Питер Мэй - A Silent Death

The pathologist was a young man, hood pushed back from a head of finely cropped dark hair. No doubt he had seen some harrowing things in his time, but even he had paled. He turned his face up towards them. ‘Poor bastards,’ he said. ‘Whoever did this was merciless. Almost as if they’d been tortured.’

‘Why do you say that?’ Mackenzie asked.

‘All three have multiple injuries, Señor. Hands, arms, legs. Brutal stuff. Not enough to kill. Not immediately. But you’d have to be a sadist, or trying to get them to talk. Or both. In the end it looks like they either got what they wanted or ran out of patience. The old man took two barrels of a shotgun in his chest. Seems like they used a machete on the mother. And the son...’ He looked down at the sorry mess on the floor. ‘They just beat him into oblivion.’

Mackenzie said, ‘Why do you say they ?’

The pathologist shrugged as if it was obvious. ‘The extent of the injuries. The use of multiple weapons.’ He paused. ‘And then there are all the footprints in the blood. I’d say there were at least four, maybe five. I’ll know exactly how many by the time I’m finished here.’

Cristina’s voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘So whatever they knew, or whatever it was their attackers wanted, was beaten out of them.’ She turned towards Mackenzie. ‘This was almost certainly a safe house for drugs.’

But Mackenzie shook his head. ‘Unlikely.’

Both Cristina and the pathologist looked at him. ‘What makes you say that, señor?’ the pathologist asked.

Mackenzie said, ‘If these people had been coerced into keeping drugs, what pretext would they have for not just handing them over? And even if for some reason they had hidden them, how long would it take to beat the hiding place out of them? An old couple like that? And their boy.’ He looked around the room. ‘And if their attackers had got the information they wanted, why would they have had to tear the place apart?’ He hesitated. ‘It doesn’t feel right. Any of it.’

The pathologist said, ‘They’re bringing sniffer dogs up. If there were drugs here they’ll know soon enough.’

Mackenzie nodded and picked his way to the door, back out into the early morning light. He had seen enough. The sun was just below the line of the trees now, and he stepped over the crime-scene tape and into the yard. Cristina followed gratefully behind him. He stopped and scratched his head thoughtfully.

‘What is it?’

He glanced at her. ‘Remember that busted signpost on the road. If we hadn’t had a map we might have taken the wrong turning.’ He turned to look back at the house. ‘I don’t think these poor people had the first idea what their attackers wanted. They came to the wrong bloody finca.’

Realization broke over Cristina like cold water. Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh my god, we need to get over to the finca at Cabezas del Río.’ She started running for the SUV and Mackenzie had trouble keeping up with her.

‘Hey!’

They looked back from the open doors of their vehicle to see Paco hobbling after them.

‘Where are you going?’

Cristina said, ‘We think they came to the wrong house, Paco.’

A frown of confusion clouded his face before sudden understanding swept it away. He paled. ‘Jesus.’ Then, ‘Take me with you.’

The sun had risen fully over the shoulder of the mountain as they lurched down a potholed track to the Hacienda Familia Castillejos, dust rising behind them like smoke in the still morning air.

Hacienda was a grand name for what was really just another finca. The home of Familia Castillejos was built from local stone, a simple single-story house with a vine-shaded terrace at the front. The road, such as it was, ran on a short way beyond the house to a broken-down collection of barns. Hens scattered in the yard as Cristina brought their SUV to an unceremonious halt. The front door lay open, and they could see beyond it that there were lights still burning in the kitchen.

Cristina was first inside, Mackenzie just behind her. It took Paco a good half-minute to catch them up.

In contrast to the kitchen at Finca Los Fernández, this room was neat and clean and well-ordered, lit by several lamps and an overhead light. The smell of a recently cooked breakfast still hung in the air. A weather-worn middle-aged couple sat at the table, breakfast only half eaten in front of them, fat congealing around eggs and ham, coffee long since gone cold in chipped and discoloured mugs.

The woman wore a dark blouse beneath a shawl that hung down to a creased three-quarter-length skirt. Mackenzie could see woollen stockings beneath it, and tattered trainers that might once have been white. The man’s skinny frame was clad in grubby blue overalls, silvered black hair like fuse wire contained beneath a sweat-stained cap. Their faces were turned towards the door with the dread of expectancy. The woman’s face was stained and still shining from tears. She took in Cristina’s uniform. ‘It’s true, then?’ she said.

‘Is what true?’ Mackenzie asked quickly.

The woman flickered dead eyes in his direction. ‘They killed the Fernández family.’

Cristina said, ‘How do you know?’

The man scratched a silver-bristled chin, the sound of it rasping in the stillness of the room. His face was the colour and texture of leather, his eyes so deep set they were like black holes in his face. ‘Diego.’

‘Who’s Diego?’

‘The goatherd. He came here after the Guardia arrived at La Peña. He usually calls in after he has had coffee with the Fernández people.’

Señora Castillejos shook her head. ‘It was all a terrible mistake. We had no idea they had gone to La Peña first. Those poor folk would have had no idea what they were looking for. The drugs were here all the time.’

Mackenzie walked into the room, drew a chair up to the table and sat down. ‘Tell us what happened,’ he said.

Castillejos shook his head. ‘We had no choice, señor. They threatened to kill us if we did not keep their packages for them.’

‘What were they like, these packages?’

‘Big plastic sacks, señor, like they use for animal feed. About thirty of them. A couple of tons, I’d say. And I should know, they made me unload and stack them in the barn when they first brought them.’

‘Do you know what was in them?’

He shrugged. ‘Drugs.’

Mackenzie looked at Cristina. ‘If it’s cocaine, a couple of tons would have a street value running to hundreds of millions. And if this is Cleland’s stash then it’s the deal of a lifetime. Money like that... he’ll be gone. History. We’ll never find him.’ He turned back to the Castillejos. ‘What happened this morning?’

She sat wringing her hands on the table in front of her. ‘They didn’t say they had already been to the Finca los Fernández by mistake. Just ordered Carlos to load the bales into their big covered pickup while they stood around watching and smoking and laughing. Four of them. I’ll never forget their faces.’

Her husband cast grave eyes in her direction. ‘It might be better, Mariana, if you did.’

But she shook her head. ‘When I think of what they did to those poor people...’ She turned tearful eyes towards Cristina. ‘Before they left one of them said we should get our road sign fixed. It would be too easy, he said, to take a wrong turning. Only now do I know what he meant.’

Cristina looked at Mackenzie. She could see Cleland slipping through their fingers. ‘If they have come for the drugs this morning, it must mean they are planning the handover today or tomorrow.’

‘Or just moving it somewhere safer.’ Paco’s voice made them all turn towards where he stood silhouetted in the doorway. ‘With all the police activity to find Señor Cleland they are probably very nervous right now.’