘You’re looking at the wrong man.’

She feigned disappointment. ‘Gay?’

‘Married.’

‘Aren’t they all?’ She gave him a cheerful grin. ‘See you later.’ And she headed off along the pantalán , leaving Mackenzie standing at the stern of the Princess 52. He watched her walk to the far end and climb aboard a long, sleek-looking sail boat. When she had disappeared below, he turned towards Cleland’s boat and saw that it was called Big Rush , one of the many street names for cocaine. It rekindled his anger. But an unzipped flap of the canvas cover that weather-protected the rear deck stilled it before it took hold, replacing it instead with a sudden stab of disquiet. Was it possible that this is where Cleland had been hiding out the whole time, right under their noses?

On full alert now, he stepped carefully from the quay on to the exposed lip of the rear deck and felt the boat dip a little in the water from his weight. He stood listening intently, but all he could hear was the gentle purr of motors propelling boats in and out of the harbour, and the cries of seabirds swooping and wheeling overhead. Across the water, at the far side of the marina, the Varadero la Condesa boatyard was winching a boat from winter storage to take its first dip of the year. Its pristine keel cut into mirrored water sending concentric rings off in light-catching circles.

Mackenzie lifted the flap and peered inside. The door to the lounge stood open, and the carpeted luxury beyond it simmered in semi-darkness. He breathed in deeply, smelling leather and aftershave, and all his instincts told him there was somebody there.

He waited several long seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dark after the glare of sunshine on water outside. Very cautiously he moved forward, passing through the open door to feel soft carpet underfoot. The lounge with its open-plan kitchen and the cockpit beyond appeared empty. The hatch to the lower deck stood open. Mackenzie ran a practised eye around every surface. A pair of well-worn boat shoes sat under a dining table strewn with maps and charts. A pullover lay discarded on the settee.

From nowhere a shadow materialized from the darkness, taking form and sudden human shape to deliver a disabling blow to the side of Mackenzie’s face. Light filled his head and his knees buckled beneath him. His full dead weight hit the floor with a sickening thud that expelled the remaining air from his lungs in a single long sigh.

His attacker stepped swiftly over him towards the door and from somewhere Mackenzie summoned coherent thought and sufficient strength to reach out and catch an ankle. It was enough to unbalance the other man, who toppled face-forward to strike his head on the doorframe and roll over on to his back. Mackenzie fought to suck air into his lungs and fuel his lunge towards the supine figure on the floor, only to feel the full power of a flat-footed kick in his chest. It felt as though his rib-cage had been crushed by the blow and he fell back again to cry out in pain, rolling to one side to avoid further blows.

The other man got to his knees as Mackenzie tried to get to his, and they found themselves staring straight into each other’s eyes, breathless and perspiring. It was Mackenzie’s first face-to-face with Cleland and he saw the crazed light in his psychotic blue eyes. How was it Cristina had described him? Quite mad .