Emilio

by Sophie Masson

  After Emilio finished, Padre Benitez was silent a moment, then said, ‘Did you notice if she had a local accent, or one from elsewhere?’

  Emilio thought about it. She hadn’t said much. ‘I wasn’t paying much attention,’ he said. ‘But I’m pretty sure she did not have a Mexico City accent.’

  ‘Think carefully. If it wasn’t from here, where else could it have been from?’

  Emilio pondered, thinking about people he knew who came from other parts of Mexico. His grandfather, for instance, had the accent of Mérida. Sierra’s mother came from Yucatán, and had that kind of accent, while Alda’s real accent was northern, but her fake one was Nicaraguan. And Señora Valdez, downstairs – she came from the Guatemalan border and her accent was singsong. ‘Yes,’ he said, remembering. ‘That girl, she sounded a bit Guatemalan. But not really. I mean, maybe she comes from one of the states that border Guatemala.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked the priest.

  ‘Not one hundred per cent certain. But I really do think so.’

  ‘Good. Then that gives me something to work with.’ Padre Benitez got up. ‘I’ll start making enquiries right away.’

  The day wore on. Nothing much happened for hours. There was no email from the kidnappers. Castro did not call. Señor Sellers called, but only to say that he would be visiting first thing next morning. Emilio Skyped with his friends for a short while, played cards with his cousins and thought endlessly about what had happened at La Villa and whether there was anything he had overlooked. But he couldn’t think of a thing. It looked to him as though the kidnappers had so far planned everything very well. If it hadn’t been for his mother’s quick wits, in fact, nobody would have known a single thing about who they were or how they’d done it.

  Finally, at around eight, Raúl Castro rang again. He had good and bad news. There’d been no useable fingerprints found on the medal. But on the payphone lead, there’d been an unexpected development. Castro said that there had been no sighting of any suspicious activity at the payphone, but a nearby shopkeeper had assured him that only people on their own had called from that phone during the day. Nobody had come in pairs or threes, he said. And so Castro had come up with a new theory: that Gloria herself had not been there at all but had spoken from captivity, patched in on a cellphone the kidnapper had held up close to the receiver, which would explain the clunking and the faraway sound.

  ‘The shopkeeper was asked if by any chance he’d observed such a thing but he hadn’t,’ went on Castro. ‘Not surprisingly, as the kidnapper’s back would have been turned to him. We asked him to try and describe as many people as he could remember who had used the payphone that day. We’re lucky: he’s an observant man and he did remember a few people. There may be something in there that we can compare against descriptions of known members of el Capitán’s gang.’

  Tía Isabel raised an eyebrow. ‘Then let’s hope something good comes of it,’ she said.

  Chapter 18

  A disturbing thing happened next morning, not long before the next email from the kidnappers finally arrived. Their downstairs neighbor Señora Valdez knocked on their door to tell them she’d had a strange phone call.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your Saturday morning,’ she said, as she sat at the table drinking a cup of coffee and eating some cinnamon bizcocha, ‘but I thought you should know at once. A nicely-spoken young lady rang up to say she was from some travel company that had wonderful special offers for people under thirty living in this area. Did I have a child or grandchild of that age residing with me? she asked. I said no, but that my grandson was twenty-four and he lived not all that far away. Then she asked me if any of my neighbours had family members of that age, and I said yes, and she then said she was looking at a list of names, and did I know if for instance the Torres family had family in that age bracket residing with them? Well, I was a bit surprised by that, but I thought I could do you all a good turn, so I said yes, there was a daughter of that age, and then the young woman said, was that all? And I said, well, there’s a nephew, but he’s too young, he’s only thirteen and oh yes, there’s a cousin staying there at the moment too, she’s from Nicaragua, she’s in her twenties. And then they said, can you give me her name? And that’s when I really smelled a rat, and I said that I didn’t talk to snoops from Immigration, and hung up.’ She looked around the table with an anxious expression. ‘I hope I haven’t caused you any trouble.’

  ‘Er, what?’ said a bemused Tía Isabel, shooting an anxious glance at Alda.

  With a broad smile, and an even broader Nicaraguan accent, Alda said, ‘Don’t worry, Señora. That immigration official who tried to trick you, she is barking up the wrong tree. I’m not an illegal. My papers are all in order. I wasn’t going to visit my Mexican family for the first time without making quite sure I wouldn’t run into any trouble!’

  ‘Oh, of course you wouldn’t,’ said the old lady with a sigh of relief. ‘The cheek of these people! Pretending to be from a travel company indeed! Silly of me to have fallen for it at first, that’s all.’

  ‘Not at all, not at all,’ said Tío Vicente. ‘Anyone might have done so.’

  ‘Thank you very much for telling us,’ said Tía Isabel. ‘That was very kind.’

  ‘What are neighbours for?’ said the old lady, smiling. ‘Another biscuit?’ she responded as Luz offered her the plate. ‘Well, why not?’

  It wasn’t until the Señora was well out of earshot, on her way down the stairs, that Alda was able to call Castro with the news and discuss what had happened. Everyone was somewhat uneasy; it was obviously one of the kidnappers, quite possibly the shadowy Flor herself, who had made the phone call. It seemed they had their suspicions about Alda. On the other hand, there was a definite upside to it. The old lady’s rebuke to the ‘snoop from Immigration’, and the way Alda had played up to it, was all in their favour. It bolstered Alda’s cover story not only among the neighbours but beyond, and would probably allay the kidnappers’ suspicion.

  Raúl Castro agreed. ‘Still, none of you should relax your guard. Watch your tongues, all of you, especially the young ones.’

  Why especially us? Emilio thought, bristling, as the policeman hung up. As if Luz and I have been wagging our tongues all over town!

  Just then Juanita gave an exclamation that brought them all running to the computer screen. The kidnappers’ email had come. What it said made Emilio’s heart sink.

  All paperwork on the hotel shares to be completed and scanned into a message by 14.00 hours today. When we have checked all is in order, we will advise on next step. Meanwhile, prepare ransom money in units of 20-, 50- and 100-peso notes only, new polymer notes only.

  Tío Vicente looked grim. ‘Two o’clock! That’s just two hours away! And Sellers rang this morning to say the papers weren’t ready yet!’

  ‘We’ll call him,’ snapped Tía Isabel. She picked up the phone. Please please please, Emilio thought, please let it be okay . . .

  And it was. ‘I’ll expedite it. We’ll have all the documents by midday, come what may,’ the American said, his voice coming steady and calm over the speakerphone. ‘Hang in there, my friends. It’ll soon be over.’

  ‘But are you sure – are you sure your plan will work?’ said Tía Isabel, with a break in her voice.

  Emilio didn’t know exactly what stratagem the Americans were using to make it look as if they were actually handing over their shares. He only knew they wouldn’t be handing them over.

  ‘Don’t worry, Señora Torres. Our lawyer’s drawn it all up to look totally official. It will fool them, I can guarantee you that.’

  They could only hope he was right. Because if he wasn’t – it didn’t bear thinking about. But after he rang off they sent a message back in reply to the kidnappers, agreeing to all the terms.

  Alda rang Castro to tell him, and he did not react well, bawling her out. ‘You should have put them off for a while,’ he said. ‘We’re not ready – and if the bluff doesn’t work, then
the Señora is dead. You should have waited. You should have asked my advice first!’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said, white-lipped, ‘but I can’t force the family to—’

  ‘Put the Señora on the phone,’ said Castro testily, and when Tía Isabel came on the line, he scolded her, saying that he had begun to develop what he called a ‘channel’ to the gang members in jail, and that this ‘amateur bluff ’ might render that useless.

  ‘I don’t see why it would,’ said Tía Isabel coldly, ‘and we’re not asking you to approve. For us, Agent Castro, it’s very simple. We want to get my sister back safe and sound. That’s the beginning and end of it.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Castro, softening his tone, ‘but you must understand that there are many aspects to consider in this situation.’

  ‘Not for us there aren’t,’ said Tía Isabel, and she handed the phone back to Alda and walked off without a word.

  Emilio and Luz went after her and found her sitting on her bed with her head in her hands, weeping silently. They each put an arm around her, and soon Luz was crying too. Emilio choked with anger and grief but couldn’t cry; the tears just burned in his throat and his eyes. They don’t know what it’s like, he thought, people like Castro. They don’t understand. If it was their family, what would they do? But he had no answer to that, any more than he could understand why this evil had been visited on his family rather than someone else’s. This man who called himself ‘the Captain’, this woman who called herself ‘the Flower of the Night’, they were human beings and yet they and their kind acted like tigers in the jungle, preying on innocents who crossed their path.

  At eleven, the phone rang, and they all started towards it. But it wasn’t Señor Sellers. It was the priest, Padre Benitez. ‘I’m sorry that it’s taken me so long,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got a name for you. Evita. Evita Delgado. I was told that she’s a pickpocket who sometimes works around La Villa, and that originally she’s from Tabasco. I’m afraid I couldn’t find out where she lives, or where she might be now, but I thought it was something you could pass on to the investigators.’ He would not accept any thanks for his help, saying only that he wished he could have done more. ‘If I could have found the child myself, I might have persuaded her to help you. But I was afraid that if I asked too many questions, those who hired her might hear of it and then her life would be in danger.’

  ‘Who cares about that little thief’s life?’ snapped Tío Vicente when his wife told them what the priest had said. ‘The Padre should think more of poor Gloria’s.’

  ‘He is,’ said Tía Isabel, exasperated, ‘but he’s a priest, not a judge, and besides, can’t you see, you tonto, that if we lose the girl, we also lose an important lead?’

  Emilio caught Luz’s eye. She smiled. Parents! her glance said. So embarrassing! Emilio smiled back, a little sadly. How he wished he too could roll his eyes at an antic of his mother’s!

  Castro received the Padre’s information rather coolly. ‘We’ll look into it,’ was all he said. But at least he refrained from giving them another lecture about amateurs. Just as well, thought Emilio, seeing his aunt’s fiercely determined expression.

  Nobody felt much like lunch, but Tía Isabel heated up the remains of last night’s pork stew and made fresh tortillas and a salad. Emilio ate without interest. Like the others, he kept watching the clock. Half past twelve. A quarter past one. Half past. Only half an hour to go till the kidnappers’ deadline, and Sellers still had not appeared.

  It had just gone eight minutes to two when the street-door buzzer rang. It was Sellers. He came panting up the steps, red-faced and sweaty. ‘Sorry. So sorry. The final documents didn’t come through from my lawyer on the fax till one-twenty-five, and then I scanned them in and put them on a USB stick and came as quick as I could, but the taxi got stuck in a traffic jam. I had to abandon it and run all the rest of the way.’

  ‘Let’s get this into our computer, then,’ said Juanita, nearly snatching the USB from him. Emilio’s heart was in his mouth as she rapidly copied the files, attached them to a message in the Draft box and added a very brief cover note. Documents as promised. By the time this was all securely done, it was four minutes to two.

  ‘And now to wait,’ said Tío Vicente. ‘Again. Waiting on the good grace of scum. It makes my blood boil.’

  Nobody said anything to that. They just kept watching the computer, watching the Draft box. As if that would do any good. As if it might show the face of their enemy and give them a clue, an advantage, something.

  They all jumped when the phone rang. It was Castro. ‘We’ve got the Delgado girl on file,’ he said. ‘She’s been picked up once before. I’ve got people out looking for her right now. But don’t get your hopes up too much. It might turn out she’s not the girl Emilio saw. These types of kids are not exactly uncommon. And even if she is the one, she likely knows nothing.’

  ‘Well, isn’t he the little ray of sunshine?’ said Emilio’s uncle ironically when the policeman rang off. And for once, Tía Isabel didn’t reprove him. ‘Señor Sellers,’ she said, turning to the American, ‘we’d like to thank you for everything you’re doing for us.’

  ‘Wait to thank me till we know it’s worked,’ said the American. He smiled. ‘And please, ma’am, won’t you stop calling me Señor Sellers? Makes me feel like my own father. My name’s Steve, and I’d be honoured if you might call me that.’

  Tía Isabel smiled back. ‘Very well, Steve. But you must stop calling me ma’am, then, and do us the honour of using our names. Mine’s Isabel, my husband’s is Vicente, and my eldest daughter’s is Juanita. The kids you already know. And you must allow this family to thank you properly, once this is over. You didn’t have to do any of this – we’d have quite understood if you didn’t want to be involved.’

  ‘Look, Isabel, fact is, I kinda feel responsible for what happened to Gloria – yeah, I know it wasn’t my fault, but if she hadn’t been associated with me maybe none of this would’ve happened. And I’ll feel happier if I can actually do something for her. Now don’t you worry. It’ll all work out.’

  Emilio hoped he was right.

  Chapter 19

  ‘Do you know what date it is the day after tomorrow, Milo?’ asked Luz suddenly, as they sat in her room watching a DVD that night.

  He shook his head.

  ‘It’ll be the first of November,’ she said.

  Of course. The first of November was Día de los Inocentes, Day of the Innocents, in memory of children who have died, followed by Día de los Muertos, Day of the Dead, honouring people who died as adults. Before his father’s death Emilio had enjoyed the festival, and later had founds its traditions comforting. Every November, he’d gone to Mérida with his grandfather to visit his father’s grave, bringing gifts, telling him stories of what was going on. But this year, everything was different, and he couldn’t help feeling the date was a bad omen.

  Luz saw his expression. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Emilio, with an effort. For a few more moments he stared at the movie without taking any of it in, feeling he needed to move, but knowing that if he did Luz would feel bad, and then she’d go on about it and he wouldn’t be able to bear it. So he forced himself to stay there until at last the credits rolled and he was able to get up. He said, ‘I’d better go to bed. I’m exhausted.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Luz, darting a glance at him. ‘Me too.’

  The adults were sitting around the kitchen table when he went through to his room. They smiled and wished him good night but the strain on all their faces told him that a good night was unlikely for any of them. Until they got a message from the kidnappers saying the papers were in order, they would not know if they’d done the right or wrong thing with this ‘amateur bluff’. If Emilio’s mother suffered as a result, then they’d have that on their conscience. Nobody said it, but everyone thought it.

  Emilio woke suddenly and looked at his phone. Nine o’clock! Oh no! He’d slep
t right through his alarm. Scrambling into his clothes, he went out into the kitchen. Everyone else was up, even Luz. They all looked solemn. And there was an extra person at the table. Raúl Castro.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Emilio cried, fearing the worst.

  ‘Very early this morning we picked up Evita Delgado – that chiquita, that little girl from the basilica.’

  Emilio sat down suddenly. ‘So Padre Benitez was right! It was her!’

  ‘Fits your description, yes.’

  ‘But how – where was she?’

  ‘She was caught being light-fingered outside a flash nightclub and was beaten up by club security. One of the patrons called the police, luckily, before any lasting damage was done. She’s in the hospital now. And we’ve been talking to her.’ He gave a rather sour smile. ‘Or rather, we’ve been trying to.’

  ‘She won’t say anything?’

  ‘Nothing about what we want. We’ve offered her a deal – we cut her loose if she’ll tell us who hired her for the handover of the phone. She won’t know their real name, of course, only what they chose to tell her. But it’s a start. I’ve told her that if she doesn’t talk, her case will go straight to the magistrate and she’s sure to cop a longer period in detention as she’s a repeat offender. She’s scared of that. I know she is. But—’

  ‘But she’s more scared of the people who hired her,’ said Emilio.

  Castro shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. It’s just that people like her don’t talk to the police.’