Питер Мэй - A Silent Death

They hurried around a proliferation of uncut hedging that hung down over the pavement, to follow a curving walkway almost completely engulfed by advancing regiments of trees and bushes. Paint-peeling walls and glass balconies rose above them through three floors, and they had to fight their way past overhanging branches and trailing root systems to find the short flight of steps that led up to the main entrance.

Cleland tore away red tape stretched across a gateway to the turning circle in front of revolving doors which had once swept guests into an impressive reception. Approaching from this angle avoided the security cameras. He had no idea if they still functioned, but he wasn’t going to take the risk. A side door was secured with a padlock and chain. He released Ana and set his bag down on the cracked pavings to take out a pair of heavy-duty wire cutters. They sliced through the chain like a hot knife through butter, and within seconds he was leading Ana into the fusty interior of the hotel.

He shone a torch into darkness and saw footprints in dust which had accumulated like frost on marble tiles. Old footprints. He stopped for a moment to shine his torch on the plans he had been given. Downstairs, through the spa, then out by the rear entrance to the rooms and up the fire stairs that wrapped around the lift shaft. The bedroom he was looking for was on the second floor. No. 233. It would be unlocked, they had said. He would find a bed with clean linen, a working toilet, bottled water, candles, matches. A safe room. A place to lie low for thirty-six hours until the exchange.

‘Where are we?’ It was the first interest Ana had shown. He took her hand in his.

— No matter. We’re safe.

This time he held on to her hand and led her down into pitch blackness. By the beam of his torch he saw spa baths raised above floor level, the size of swimming pools laid side by side. They filled a vast echoing space that must once have resounded to the carefree voices of wealthy patrons. All gone. In another era these pools had frothed with clear blue Mediterranean waters. Now they were filled with dust and debris, Roman pillars stained by time and damp. Doors led off along one side. Changing cubicles, and massage rooms where hot stones wrapped in soft towels had once been laid on aching backs.

They circumnavigated a tiny labyrinth of stairways leading to and from the baths, disturbing dust as they walked. It hung in the air like mist in their wake. Until they found the exit door at the far end and climbed the stairs to the second floor.

Room 233 was carpeted. Even though its south-facing windows were shuttered, it had trapped the warmth of the day and was stifling hot. Cleland led Ana to the bed and sat her down while he rolled up the shutter and slid open glass doors leading to the balcony. Fresh air flooded in and he took a deep breath.

‘Don’t hurt me.’ Her voice was tiny.

He looked at her and frowned. He had sat her on a bed. Did she really think he was going to rape her? He sat beside her and took her hand again. As a means of communication this was frustratingly slow.

— Not going to hurt you. Here for a while. Don’t call for help. No one to hear. I’ll be gone some of the time. Day after tomorrow I’ll take you to The Rock. You know it?

‘Gibraltar?’

— Yes.

‘I’ve never been.’

— A shithole. Strategic for the British. And for us. He paused . It’ll all be over then.

The Jefe ’s villa lay at the end of a long bumpy track that wound up through gnarled cork oaks and the fleshy overhanging leaves of sprawling banana trees. Mackenzie’s ancient Seat strained on the gradient, tyres spinning and throwing up clouds of dust in the moonlight. It was little wonder that the police chief had splashed out on a four-by-four. Otherwise the approach to his home would be impassable when it rained.

Finally the track levelled off, then descended steeply to the faux finca below. This was a beautiful house, with arches and shaded terracotta terraces on three levels. Built in the style of a traditional white Andalusian farmhouse, Mackenzie thought that it was probably no more than fifteen or twenty years old.

Beyond banks of azaleas and bougainvillea, Mackenzie saw a swimming pool reflecting moonlight, and after parking next to the Audi, he followed steps down to a lower terrace. From here a spectacular view of the distant coastline opened up a long way below, lights like glowing beads on a string stretched intermittently along its sweeping contour.

The Jefe sat under a bamboo canopy, a glass in his hand, a half-empty bottle, some water and a second glass on the table beside him. Concealed lighting spilled subtle illumination across the terrace, catching highlights of amber in his glass. He stood up to shake Mackenzie’s hand, then waved him into a chair on the far side of the table.

‘Welcome to my humble abode.’

‘Not so humble,’ Mackenzie said as he watched the chief fill his glass then dilute it with a little water.

‘Extravagant now, I suppose. For a man living on his own. But when I built it there were three of us.’

‘Your wife and...?’

‘My son.’ He raised his glass. ‘ Salud .’ They touched glasses and drank. ‘How did you get on with the Policía Nacional?’

‘They kept me waiting for over two hours before they took my statement. I don’t think they liked me very much, Jefe .’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, for a start I’m a foreigner.’

‘And?’

‘They didn’t appreciate my pointing out the mistakes made securing the crime scene.’

The Jefe threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘I bet they didn’t.’ He looked at Mackenzie with amusement. ‘You just say it like it is, señor, don’t you?’

Mackenzie shrugged, not quite sure what was so amusing. ‘What other way is there to say it, Jefe ?’

The chief chortled. ‘With tact, my friend, with tact.’

Mackenzie allowed himself a wry smile. ‘You sound like my wife. Or, rather, ex-wife. Well... soon to be ex.’

‘You have children?’

‘Two.’

‘Then you owe it to them to fix whatever is broken in your marriage. You might be feeling pain, but it is your children who are the real victims.’

‘What was it you were saying about tact?’

The Jefe smiled sadly. ‘Not my strong suit either.’

They sat in silence for a while then, sipping the lifeblood of Mackenzie’s native soil, gazing wordlessly at the stars that glittered across a crowded sky. There was no light pollution here, and the clarity was startling.

‘What happened to your wife?’

The Jefe glanced at the Scotsman. ‘Oh, the usual. Cancer.’ He sighed deeply, and some of the bitterness that resided in him seeped out. ‘A diagnosis that comes out of the blue. Shattering your dreams, your hopes and all of your certainties. Then there are the pedlars of false optimism, the doctors with their toxic treatments that are worse than the malady itself. All they can really do is prolong life for a few miserable months. What’s the point in that?’ He sipped his whisky and gazed into his glass for a long time. ‘The thing I have never quite got used to is being on my own. Especially here. Rattling about in this big empty house. At first I wanted to throw everything of Maria’s out. Burn it. Get rid of it. I’m glad I didn’t. At least it feels like a part of her is still here.’ He chuckled and flicked an embarrassed glance towards Mackenzie. ‘There are times when I find myself talking to her. I’ve lost count of just how often I’ve come into the kitchen in the morning and found her at the sink. The kettle boiling on the worktop.’ He hesitated. ‘Not. Or climbing into bed at night and turning to kiss lips on an empty pillow.’ He half-turned in his chair to look back at the house, soft light on white walls against the impenetrable black of the mountain behind it. ‘I love this place. And I hate it. So many happy memories. So many bad ones.’