Питер Мэй - A Silent Death

No one knew what to say. And it was only when Mackenzie caught Cristina’s smirk out of the corner of his eye that he suspected he might have said something out of turn.

When they stepped from the basement of the police station out into the underground car park, tyres were screeching on concrete, motors revving, detectives and forensics officers from Estepona and Marbella and Malaga all heading back to their respective offices post meeting.

Mackenzie disapproved of meetings. He thought they were just an excuse for the brass to show off to the troops and make themselves feel important. Any relevant information would already have reached the people who mattered. But he was more concerned about his apparent faux pas with the judge.

‘What did I say?’

He struggled to keep up with Cristina, who, for all her lack of height, was striding at speed across the car park. ‘What didn’t you say?’ she said.

‘ What ?’ He was at a loss.

She stopped and turned to face him. ‘Would you go into someone’s house and tell them their baby was ugly?’

His brow furrowed in concentration as he ran the question through his mind, wondering at its relevance.

She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, if you have to think about it...!’ And she marched off again to where she had parked the Nissan.

He followed and climbed into the passenger seat to sit looking at her. Both her hands gripped the wheel and her face was set. He decided not to pursue his evident blunder with the judge, and instead changed the direction of their conversation entirely, towards something minor which had struck him during the meeting.

‘When the Juez de Instrucción said that sources had provided UDYCO with information about Cleland’s drugs deal, what sources was he talking about?’

She looked at him as if he had two heads. ‘Sources,’ she said, as if repeating the word would explain it. ‘You know, informants, soplones , or whatever you call them in English.’

‘Snitches.’ Mackenzie said the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

‘So you know what I’m talking about. Criminals who feed information to the police in return for... well, usually immunity.’

‘And sometimes money.’

She shrugged. ‘Most detectives have a snitch. You must have had one.’

Mackenzie shook his head. ‘Never! I don’t believe in them. A crook is still a crook whether he tips off the cops or not. A crime is still a crime. You can’t pick and choose the ones you’re going to prosecute. We’re not arbiters of the law, we’re enforcers of it.’

Cristina was taken aback by his vehemence. She lifted one eyebrow. ‘Sounds like there’s something personal there.’

Mackenzie realized he had said more than he intended, and sat back in his seat, turning to stare through the windscreen and draw breath.

But she wasn’t going to let it go. ‘Is there?’

He was silent for several long moments, debating whether to tell her or not. Finally he said, ‘I arrested and charged an informant working for another officer in my division.’

She gazed curiously into his eyes. ‘And?’

He hesitated. ‘I had been warned not to by my commanding officer.’

‘So why did you?’

‘Because the snitch had been complicit in a murder. An underworld hit. My boss argued that without his information we’d never have got the actual killer.’

‘But you still arrested him because...?’

‘Because if he had provided us with the same information before the killing rather than after it, we could have stopped it from happening. Which made him as responsible for the death of the victim as the guy who pulled the trigger.’

Cristina chewed on that for a moment. Then she said, ‘So what happened?’

‘To the snitch?’

She nodded.

‘He was convicted and sentenced to fifteen years.’ Mackenzie took a deep breath. ‘They found him dead in his cell six weeks later. Throat slit from ear to ear.’

‘Someone got their revenge.’

Mackenzie nodded. ‘And I got the blame. Effectively ended my career with the Met.’

‘They fired you?’

‘No. But they made it impossible for me to do my job. It was only a matter of time, they reckoned, before I would quit.’

‘And that’s what you did?’

‘Yes.’

She remained sitting for a long time, both hands still gripping the wheel. Without looking at him she said, ‘You really don’t understand the concept of discretion, do you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You have an opinion, you give voice to it regardless of who it might offend. You decide a course of action, and you follow it regardless of the consequences.’

He was defensive. ‘When you know you’re right, what else are you supposed to do?’

‘And you’re always right?’

‘Yes.’ He thought about it. ‘Well, nearly.’

A tiny explosion of laughter escaped her lips. ‘Of course you are.’ She looked at him and shook her head. ‘I’ll take you back to your hotel.’

He nodded and seemed disappointed. She turned the key in the ignition and started the motor. But sat letting it idle.

‘Had you thought about what you are going to do for dinner?’

‘Actually, I’m torn between sandwiches in my room or sandwiches in my room.’

‘Spoiled for choice, then.’

‘It’s just a question of which sandwich I’ll go for. Ham. Or ham.’

‘I hear the ham’s pretty good.’

‘I’ll take that as a recommendation.’

She sighed and turned the key in the ignition again to cut the motor, and swung the driver’s door open. ‘I suppose you can eat with us again.’

‘With an offer like that,’ he said, ‘how could I refuse?’

She laughed. ‘Come on. It’s just two minutes across the square.’ And she jumped down into the car park.

Ana has barely been able to contain herself. Never has she known time to move so slowly. Quite deliberately she has kept her fingers away from the face of her watch. There is nothing quite so frustrating as counting hours that refuse to pass.

She has tried reading, but her concentration is shot, and she has allowed her memories to transport her back through time. She is eternally thankful for her mind’s eye, because it allows her to see Sergio as he was all those years ago, when they were both young and she could still see and hear him. She smiles, picturing his impudent grin, his youthful good looks.

She has never understood what it was he saw in her. At best she had been a plain girl. Her parents had struggled financially to bring up two daughters, and Ana had never worn the designer clothes of her contemporaries, or listened to music on the latest Sony Walkman, or had her hair styled in the fashionable salons of Estepona. But for some reason that Ana still cannot fathom Sergio had fallen for her, and all these years later he has come back into her life like a beacon of hope. If there is a God, perhaps He has been saving her for just this moment.

The buzzer vibrates against her chest, and she feels a charge of electrical excitement fork through her body. He’s back.

Her usually assured touch deserts her for a moment, and she fumbles to find the rocker that will release the catch on the door downstairs.

Now she sits still, trying to calm herself. Eyes closed, waiting for the tread of his feet on the stairs. Then the movement of air in the room that signals the opening of the door. She cannot hear the low growl that emanates from Sandro’s throat in the corner of the room as the old lab struggles on arthritic legs to get to his feet.

And now nothing. No footsteps crossing the floor to greet her, no change of temperature as he nears her. She breathes deeply, aware instantly that something is wrong. This is not the scent of the man who held and kissed her just a few short hours ago. But it is a male scent, made noisome by sweat. And it fills the air around her.