Death in the Sun (22 page)

The maître d’ shows Staffe to a table out front, beneath El Marisco’s bamboo canopy. The sea is across the road and the plastic greenhouses are to the right, with the small shanty where Yousef had fashioned his makeshift home just beyond.

Guadalupe arrives in a newish hatchback and the maître d’ receives her as if she is not unfamiliar. As they are in conversation, he scans the road, but the road is empty. Today, and all this week, the great and the good, and the bad, are in Almería for the
feria
. Staffe’s room at the Hotel Catedral cost double for tonight. It seems so long since he was first there.

‘You found it all right,’ says Staffe as Guadalupe takes her seat. She smells fine, of jasmine, and her hair is up and done.

‘I’ve been before.’

‘I popped in to Jackson’s service in Orgiva yesterday. I thought you might have been there.’

‘Not my scene, really. I heard it was going to be a hippy affair.’

‘And your uncle Edu’s funeral?’

‘I can’t shed tears for that one, I’m afraid. I don’t know what that makes me.’

‘I saw your mother yesterday.’

‘She said.’

‘You’ve seen her?’

‘Of course. I was passing.’

‘Did she tell you about
La Sernata
?’

‘Is that what you’re calling it?’ She looks around, to see if he has brought it. The young journalist had said he would.

‘Your mother was sceptical as to its provenance.’

‘She has a very romantic notion of my father. You really shouldn’t have shown it to her.’ Guadalupe picks up the menu, looks down in a cursory way, saying, ‘The red shrimp is the thing to have.’

‘I fancy the turbot.’ Staffe thinks of the times he has had turbot. It takes him back, not to a world of lapping sea or fishing villages, but to the wood-panelled world of the George and Vulture – the long City lunches he and Jessop would share when a case was dragged to its conclusion. ‘Yes, the turbot for me.’

‘Is this your treat?’

‘Maybe it could be yours. Let’s call it a finder’s fee.’

Guadalupe looks anxious for an instant, quickly corrects herself. ‘For what?’

‘The last Barrington.’

‘Is there such a thing?’

He takes out his phone, clicks through the commands. ‘If there is, it should be yours, wouldn’t you say? If your mother doesn’t want it.’ He turns his phone towards her, so she can see the screen. On it, an image of
La Sernata
.

‘You really have it?’

‘In my hotel room.’

‘If I’m buying lunch, I need more than a photograph,’ she laughs. ‘This could be a couple of hundred euros.’

‘They have some wonderful Ribera del Duero here, too.’

‘In that case, I definitely need more than a photograph.’

‘I have to go straight to the bullfight after this. Here.’ He shows her his key card for the Hotel Catedral. ‘Room seven.’

‘Are you sure?’

He nods, reaching further with his hand, proffering the key. ‘It’s rolled up in a rug.’

‘I can assure you, no matter what you might think, this will be staying in the family. It means more than money.’

The maître d’ personally comes to take their order. He gives Staffe a suspicious look.

Guadalupe says, ‘I’ll have the red shrimp, and my friend will have the turbot. And a bottle of your Ribera.’

When the wine comes, Staffe toasts Jackson Roberts and they clink. ‘You’ll miss him. Good neighbours are hard to find.’

‘The fool. Fancy going over the Silla Montar on a bike. You know, I suppose in a way it’s good that he went like that. He used to say that once you’ve seen war, every peaceful day starts with a present being unwrapped.’

‘He unwrapped plenty of presents is my guess.’

The maître d’ sidles up, recharges their glasses and a red Bultaco rattles by, struggling under the weight of two Moroccans, one of them the Bulls youth.

*

They are finishing off the figs and Manchego cheese and Staffe tries to stop Guadalupe from paying but she insists, and as she settles the bill with the maître d’, he goes inside, feeling their eyes on him all the way, so he closes the door behind him.

Through the frosted glass, he watches their outlines. He calls the bartender across, says, ‘Has my friend Jesús been in?’ He takes out a twenty-euro note, places it on the bar. ‘Jesús of the Cuerpo.’

‘Do you want a drink?’ The bartender speaks perfect Spanish, but with a Romanian accent.

‘Two coffees. He comes here often. Was he here the night they found the body across the road?’

The bartender looks at the twenty with a certain disdain. ‘The Cuerpo? They give good custom.’

Staffe removes the twenty, replaces it with a fifty. ‘This is the last time you’ll see me and I’ll never talk. He was here that night, wasn’t he?’

The bartender checks behind him. ‘Not for long, and not with police.’

Staffe slides the note across and the bartender pockets it, deft as a thief and slides it down the waistband of his apron. ‘Was there a fair man with them? He had a stud in his nose. A ruby stud?’

The bartender nods, looking past Staffe towards the door.

‘There was an American with them?’

‘A loudmouth.’ The bartender looks towards the door. ‘They drank plenty, that’s for sure.’

‘And did it get lively?’

‘A good job they were outside, round the corner.’

‘Was there a man called Edu with them – an older guy?’

The bartender shakes his head.

‘Or a shepherd. A big fellow called Manolo?’

The bartender shakes his head again. ‘There was just the four of them.’

‘Four?’

‘But Jesús left early. Almost straight away and before they started eating.’

‘Who was the fourth?’

‘The guy from the Quinta Toro. Jesús’s father.’ The bartender looks past Staffe as the door opens and the maître d’ comes in. He turns towards the coffee machine, says, ‘I’ll bring your drinks out.’

Guadalupe is all set to go when he returns, handbag on her shoulder and sunglasses pulled down. She hasn’t touched her Pacharán. She says, ‘I’ll follow you to the hotel.’

‘I ordered coffee.’ Staffe takes out his ticket for the
corrida
, says, ‘I have to go straight to the Plaza de Toros.’

Guadalupe scrutinises the ticket. ‘You’re in the sun. Get yourself a hat.’ She holds onto the ticket long enough to clock precisely where he will be sitting, then hands it back.

He says, ‘Don’t forget. It’s room seven, and keep your hands off the minibar.’

She laughs. The sun catches her hair and he glimpses a throwback to what Barrington might have seen in the young Immaculada.

‘Mother said you were quite a gentleman.’

‘She’s a good judge.’

Guadalupe kisses him on each cheek, says, ‘If I can get a room, maybe we could take a walk down to the
feria
, after your fight. You should give me your number.’

He tells her the number and they leave as the bartender brings the coffees. Like a gentleman, he lets the lady go first, and as she does, he pockets the bill, slips it into his trouser pocket, unseen. He thinks of that last supper for Agustín, with Jackson and Angel, and Jesús, briefly. And he thinks, too, of the men who carried Barrington: half dead, half alive.

*

Pepa is dressed to the nines in her red polka-dot dress with a tight bodice and a halter neck. It flares out like 1950s America and her lips and nails are painted to match. On the table in front of her is a box, tied with ribbon and filled, no doubt, with rich fancies.

‘Have you missed me?’ says Staffe.

‘Of course. But I’m not complaining.’ She looks out of the window at the Hotel Catedral. ‘So, Guadalupe’s in there?’

‘I gave her my room key.’

‘Can you trust her with the Barrington?’

‘If it’s worth anything, then she’s entitled to it. And if we’re right – then it’s worthless. What is there to lose?’

‘
If
you’re right.’

‘And if I’m right, you’ll have the story of a lifetime.’

Pepa falls silent. Her eyebrows pinch and after a minute or so, she says, ‘If you’re right, there’ll be a few rich collectors a little less rich.’

‘An influential lot,’ says Staffe.

‘And Jackson really will be glad he’s dead!’

Staffe thinks about this and again they sit in silence.

‘Should we call him?’ says Pepa.

‘We better had. I’m late for the bullfight already.’

Pepa blows out her cheeks. ‘I don’t like this one bit, you know.’

‘I see you have your cakes‚’ says Staffe‚ pointing to the ribboned box.

‘Did you speak to the bartender in El Marisco?’

‘Jackson was there the night they killed Agustín, and so were Angel and Jesús.’

‘But no Edu, or Manolo?’

He shakes his head, keeps a sharp eye on the entrance to the Hotel Catedral. The street-cleaners are hosing down the
plaza
after the mayhem of the
feria
. By day, Almería heaves with revellers, drinking sherry by the bottle at
chiringuitos
and dancing to
mariachis
and brass bands. Then, at four, a whistle is blown and everybody sleeps. Until six. Then they slowly reappear.

Staffe’s heart beats ahead of itself and he can’t keep his fingers and feet still. He calls for some beer.

‘He’s on his way,’ says Pepa, clicking off her phone. ‘What if they both come at once? You don’t think we should go to the police?’

‘Which police? He
is
police!’

‘But if he’s here when Guadalupe comes out of the hotel, what do we do?’

‘You follow her‚’ says Staffe.

‘Shouldn’t you?’

‘I can’t allow you to be left on your own with Jesús?’

‘But what if she leads us to him? Would you wish that on me?’

Staffe’s head spins. He feels woozy.

‘And what if she doesn’t come out? She might be totally on the level.’

‘I know!’

‘You know what?’ says Jesús, who has stolen in. He sidles in between Staffe and Pepa, is out of uniform, but in the heat he still wears a jacket. Summer in Almería, only old men wear a jacket. Unless‚ perhaps‚ you wanted to cover up what the Americans call heat.

‘My ticket,’ says Staffe, ‘is in the sun.’

‘You’re going to the
corrida
?’ says Jesús. ‘What section?’

Looking Jesús in the eye, Staffe sees innocence and youth, but feels his stomach clench. Despite the fact he can’t trust Jesús, he tells him precisely where he will be sitting for the
corrida
. ‘K section.’

‘You will fry. Like a
gamba
!’ he laughs.

‘Don’t talk to me about
gambas
,’ says Staffe. He reaches into his trouser pocket, pulls out the bill for El Marisco and tosses it onto the table in front of Jesús. ‘Sixty-five euros, for a plate of red shrimp.’

Jesús checks out the date on the bill, says, ‘You went today?’ His mouth hangs open, then he smiles. ‘But they are Almería red. The best in all the world.’

‘At least I didn’t pay. And the service on top. The service is so good. I’ve only been once before. But they remembered me. They remember everything, it seems.’

Jesús’s smile evaporates. He stares at the bill.

‘I have to go,’ says Pepa.

‘But you called me,’ says Jesús. ‘I thought we were going out.’

Pepa sees Guadalupe walking quickly across the
plaza
, skipping out of the way of the street-cleaners with their hoses, a rolled rug under her arm. Pepa stands, kisses Jesús rapidly on either cheek. Behind his back, she makes a telephone shape with her finger and thumb to Staffe. Once outside, she breaks into a trot, clutching her polka-dot skirt, and the cake box swinging as she goes.

She catches up to Guadalupe in the Plaza Purchena. It is easy enough to keep tabs from a distance because the streets are quiet, but as Guadalupe turns up Calle Granada and Pepa follows, the streets become busier and busier. Close to the Plaza de Toros, the cafes and bars are full and people queue outside the cake shops and tobacconists. As they turn left up Avenida Vilches, the street is full of families standing in large groups and old timers getting together.

Guadalupe moves smoothly through the crowd and Pepa keeps losing sight of her, having to break into a trot whenever she gets space, brushing past women handing out cakes and street vendors selling seat cushions the colours of the flag.

‘Pepa!’

She feels someone grab her arm. She turns, sees Alejandro, her
primo
from Gabo. She kisses him quickly, three times.

‘Are you going to the
corrida
?’

‘I have to collect my ticket. I must go!’

‘We have a
merienda
. You must come under the stands after Tomas’s first bull. We’re in K.’

Pepa catches a glimpse of Guadalupe, looking over her shoulder, disappearing into a large crowd coming across from Avenida Federico Lorca and the Rambla. ‘I’ll be there. But I have to get my ticket!’

Her
primo
keeps hold of her arm, turns to his friends. ‘This is my
prima
, Pepa. Isn’t she beautiful!’

Pepa yanks her arm away and waves to them all as she pushes through the crowd, trying to get to the
rambla
, but now the tide of people is too thick against her and Guadalupe is gone. She will never know where Barrington’s daughter was taking his last painting with such purpose. She has her suspicions, but now Staffe will have to wait, sit like a duck‚ but after all this was his idea to lure them into a crowd, the only place the dead can move safely, unseen. His stupid idea.

She steps into a shop doorway and phones Staffe, to call it off. But there is no answer. Pepa goes back into her address book. She has many contacts for the
cuerpo
police, but is torn now. She points the cursor to ‘Sanchez’, remembering everything Staffe had accused him of. Instead, she scrolls to ‘G’ for
guardia
where she has only one contact. Better to call Quesada?

*

‘Your father must have been busy today,’ says Staffe.

‘It’s the
feria
. If you’re not busy for the
feria
, you’d better shut the shop,’ says Jesús.