A Silent Death

by Peter May

  A dozen or more police officers and Guardia Civil stood around in huddled groups. They moved silently aside as Cristina sprinted down the ramp. Inquisitive shoppers from the supermarket crowded hastily erected crime-scene tape. Restaurant staff from Mini India, and medics from the Helicopteros medical centre stood along the first-floor walkway, staring down with naked curiosity. Medical assistance had been instantly to hand, but there was nothing to be done.

  Mackenzie ran down the ramp after Cristina. Into the fetid gloom of the subterranean parking lot. Half the roof lights were broken. The rows of red and white pillars supporting the roof itself were chipped and scored. A single vehicle sat on flat tyres in dusty abandon at the far end of it. Beyond the wreck, a colourfully graffitied wall was nearly obscured by darkness. The underground entrance to the supermarket itself was shuttered, and looked as if it might have been that way for some time.

  Almost in the centre of the parking slots, lamps had been erected to cast a surreal light on a scene of carnage. A car, which Mackenzie immediately recognized as Antonio’s, sat skewed at an angle, the driver’s door lying wide open. Antonio himself lay in a twisted heap beside it. The force of the bullets ripping him apart had propelled him backwards against it. His blood smeared down the rear passenger door where he had slid to the floor. A large pool of it spreading around him, turning brown now, sticky and oleaginous in the airless heat. The same pathologist who had attended the finca killings at the start of the day was ending it crouched over the deceased husband of the police officer he had met on the hill just hours before.

  Cristina’s howl of anguish reverberated around the scarred and naked walls of this desperate place. Mackenzie felt it chill him to the bone, and tears sprang unexpectedly to his eyes. He wanted to grab her and hold her and tell her it would be okay. But it wouldn’t. It never would.

  It was the Jefe, perspiring and pale, who stopped her from getting any closer to the body. She fought against the arms he put around her, screaming and sobbing, flailing in hopeless desperation until his strength prevailed over hers and she subsided weeping against his shoulder.

  Mackenzie saw his distress as he closed his eyes tightly, before opening them again to look over her head in despair towards the Scotsman whose life this woman had saved less than an hour before. There was an almost imperceptible shake of his head as he spread the fingers of his big hand across the back of her head and held her close to his chest.

  Rarely had Mackenzie felt so powerless to influence or change the course of events. Here was human tragedy in the raw. Nothing to be done, no comfort in empty words – even were he able to find any. All he could do was stand and stare. Unable to offer solace, and certainly not reason.

  He let his eyes drift across the scene illuminated by the pathologist’s lamps. There were fresh skid marks on the concrete three metres from Antonio’s car, spent shell casings scattered across the floor. A lot of them. He looked back to see more rubber left by spinning tyres at the turn on to the ramp. He could almost hear the echo of those tyres, even above the painful sobs that reverberated around the car park.

  A policewoman from Marviña and a female Guardia Civil prised Cristina gently loose from the Jefe’s arms, and led – half-carried – her towards the exit. Mackenzie could still hear her pain manifesting itself in the tears that tore themselves from her lungs long after they had taken her back up the ramp.

  The Jefe wiped his own grief from wet cheeks as Mackenzie approached. Behind them a white van slowly descended the ramp, and half a dozen forensics officers in protective plastic suits spilled out to start a detailed examination of the scene. Mackenzie said, ‘Do you have any thoughts?’

  ‘Plenty of thoughts, señor. Not so many ideas. And, anyway, it will be out of our hands when homicide arrive from Malaga.’ He paused. ‘Did you meet Antonio?’

  Mackenzie nodded. ‘A couple of times. In fact, I saw him just a few hours ago up at Balle Olivar.’

  The Jefe nodded. ‘Yes, so did I.’

  ‘He and his brother-in-law seemed to be having some kind of altercation.’

  The Jefe looked up. ‘Paco?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The chief sighed and cast his eyes across the crime scene. ‘Well, this wasn’t the result of some domestic dispute. Whoever killed Toni put nine bullets in him. Could have been more than one shooter. Ballistics will tell us that. But no one heard any shots, so they could have been using silencers. Which would make it a professional hit.’

  He saw Mackenzie’s gaze wander towards the CCTV camera at the entrance to the supermarket.

  ‘Defunct,’ he said. ‘That entrance has been closed for over a year. No one uses this car park any more. Too many muggings and break-ins. I’ve got officers questioning shoppers who were in the supermarket in or around the time of the shooting, or in the car park outside, but no one seems to have seen the killer’s car leaving. Although, from those tyre marks I’d say they must have left in quite a hurry.’ He gazed thoughtfully at Mackenzie. ‘So what do you think?’

  Mackenzie shook a despairing head. ‘I have no idea what to think.’

  ‘Cleland?’

  Mackenzie shrugged. Somehow he didn’t think so. But he had no logical way to express that.

  ‘It would make sense,’ the Jefe said. ‘This is how he gets back at Cristina. Why kill her when he can murder her husband instead and make her suffer like him?’

  Mackenzie’s eyes wandered again back to the body of the young man lying in his own blood. The curl of dark hair on his forehead, the crook of the bloodied finger that wore his wedding ring. Blood-stained blue socks that he had pulled on just that morning without the least expectation that he would never again pull on a fresh pair. A life broken and ended in a few fatal seconds.

  He thought of Lucas who had just lost his dad. He thought of Cristina, who had saved his life while others were taking the life of her husband. Three lives shattered. One lost. Two that would never be the same again.

  He allowed his head to drop, and saw a single tear make a crater in the dust of the floor at his feet.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Cleland heard the buzzing as soon as he opened the front door. For a moment he thought it might be some electrical fault. But then the few stray flies which had made it downstairs, along with the stink of decomposing flesh, brought him sudden horrified realization. He closed his eyes and cursed himself. He should have disposed of the body during the hours of darkness. Everything decayed so quickly in this heat. It was the reason the Spanish always buried their dead within twenty-four hours.

  He took the steps two at a time, up into the thick air of the upper floor. It was filled with flies. He screwed up his eyes with disgust, forced to keep his mouth closed and breathe in noxious air through his nose. He saw immediately that Ana was not at her computer and turned back into the hall.

  Sandro’s barking fought to be heard above the din of the flies, but he was hoarse now, and his bark carried little force. It was coming from the room where Cleland had dragged Sergio’s lifeless form the day before. The door stood open. Ana lay sobbing on the floor, half-sprawled across the body of the dead Sergio. A sight that sickened him almost more than the stench. He stepped quickly into the room, stooping to lift the prostrate form of the deaf–blind woman from the floor. Beyond an initial stiffening of her body she offered no resistance. She seemed surprisingly light as he pulled her out of the room, arms folded under her breasts, dragging her heels across the floor of the hall and into the living room.

  He laid her down carefully and hurried back into the box room to open the window, then retreat to the hall and close the door behind him. Sandro danced and barked around his feet as he went through the house opening every window wide to let out the flies and the smell. In the kitchen he found scented candles and lit them along the counter top.

  Ana’s sobbing had reduced itself to a whimper, but deep trembling inhalations still racked her body as she lay curled up on the floor where he had left her. Impossible now
, he realized, to stay here much longer. In two strides he crossed to the table with the computer screens and got down on his knees to reconnect them to the mains. Then he hooked his arms under Ana’s shoulders and dragged her to her chair. She slumped into it, eyes open but unseeing. He brushed maggots from her face and hair. Nature wasted no time in employing death for renewal. The worst of the stench of Sergio’s decaying body had escaped through the open window. But the corpse in the back room, he knew, would continue to generate noxious gases. All that Cleland could do now was keep the door closed on them, and the windows open, for as long as it took to get Ana and himself out of here.

  He fumbled on the table for Ana’s buzzer alert and pinned it to her blouse, waiting with impatience for the computer to boot up. It was infuriatingly slow. He circled to the other screen and saw finally that he had a blinking cursor. He pulled up a chair and typed.

  – Ana. Ana, I need to talk to you.

  She did not respond. He was almost overcome by an urge to slap her again, but he didn’t like the unaccustomed guilt that went with that and restrained himself.

  – Ana. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to kill Sergio. Please believe me. If I could undo it I would. He could barely believe that these words were tripping from his fingertips. He would never have been good enough for you anyway. What took him so bloody long to come back? Twenty years, for God’s sake! If he’d been half a man he’d have stood up to his parents, and yours, all those years ago. He wasn’t worthy of you. You deserve better. Some part of him was desperate for her understanding. Although he had no idea why.

  Finally she stirred, pulling herself more upright in her chair to pass her fingertips over the braille. Her eyes moved as if searching the room to locate him. Her voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘Take me to the church. I have not been for two days. And we must take the dog out.’

  The church? Why the hell did she want to go to the church? He had never understood this impulse that people had to seek solace in God. And hadn’t she told him herself that she’d never had any time for religion? As for the dog . . . he wished now that he had dealt with Sandro as he had with Sergio. The animal had retreated to a corner of the room and was glowering at him darkly.

  – There are too many people out there. It’s the feria. The town is crowded.

  Her voice was insistent now. ‘I want to go to the church. It’s the least you owe me.’

  Owe her? What did he owe her? He screwed his eyes shut. Jesus, who was the hostage here? He forced himself to calm down and steadied his fingers on the keyboard.

  – Okay. I’ll take you to the church. I promise. But I have some business to take care of first, some phone calls to make.

  ‘Don’t leave me again!’ The plaintive appeal in her voice both surprised and touched him. And he couldn’t begin to imagine what kind of turmoil she was facing alone in the prison that was her body. He reached out to place his fingers on her hand. She pulled it sharply away, an instinctive response to his unexpected touch, and to his consternation he found that he was hurt by it.

  – I’m still here. I won’t leave you. I’ll use your phone. And then, I’ll be as quick as I can.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Marviña was deserted in the late afternoon heat. Sunlight struck off dusty bleached stone, reflecting light into the darkest shadows. Sensible folk snoozed in cool rooms behind closed shutters after a late lunch. Not a soul, not even a dog, stirred in the shimmering furnace of the Plaza del Vino. But in the ill-named Calle Utopía the blue lights of umpteen police vehicles flashed intermittently, and half a dozen officers stood around smoking and speaking in hushed tones. The entrance to Cristina’s apartment block was wedged open, and the darkened stairwell breathed cool air into the baking heat of the street.

  Mackenzie cast sad eyes across the scene in the narrow road as the Jefe drew his Audi into the kerbside and the two men stepped out of its air-conditioned interior to be assaulted by the Spanish sun. At almost the same moment, a solitary figure cast a short shadow on the flagstones of the square as it made erratic progress towards the group at the top of the hill. Paco took a couple of minutes to reach them, hobbling on his crutches.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ the Jefe said. ‘You should be resting up with that leg.’

  Paco’s face was putty-coloured with pain. He said, ‘Cristina needs support. Where is she?’

  The Jefe tipped his head in the direction of the police station on the far side of the square. ‘Giving a statement.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Jefe! It’s a bit fucking soon for that. The woman’s just lost her husband.’

  ‘And you were having a bit of a row with him just a few hours ago from what I hear.’ The Jefe cocked an eyebrow to ask the unspoken question. But Paco just glowered at him, before turning his glare on Mackenzie. When he didn’t respond the Jefe was forced to frame the question in words. ‘What were you fighting about, Paco?’

  ‘It wasn’t a fight!’ Paco was defensive. ‘It was a disagreement.’

  ‘About what?’ Mackenzie said.

  Paco released a long sigh of resignation. But he addressed his response to the chief. ‘Toni and Cris have been going through a bad patch, Jefe. Apparently they had a big row last night. She threatened to leave him, and take Lucas with her. Toni told me there was no way he would allow that to happen. If they split up he was going to contest custody. He said any court would see that he could offer a more stable home environment. The hours she works, her shifts, the dangers of the job. No way she could be a single mother and a cop.’

  The Jefe scratched his chin. ‘So what was the disagreement?’

  Paco shrugged. ‘What do you think? I told him not to expect any support from me. I’m married to Cris’s sister, for God’s sake. Toni and me might be golfing buddies, but Chris is family.’ He paused then, as if suddenly remembering only now that Antonio was dead. He pulled a face and shook his head. ‘Jesus . . . I can’t believe someone did this to him.’ He looked at the chief. ‘That bastard Cleland?’

  The Jefe just shrugged.

  ‘Jefe!’ A young forensics officer, running with sweat beneath protective plastic, appeared in the doorway to the apartments. Unusually for a Spaniard, he had ginger hair, and his face was puce. ‘Something you need to hear, chief.’

  He vanished back inside, and Mackenzie and the Jefe climbed the steps to follow him. A couple of Guardia Civil stood sentry on the landing at the entrance to the apartment on the first floor. The three men squeezed past and into the apartment. Mackenzie heard Paco grunting and panting in their wake as he fought his way up the stairs.

  A faint reminder of last night’s barbecued ribs still clung to curtains and soft furniture. The apartment itself seemed marginally tidier since the forensics officers had been through it. The officer who had called them in picked his way across the living room to lift the phone from its base. He held it between the thumb and forefinger of his latexed left hand and carefully depressed several numbers on the keypad with a pen held in his other. ‘Messages,’ he said. ‘This one timed at 14.47 today.’ He pressed another key to put it on speaker.

  They waited through a series of beeps before a voice that was unmistakably Cristina’s said cryptically, Toni, meet me in the car park at Eroski. I’m there now. We’ve got to talk. The quality of the recording was bad, as if she had called from a mobile with a poor signal.

  Mackenzie frowned and glanced at his watch. ‘Cristina was with me in Marbella when that call was made. It’s not her.’

  The Jefe looked doubtful. ‘It’s her voice.’

  ‘I agree it sounds like her.’

  Paco said, ‘But if she was with you . . .’

  ‘She was.’

  The Jefe sighed. ‘Then what the hell was Toni doing in the underground car park at the Eroski Centre?’ He hesitated. ‘And Jesus Christ, it sure as hell sounds like Cristina.’

  Paco said, ‘Jefe I don’t care if she’s finished making her statement or not, I’m going across the road to get her ou
t of there and take her back to our place. Nuri’s already gone to pick up Lucas from school. Cristina’s going to have to tell the boy before he hears it elsewhere. And she’s going to need our support.’

  The Jefe nodded gloomily.

  ‘And something else.’

  A sigh of exasperation escaped his lips. ‘What now?’

  ‘Someone’s going to have to go into Estepona and tell Ana. I’d do it, but I can’t drive.’

  The Jefe raised both palms to rub his eyes. Fatigue and frustration wearing him down. Mackenzie said, ‘I’ll do it. I don’t know what else I’m going to do. I met her yesterday. And maybe it would be better coming from someone who isn’t family.’

  The Jefe looked at him gratefully. ‘Would you?’ Mackenzie nodded and the chief put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Good man,’ he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Estepona resounded to the sounds of the feria. Although shadows were starting to lengthen, the heat of the day still lingered, and the air was filled with music and voices and the clip-clop of hooves on cobbled streets. The smell of barbecued pork, and grilled fish and hot burning sugar floated on the evening breeze.

  Mackenzie found space in the underground parking beneath the promenade. He skipped through the traffic on the Avenida España and shoved his way through the crowds thronging the narrow streets of the old town. Across Calle Real and Calle Caridad into the Calle San Miguel, where red and white and purple geraniums poured from pots that hung from balconies on whitewashed houses.

  People clogged the street. Locals and tourists. All slow-flowing towards the Calle Zaragoza where the main procession of floats and carriages was scheduled to pass. Mackenzie found himself carried along on the current. Up ahead he saw the Plaza de Juan Bazán, a calm eddy in the circulation of people, fountains glittering in the last of the sunshine that slanted across the roof of Ana’s house. Was it really only yesterday that he and Cristina had visited her? So much had changed in that short time. So many lives ruined.