Authors: Adam Creed
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #FF, #FGC
Death in the Sun (21 page)
‘It’s a good theory,’ says Jesús. ‘A damn good theory, provided you believe Edu was at his tether’s end; that he had to do something to stop the world discovering what he had been involved with.’
Pepa says, ‘And there’s the money, of course. They must have a fortune. The last Barrington went for a million. Imagine, if there were other Barringtons.’
‘Big money, and Raúl was onto them. Sanchez knew about that, hence the cover-up,’ says Staffe.
‘So Edu was wrapped up in all that art forgery. Who’d have thought that?’ says Pepa. ‘Simple paintings leading to all that bloodshed.’
‘Not paintings. Money,’ says Jesús.
‘I like to think it is all about honour,’ says Staffe, feeling Gustav’s untranslated will‚ stuffed down his shirt, wondering what Gustav Hesse did for his final spin of the wheel.
‘And love,’ says Pepa.
‘Of course. If Manolo hadn’t loved his mother so, he would never have taken such revenge on Agustín,’ says Jesús.
Pepa takes a moment. ‘Is that the only love he ever knew?’
Jesús says, ‘He always had a thing for that gypsy girl. They called her Brujita.’
‘The little witch,’ says Pepa.
‘Consuela,’ says Staffe.
‘Poor Manolo, he must have hated Agustín for almost all his life.’
‘That’s only my theory.’ Staffe thinks about the Manolo he thought he knew. And he thinks about Manolo’s father, still living and breathing through it all.
The phone bleeps and Staffe sees ‘Quesada’ light up his screen. The text appears and he says, ‘I have to go back.’
Jesús says, ‘Relax. You have got to the bottom of it all. We have to celebrate.’
‘The baby is coming,’ says Staffe.
Yousef sits cross-legged under a lemon tree watching the man come towards him. At his back, the ferry for Morocco prepares for boarding.
The man reaches out, hands Yousef the ticket then lights up a spliff, offers it to Yousef. He declines and Jackson Roberts inhales deeply before going into his pocket, giving him the final one thousand euros, saying, ‘You’re doing the right thing. This country’s not for you. Everyone needs a home. You know, I love this country. I love it like a woman you can’t trust or understand and sure as the devil pisses hell-fire she’s going to cheat on you, but you love her anyway. They say you can’t change your homeland. But hey! Fuck ’em.’ He draws long, hard on the spliff, dragging it all the way down to its roach. His eyes glaze and for all the world he seems empty. Unrequited.
*
On the road between Almagen and Mecina, a large truck is parked up on the crown of the bend. The grass verge is broad here and shaded by eucalyptus. Two shaven-headed men perch on the tailgate, drinking from mugs and unmistakably English.
Patricia Harbinson offers the men buttered slices of malt loaf and her husband walks down the track from their
cortijo
holding a cardboard box. He calls, ‘That’s the last of it.’
Each of the Harbinsons is smiling. Their eyes are bright and their skin seems to sing in the dappled light.
‘You lost the court case?’ says Staffe.
‘No,’ says Patricia Harbinson. ‘The oafs made us legal. They said we can stay.’ She laughs.
‘But it looks as if you’re going?’ says Staffe.
‘We missed the point,’ says Terry Harbinson, crossing the road and setting the box down between the two men on the tailgate. ‘When you’re in a fight, you don’t always know what you’re fighting for.’
‘At least the house is legal now. We can sell it.’
‘But you’re going back to England?’ says Staffe.
‘They don’t want us here,’ says Patricia. For an instant, she looks sad. Then she smiles.
‘Of course they don’t,’ says Terry. ‘Whatever made us think they might?’ He takes the mugs from the men and empties the dregs over the verge, into the
campo
, where the figs trees run down to the almonds. In the bottom of the valley, oranges flourish, and olive trees too. ‘Come on. Let’s be off.’
*
Marie screams. She is laid out on Staffe’s bed and she shouts at Paolo that he is a bastard and that if she ever gets out of this alive, she will rip off his nuts and pound them to pulp. If he ever . . . ever . . .!
Staffe holds Harry close and the nephew clings onto his leg tightly, keeps saying, ‘Will she be all right? Don’t let her die.’
‘You should go downstairs, Harry. Keep Gracia company. I’ll get you when it is done.’
‘No!’
The nurse’s expression changes and she gets busy. Consuela is here and she dabs Marie’s forehead. A breeze ruffles the room. It comes all the way from the sea and in through the branches of the walnut tree. The nurse sinks to her knees and Marie grabs Consuela’s arm, screams, ‘Sweet Jesús!’
The room falls quiet.
Harry gasps, lets go of his uncle’s leg. In the corner of the room, Paolo has his head in his hands, rocking manically back and forth muttering some kind of mantra.
Consuela says, ‘It is coming, Marie.’
The nurse says, ‘It is here. It is here, now push.’
‘I am!’ shouts Marie.
‘Push!’
‘I . . .’ Marie’s word expires and the room is dead quiet. For one, two, three seconds you could snap the silence over your knee like a seasoned olive branch.
Marie exhales a long, loud sigh. The sigh cracks, becomes a groan. Everyone in the room looks at her, wide-eyed, holding their breath. She grunts; then she sighs – long and easy.
The nurse stands. In one expert hand, she holds a pink, blood-spattered baby, still wired to its mother by a bloody cord. The nurse tips the baby, fast as flash, and she taps its bottom with the back of her fingers. The baby, which Staffe sees is a girl, screams blue murder and everybody laughs. Marie reaches for her daughter. Holding her tight, she looks at Staffe and says, ‘We’re calling her Enid.’
Enid, their mother’s name.
*
Quesada pours Cava into Staffe’s glass. They clink their glasses at the counter while Salva looks on, smiling.
The old goats come up to Staffe and congratulate him on the birth of his new niece, and when Frog comes in, he makes his way through the crowd, says to Staffe, ‘You’ve done well.’
‘It wasn’t me. It’s Marie who had the baby!’ he laughs.
‘I mean helping to catch up with those killers. I knew all along it had nothing to do with the war. Nothing like that went on in Almagen. I knew it. So I thank you, for showing the truth.’
‘Let’s hope it can stand up in court.’
Quesada says, ‘We’ll make sure it does.’
‘Well, the bastards can’t wriggle off the hook, can they? They’re all dead!’ says Frog
‘Come on! Have a drink.’ Quesada hands Frog a glass and pours, then recharges Staffe’s glass.
‘Will you stay?’ asks the Frog.
‘Stay?’
‘Here in Almagen.’ Frog downs his Cava in one go and the bubbles make him splutter. ‘The Moors came; and then the Asturians came. Then foreigners came. They brought trouble with them – but you’re the kind we need. So, will you stay?’
‘I think I will.’
Frog holds out his glass, to be filled again, and he tells Staffe and Quesada about how he knew all along that there was something wrong with Manolo and Edu. As he speculates as to who might inherit Manolo’s flock, and what will become of Edu’s
cortijo
and more importantly, his bean crop, Staffe’s mind wanders. He is tired and sore. Tomorrow, he will sleep the whole day and he will think about maybe getting a bigger place.
He dwells upon the observation Frog made: how difficult it will be to gather evidence. Witnesses are dead. The perpetrators are dead. Rubio is inadmissible. But that’s not his problem.
Quesada takes a hold of Staffe’s elbow and leans close, talking into his ear. ‘I couldn’t say in front of everyone, but we had news.’
‘News?’
‘They found a red Bultaco this morning. It was in a ravine on the other side of the Silla Montar.’
‘Jackson Roberts?’
‘He made it over the top, but copped it coming down the other side.’
‘A fitting end,’ says Staffe, feeling a tug at his shirt. He looks down, at Harry’s beaming face looking up at him. At his side is Gracia.
‘Mummy wants ice cream.’
‘I’ll get it.’
‘You don’t know what she wants.’
‘Raspberry,’ says Staffe, crouching. ‘There’s plenty I know about your mum. And one for you and Gracia, too?’
The children nod and Staffe gives Harry five euros, watches him lead Gracia into the
comedor
to the ice cream fridge. They chatter about the pros and cons of each make of ice cream and look like an old couple. It makes him think what the dead must have looked like as children, choosing their ice cream: Manolo and Agustín; Edu and Raúl; Astrid; and now Jackson Roberts, so far from home.
When Harry tries to pay, Salva refuses to take his money and Harry and Gracia run into the
plazeta
. The sun shines bright and they paddle water from the fountain onto the mules and sing to the sky as they go.
Staffe takes out Gustav’s will, not really wanting to know what it says, but wanting to know why Raúl had a copy, and why someone took it from Manolo’s chest. He will have it translated, into something less foreign.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about Jasmine Cash?’ says DCI Pennington.
Josie Chancellor’s stomach slowly churns. She doesn’t know what is coming, but can tell it is bad. ‘What about Jasmine Cash?’
‘She’s never had so much of a sniff of charge sheet. She’s as clean as you and me, yet Pulford has been harassing her every night for months. And now she has reported it.’
‘She’s obviously very upset.’
Pennington looks wearily at his constable. ‘Jadus Golding had a phone. We have had it analysed and the night he died, he called DS Pulford.’
‘Oh no,’ says Josie, fearing the worst for Pulford.
‘He’s going to need all the help he can get, Chancellor. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ve been calling Staffe but there’s no answer from his damned phone. Have you spoken to him at all?’
Josie shakes her head, feels doubly sad.
‘You look done in. I think you should take a few days off. Maybe you need to get away.’
*
Marie has returned to El Nido with baby Enid, who is fit and strong with a shock of black hair that comes straight from Paolo. Staffe is standing amongst piles of boxes, on the floor of his studio, finally stacking his books onto the shelves, now he is here to stay.
He comes across his battered copy of Martin Amis’s
Money
and leafs through to see if the old dollar bill from his first trip to New York is still there, and it is. Seeing it reminds him of when he had to pack his father’s books away. After he was murdered‚ he and Marie decided to take them to the Oxfam shop on Esher High Street. In packing, he had checked his father’s Folio Society edition of
The Gold Rush
. Tucked into its protective case, were twenty fifty-pound notes. His father would talk about ‘Grand Nights’, said you should always have a grand put by – to blow. And he kept it in
The Gold Rush
.
Now, Staffe thinks about what will become of Manolo’s books.
‘Will!’ The call is from the street and followed by the fast patter of feet up the stairs. Harry appears just seconds later, panting. ‘Can I stay over? Consuela has asked if I want to have supper with them and I can sleep over but you need to ask my mum.’
‘Are you sure you want him overnight?’ Staffe looks past Harry to Consuela, who appears on the stairs, looking coy. ‘Come in. Sit down. I’m just unpacking.’
‘I’m sure‚’ says Consuela‚ looking at the books. ‘Manolo liked to read.’
‘I’ll call your mother,’ says Staffe and Harry and Gracia run downstairs. Staffe says to Consuela, ‘Sit down. Please.’
‘I should go.’
‘Manolo was fond of you, wasn’t he?’
Consuela shakes her head.
‘Do you think I should take his books to Rubio?’
‘I would like some – for Gracia, as she grows up.’
Staffe recalls the photograph he found of Gracia, in the same chest as Gustav’s will – the will that had been removed by someone and which had earlier been copied and given to Raúl. ‘I’m going to his house.’
Consuela leaves, her head bowed.
On his way out, Staffe picks up Gustav’s will, duly translated, which states that the fruits of all Gustav’s labours would pass – not to his daughter, and thereafter to her sons – but to the people of Al Fondoukha, a village on the border between Morocco and Mauritania. It is a place he had come to love; a place where he had built a school, but where there was much, much more to do in terms of medical and water provision. Clearly, anybody aware of that will, would know nothing would flow to Manolo and Agustín.
By the time Staffe has walked through the
plazeta
, Consuela is standing by Manolo’s front door. She says, ‘I have a key. I cleaned for him.’
Staffe follows her into the house and smiles as he watches Consuela trail her finger along the spines of the books. He suspects she cannot read.
Consuela says, ‘Manolo couldn’t kill anyone, and especially not his brother. No matter how much he hated Agustín, he wouldn’t harm a hair on him.’ She looks at the shotgun, propped up against the fireplace. ‘It was all he could do to shoot a partridge.’
Staffe picks up the gun. He feels a memory return; something vague, unformed. ‘Manolo is Gracia’s father, isn’t he?’
‘I wouldn’t let him marry me. I was a fool.’
‘You didn’t love him?’
‘I should have. For Gracia.’
Staffe raises the shotgun. ‘You did the right thing.’ He nestles the stock into his right shoulder but it doesn’t quite fit.
Manolo’s last act was to write Edu’s name in blood. He did it on the floor‚ to the right of where he lay, face down‚ blood stained on the index finger of his right hand. Staffe is right-handed.
He switches the gun’s stock to his left shoulder, and rather than put his right index finger on the trigger, he runs it along the barrel. The stock fits perfectly to his left shoulder. He says, ‘Manolo was left-handed,’ putting the index finger of his left hand to the trigger.
‘So is Gracia,’ says Consuela.
‘Did he ever talk to you about if he died?’
‘Why would he?’
‘He would want Gracia to be looked after.’
‘I’ll look after her.’
Staffe thinks of his own father, looks at each spine on each shelf. He picks off
Love in the Time of Cholera
and looks inside. Nothing. He tries
The Trial
and comes up empty. Then he tries
Remembrance of Things Past
. It is an English translation, which strikes him as being somehow out of place.
He stands back from the bookshelves, looking not at the titles, but for something which might stick out; anything not ordinary about a bookshelf. He lets his eye be drawn, then return. Drawn again. This time, to a foreign cipher. ‘Did Manolo speak German?’
Consuela crinkles her eyebrows. ‘I heard him talk to a tourist once. But they were English, I think. I’m sure of it.’ She laughs. ‘He wore black socks with shorts. They were English, all right.’
Staffe takes down the volume of
Siddhartha.
It is in German and published by Suhrkamp. He carefully opens Hermann Hesse’s novel. It is a first edition and the frontispiece is signed, ‘For my wonderful grandson, From Hermann.’ Beneath, a different hand has written, ‘And mine, also. From Gustav.’ Staffe opens his hands, the way in which a priest might hold something holy. The pages fall open, reveal a loose leaf. Staffe reads it quickly, tells Consuela it is nothing, and carefully pockets the Last Will and Testament of Gustav Hesse. Except, it is not the last. It is a prior version to the one which he had found in Raul’s study and which he had translated. In this document‚ secreted by Manolo‚ all his worldly wealth is left to his grandsons, Manolo and Agustín.
With the will in his pocket‚ against his heart‚ Staffe feels the full force of the loss of his friend‚ Manolo – an utterly decent and proper man. He says, ‘How did Manolo and Agustín get on?’
‘He never spoke of Agustín.’
‘But Agustín was here, a few weeks ago.’
Consuela shakes her head. She sits down on the edge of a chair and her shoulders shake. ‘He couldn’t hurt him. I can assure you of that.’
‘I know Manolo didn’t kill Agustín.’ Staffe kneels in front of Consuela.
‘But you said he did. That’s what Quesada and the
guardia
have been saying.’
He takes her gently by the shoulders and says, softly, ‘But I have to know the truth – to get to the truth.’
Consuela nods. ‘Agustín and Manolo had an argument. A terrible, terrible argument. They said such awful things to each other.’
‘What did they say?’
‘I was upstairs, cleaning. I didn’t hear it all, but Manolo said Agustín couldn’t love anybody. He said he was only interested in money.’
‘And Agustín?’
‘He said he had seen things Manolo hadn’t, that they were so different they didn’t even have the same blood. He said he was going to dig up the past and prove it to the world. I remember it exactly. It made my blood cold. I knew something terrible would happen.’
‘And what did Manolo say?’
‘He said Agustín was only saying it for the money. And then he said the strangest thing.’
‘What?’
‘Manolo told Agustín that he loved him. It went quiet and I think they must have embraced. I came to the top of the stairs.’ She looks up, over her shoulder. ‘And Manolo said, “Leave the past alone. They will kill you – to keep it the way it is.” And then Agustín left. I never saw him again.’
*
Staffe follows Consuela out of Manolo’s house, sees Quesada’s Guardia Civil Land Rover outside Bar Fuente. As Consuela walks off through the
plazeta
to find Harry and Gracia, he goes in the bar, where Quesada is in the
comedor
in a cloud of cigar smoke. But it smells richer today. Comisario Sanchez is opposite Quesada, pulling on his Cohiba. Two black and gold bands sit on the table.
Quesada looks glum, but forces a smile when Staffe sits down with them.
‘This is like a police canteen,’ says Staffe.
‘More like the United Nations,’ says Quesada. He nods at Sanchez. ‘And we have good news.’
‘I got Cortes to run full tests on the body from the woods,’ says Sanchez. ‘It’s no ghost from the war.’
‘What made you change your mind?’ says Staffe.
‘It’s an old man. Between seventy and eighty years old,’ says Sanchez.
‘A man? Did he run the DNA test?’
Sanchez shakes his head. ‘It’s not Astrid Cano. You’ll have to abandon that theory and look elsewhere for her body. If there is a body.’
‘Her father died and she didn’t go to the funeral. Explain that.’
‘She’s in some hippy commune somewhere? Maybe she doesn’t know about Gustav Hesse passing away.’
‘What does it matter? We can prove Edu killed Manolo,’ says Quesada. ‘And Manolo must have killed Agustín. Like you say.’
Staffe says nothing. He thinks about the poor Dane, and Raúl. He knows what Sanchez and Quesada would say. A junkie tied up in something he didn’t understand, and a drunk driver. Cases closed. He says, ‘Who is the man up in the woods?’
‘We don’t know,’ says Quesada. ‘But we are investigating, naturally.’
Sanchez says to Quesada, ‘Perhaps you could leave us for a minute or two.’
The
brigada
jumps to, picking up his cigar, popping on his cap.
Sanchez watches him all the way out of the bar, says to Staffe, ‘I can see that there’s something on your mind.’
‘I know Jens Hansen was killed in Mojácar, not down in the plastic. And I know why he was killed – to provide a false ID for Agustín Cano’s corpse. And I can see that you can construct a plausible motive for Manolo killing his brother. And there is evidence for Manolo being killed by Edu, who needed to keep his name out of any investigations into the painting scam.’
‘You seem to know plenty.’
‘“Know” is the wrong word. I “understand” those theories.’
‘So what is your problem?’
‘Who is buried up in my sister’s woods? Where is Astrid Cano? And how did Santi Etxebatteria come to fit into this story,
comisario
?’
‘I don’t think everything needs to fit all the time, do you? If it did, we’d be left with nothing to do.’
‘Did you know Raúl Gutiérrez was looking into Etxebatteria?’
‘That is a question for another time, I’m afraid. You know about the peace with ETA. If you ask me, Raúl had his own story in mind and Etxebatteria was only ever a device. It’s time you dropped it.’ Sanchez regards his cigar. ‘Understand?’
‘I understand what you are saying.’
‘They tell me you have decided to stay on here in Almagen.’
‘I must apply myself to being a doubly good uncle now. And there is so much to discover in this country of yours.’
‘What, exactly, is there to discover?’
‘My first bullfight, for example.’
‘The Almería feria is the place to go. There’s a
corrida
every day for a week. Tomorrow, it’s Tomas. He’s the best. And one of our own.’
‘Tickets are an impossibility, they say.’
‘Nothing is impossible,’ says Sanchez. ‘Maybe we could help each other.’
‘How?’
‘Tell me why you are really staying on.’
‘There are more murders here.’
‘Astrid Cano?’
‘And Raúl Gutiérrez.’
‘And the dead have to speak.’
‘Exactly!’ says Staffe. He tries to evaluate the
comisario
, but Sanchez’s eyes are soft and unfocused. His breathing is even.
‘You should definitely go to a
corrida
. Give me your number and I’ll try to fix you up with some tickets.’
Staffe scribbles his number on a paper serviette. As he hands it to Sanchez, it feels like a mistake.
*
The key swings down from the
acotea
and Staffe has to jump out of the way‚ but even so‚ it still catches him on the side of the head. He could swear that he hears Immaculada chuckle to herself as he lets himself in.
He climbs the dark, dank stairwell, up into the fragrance and light of the top floor. She is dressed in a black Mao tunic and loose, black linen trousers; her thick grey hair is scooped up in a lavish bun. Her eyes are bright but her skin is loose and grey.
Immaculada says, ‘This had better be good.’
‘It’s very kind of you to see me. I was a friend of Edu’s.’
‘All my life, my brother was ashamed of me. And now, it’s my turn to be ashamed of him. A pity I don’t give a damn.’
‘I’m sorry you couldn’t make it to the funeral.’
‘He killed a good man. Why would I?’
‘Nothing has been proven.’
‘Ha! That will take years. It will see me out. Now, why are you here?’ Immaculada coughs, raises a handkerchief to her mouth. Her eyes water. ‘The young journalist assured me I would be pleased with the outcome.’
Staffe holds out the rolled-up rug.
‘You’ve not come selling me rugs, have you? I had enough of that in damned Tangier.’
‘Barrington took you to Tangier?’
‘Only once.’
‘Just the two of you?’
‘The German woman came. But I didn’t let you in to talk about her.’
Staffe sinks to his knees, carefully unrolling the rug. The canvas is protected by tissue and is further sandwiched by two thick sheets of cartridge paper. Staffe slowly reveals the image and stands, takes a step back, saying, ‘We have called it
La Sernata.
’