Emilio

by Sophie Masson

  The man looked him up and down and said, ‘Yeah, so what?’

  ‘Please,’ Emilio cried, ‘it’s important. Do you know her?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Never seen her before. She isn’t a regular,’ and with that he turned away to fasten on to a more promising customer.

  The phone the girl had left, Emilio thought. There must be a message. Feverishly, he hit the buttons for voicemail, and for text messages. Nothing. Nothing at all. Not a clue there either. As Emilio walked numbly away to find the taxi driver, his own phone buzzed loudly in his pocket. It was Raúl Castro.

  Chapter 14

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Emilio said miserably, when he’d finished telling the policeman what had happened. ‘I never suspected her. I never saw her touch my bag. And afterwards when I realised – I wasn’t thinking straight. I just acted on impulse. I forgot what I was meant to do. I didn’t even remember to say the code phrase. If I had, maybe you could have caught her. I’m sorry.’

  ‘What’s done is done, and we can’t waste time on regrets,’ Castro said briskly. ‘The main thing is,’ he went on, ‘we have the phone and the recording. Maybe we’ll get something from that.’

  ‘But there’s nothing on the phone, I checked,’ Emilio said.

  ‘I know, but there are other things we might discover. For instance, there may be a fingerprint on the phone or the medal you bought.’

  ‘But if I’d been paying attention, you could have caught one of the gang members.’

  ‘What, the kid?’ Castro shook his head. ‘She won’t be a gang member. They wouldn’t risk that. She’ll probably be a petty thief of some sort, hired just to drop that phone in your bag. Now, you need to get away from there. Tell the driver to take you by a roundabout route to our station’s address. We’ll check the phone and we’ll get a description from you for the identikit.’

  ‘But what about the phone call with the gang?’ said Emilio. ‘What if they say it’s got to happen really soon?’

  ‘It won’t. They’ll know they have to give you time to arrange for the Americans to come too. Now then, we’ll be as quick as we can at the station and then you’ll be driven straight home. Your family’s waiting for you.’

  At the police station, Castro introduced a man as the police sketch artist. Emilio tried to remember something useful about the girl. ‘She had a thin face, dark eyes, she wasn’t pretty, exactly, because she was too thin and kind of grubby too – but not bad-looking either, if you know what I mean. No distinguishing features, I mean no scars, moles, tattoos, birthmarks, nothing like that. She was dressed in a blue T-shirt with a logo on it, just an old Mexico City souvenir thing, a denim skirt, and scuffed sandals. Her hair was black, stringy, tied back with an elastic.’ He looked at the sketch artist, who had been busy with a drawing program on the computer. ‘I’m sorry. That’s not much, is it?’

  ‘No. It’s good. Don’t you worry,’ said Castro. ‘Have a look at what Rafael here has come up with and tell us if you think it’s a fair likeness.’

  Emilio peered at the picture on screen. ’Um, I’m not sure. It kind of looks like her, I suppose.’

  ‘Now then, that medal,’ said Castro. ‘We’ll need that too. Her prints may be on it. If she’s in the database they’ll show up.’ He handed Emilio a plastic bag. ‘Drop it in here. Your prints will be on it already, but that’s okay, we can quickly eliminate them. And here’s the phone back.’

  Emilio looked at him. ‘But don’t you need to . . . ’

  ‘It’s already been examined. No prints on it at all, completely clean. These people are cunning as foxes,’ said Castro. ‘I’m sure the message will arrive today but at a time of their choosing.’ He got up. ‘We’d better get you and that phone home at once.’

  The route the taxi took brought him past his actual home, the home he hadn’t seen since the day his mother was taken, and a great longing suddenly seized him to retrieve something of his mother’s, anything to remind him of her, to make her feel closer.

  ‘Please, can you stop at this address?’ he asked the driver.

  ‘I’m not sure if—’ began the driver.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Emilio hurriedly, ‘I’ll only be a few minutes, just to pick up a few clothes and DVDs, no one will mind. Please.’

  The driver raised his eyebrows. ‘Okay then. But be quick.’

  ‘I will,’ said Emilio fervently, and jumping out of the cab, he hastened to key in the security code and raced into the building. He hoped Señor Santiago wouldn’t be hanging about; he didn’t feel like having a long conversation. But the caretaker’s door was closed with the TV going behind it, so he got into the lift and up to his own apartment without being spotted.

  It was weird, turning the key and coming in. It was home and yet now he was only visiting. He’d felt safe and happy here but now it carried the atmosphere of a day that would be forever burned into his memory. He took a deep breath. No time to stand here brooding.

  He flung a few clothes and DVDs into a bag, just so there’d be no boring questions. Then he went into his mother’s room. It was neat and tidy, the way she always kept it. He looked around. A photo. That would be a good thing to have. That picture, there, on his mother’s dressing table, of the three of them, his mother, his father, himself, around the time of his tenth birthday. They’d gone for a beach holiday at Veracruz, the last holiday they’d taken together, just a few weeks before his father was killed in the car crash. It had been a wonderful holiday. And everyone looked so happy. It was the last time he could remember his mother looking really happy, he thought, a lump coming into his throat.

  He had just put the photo carefully away among his clothes in the bag when his eye was caught by something else on the table. Lying beside a gold bangle with Aztec symbols and a pair of emerald earrings that had once belonged to Gloria’s mother was a little silver and turquoise brooch in the shape of a heart. It had been his father’s first serious present to his mother, when they were courting. Emilio knew the story well. He’d loved it when he was little but found it embarrassing later. He stared at the brooch, his pulse racing as a strange idea flashed into his mind. My little heart, his mother had written in her letter. Think of my little heart, my Emilio. He’d thought it odd. What if she’d intended not an appeal to her sister to think about Emilio, her ‘coranzito mio’, but a direct message to Emilio himself? ‘Think of my little heart.’ What she’d meant was her heart brooch.

  But why? Why would she? What was so special about the brooch? He took it out of the jeweller’s box lined with white satin, and turned it over. On the back were the words his father had had engraved for her: ‘My heart for you, always.’

  Tears pricked at Emilio’s eyes. Yes, this little heart meant a lot to his mother. But why, in such danger as she was, would she send Emilio a message about it? He could hardly send it to her. Could she have intended that the brooch should be sold to help with the ransom money? But if that was so, why hadn’t she included the rest of the jewellery in the message? The heart brooch was very pretty but the earrings and bangle were much more valuable. Yet it was the only thing she’d specifically mentioned. He couldn’t work it out. But he knew that he had to take it with him. It meant something, he was sure of it. Perhaps Tía Isabel would know. Or the police.

  But he’d better get a move on now or the driver would be getting worried. Putting the brooch back in its box, he grabbed his bag and went out of the apartment, locking the door carefully behind him.

  Chapter 15

  Emilio was almost at the flat when the phone beeped twice. New text message.

  Today 19.00 h.

  That was it. That meant seven in the evening. Five hours from now. In five hours he would at last hear his mother’s voice, even if he couldn’t speak to her.

  He clicked back to the details of the message, hoping against hope they might have been careless enough to leave a trail. But of course they hadn’t. Aside from time and date, ‘Private number’ was all it said on the scre
en.

  The taxi drew up outside the block of flats. The driver said, ‘Will you be all right or do you want me to come inside with you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Emilio, jumping out of the cab. Looking up at the window, he could see Luz framed there, watching the street. She saw him and waved. He was about to put in the security number when an elderly lady came out. He knew her. She was Señora Valdez, who lived a floor down from the Torres family.

  ‘Oh Emilio! Oh my dear,’ she said, laying a hand on his arm. ‘I read about your poor mother. So awful. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Thank you, Señora,’ he said, a little impatiently. He wanted to get upstairs, and show the others the text message.

  ‘Please tell your aunt that if there’s anything I can do to help, she’s only got to ask.’

  ‘Thank you. I will.’

  ‘It’s the curse of greed,’ she said sadly, ‘the curse of greed that’s destroying our poor country. All people think about is money. No one knows right from wrong any more.’

  He wished she’d stop talking, but he couldn’t tell an old person to be quiet.

  ‘I hope you’re getting proper help,’ she went on.

  He nodded. By now she’d know about Alda, but only as the Nicaraguan cousin. And it had to stay that way.

  ‘In the old days there were bad men too,’ she said, ‘but at least they had some kind of honour. A code of some sort. These days, they have none. The drugs have scrambled their morals as well as their brains. As to the police, well, if they’re not corrupt they know nothing and they’re incompetent. We live in bad days.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said desperately, ‘but I must go.’

  She eyed his bag. ‘You’ll be staying here a while longer, then.’

  He nodded.

  ‘But surely you shouldn’t be out by yourself,’ she cried. ‘Why are you—’

  ‘I just had to run an errand,’ he said hastily. ‘I’m sorry, but I really have to go.’ Finally he made his escape, taking the stairs two at a time back to his aunt and uncle’s flat.

  ‘We were starting to get worried about you,’ said Tía Isabel when she opened the door. She saw the bag in his hand. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Just some clothes I picked up from our place—’

  ‘Madre di Dios, Emilio, why do that? Raúl told us you were coming straight back,’ she scolded, but he gabbled, ‘It’s okay, I’ll tell you about it later, but Tía, Tía, the message – it’s come!’

  Her face froze. She said, ‘When?’

  ‘When I was in the taxi.’

  ‘No, I mean when will the call be?’

  ‘Tonight. Seven.’

  She put her hand out and he gave her the phone. She looked at the message without speaking, then hurried to the living room where the others were waiting, and he followed her.

  But he didn’t get a chance to tell everyone his idea about the ‘little heart’ till later. He and Luz had been banished while phone discussions were going on with the Americans. He brought out the brooch from his pocket, and told Luz his idea.

  ‘What do you think?’ he finished. ‘It’s not really valuable. So why would she have mentioned it?’

  Luz turned it between thumb and forefinger. ‘Maybe to remind herself of you?’

  ‘That isn’t like her.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Luz. She stared down at the little blue-and-silver heart as though she thought that looking at it hard enough would make it yield up its secret to her. ‘Maybe it’s some sort of a clue? Like the medal, I mean.’

  ‘What sort of clue?’ cried Emilio. ‘I’ve racked my brains and I can’t come up with anything.’

  ‘Heart,’ said Luz seriously, ‘little heart. Love token. Silver. Turquoise.’

  ‘Have you gone loca, cousin?’

  ‘No, I’m not going mad,’ said Luz with dignity, ‘I’m just trying out ideas. Your mother must have meant something by it, or she wouldn’t have mentioned it.’

  ‘I don’t even know if I’m imagining it anyway,’ sighed Emilio. ‘Maybe she really did just mean to call me by that name. Maybe I—’

  ‘No,’ said Luz firmly. ‘I’m sure you’re right. Tía Gloria was trying to send you a message.’

  ‘Then what was it?’

  They both started as there was a knock on the door. It was Juanita. ‘Emilio, do you—’ She saw the brooch lying on the bed. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s Tía Gloria’s,’ burst out Luz before Emilio could speak, ‘and Emilio worked out that was what Tía Gloria meant in her letter when she said about a little heart and so that’s why he brought it here!’

  Juanita looked astonished. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s a clue. Like the medal, and—’

  ‘That’s just an idea,’ Emilio interrupted. ‘It’s probably nothing.’ And he explained.

  Juanita looked at him, then at the brooch. She said, ‘Wait a moment. I’ll get Alda. She should hear this.’

  So Emilio had to tell his idea a third time, to Alda and his aunt and uncle. By the time he’d finished it sounded threadbare, barely credible even to him. The brooch had been handled by all five of them, every millimetre of it scrutinised, the engraving read and re-read, every memory of it talked over – and still there was no clue. And then Alda, who had been deep in thought, said, ‘Did you just bring it loose in your pocket?’

  ‘No,’ said Emilio, ‘in its box,’ and he handed it to her. She opened it and peeled up the white satin backing to look underneath. Nothing. She checked the lid, inside and out. Nothing. On the underside of the box, though, was a label with a name on it – the name of the shop where Emilio’s father had bought it, all those years ago. But the print was faded, practically rubbed off. Alda peered closely at it. ‘I think it starts with F – or is that a P?’

  ‘No, not P,’ said Tía Isabel suddenly. ‘F. Flor. Flor de las Joyas, Flower of Jewels, that’s what it was called. I remember my sister telling me. It’s long gone now, that shop, but it was one of her favourites, and I think Jorge had heard that—’

  She never finished her sentence, for with a muttered exclamation, Alda raced out of the room, dialling as she went.

  Chapter 16

  ‘Señor Castro believes this is a real breakthrough,’ said Alda a short while later. Her eyes were shining. ‘We know at last who we are dealing with.’

  ‘But are you sure?’ said Tía Isabel.

  ‘Yes.’ And she told them about an arrest a few months ago, of a gang leader who went by the name of el Capitán, the Captain. ‘He’s connected to a Sinaloa drug cartel, and most members of his gang hail from there, but he’s been operating semi-independently in Mexico City for about six years. We’ve been after him for a while but he was protected by corrupt police, and it was only when one of them was nabbed for something else, and flipped and gave us information, that we were able to set up a sting which netted us both el Capitán and two or three of his top men. Thing is, though el Capitán is in jail right now, and his trade’s been severely disrupted, a number of his gang remain at large. One of them’s a young woman, who’s reputed to be as lethal as the men, though we know very little about her apart from the name she goes by.’

  ‘Flor,’ breathed Emilio.

  ‘Yes. In full, actually, she’s known as Flor de la Noche – Flower of the Night. Your mother must have overheard her name at some stage. Señor Castro thinks it likely she was one of the so-called nuns who abducted your mother.’

  Tío Vicente shook his head. ‘Gloria took a bit of a chance. We might not have understood what she was getting at.’

  ‘We didn’t, Chente,’ observed his wife tartly. ‘It was Emilio.’

  ‘I didn’t get it at first either. It was just I thought it odd that she called me corazoncito,’ said Emilio. He felt so proud of his brave, resourceful mother. ‘When she calls, can we tell her that – that we got her message?’

  ‘That would not be wise,’ said Alda.

  ‘Alda’s right, Milo,�
�� said Juanita, and his aunt and uncle echoed her words. Only Luz said nothing. From the look in her eyes Emilio knew she was thinking the same thing as he was. His mother should be told. She had to know her message had got through. And he would do it. He just had to do it in a way that nobody would suspect. He had to think . . . His eye fell on the brooch, and he picked it up again, stroking the silver and blue, turning it over. And an idea came to him.

  Time passed. Seven o’clock drew near. The Americans – Sellers a wiry, dark-haired, blue-eyed man in his forties, and Taylor, an older, more suave type, with sleek silver hair and a smart suit – had arrived, driven in an unmarked police car by one of Castro’s team dressed as a chauffeur. Listening devices had been set up to link the car to the flat and record the call. Everyone was on edge but trying not to be. Tía Isabel handed around fresh crispy churros and horchatas, a refreshing drink made with ground almonds and milk, while Tío Vicente and Juanita made nervous smalltalk, to which Sellers responded in excellent Spanish and Taylor hardly at all. Emilio sat mutely next to an equally silent Luz on the sofa, and all he could think of as the clock hand crawled towards the hour was I must make sure Mamá knows. As the time got closer, seven minutes to seven, six, five, four, everyone fell silent. Everyone was watching the phone on the table, the phone the skinny little girl had delivered to Emilio at the basilica. And then, right as the clock touched seven—

  A phone rang. Loudly. But not the phone on the table. Not the phone that everyone was watching as though they were birds hypnotised by a snake. Someone’s mobile.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ shouted Tía Isabel. ‘Switch that thing off!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Tío Vicente. ‘I meant to, sorry, I’ll do it right now and . . . ’ He trailed off, the colour draining from his face.

  ‘What is it?’ cried Tía Isabel, as the Americans looked at each other, puzzled.

  ‘Private number. No one I know has a private number,’ Tío Vicente whispered.