by Les Cowan
He knew it couldn’t go on forever and now, glancing down at the paper again, he accepted that the party was thoroughly over. “Police Bust Celebrity Sex Ring” was the headline, with most of the detail on pages 2 and 3. Apparently Craig Morton (Chief Crime Correspondent) had had inside access to the operation and could reveal not only that fifty or so trafficked girls had been freed but that the hunt was now on for dozens of high-profile clients from the law, the church, big business, politics, and even the police themselves. Arrests had taken place, with more expected soon. Sir Patrick leaned across and lit his desk lamp as the evening light faded, though he didn’t need to read the story again. He had been through it three times already in the way he would tackle an important briefing paper looking for some nuance or hint he hadn’t noticed before. Some of the “big names” he knew already and others he could guess. It had been extremely decent of Douglas Forsyth to call him personally. They knew each other from a bunch of official committees and the Rotary. So instead of a squad car pulling into the drive and a bunch of goons crawling all over the house before dragging him off for cautioning and charging, he was at least allowed the dignity of showing up at the designated station for a prearranged appointment. The final outcome would be the same but the process a shade more civilized. Maybe.
Finally, after another half-hour in silence, glancing between the report and the photographs or out of the window into the beautiful garden Mhorag had slowly built up over twenty years, he closed the newspaper, dropped it in the bin, took out a sheet of cream conqueror writing paper and wrote: “To all my friends, colleagues and above all my beloved family…” He knew what he wanted to say and the text was completed quickly. He signed it simply, “Pat”.
There were still hundreds of Mhorag’s strong painkiller upstairs. From his research he reckoned fifty or so would suffice.
Want to read more David Hidalgo? Book 3, Sins of the Fathers, is coming in June 2019…
Prologue
MORÓN DE LA FRONTERA – LATE SUMMER
Nothing about the outermost security door had changed in the last seven years. Maybe a dribble of oil or a lick of paint, but nothing you’d notice. The mechanism was as robust and secure as it had ever been. Yet as it slammed shut the metallic clang was totally different. The sound of a door locking you in is different from one opening to let you through.
The preliminaries had been completed right after breakfast. His few personal possessions were returned and signed for, then a shower, a change of clothing, and on to the governor’s office.
Governor Daniel Lopez was not a brutal man. He tried to make encouraging remarks to all the men about rejoining a world they might have left five, ten, or even twenty years before. And he forced himself to be scrupulously fair. Whoever the criminal, whatever the crime – murder, rape, fraud, armed robbery, or even ETA terror attacks – they all got their full ten minutes in a comfortable chair with a reasonable cup of coffee. But this morning he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. The file of reports in front of him seemed to describe a model prisoner who had paid his debt and was ready to rejoin society. Excellent conduct. Polite to officers and professionals. No big fuss about guilt, innocence, or wrongful conviction. Fully engaged in the prison’s eduction programme, particularly given that he wouldn’t be going back to his former profession. In fact, he had shown a remarkable aptitude for the computer skills course and had not only passed all the modules but had repaired the education department’s computers several times, and improved internet access and record-keeping.
It all looked perfect, but Lopez simply couldn’t get past the uppermost conviction sheet in the file. He was used to shocking details but had never been able to get his head around this one. How was it possible? How could a man betray a trust so grievously and show not even the slightest sign of remorse? The prisoner was left standing as Lopez scanned the salient points yet again for some sign of progress; some acknowledgment of the wrong and harm done; some sign of a change of heart that would bode well for the future. After all, that was the key. New skills, improved self-confidence, and supportive outside contacts were important, but without the desire to be different they had little impact. Did the man in front of him convey any desire to be different? Lopez accepted there was no shred of evidence of it. So the prisoner was left standing. There was no friendly chat, no café con leche and no avuncular advice. Lopez abandoned the normal pep talk and said exactly what was on his mind. Then he regretting being so unprofessional. In any case, it seemed to make no more impression now than the many counsellors and psychologists before him had, according to the file. The prisoner simply kept looking ahead, showed no sign of emotion and refusing to respond in any way.
The man standing on the worn patch of parquet in front of the desk had more or less expected this reaction and let it wash over him. He had heard it all before. Let them think what they wanted. The only thing that mattered was that the metallic clang was behind him now instead of in front. It had been a long time coming. Of course, he’d used the time as much to his advantage as he could while studiously ignoring all the counsellors, psychologists, and social workers they had thrown at him. He had turned to the library first but was disappointed to get through all the worthwhile reading in less than a month. Then there had been a desperate time of nothingness when life had been reduced to eating, sleeping, staring at the walls, and counting days.
In desperation one Monday morning, Sandra, the cheerful, optimistic, well-intentioned education officer, had suggested an IT course after finally accepting that woodwork and pottery were achieving nothing. He’d started with little expectation just to fill a few more daylight hours but had been surprised to find that it fitted his type of brain exactly. It was cold, precise, and logical. Emotions were irrelevant and there was no need for psychobabble about how it made you feel. But that didn’t make it mechanical. It was a science but also an art. The science was getting the right answer; the art was doing it in the most elegant, economical, and graceful way. He found it natural and raced through the modules before branching off into much more interesting investigations of his own.
Standing patient and silent in the face of Lopez’s tirade he wondered what the governor would say if extracts from his last steamy email to Rosa from the admin office were to be quoted back to him. Or better still if it was shared with Señora Lopez. She was enjoying a comfortable life in the suburbs while her husband pretended to be heading off to yet another conference. In reality he was between the sheets with a girl half his age in a cosy little piso – paid for with the half of his salary she didn’t even know existed. He smiled slightly at the thought and got another rollicking for it. It was a nest egg he was keeping for a rainy day but maybe he’d cash it in a bit earlier after this. When Lopez finally ran out of energy he told the prisoner to pick up his case and get out of his sight. That suited both parties just fine.
Five minutes later the now ex-prisoner was standing in front of an open door. He walked forward a few paces and stood silently under the deep blue dome of Andalusian sky. A dry scrubby hillside rose to his left and endless lines of olive trees stretched away for miles in front. The southern sun was relentlessness. Just like the so-called justice of the country. Politicians with fat bundles of Euro notes in plain brown packets went free, while the judge thought justice demanded fourteen years – seven with good behaviour – in his case. Relentless and unforgiving.
The time had passed painfully slowly without a shred of the normal camaraderie among prisoners when everyone feels they have suffered an injustice. The Centro Penitenciario Sevilla II, better known as Morón de la Frontera after the nearest small town, even had its own semi-formal system of prisoner support after a spate of suicides. The Internos de Apoyo – the “Support Inmates” – watched out for those about to slip over the edge and tried to respond with encouragement and care. No one cared about a man like him. Being in closed conditions – the régimen cerrado – meant he very rarely had anything to do with the so-called “normal”
prisoners, but there were times when he did. Like when the trusted ones serving meals would spit in his soup as it was passed through the hatch. Or when the hospital orderly had fed him a massive laxative instead of the cough medicine he had gone in for. He had seen the grins and sniggers when he was brought straight back in doubled up in pain. Still, it was over at last. This time the slamming door behind him was neither a fantasy nor a daydream.
It took almost a full minute to calm his thoughts under the still ferocious late summer sun. He gradually gathered his senses, then finally noticed the tiny, peeling, red Seat Ibiza parked as far from the main entrance as possible. So she’d come. He hadn’t thought she would, but she couldn’t deny her own flesh and blood. He picked up his cheap cardboard case and walked over to the car. She didn’t get out, or open the door, but continued staring straight ahead as he got in.
“You’re here,” she finally said.
“I am here, Mama.”
“I’ve dusted your room and put clean sheets on. There’s empanada and cheese.”
The car’s interior probably could have cooked the pie or melted the cheese. He wound his window down but it made no difference. The air outside was heavy and dead, like the atmosphere inside it.
“You can’t stay,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”
He wasn’t surprised.
“It’s ok, Mama, I’m not going to. I’m leaving.”
“Where will you go?”
“It’s best you don’t know. I’ve got plans.”
She grunted an acknowledgement, turned the key, and the engine coughed and started.
Plans. What a beautiful word. Big, beautiful plans. Plans he’d spent seven long years building, refining, honing, perfecting, dreaming. Beautiful, perfect plans. They would see what relentless and unforgiving really meant.
She pulled her black shawl tighter and kept staring rigidly ahead.
“Don’t worry about me, Mama,” he said. “I’ll be ok.”
“I’m not,” she said, revving the engine. “I’m just glad your father’s already dead. Please God I soon will be too.”
