by Peter May
He clapped his hands together briskly to cut through the lethargy of the officers trooping out of the room.
‘Okay guys, come on, let’s move it!’
CHAPTER THIRTY
Cristina hurried across the Plaza del Vino, past the tobacconist and the newsagent, and the little music shop which was just a stone’s throw from the music school on the far side of the plaza. The mini-market would be open till three, and she thought about running in quickly to get some provisions, but there really wasn’t time.
She glanced up at the front window of her apartment. It was Antonio’s day off and he would have returned long ago from taking Lucas to school. She recalled with embarrassment their row in front of Mackenzie the previous evening. Relations between them had been deteriorating in the last few months. Financial pressures, the problems with Lucas and his schoolwork, the demands of her job. And now all this with Cleland. It was something they had to address before it began to get out of hand.
She saw with some dismay that his car was not parked out front. She was returning home for half an hour on the pretext of showering and changing, after spending half the night out on the job. But really, she just wanted the chance to spend a quiet ten minutes with Antonio. To say sorry. And hold him. And tell him they had something special that she didn’t want to lose.
The apartment was empty when she went in. A shambles, as it always was. She simply couldn’t stay on top of her job and keep house at the same time. And Antonio never lifted a finger.
The air seemed heavy still with the bad feelings of the previous evening. Few words had passed between them on her return from the abandoned development on the hill where she and Mackenzie had found the illegal immigrants. And then just a few hours later, as she dragged herself out of bed to take the Jefe’s call, only a handful of terse and bad-tempered exchanges had been required to establish that Antonio would have to take Lucas to school. Something he resented on his day off.
She went into their bedroom to take a freshly laundered uniform from the wardrobe and search for clean underwear in the chest of drawers. In the shower she turned her face up to the stream of hot water and let it cascade over her body, washing away the dust and the tension. Though nothing, she knew, could ever erase the bloody scene in the finca at La Peña. Like Mariana’s recollection of the smirking Roberto Vasquez, it was an image that would stay with her for the rest of her life.
She dried her hair roughly with a towel – no time to blow it dry – and slipped into her clean clothes. It was only as she went through to the living room, pulling her hair back into its habitual ponytail, that she noticed Antonio’s golf clubs missing from the corner of the hall where they usually languished. For all her good intentions to kiss and make up, an involuntary anger surged through her. With everything that was going on between them, and the threat from Cleland to Cristina and everyone in her family, all that Antonio could think of was playing golf. ‘Fuck you, Toni!’ she shouted at the empty apartment. ‘Fuck you!’ And was startled by the sudden ringing of her mobile phone. She unclipped it from the holder on her belt.
‘Officer Sánchez Pradell.’
‘Cristina. It’s Captain Rodríguez from GRECO.’
Cristina was astonished that the head of the Organized Crime Squad in Marbella would even know her Christian name. ‘Yes, Captain.’
‘UDYCO forwarded the information you passed on to them about Roberto Vasquéz. That was good work, officer. There have been developments. I’ve spoken to your Jefe. You and the Englishman need to meet with one of our people . . .’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
An avenue of palm trees led up the hill from a derelict sales office just off the A7. The golf course at Balle Olivar itself was immaculately kept, and meandered across the hillside with stunning views towards the sea. But rows of pueblo-style white apartment blocks beyond the clubhouse had failed to sell as the developer had hoped, and now lay half empty, slowly crumbling in the southern sun. It had been a question of timing. The financial crash of 07/08 had come at just the wrong moment, and huge billboards now offered apartments at absurdly low prices.
Mackenzie had spent a fruitless hour-and-a-half trudging from bar to bar in the overcrowded streets of festive Estepona, waving Cleland’s photograph in front of barmen and customers in a vain search for associates of the fugitive. On more than one occasion he found himself regarded with suspicion by dodgy characters with south London accents. He thought it more than likely that half the villains on the NCA’s wanted list were lurking in the darker corners of some of these establishments. But no one admitted to knowing or recognizing Cleland, or Templeton as he had called himself. And no one was very keen to engage Mackenzie in conversation.
Hunger gnawed at his stomach. He had barely eaten in the last twenty-four hours and it would be another two hours before the Spanish sat down to lunch. In an attempt to get cooler air into the car he wound down the window of the unmarked vehicle they had given him, but the air that blew in was just as hot. He checked his phone. It was almost at full charge. The battery had died after he’d failed to charge it the night before, and he’d been forced to leave it plugged into the cigarette lighter while doing his tour of the bars.
The clubhouse sat on the brow of the hill, set among a profusion of palm trees and semi-tropical flowering shrubs. It was a low, two-storey building with a shallow pitched yellow-tiled roof. There was a great deal of smoked glass and chrome and polished woodwork, and men and women in polo shirts and colourful shorts and slacks stood about in the shade of the veranda, nursing pint glasses and watching entrants in the annual competition teeing off on the first hole. A huge leader board had been erected for the occasion, and adjudicators sat in the shade of an open-sided canvas tent updating it with the latest scores coming in from the course.
Empty apartment blocks overlooked manicured greens peppered with baseball-capped competitors, the undulating course itself punctuated by shimmering bunkers and dusty mature olive trees.
There was not a breath of wind as Mackenzie found a place in the crowded car park and stepped out into the blazing heat of the early afternoon. The Pro Shop in the basement of the clubhouse was crowded, and half a dozen covered golf buggies stood in parking slots out front.
As Mackenzie headed for the steps he spotted the Jefe’s black Audi Q5 glinting in the sunlight. So he hadn’t managed to get away as quickly as he’d hoped.
Air conditioning brought blessed relief from the heat as he stepped inside. Tables were set with crisp linen cloths for a lunch that would not be served for some hours yet, although Mackenzie could smell something good cooking in the kitchen and his stomach issued an audible complaint. Staff were setting out a long buffet with cold meats and salads. He was tempted to help himself surreptitiously as he passed, but controlled the urge. He spent the next half-hour talking to barmen and serving staff, and the club secretary who told him that Templeton had been a generous contributor to club fund-raisers.
He showed everyone photographs of Vasquéz and Cleland. Predictably, no one recognized Vasquéz. He would have stood out here like a tramp at a cocktail party. Everyone remembered Templeton. And no one had a bad word to say about him. The waitress who brought Mackenzie his coffee said, ‘He’s a lovely man, Señor Templeton.’ She had the look in her eyes of someone smitten. ‘Always buying drinks for his friends. And the staff. A good tipper, too.’ A group of golfers that he played with regularly was out on the course somewhere, she told him, participants in today’s match play. Mackenzie debated whether or not to hang about until they came back in, but it could have been a long wait, and this all felt like a waste of time anyway. He decided to leave.
By the time he got back to the car park the Jefe’s Audi was gone. A loud cheer drifted across the cars from the eighteenth green as someone sank a hole in one.
Mackenzie was about to get into his car when he saw Antonio and Paco emerging together from the side entrance to the locker rooms. Antonio, a set of clubs over one shoulder, was walking
at pace and Paco was having trouble keeping up with him on his crutches. It was clear to Mackenzie, even from a distance, that the two men were arguing. He stood for a moment watching as Antonio turned suddenly, confrontational, and Mackenzie could hear his raised voice above the excited hubbub from the course. He was curious, and decided to add himself to the mix.
With as casual an air as he could muster, he strolled towards them, hands in pockets. ‘Well, hello,’ he said, affecting what he hoped was a genuine smile of surprise. ‘Didn’t expect to see either of you two here.’
Both men started almost guiltily and turned towards him. Paco recovered himself more quickly, although to Mackenzie’s eye his smile never got beyond his lips. ‘Señor,’ he said. ‘Good to see you again.’ He waved a crutch vaguely towards the course. ‘In this better circumstance.’
Mackenzie nodded towards the walking aids. ‘You’ll not be playing much golf with those.’
Paco inclined his head in wistful acknowledgement. ‘I’m afraid I won’t. But I still enjoy watching. Not much else to occupy me at the moment.’ He laughed. ‘I can just about afford the hire of a golf buggy.’
Mackenzie’s eyes drifted towards Antonio, and the golf bag slung over his shoulder. Antonio forced a smile that, like Paco’s, didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘I usually play on my day off, Señor Mackenzie. But I forgot it was the San Isidro competition today.’ His smile turned rueful. ‘A waste of a journey.’
‘You won’t stay to watch?’
‘I prefer to play.’
Paco looked at Mackenzie. ‘You’re not here to play, though.’
Mackenzie’s laugh was genuine now. ‘No. That would not be a pretty sight.’ But he decided not to elucidate on the real reason for his being there. ‘Maybe see you later.’
And he turned to head off back towards his car.
When he slipped into the driver’s seat he unplugged his phone and switched it back on. He could see beyond the reflections on his windscreen that the two men had resumed their argument. But he was immediately distracted by an alert from the phone. It was a text from Cristina. Where have you been? Meet me ASAP in the car park of Zhivago’s. It’s a restaurant in Marbella. Find it on Google maps.
When he looked up again Paco had vanished, and Antonio was striding angrily towards his car, where he raised the boot and threw in his clubs before slamming it shut. Mackenzie watched as he drove off with a squealing of tyres, and wondered exactly what it was that had passed between the brothers-in-law.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Zhivago’s was located in a leafy north-west corner of Marbella known as Little Russia. Wealthy Russian expats hung out here in exclusive clubs and bars among a proliferation of palm trees. They built themselves beautiful bodies in luxury gymnasia, treated their wives to prohibitively expensive sessions in stylish beauty parlours, ate in any one of a number of restaurants offering international haute-cuisine. There was even a school of Russian ballet where daughters could be deposited while parents sipped French wines in upmarket Russian cocktail bars. All within a few hundred metres of some of the most expensive marina real estate in Europe. There they could park their luxury yachts for the purchase of a mere 400,000-euro lease, and dine easy in the knowledge that there would be no parking ticket waiting for them on their return. It was rumoured that Putin himself owned a hacienda in the hills less than five kilometres away.
Mackenzie squinted towards his iPhone resting in the passenger seat, trying to decipher Google maps and listening to computerized instructions from an anodyne female voice. He turned off the motorway and followed an access road down to a roundabout before turning on to a winding access road that took him into the heart of suburban Marbella.
You have reached your destination, his phone told him, and he saw the single-storey white-painted building angled around lush gardens behind a hedge designed for ultimate privacy. Advertising hoardings sat on the shallow pitch of the Roman-tiled roof advertising a galería of wines and a bodega for fine food. The restaurant’s name, Zhivago’s, was inscribed in discreet letters below an imperious image of Bacchus gazing skywards.
The food and wine complex sat directly across the road from a private Russian club called Azure Beach. The club stood at the entrance of what appeared to be a gated labyrinth of suburban streets filled with luxury apartments and elegant villas that shimmered mirage-like in the heat of the afternoon sun. Somewhere beyond the palms and willows and bougainvillea that draped themselves over fences and walls, the same streets sloped gently away towards the port below, where the Mediterranean lay coruscating across the bay.
As he turned his Seat into the car park, Mackenzie noticed Cristina’s SUV parked some way down a side street leading towards the marina. He stopped, and was about to reverse out again, when Cristina stepped from a dark grey Kia Sportage and waved him over.
He parked and walked across to the Kia. Without a word she opened the rear door for him and slipped back into the front passenger seat. A perspiring and overweight middle-aged man with precious little hair half-turned in the driver’s seat and nodded as Mackenzie climbed in.
‘Detective Gil,’ Cristina said by way of introduction. ‘He’s with GRECO here in Marbella.’
Mackenzie nodded. He remembered Gil from the meeting at Marviña the day before. He stretched forward a hand and received a damp one in return.
‘He’s got a video you need to see.’
Gil reached for his Samsung Galaxy and started a video playing, then held it up for Mackenzie to watch. Mackenzie recognized the entrance to Zhivago’s and realized that the footage must have been taken on a long lens from somewhere across the street, a hidden vantage point beyond the Azure Beach.
Gil said, ‘Surveillance footage. Taken a couple of months back. We were watching a guy called Rafa. Long suspected of laundering drug money. He has this business selling yachts.’ His laugh contained not a trace of humour. ‘You and I couldn’t even make a living on the handful of transactions he does each year. But somehow he manages to turn a handsome profit.’ He jabbed his finger at the screen. ‘That’s him going in. The one in the middle.’
Mackenzie leaned forward for a better look. Three men in designer suits were climbing out of a black Porsche Cayenne. Rafa was the tallest of them, elegant in shiny Italian shoes, dark hair gelled back in crinkled curls from a handsome brow.
‘Fancies himself, does Rafa,’ Gil said. ‘Smart guy. He buys his yachts at trade prices, then sells them to wealthy Russian clients for astronomical profits.’
‘And the Russians don’t mind being ripped off?’
‘No they don’t. In fact, no sooner have they bought the yachts than they sell them again for millions less than they paid for them.’
Mackenzie said, ‘So effectively paying Rafa for goods or services unknown.’
Gil nodded. ‘Exactly. And without the recording of any transaction other than the buying and selling of the yacht. We’d been trying to establish exactly what these payments were for. Almost certainly drugs. But we had no proof. The only real drugs connection came in the shape of the agent who was bringing Rafa and the Russians together. Alejandro Delgado.’ Again he pointed at his screen. ‘He’s the one on Rafa’s right.’ A much shorter man, prosperously round, a cigar burning between big-knuckled fingers. ‘We’ve got nothing at all on Delgado, except that his brother got caught smuggling a shitload of cocaine into the country two years ago. The two brothers ran a yacht-rental agency, and although Delgado himself was never implicated in the drugs bust, it’s inconceivable that he didn’t at least know about it. He and his brother were like that.’ He interlaced fore and middle fingers.
Mackenzie was interested now. ‘How did you catch the brother?’
‘The cocaine came in first by boat to Gibraltar. There the contraband was divided among several smaller vessels which were meant to head up the coast and offload at various Spanish ports. But we had been watching it all the way from North Africa by satellite, courtesy of the US. A fleet of coastgua
rd vessels intercepted the transfer boats as they sailed out of Gibraltar into Spanish waters. Delgado’s brother was on one of them. The ringleader.’ Gil glanced at the video still playing on his phone. ‘We’d been hoping that by keeping both Rafa and Delgado under surveillance we could start making connections, not just between them, but with others we didn’t yet know about.’
‘This is all very interesting, Detective Gil,’ Mackenzie said, ‘but what’s the connection with Cleland? That’s what I’m here for after all.’
‘Patience, Señor Mackenzie, patience.’ Gil found a hanky in one of his pockets and wiped away the beads of perspiration quivering along the line of his brow. His fingers were steaming up the screen of his phone. ‘When Officer Sánchez Pradell made her request for further information on Roberto Vasquéz a little alarm bell went off in my head. Vasquéz dined here at Zhivago’s a few times at gatherings hosted by Rafa. A very unlikely dinner guest, given the somewhat classier company that Rafa and Delgado usually kept. Local businessmen, politicians, the odd Russian oligarch. This is not a cheap restaurant, señor. And Vasquéz is the epitome of cheap. A low-life hoodlum.’ Gil used his handkerchief to clear the condensation from the screen of his phone and only succeeded in smearing it. He scrubbed at the glass in annoyance. ‘So, anyway, I went back and had a look at some of the surveillance footage to refresh my memory, and suddenly another face jumped out at me.’
He scrolled forward to a point where a group of ten or twelve men wearing dark suits and white shirts open at tanned necks was emerging from the restaurant, presumably having just eaten. The mood was cordial. There was laughter and back-slapping. Here was a group of men that embodied the quintessential nature of money and power. Sleek and well-groomed and self-satisfied. With the standout exception of Vasquéz, who was unshaven and uncomfortable in his cheap suit. Someone’s pet Rottweiler.
