by Rob Sinclair
Anna didn’t outwardly react to Alex’s words. Was she shocked to hear of what her father had done? A little. But she also felt a longing for him, and a burning sense of pride that her father had always done what was necessary to protect his own family.
Right up to the point where he’d sent his young daughter to Winter’s Retreat, that is.
‘Do you know what people call him?’ Alex said.
‘No.’
‘After that day, when he’d butchered that family, that’s when the legend started. The Silent Blade. That’s what people called him. And it wasn’t hard to see why.’
Anna opened her mouth then closed it quickly before any words escaped.
Alex raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve heard that name?’
‘I heard people talk about it yes. But I never–’
‘Believed that Silent Blade was your father?’
‘No. Not that. I never believed Silent Blade was real.’
‘He is, Anna. He’s very real. Maybe not everything you heard really happened, but, like I said, most legends have truth to them.’
‘I need to find him. I can’t stay here.’
‘He’ll only be found if he wants to be found. You should stay here, where you’re safe.’
‘Safe?’ Anna said, her tone harsh.
Alex stared at her for a few seconds, and Anna knew he was still holding onto something.
‘You’re young, Anna. It’s a big and nasty world out there. Your father put you in here for a reason. And knowing the man he is, my advice to you is to stay here until you know that reason.’
Anna said nothing for a good while, hoping Alex had more to offer. She reached forward, took out the bath plug and listened as the water gurgled out, then set about getting the rusted pulley ready to hoist Alex out of the bath.
‘I have to find him,’ she said.
Alex let out a long sigh. ‘I really don’t think you should do that. But, if you do decide to, I know a man who might be able to help.’
‘Who?’
‘A Vor. Like me. Your father worked for him one time.’
‘One time?’
‘Let’s just say that job didn’t go quite to plan for either party.’
Anna gave Alex a questioning look but didn’t push for more. It wasn’t important and she didn’t think Alex would tell her what he knew even if she asked. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Come closer.’
Anna leaned toward Alex and he whispered the name into her ear.
She moved back again. ‘They were friends?’
‘No, Anna. Your father had no friends. Not then. Not now. And if you decide to go out into that dark world to look for him, remember this: Don’t. Trust. Anyone.’
13
Present day
Ryker’s journey across the Atlantic and onwards to Southern Spain was gruelling, taking well over twenty-four hours. Having rested in a simple hotel on the outskirts of the Andalusian city of Malaga, Ryker headed to a car rental shop early the next morning and took the second cheapest option he could find – a two-door Ford that he just about managed to squeeze into.
At nine a.m. the temperature was already stifling, with the midsummer sun blazing in the blue sky above. Ryker was dressed in a light cotton shirt but his jeans felt heavy and cumbersome even in the morning heat, and he put the air-conditioning in the car as cold as it would go.
It was a Thursday morning, rush hour, though once out of the city, the newly constructed and remarkably smooth motorway was nearly empty as Ryker travelled the short distance west to the house where Kim Walker had been murdered.
To his left was the cool blue of the Mediterranean. The coastline was dotted with several enclaves crammed with high-rise concrete apartment blocks and hotels that seemed to cling to the water’s edge. They had first sprung from the ground in the seventies when British tourists began descending on the Costa in their droves, and the many half-built shells Ryker could see suggested construction was still ongoing. It was a stark contrast to the historic city of Malaga that he’d flown into, and to the white-washed villages that were visible here and there up in the mountains to his right.
As Ryker turned off the main carriageway, he realised it was to the latter that he was headed. He dropped the gearbox of the underpowered car down to third, then second, and eventually first in order to make it up the ever-increasing incline of the Sierra de Mijas mountain range that rose prominently above the glistening coast behind him.
White painted villas and small complexes were scattered along the twisting road. The further Ryker went, the more lavish the properties became.
Soon there was little view of the houses – manicured front hedges and high walls secluded the expensive properties from the road.
Ryker eventually came to a stop outside the house he was looking for; Casa de las Rosas. A set of green metal gates, ten feet high, sat at the entrance to the property. Either side of the gates lay a six-foot white wall with terracotta tiles on top. A swathe of rose bushes in full bloom burst out over the top of the wall; whites, pinks, reds.
Ryker looked at the entrance. An intercom system was fitted onto the left-hand wall. But the left gate was already wide open. Ryker only hesitated for a second before driving through.
As the car crunched slowly along the gravelled drive, a panel van came by in the opposite direction, likely explaining the open gate. Ryker managed to pick out only one of the Spanish words on the side of the van; mueble. Furniture. A removal van? Ryker wondered. Or delivery?
Ryker kept going and parked his car in a grand turning circle that came complete with a fifteen-foot high water feature in its centre. He had no idea how much property cost in this part of the Costa del Sol but it didn't take a genius to figure that an extravagant property like this was worth millions.
Winter had only relayed the basics but Ryker knew Walker had made his money from property – buying, selling, renting, renovating. The property market on the Costa del Sol had boomed for years as more and more British and other Europeans bought second homes there. Many developers had made millions before the market had crashed dramatically following the mass global recession of the late 2000s. It appeared Walker had managed to keep hold of a lot of his money one way or another.
Kim Walker – whoever she really was – had married the rich Brit and gained everything she could ever need. Money-wise at least.
But just who was she? And why were her fingerprints on a file linking her to the Red Cobra – one of the most proficient assassins Ryker had ever come across?
Ryker stepped from the car and approached the house’s large oak double-doors. He rang the bell then knocked loudly and waited.
A few seconds later, the left door inched open and Ryker looked down at an olive-skinned lady – fifties with a wrinkled face, wearing plain blue linen trousers and a blouse.
‘Si,’ the lady said, looking suspiciously first at Ryker, then past him to his car.
‘Habla Inglés?’ Ryker asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ the lady said in a heavy accent. ‘How did you get in here?’
‘The gate was open,’ Ryker said, looking over his shoulder, back down the driveway. ‘Because of the van. New furniture?’
‘What? Yes. Some of it. What do you want?’
‘I’m here to see Patrick Walker.’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Will he be long?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can I come in to wait?’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m James Ryker. From London. I’m here about–’
The lady put her hand up to stop Ryker and he did.
‘Please, I don’t like to talk about that. I’ve already said what I know more than enough times.’
‘Okay. But I do need to speak to Mr Walker.’
‘He’s up in the village. It’s a ten-minute drive. He had a meeting. At Casa Colon I think. It’s a restaurant there. One of his.’
‘Thank you,’ Ryker said, a
split second before the front door was slammed shut in his face.
The maid wasn’t far wrong. Nine minutes later, Ryker was driving into Mijas, a quaint white-washed village high up in the Sierra with spectacular views down to the coast. After driving along cobbled streets he parked his car and made it on foot towards a small square in the town where the map on his phone – a pay-as-you-go he’d bought for cash at the airport – had shown him Casa Colon was located.
The village was awash with colourful bunting and as Ryker neared the square the throngs of people – tourists and locals alike – grew exponentially, as did the sound of lively music and rhythmic clapping. The picturesque square was lined with various small restaurants, cafes and shops. Along the buildings on each side were hanging baskets overspilling with a variety of colourful flowers. Ryker squeezed his way through bodies, and soon spotted the reason for the large gathering; a banner hanging across the street proudly announced it was the village’s annual fair.
He saw too where the noise was coming from. In the centre of the square stood a small wooden stage where two young women in traditional Flamenco dresses – black and red – were dancing to guitar music being blasted from portable speakers. The synchronised tapping of their feet on the wooden platform echoed around the enclosed space, and the crowds of people let out a series of well-timed Olés as the dance progressed.
Ryker stopped and stared through the crowd, who were enthralled by the music and the sightly dancers. The elegance of their poise, the intensity in their expressions. The way their skirts lifted each time they spun or kicked – high enough to reveal several inches of flesh above the knee, but not so high as to cause offence at a family viewing.
Both dancers were attractive, with dresses cut-low to reveal their cleavages and fitted tight to highlight their curves. They both had dark hair, held in tight buns that pulled their hairlines back and opened up their unblemished faces. Ryker could well understand why the crowd was so engrossed in the performance.
But after a few seconds, Ryker was distracted. Off to his left, he spotted the pavement terrace of Casa Colon. Along one side a passageway ran between the buildings to a lookout point that gave a glimpse of the sea beyond. Another dancer – taking a break perhaps – was there. Dressed similarly to the other two, but she was... different.
She was with a man. They were too far away for Ryker to hear a word of the conversation but it was clearly heated. Both were gesticulating, glaring at the other, their mouths moving wildly as they spoke. She went to walk away but the man grabbed her by the wrist. She spun round and slapped him hard in the face before storming along the passageway back to the square, where she moved through the crowd toward the stage.
Ryker’s gaze fixed back on the man. At first he looked shocked, holding a hand to his cheek where the woman had belted him. His look quickly turned to anger and he glowered at her walking away from him.
The man was smartly dressed in a pair of khaki trousers, shiny brown loafers, and a white cotton shirt that had several buttons undone. He had neat black hair and designer aviator sunglasses that obscured much of his face.
But even with the sunglasses on, Ryker had no doubt who the man was. He’d seen his picture in the papers Winter had given him.
He was exactly the man Ryker was looking for: Patrick Walker.
14
Ryker stared on at Walker; hands now on his hips, the anger on his face unmistakeable. His left cheek was burning red from the slap. After a few moments, Walker walked forward, through the passageway to the edge of the crowd. He stopped. Ryker turned his attention back to the stage where Walker’s steely glare was now fixed.
The music had stopped and the woman Walker had been talking to joined the other two dancers just as the next song began. She was similar in age and size to the other two, her dress was cut the same, her hair styled the same. Yet she stood out. Her lipstick was darker – not far off black and a stark contrast to the bright red of the others. She had a black rose tied into her hair, where the other two had red. She was definitely attractive. Not the most beautiful woman Ryker had ever seen, but there was something about her. She was mesmerising.
As the dance began, Ryker couldn’t take his eyes off the black-flowered woman. The way she moved, her body gliding, hips swaying, it was almost hypnotic. She was doing the exact same dance as the other two yet her performance was so much more powerful, dramatic. Angry.
For the next five minutes, Ryker didn’t once look away. He wondered whether her striking performance was part of the show, the story of the dance. Good versus evil. Whoever this woman was, she certainly had a dark side.
And Ryker was drawn to it.
When the music stopped, the crowd erupted in rapturous applause. The two red-flowered dancers looked at each other and smiled, then began thanking the crowd profusely. The black-flowered woman turned and stormed off the stage. She grabbed a small holdall and edged her way through the crowd who clapped and cheered her as she passed – the undoubted star of the show.
She headed for a narrow street at the far end of the square that led upward to where the town’s small bullring was visible. Ryker looked over and spotted Walker. He was barging through the audience, heading after her.
A second later, Ryker was doing the same.
Ryker was twenty yards behind Walker by the time he’d squeezed his way through the crowd. He picked up his pace, passed the bullring then walked around the edge of an ancient brick church whose bell tower looked as though it was actually part of an old Moorish castle. The church sat prominently at the top of a rocky outcrop and was surrounded by trees, fountains, and flowered gardens.
Walker caught up with the woman, who was stomping away as best she could in her high-heeled shoes. Walker grabbed her by one wrist, swung her round and grabbed the other too. He shouted at her. She shouted back, no fear in her face or voice. Only anger.
Ryker bounded up to them. His movement caught the woman’s attention, which in turn distracted Walker, who let go of one of her wrists and began to turn round. Ryker didn’t give him a chance to say or do a thing. He grabbed hold of Walker’s arm and twisted it into a hammerlock. Walker squirmed and cried out.
‘Let her go,’ Ryker said.
Walker turned his head. His face was creased with rage. Ryker, on the other hand, was calm. Walker began to spin, trying to move out of the hold. He balled his fist, swinging it around.
Ryker saw it coming.
He let go of Walker’s arm, caught the flying fist mid-air and sent a head-butt onto the crown of Walker’s nose. Ryker didn’t put his all into it. Just enough to set the scene. Send a message.
Walker fell to his knees and clutched at his nose which poured with thick red blood. ‘What the hell!’ he screamed. ‘My nose! You’ve broken my nose!’
‘It’s not broken,’ Ryker said. ‘I barely touched you.’
Ryker looked up. The woman was stood in front of him, staring. He gazed into her dark eyes. She looked away, down at Walker, then back up at Ryker. She flicked a devilish smile then picked up her bag, turned, and walked away.
Ryker watched, unable to take his eyes off her swaying hips. At least not until Walker brought him back down.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Walker said.
‘You know what?’ Ryker said. ‘I’m still trying to find the answer to that.’
15
An hour later, Ryker was sitting on an opulent cream leather sofa in Patrick Walker’s lounge. The housemaid, Valeria, had made them a large pot of filter coffee, which was sitting, half-empty, on the glass coffee table that separated the two men. Walker’s nose had stopped bleeding, though a layer of dried blood was visible on the edges of his nostrils. His manner toward his guest was nothing but hostile.
Not surprising really, given their introduction to each other. Walker had only invited Ryker to his home after the intervention of Detective Green, the police officer from London who’d been sent to Spain to help figure out who Kim Walker really was, and who had ki
lled her. Walker had called Green at Ryker’s insistence – it was the only way Ryker could see to stop the situation in the village escalating out of control. Green was now on his way to Walker’s. There were no pleasantries between Ryker and the host as they waited.
‘What did you say your name was again?’ Walker said, eying up Ryker not just with suspicion but with outright disdain. Walker had a Southern English accent. Not Queen’s English but certainly he seemed to come from money, or at least had had an expensive education, Ryker decided.
‘James Ryker.’
‘But you’re not with the police.’
‘I’m not a policeman. I’m working with them.’
‘You’d better hope you have some high friends because you can be sure I’m reporting you for this.’
‘Go ahead. And that way you can properly explain what you were doing with that woman up in the village.’
Walker humphed but said nothing to that.
‘If you’re not police, then why are you here?’ Walker asked.
‘Because I’m good.’
‘Good at what? Beating up grieving spouses?’
Ryker paused for a second. He had to expect the continued digs from Walker. Ryker’s strong-armed manner was hardly the right way to get on someone’s good side. But he wasn’t about to apologise for butting Walker in the face. As far as Ryker was concerned it was Walker’s fault for having been so heavy-handed with the woman.
‘I’m good at finding the truth,’ Ryker said.
Walker humphed again, looking uncertain. He took a sip of his milky coffee before setting it down.
‘Who was she?’ Ryker asked. ‘The woman.’
‘None of your goddamn business.’
‘You don’t have to like me, but there really isn’t any benefit in you holding back. Like I told you already, I’m here to help catch your wife’s murderer.’
‘Good. I hope you do. But that doesn’t mean you have the right to pry into all of my personal affairs.’
