Питер Мэй - A Silent Death

She went into their bedroom to take a freshly laundered uniform from the wardrobe and search for clean underwear in the chest of drawers. In the shower she turned her face up to the stream of hot water and let it cascade over her body, washing away the dust and the tension. Though nothing, she knew, could ever erase the bloody scene in the finca at La Peña. Like Mariana’s recollection of the smirking Roberto Vasquez, it was an image that would stay with her for the rest of her life.

She dried her hair roughly with a towel — no time to blow it dry — and slipped into her clean clothes. It was only as she went through to the living room, pulling her hair back into its habitual ponytail, that she noticed Antonio’s golf clubs missing from the corner of the hall where they usually languished. For all her good intentions to kiss and make up, an involuntary anger surged through her. With everything that was going on between them, and the threat from Cleland to Cristina and everyone in her family, all that Antonio could think of was playing golf. ‘Fuck you, Toni!’ she shouted at the empty apartment. ‘Fuck you!’ And was startled by the sudden ringing of her mobile phone. She unclipped it from the holder on her belt.

‘Officer Sánchez Pradell.’

‘Cristina. It’s Captain Rodríguez from GRECO.’

Cristina was astonished that the head of the Organized Crime Squad in Marbella would even know her Christian name. ‘Yes, Captain.’

‘UDYCO forwarded the information you passed on to them about Roberto Vasquéz. That was good work, officer. There have been developments. I’ve spoken to your Jefe . You and the Englishman need to meet with one of our people...’

An avenue of palm trees led up the hill from a derelict sales office just off the A7. The golf course at Balle Olivar itself was immaculately kept, and meandered across the hillside with stunning views towards the sea. But rows of pueblo-style white apartment blocks beyond the clubhouse had failed to sell as the developer had hoped, and now lay half empty, slowly crumbling in the southern sun. It had been a question of timing. The financial crash of 07/08 had come at just the wrong moment, and huge billboards now offered apartments at absurdly low prices.

Mackenzie had spent a fruitless hour-and-a-half trudging from bar to bar in the overcrowded streets of festive Estepona, waving Cleland’s photograph in front of barmen and customers in a vain search for associates of the fugitive. On more than one occasion he found himself regarded with suspicion by dodgy characters with south London accents. He thought it more than likely that half the villains on the NCA’s wanted list were lurking in the darker corners of some of these establishments. But no one admitted to knowing or recognizing Cleland, or Templeton as he had called himself. And no one was very keen to engage Mackenzie in conversation.

Hunger gnawed at his stomach. He had barely eaten in the last twenty-four hours and it would be another two hours before the Spanish sat down to lunch. In an attempt to get cooler air into the car he wound down the window of the unmarked vehicle they had given him, but the air that blew in was just as hot. He checked his phone. It was almost at full charge. The battery had died after he’d failed to charge it the night before, and he’d been forced to leave it plugged into the cigarette lighter while doing his tour of the bars.

The clubhouse sat on the brow of the hill, set among a profusion of palm trees and semi-tropical flowering shrubs. It was a low, two-storey building with a shallow pitched yellow-tiled roof. There was a great deal of smoked glass and chrome and polished woodwork, and men and women in polo shirts and colourful shorts and slacks stood about in the shade of the veranda, nursing pint glasses and watching entrants in the annual competition teeing off on the first hole. A huge leader board had been erected for the occasion, and adjudicators sat in the shade of an open-sided canvas tent updating it with the latest scores coming in from the course.

Empty apartment blocks overlooked manicured greens peppered with baseball-capped competitors, the undulating course itself punctuated by shimmering bunkers and dusty mature olive trees.

There was not a breath of wind as Mackenzie found a place in the crowded car park and stepped out into the blazing heat of the early afternoon. The Pro Shop in the basement of the clubhouse was crowded, and half a dozen covered golf buggies stood in parking slots out front.

As Mackenzie headed for the steps he spotted the Jefe ’s black Audi Q5 glinting in the sunlight. So he hadn’t managed to get away as quickly as he’d hoped.

Air conditioning brought blessed relief from the heat as he stepped inside. Tables were set with crisp linen cloths for a lunch that would not be served for some hours yet, although Mackenzie could smell something good cooking in the kitchen and his stomach issued an audible complaint. Staff were setting out a long buffet with cold meats and salads. He was tempted to help himself surreptitiously as he passed, but controlled the urge. He spent the next half-hour talking to barmen and serving staff, and the club secretary who told him that Templeton had been a generous contributor to club fund-raisers.

He showed everyone photographs of Vasquéz and Cleland. Predictably, no one recognized Vasquéz. He would have stood out here like a tramp at a cocktail party. Everyone remembered Templeton. And no one had a bad word to say about him. The waitress who brought Mackenzie his coffee said, ‘He’s a lovely man, Señor Templeton.’ She had the look in her eyes of someone smitten. ‘Always buying drinks for his friends. And the staff. A good tipper, too.’ A group of golfers that he played with regularly was out on the course somewhere, she told him, participants in today’s match play. Mackenzie debated whether or not to hang about until they came back in, but it could have been a long wait, and this all felt like a waste of time anyway. He decided to leave.

By the time he got back to the car park the Jefe ’s Audi was gone. A loud cheer drifted across the cars from the eighteenth green as someone sank a hole in one.

Mackenzie was about to get into his car when he saw Antonio and Paco emerging together from the side entrance to the locker rooms. Antonio, a set of clubs over one shoulder, was walking at pace and Paco was having trouble keeping up with him on his crutches. It was clear to Mackenzie, even from a distance, that the two men were arguing. He stood for a moment watching as Antonio turned suddenly, confrontational, and Mackenzie could hear his raised voice above the excited hubbub from the course. He was curious, and decided to add himself to the mix.

With as casual an air as he could muster, he strolled towards them, hands in pockets. ‘Well, hello,’ he said, affecting what he hoped was a genuine smile of surprise. ‘Didn’t expect to see either of you two here.’

Both men started almost guiltily and turned towards him. Paco recovered himself more quickly, although to Mackenzie’s eye his smile never got beyond his lips. ‘Señor,’ he said. ‘Good to see you again.’ He waved a crutch vaguely towards the course. ‘In this better circumstance.’

Mackenzie nodded towards the walking aids. ‘You’ll not be playing much golf with those.’

Paco inclined his head in wistful acknowledgement. ‘I’m afraid I won’t. But I still enjoy watching. Not much else to occupy me at the moment.’ He laughed. ‘I can just about afford the hire of a golf buggy.’

Mackenzie’s eyes drifted towards Antonio, and the golf bag slung over his shoulder. Antonio forced a smile that, like Paco’s, didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘I usually play on my day off, Señor Mackenzie. But I forgot it was the San Isidro competition today.’ His smile turned rueful. ‘A waste of a journey.’