A Silent Death

by Peter May

  Lucas nodded.

  Cristina sighed. ‘I think we’re going to have to get you a tutor, Lucas.’

  Lucas shrugged. ‘Whatever.’ And headed off to his room.

  ‘We can’t afford a tutor.’ Antonio looked at her pointedly.

  Cristina turned towards Mackenzie. ‘He’s a bright boy. Doing really well in most subjects. But maths . . .’ She shrugged hopelessly.

  ‘Must be in the genes,’ Antonio said. ‘Neither of us are remotely equipped to help him. I mean, I sell cars down in Santa Ana. The extent of my arithmetic is subtracting the trade-in value from the asking price and adding on the extras.’

  ‘Maybe I could help,’ Mackenzie said. ‘I have a degree in mathematics.’

  An astonished silence fell across the table. Cristina said, ‘You have a degree in maths?’

  ‘Among other things.’

  Antonio said, ‘Four languages and multiple degrees! What on earth are you doing in the police?’

  Cristina flicked him a look, but Mackenzie said simply, ‘My dad was a cop.’

  Cristina said, ‘Well, if you’re around long enough, maybe you could see if there’s anything you could do to help the boy. But here’s hoping we get Cleland sooner rather than later.’

  Not least, Mackenzie thought, because it would take the strain off this whole family. Even he could see that living with Cleland’s threat of reprisal was taking its toll. He stood up. ‘I should be going.’

  ‘Already?’ Antonio seemed disappointed.

  Mackenzie said to Cristina, ‘You told me you’re taking your sister to the hospital in the morning.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hope it’s nothing serious.’

  ‘She has breast cancer.’

  ‘Oh.’ Again he was at a loss for how to respond, and scared to say anything in case it was the wrong thing – as Susan had so often accused him of doing.

  ‘I’m picking up Paco, too. He’s getting released tomorrow.’

  ‘All one big happy family,’ Antonio quipped, though his smile said it was anything but.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Colegio Cánovas del Castillo comprised a collection of square white buildings set someway back from the road to Estepona, behind Burger King and the Mercadona supermarket.

  Cristina turned off the A7 at Aldi and followed the cracked tarmac surface of a tree-lined dual carriageway back into the dusty sun-bleached hills that rose in random undulations towards the mountains. Unfinished roads branched off to the left and right, petering out in the dust.

  Cranes loomed over abandoned concrete apartment blocks on the rise, and in the valley beyond the school empty terracotta villas sat in rows among the gorse, facing on to the parched fairways of a tawdry-looking golf course. She spun the wheel and turned the battered family Seat down towards the school gates, past the shuttered sales office of a developer peddling homes that had never been built.

  The road was lined with the cars of parents dropping off their children, a slow procession in both directions, the pavement crowded with chattering children in shirtsleeves and regulation skirts and shorts, satchels slung over shoulders or hanging from little hands. It was already hot, and Cristina had all the windows down.

  She was embarrassed by her car, easing its way between all the shiny new SUVs: Mercs, Audis, BMWs. Many of which Antonio had probably sold. Even with two incomes it was all they could afford. Although Antonio was fortunate in being able to bring home a car from the second-hand lot every evening. Neither Cristina nor her husband earned very much, and the bulk of their disposable income went on providing the best education for Lucas that money could buy. Still, he was not doing as well as they had hoped.

  She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw him sitting anxiously in the back seat. After Mackenzie had gone the previous evening, she had done her level best to help him with his homework, but knew she wasn’t really up to it. And so did Lucas. Only, it was he who had to face his teachers, not her.

  Almost as if she had read her sister’s mind, Nuri put a hand over Cristina’s and offered her a pale smile from the passenger seat. Cristina could have wept. How was it possible that her little sister, stricken with breast cancer and on her way to Marbella for yet more chemo, could find sympathy for her? It was all so unfair.

  She turned in a circle at the bottom of the hill and drove back up to the gate to let Lucas off. He gave his aunt a sunny wave, but offered his mother only a quick sullen glance, before running off to find his classmates. They drove up the road, past a white tower with long crosses on each face, and Nuri said, ‘Thanks for this. I know you have a lot of things on your mind.’

  Cristina shook her head and smiled, doing her best to hide the tears gathering in her eyes. ‘Family first,’ she said. ‘You know I’d do anything for you, sis.’

  ‘I know.’

  Neither of them paid the least attention to the black SUV parked next to the chunks of concrete that blocked the road beyond the deserted sales office. Obscured by smoked glass, Cleland sat behind the wheel and breathed his satisfaction. Now he knew where the boy went to school. Knew where the bitch lived. And her sister. It was just a matter of time, and patience.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The HC International hospital in Marbella was set in sprawling gardens just off the A7, two hundred metres from the sea. Treatment rooms in Roman-tiled cottages overlooked an area of extensive lawns peppered by shady trees and flowering shrubs, recliners set out on stone terracing around a large turquoise-blue swimming pool.

  Cristina had often wondered how much Nuri’s treatment here was costing. But just as she and Antonio were investing everything in the future of their son, so Nuri and Paco were gambling everything on her sister’s life. What point was there in having money in the bank if you were dead? There was a risk, too, that if she survived the treatment she would be infertile, and Cristina knew just how desperate Nuri was to have children. Although even if it turned out that she couldn’t have any of her own, Cristina suspected that Nuri would adopt. She adored children, and doted on her nephew.

  First the nurses drew blood, and would only begin the latest treatment if her blood count was suitable: a surplus of white blood cells would postpone it. While the sample went to the lab for testing, Cristina and Nuri wandered through the gardens in the somnolent heat of the morning, listening to the cacophony of bird call coming from the trees, almost unaware of the distant rumble of traffic from the motorway.

  It had always seemed to Cristina that Nuri was far too young to have been struck down by the curse of breast cancer at the age of just twenty-six. But her little sister had met the challenge with silent courage and very little complaint. Cristina knew that after each treatment she spent several days throwing up, exhausted and resting most of the time in bed.

  They had gone together to a shop in Marbella to pick out a suitable wig to cover her increasing baldness. It was the only time Cristina had seen a crack in her sister’s brave facade. She had found her sitting facing the mirror in the little changing room at the back of the store, the chosen wig lying sadly in her lap, tears running down a face ravaged by the poison they had been pumping into her body. When Cristina sat beside her, putting an arm around her shoulders to pull her close, all she had said was, ‘I’m so scared, Cris. I don’t want to die.’

  It was late morning by the time Nuri was summoned to begin her chemo. There were almost a dozen other patients in the treatment room, each in their own recliner, each with their own TV. Most of them knew each other by now and would ignore the television to exchange gossip and the latest family news.

  There was a turnover, of course. Some patients reaching the successful completion of their treatment. Others dying. None of these women ever knew which of those two eventualities lay in wait for them. Cancer treatment was a lottery and the stakes were high. If you won you lived.

  Cristina watched as a nurse expertly inserted a needle into a vein in the back of her sister’s hand. She taped it down,
then began an initial flow of saline solution from an overhead bag to flush out her vascular system. Cristina saw the resignation in Nuri’s eyes. That psychological balancing act between what would make her sick and what would keep her alive.

  But typical of Nuri, her mind was elsewhere, thinking of others. She said, ‘Obviously I’m not going to make it to Aunt Ana’s today. Would you . . . ?’

  Cristina squeezed her free hand. ‘Don’t worry about Ana, I’ve got that covered.’ She stood up and glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll leave you to it for the moment, sis. The ambulance from the Costa del Sol should be dropping Paco off about now.’

  *

  Paco was waiting for her in the car park. The ambulance from the Hospital Costa del Sol had already been and gone, a trip out to Marviña saved by the unhappy coincidence of his wife being in town for cancer treatment. He looked deathly pale, and shrunken somehow in his jog pants and T-shirt. In spite of having shaved, the shadow of his beard never left his face and seemed darker in contrast with his jaundiced pallor. His right leg was heavily strapped, and he was balancing unsteadily on crutches.

  ‘Hey Cris.’ He managed to drop one of them as he attempted to give her a hug. She stooped to pick it up, aware how much his sense of macho pride would be offended by the need of physical help from a woman.

  She tipped a raised eyebrow towards his leg. ‘How is it?’

  ‘Hurts like hell. I’ll be off work for weeks. They say I was lucky. The bullet missed the femoral artery by a whisker. I’d have bled to death in minutes otherwise.’

  Cristina looked with concern into his sad dark eyes. ‘Do you think he knew that? I mean, do you think he missed it on purpose?’

  Paco curled his upper lip in anger. ‘I don’t think he gave a damn, one way or the other. If I died, I died. If I didn’t I would deliver his message.’ He met her eye for a moment, before quickly averting his gaze in embarrassment. ‘I’d be dead for sure, like the others, if I hadn’t been your brother-in-law.’ Then his eyes connected again with hers. ‘I guess I should be grateful.’

  Cristina shook her head. ‘But how did he know? That you were married to my sister, I mean? Where would he get that kind of information?’

  Paco looked as if he wanted to spit. ‘Someone on the inside, obviously. How else did they know what route the truck was taking?’

  ‘The Jefe said it didn’t seem like the truck had been forced off the road. That the driver had voluntarily turned off on to that dirt track. Could he have been in on it?’

  Paco shrugged. He said bitterly, ‘If he was, he wouldn’t have been expecting a bullet in the face as pay-off.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘How’s Nuri?’

  ‘In good spirits.’

  ‘She always is by the time the chemo has worn off. But it won’t take long to drag her right back down again.’ There was a break in his voice and for an awful moment Cristina thought he was going to cry. A man like Paco would never have been able to live that down, and would no doubt have found some way to blame Cristina for his moment of weakness. Fortunately for them both he controlled himself. ‘It’s been tough, Cris, you know? And it’ll be tougher now with this.’ He flicked his head angrily towards his leg. ‘I’ll not be able to do stuff for her, like before.’

  ‘You know I’ll help any way I can.’

  He nodded and managed a grudging half-smile. ‘I know. But you guys are both working, and you’ve got a kid to worry about. At least I’ll be home for a while.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘I just hope it doesn’t mean they’re going to put me on reduced pay.’ He jerked his head towards the hospital. ‘This place is costing a fucking fortune. We’re in enough debt as it is.’ He breathed his frustration. ‘Without the least idea if we’re going to survive. Physically or financially.’

  It would have been Cristina’s instinct to offer financial help, too, but that was beyond her. All she could do was nod her sympathy. She said, ‘It’ll probably be another couple of hours before Nuri’s finished. Do you want me to take you to get something to eat?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nah. This pain killer they’re giving me has totally ruined my appetite.’ He paused. ‘I could do with a drink, though.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Mackenzie woke late, sun streaming through the French windows to fall in burning bands across his bed. He had managed to kick off all his covers, and was lying in a twisted heap, naked apart from his boxer shorts.

  The shortness of the bed had not inhibited his sleep as he had feared. Fatigue had overcome all obstacles to comfort. But now he had a bad taste in his mouth and a growling in his belly.

  The shock of looking at his watch to see that it was after ten o’clock propelled him out of bed and into the shower. He dried and dressed quickly. A pair of jeans, a T-shirt, pristine white sneakers. He felt oddly starched in his new clothes as he went downstairs to the bar. There he wolfed down a couple of churros and washed them over with two large cups of cafe con leche. No one, they said, had called for him, and he wandered out into the street wondering what the hell he was doing here.

  The town had already come to life. Locals sat out on the pavement terrace, and at the bar across the street. A couple of mini-markets were doing brisk business, and pale people clutching doctors’ prescriptions came and went from the pharmacy next door. A little further down, a couple of old men perched on a bench seat, leaning forward on gnarled sticks to exchange observations on life in the shade of the colourful overhead sails. The sun was already striking heat off stone pavings where sunlight fell between the shadows. Everything, it seemed to Mackenzie, was covered in a fine dust. It had barely rained in weeks.

  Impatience turned to irritation, and he set off along the street in the direction Lucas had taken him the previous evening. He remembered his embarrassment at the strained atmosphere between Cristina and Antonio, and his failure to steer a smoother social course out of troubled family waters. He sympathized with Lucas, recalling how alienated he himself had felt when his aunt and uncle fought over the dinner table – or rather, when his uncle had picked a fight and shouted at his wife.

  The lower end of the street was dominated by the town hall – ayuntamiento as it was called in Spanish – with its mosaics around the entrance and its flags hanging limply in the airless heat. A terrace rose above the road, as the narrow thoroughfare fell away, and steps took him down into the Plaza del Vino. Although there were cars parked along both sides of the street, there were few people in the square.

  Half a dozen liveried and unmarked vehicles sat outside the police station, beyond the fire station with its loitering bomberos and Mackenzie ran up the steps to the main entrance. The duty officer looked up from his desk as Mackenzie entered the foyer. ‘Is the Jefe around?’ The policeman flicked his head towards the hall and the open door to the Jefe’s office. Mackenzie went through, knocked and entered.

  The Jefe looked up from a pile of paperwork which had been engaging his concentration and seemed pleased to see him. ‘Señor Mackenzie.’ He stood up and held out a hand. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Too well, Jefe, and half the day is gone already.’

  The Jefe shrugged. ‘It is Spain, señor. We start early and work late. It is too hot once the sun is up.’

  ‘Crime doesn’t wait for the weather, Jefe.’ Mackenzie’s disapproval was clear.

  The other man laughed. ‘You always say what you think, señor. I like that.’

  Mackenzie said, ‘Most people don’t.’ He hesitated. ‘Jefe, since Cristina is away this morning, I wondered if I might borrow a car. It feels like I’m just wasting my time hanging about up at the hotel. I could be checking out Cleland’s haunts down at the port.’

  The Jefe shook his head. ‘Not possible, I’m afraid. We would need permission from a higher authority. And then there is the question of insurance.’ He sat down and waved Mackenzie into the seat opposite. ‘Cristina will be back this afternoon.’

  ‘Have there been any developments at all?’

  ‘The fin
ancial police in Malaga have frozen those three bank accounts you uncovered yesterday, so Cleland will be feeling the pinch when he starts running out of ready cash. We’re tapping every underworld source we can to try and get some notion of where he might be hiding out, and who’s helping him.’

  ‘And how seriously do you take the threat on Cristina’s life?’

  The Jefe laughed. ‘I don’t. Cleland’s just looking to scapegoat his own conscience. I’m sure he has other more important things to occupy him now.’

  ‘What about the message he asked her brother-in-law to deliver?’

  ‘Amateur dramatics. Just trying to scare her.’

  ‘He’s succeeding.’

  The Jefe leaned forward on his desk. ‘Señor, if I really thought she was in danger I would have her confined to the house under armed guard until Cleland is caught. Trust me, he has bigger fish to fry.’ He sat back. ‘You’re Scottish, Cristina tells me. I spent two weeks in Scotland once. Salmon fishing in the Outer Hebrides. Best fishing of my whole life. Of course, conservation being what it is these days, we had to throw back all the salmon we caught. Do you fish?’

  ‘Unless I was fishing to feed myself I would consider it a waste of time. Catching fish only to throw them back with their mouths half torn open, seems pointless and cruel.’

  The Jefe raised his eyebrows in amusement. ‘I take it that’s a no.’

  Mackenzie nodded solemnly.

  ‘Do you like whisky, then?’

  Mackenzie smiled finally. ‘I have been known to sip the odd dram.’

  ‘I love the stuff. I have a wonderful collection at home. Everything from Lagavulin to Glenmorangie. I prefer the peaty kind myself.’

  ‘I’m a glens man,’ Mackenzie said. ‘Softer, sweeter whisky, aged in old sherry or madeira casks. Balvenie Double Wood is my favourite.’

  The Jefe beamed. ‘I have that very one. The triple wood, too. You must come up some evening and we’ll sample a few. I’m all on my own these days.’ And his face clouded. ‘Since my wife passed.’ But the cloud cleared quickly and he added, ‘If you’re here long enough, that is. We’ll both be happy to get that bastard sooner rather than later.’