The last thing I wanted was to end up in a police station reporting the death of a priest. But I had to report the death. Those men had seen me enter the church, and they might be the same men who saw me enter the church last week. Someone would find the priest, and gossip would whizz around; if I did not contact the police, I would end up the prime suspect. I would no doubt end up the prime suspect in any event, but reporting the body would go in my favour surely.
On unsteady legs, I went straight back to the café, and seeing I was again the only customer, I ordered a brandy from the young woman who had served me before in such an indifferent fashion. This time she looked surprised and concerned, and she asked me in Spanish if I was all right, but I pretended not to understand a word. When she broke into English, my instinct was to pretend I didn't understand that either, but common sense kicked in, and I said I was okay. She clearly didn't believe me, so I told her a dog had leaped out in front of me and given me a fright. She said, 'Oh, that animal should be locked up, I keep saying,' and she gave me a sympathetic smile. I knocked the brandy back in a single gulp and asked for another. She obliged. I drank that down as well, and she stood and watched for a few moments, poured me a third brandy and then she walked away. Taking advantage of the momentary privacy, I used my online translator and obtained the Spanish number for the police.
I dialled. As the number rang, my eyes fell on the headline of a front-page article in the newspaper folded in half on the counter beside my drink, and I hung up. I recognised the name of the church, the village – Casillas del Ángel – and a photo of whom I presumed was the priest, the same priest currently bloated and being eaten by flies. But it wasn't those two facts that had caught my attention. It was the amount written in bold. Fifty thousand euros. My stash. Everything fell into place. Juan must have stolen the cash from the priest to pay Javier back over that drug deal and then fled the scene. Maybe, like me, he thought he was being followed and went and hid the cash until he figured out a game plan.
I snatched up the newspaper and took it and my glass to the far table, opened the translator on my phone and proceeded to figure out what the article, dated ten days ago, was saying.
The priest, with the help of a huge community effort spanning all of the Canary Islands and an entire year, had managed to raise the fifty thousand euros for the Merida Orphan Dogs and Rescue Centre, a charity for needy dogs in Venezuela. Venezuela? Why there? I imagined Paco and Claire donating a tidy sum. The priest had been due the next day to fly to Caracas and then journey to the other town to deliver the funds in person.
What an idiot! Why had he not put all that cash in a bank and arranged an international transfer? The article waxed on about the money being a symbol of the goodwill of the people of the Canary Islands, who had a strong connection with Venezuela through centuries of migration. My former question answered, I began to lose interest. I kept returning to the fact that the stupid priest should have put all that cash in a bank.
Maybe he had been on his way to a bank that very day. Or maybe he didn't trust the banks in the Canary Islands or Venezuela, or they charged huge fees and he wanted the money, all of it, to go direct to the doggy carers themselves.
With that amount of cash, he should have hired bodyguards.
There was no indication in the article that the money had been stolen. As far as the newspaper was concerned the money was happily on its way to Venezuela, safely tucked away in the pockets of the priest. A money belt, one would have hoped. I returned to the article and forced my way through the last two paragraphs, typing sections of the text into the translation website. The reporter announced towards the end of the piece that the church would be closed for two weeks until the priest's return. He never left. I searched his name online and found no articles about him, the money or the dog charity since the day he was supposed to have departed. Whoever was involved in the delivery of the funds at this end, they must all be thinking he had made it to his destination.
Why had no one raised the alarm at the other end? Ten days! Surely someone at the dogs' home would have phoned, emailed, messaged a contact here to discover the whereabouts of the priest? I searched online again, this time targeting Venezuelan news, but I could find no mention of the priest, the money or the dogs' home. Something wasn't adding up. Then again, judging by the headlines that appeared in my searches, Venezuela was in considerable democratic chaos. Curious, I looked up on maps and found that Merida was quite a distance from Caracas. Maybe there were communication issues in Merida. Maybe Merida was the kind of small town still locked in the last century or the one before, and people expected things to happen eventually and not necessarily when they were scheduled to occur.
That might explain why no one this end was concerned. And why would they be. There was no reason to suspect there had been any foul play. No one could have smelled that odour from outside the church. The sacristy had no windows. And everyone assumed the church was locked.
I puzzled over the two men who had seen me approach the church last week. Maybe they were not religious and knew nothing about any of it. Maybe they were not the same men as those I had seen as I entered the church this time. Maybe.
I gulped down the third brandy and got up and asked the waitress for the bill, and without waiting for her response, I shoved a ten euro note at her and waited for my change with scarcely suppressed impatience and rising terror. The woman appeared nonplussed. When she handed me the change, I offered her a quick smile by way of apology and headed out the door.
It was uphill all the way to the crest of the saddle. The sun was high and bore down on my back. The wind was non-existent in the sections of track cut below the fields and the temperature notably hotter. Sweat formed little rivers coursing down the sides of my face and trickling down my spine. My plimsolls filled with grit. My penance. I refused to slow my pace. I needed to get as far away from that church as possible, and fast. As I neared the saddle, the gradient steepened considerably, and the fields gave way to barren land. Up here I felt exposed. The peaked cap mountain loomed on my right. The wind that had barely shown itself now blew in my face, cooling my skin and slowing my pace all at once. I pressed on, and by the time I neared the top, my heart was pounding, I was drenched in sweat and gasping for air. Then I crested the saddle, and the wind, which had been hiding as though lying in wait all this time, blasted me. I stopped and doubled over, putting my hands on my thighs. As I did, I imagined the prisoners groaning inwardly as they reached the same point, before shambling on, straining to hold themselves upright. Then, like me, they would have seen the track ahead, the track which took them back to Tefía, and their hearts would have sunk into their boots. Ahead, for them, awaited their stinking, crowded cells, hard labour and brutal beatings, revolting food and brackish water.
I could not share in their despair. I had a more immediate concern. The wind had taken my hat, and the sun was burning my scalp. I turned around and saw the blue canvas caught on a rock someway down the slope. My feet would not countenance trudging down to retrieve it. Instead, I forced my way along the narrow path, clinging to the face of the saddle as the wind and the sun assaulted me, and I decided Tefía had to be about the most inhospitable place on earth and I would never come back here. That much, I shared with the prisoners. Little wonder the locale was not filled with holiday lets. Only diehards came up here.
When I reached flat land, I all but ran back to the farmhouse.
A Night in a Hotel
Inside the kitchen, I drank one glass of water after another, before ripping off my sweat-drenched clothes and taking a long cool shower. Back in the kitchen, I ripped open a can of tuna and slopped it, oil and all, onto a hunk of stale bread. A mash with a fork and I sank my teeth into the salty fishy bread and chewed rapidly. I could feel panic setting in and I knew the best thing I could do was call the police and hand in the rucksack and tell all. I would look like an idiot or an opportunist and possibly an outright liar, but at least I would have done the right thing
. The money was not mine, and I would feel morally bankrupt keeping cash meant for a charity. If anything, I was the hero of the piece, for if I hadn't stumbled on that rucksack, the world would be impoverished twofold. No charity money and no gay prison story.
There was no need to mention the story. Whoever had put it there would presume their pages had been lost once the news broke. I knew with as much certainty as it was possible to have, given the evidence was circumstantial, that it was Juan who had murdered the priest, stolen the rucksack and put it in that cave to hide the cash until such a time as it was safe to retrieve it and enjoy the spoils. The story was not Juan's at all. He had inadvertently stolen it as well.
My thoughts halted at the realisation that the story had been put there for the dead priest to find, or if not the priest, then whoever was expecting the cash in Venezuela. An anonymous writer wanting to point the finger at the Catholic church, or Franco, and release the story of the prison to the world? It was rather a pathetic gesture, given the location of Merida. A publisher in London or New York would have been a better bet.
I instantly saw my surreptitious translation as a vital service to humanity, for the priest, if he had found that manuscript, may have ripped those pages into tiny pieces and burned them. Or, if he had been a good priest, he may have tried to do something with them but to what avail? Whatever the case, it was my duty to turn those words into the finest prose there ever was.
When I did call the cops, I would avoid all mention of the manuscript. I had to repeat the thought a few times to ensure I didn't make a slip. Before I made the call, I also needed to calm down. Taking some notes while the walk was still fresh in my mind, seemed a good idea. I sat down at the dining table. As I opened my laptop, Skype burst into life and my heart leaped into my throat.
It was Angela.
I must have looked surprised to see her for she squinted at me, then grinned and said, 'Am I disturbing you?'
'Not at all,' I lied.
She peered at me, her face filling the screen. 'You seem, I dunno, flustered.'
'I've been out for a walk.'
'A long one, by the look of you.'
'It was, as it happens. Did you want something?'
'I just wanted your reaction,' she said, shifting in her seat with a smirk.
'What reaction?' I said, puzzled.
'On Sandra Flint.'
'Oh, that,' I said, instantly deflated. I really didn't want to discuss Flint and her ill-gotten prize.
'But it's incredible, don't you think?'
'That she deserved to win? Hardly. I wrote it.'
Angela looked confused. 'But what do you make of her statement. I think it'll be for tax purposes to be honest, but still.'
I grew impatient. 'What are you talking about?'
Her mouth opened a fraction as the realisation I hadn't a clue what she was on about filtered into her mind. Then she said, 'Sandra Flint is donating all of her prize money to charity.'
I allowed myself a private sneer. Flint had more wealth than she knew what to do with. Angela was probably right; the donation might have had something to do with Flint's taxes, and it was also a terrific strategy to gain maximum publicity, and no doubt book sales would go through the roof.
'What charity?' I asked, not the least bit interested.
'Hang on.' She disappeared from my view for a moment. When she returned she said, 'The Merida Orphan Dogs and Rescue Centre.'
I nearly fell off my chair.
Angela misinterpreted my reaction and said, 'Yes, I thought her choice rather strange. But Juliette tells me Flint's hubby is from Venezuela.'
'Unbelievable.' It was all I could think of to say.
'I knew you'd find the news astonishing. Gotta dash.' She gave me a cheery wave. 'Enjoy yourself and may your muse inspire you.'
Astonishing? That hardly covered it. My mind was reeling with the news. Flint had gifted the Merida charity the fifty thousand the dead priest had intended to deliver. Her generous gift felt like divine intervention and recompense for my ghost-writing effort all at once. The charity would get its money, and I could hold onto my stash with a relatively clear conscience. The case, involving two deaths and the missing cash, would remain unsolved and without the crucial evidence of the rucksack, the police would have a hard job linking the dead body on the beach to the dead priest in the church, but what did I care. Let the cops do their sniffing. Maybe they would solve some other crimes in the process. By taking the cash I was doing Paco and Claire and Mario a favour, too, by helping to preserve their deceased relative's reputation. Whereas, I thought, suddenly thrilled to be exonerated from the burden of guilt, if I was to hand over the cash, Juan would be the prime suspect in the priest's murder, unable to offer his defence from the grave.
In my mind, Juan had killed the priest, taken off with the cash and the manuscript, and had gone and hidden his booty in a sea cave. On his exit from the cave, as he tried to make his way back to Puertito, he got caught in a current and swept down the coast until he drowned and was then washed up on that isolated beach. Let the likes of that author Angela mentioned – Richard Parry, if I recall correctly – let him come up with fictional alternatives to that scenario. Let him be the one to inject complexity in the form of other suspects. I did not want to consider the possibility that someone else killed the priest and Juan as well, and Fuerteventura had a murderer on the loose. Besides, if that were the case, the police would no doubt figure it out.
I started packing up my things, eager to put the farmhouse and Tefía behind me. My flight didn't leave until the following morning, but I thought I would check into a hotel in the city, see if I could get some of the cash transferred.
In the bedroom, I removed the contents of the rucksack and scattered them across the four-poster bed. The clothes and shoes and sunscreen I stuffed in a plastic bag, planning on tossing them in a garbage bin in Puerto del Rosario. The cash I packed in my suitcase. That left the phone. Curious, I switched it on. There had been two missed calls I had no intention of responding to, and one solitary message. I opened it.
Did you board your flight okay? Hope you are having good weather in Caracas.
The phone belonged to the priest? Stood to reason. It was more damning evidence that the murderer and the possessor of that rucksack were one and the same person.
I pressed the off button in case the phone sprang to life with another call. I needed to get rid of it. Not in the garbage in Puerto del Rosario. I would take it with me to the airport and dump it in a bin there, minus the SIM.
Before I left the bedroom, I took one last look out the window, at the view of the rocky plain and the windmill marking the site of the prison. Rainless clouds billowed. A car tore down the road heading south. I doubted I would ever return here, and it was with a measure of solemnity, that I turned back to the room and gathered up my suitcase and the rucksack.
I loaded the car then did a final sweep from room to room making sure I had not left anything behind. As I closed the front door and deposited the key under the doormat, I succumbed to a wave of nostalgia. The farmhouse was meant to have been my home for some months. I bid the old stone goodbye.
Inserting the ignition key aroused a fresh wave of anxiety laced with anticipation. I was about to escape with my booty; ahead of me back in England, I faced a bright new future filled with promise. In under two weeks, I had transformed myself from a depressed wretch wallowing in divorce misery and various resentments, to an optimistic man poised to commence his own literary career. A ghost no more.
The journey across the island was pleasant. The sense of leaving, the knowledge that I would not be driving in the other direction, led me to wonder what it must have felt like when those prisoners were freed. Unlike me, they did not fly off to start a brand-new life afresh. They faced a kind of purgatory without any heaven at the end of it. Unlike me, they had travelled into a future that was grim and uncertain and dangerous. A future of compromise or condemnation. Or, no future at all. Unl
ike me.
My first task in Puerto del Rosario was to find a wire transfer service. I called in at a bank, made my inquiry and was directed to a place in Corralejo. Surely there was somewhere in Puerto? As if I was about to drive all the way to Corralejo! The man eyed me with disdain and informed me in adequate and, dare I say it, sarcastic English, that the only place on the island where people wanted to do that sort of thing was in Corralejo. He looked behind me as though to attend to the person next in line. There was no next in line. With an inward scowl, I left the bank and scanned the pavement. The city was busy, no one was taking any notice of anyone else. There was a small waste bin in the plaza across the street. I reached into my trouser pocket and extracted the priest's phone, sidestepping over to the wall of the bank to extract the SIM. Then, with a casual gait, I wandered over to the bin and rid myself of the phone. I kept walking. I took a side street and then another. When I was sure no one was watching I dropped the SIM in the gutter. It occurred to me perhaps I should have tossed the SIM out the car window, but it was too late now. I hurried back to my car and drove off, leaving the city congestion behind and heading south, the direction of the airport.
I checked into an expensive hotel on the waterfront on the city outskirts and found myself in a spacious and modern room with a window overlooking the ocean. Stunning as it was, with little to do to occupy my time, I read over my story on my laptop, mulling over points of expansion. After all, there was no way Trevor Moore was about to settle for having written a novelette. I thought I might have José marry and repress his sexuality rather than jump off a cliff – that ending really was too melodramatic and cut off numerous possible scenes. Really, the suicide was the sole reason the work was too short.
A Prison in the Sun Page 23
