Fatal Sunset

by Jason Webster

  Alicia turned her attention back to the tights. There was nothing there that she needed, or even wanted. A window looking back out on to the square was just to her right, the sunlight partially blocked by a dark plastic coating on the glass. Would she be visible from outside? She glanced out at the tobacconist’s kiosk. The woman in the black leather jacket had gone.

  She’s on the move.

  Got it. I’m on her. Heading east across the square.

  I’m leaving the shop now.

  Stay behind me. Don’t get too close. Did she see you?

  No. Definitely not.

  Stay with her and keep the chat between you to a minimum. You’ll give yourselves away.

  Yes, sir.

  What’s her current position?

  Turning left up Montera.

  How’s it looking?

  Very busy.

  Alicia threaded her way through the crowds, hauling her handbag back on to her shoulder to make herself larger, something for the scores of people coming towards her to avoid. The press of bodies squeezed in. She felt caught in a tightening storm. An instinct told her to bring her bag round to her front again, hold it against her chest like a shield. But as she pulled on the handle, it caught momentarily, would not budge.

  She turned swiftly on her heel. The pickpocket was lightning quick, immediately pulling her empty hand out of the gap where she had opened the zip. But she was not fast enough to dissimulate entirely: Alicia had caught her off guard and she stared with bulging eyes. Alicia shoved her away. The woman stumbled backwards with an expression of manufactured outrage.

  ‘HEY! HEY!’

  Alicia didn’t stop to listen. She glanced quickly around then spun on her heel once more, bag squeezed tight around her belly.

  Shit!

  What happened?

  A pickpocket. Some woman just tried to put her hand in her bag.

  Did she steal anything?

  I don’t know. Don’t think so. Couldn’t see.

  What’s happening now?

  She pushed the woman off and is carrying on. But …

  What?

  I think she saw me.

  Saw you?

  When she turned round to push the pickpocket away. I think she caught sight of me before turning back again.

  Are you sure?

  Not positive.

  Where’s Number 2?

  Coming up behind, sir.

  Number 1, you fall back. Number 2, take the front position.

  Yes, sir.

  For Christ’s sake! Do your job. I shouldn’t even have to be telling you this!

  Two sets of eyes had been staring at her. She hadn’t just caught the pickpocket by surprise – someone else had been looking intently when she spun round. And not at the suddenness of her action. The pickpocket had betrayed a look of surprise, but that second pair of eyes had had a different expression: one of steely keenness.

  It had all happened quickly, and she hadn’t managed to take in the face that went with them, but the eyes had been registered.

  It was enough to confirm what her instinct already knew. And the certainty brought both a chill and greater clarity. Keep going, she told herself. Stick to this route, the plan that had formed inside the phone box. The urgency of what she needed to do was greater than ever.

  Number 2, do you have eyes on the subject?

  Yes, sir. Just coming up now.

  What’s happening?

  She’s stopped. In the middle of the street. She’s got her hand in her bag, looks like she’s rummaging around for something.

  Her phone? Perhaps someone’s calling her.

  Thank you Number 1. We’re monitoring her phone live here. No incoming calls at present.

  Right, sir.

  She’s on the move again.

  OK. Did she take anything out of her bag?

  Negative. Just rummaged inside and is now continuing up towards Gran Vía. Can’t see anything in her hands apart from her bag.

  Right. Keep on her. And keep out of sight.

  She’s reached Gran Vía. She’s turning left.

  Stay with her. Number 1, you get up there as well, but keep well back. We can’t have her seeing you again.

  Yes, sir.

  Edging along the pavement, trying not to get knocked into the bus lane by the crowds, she allowed herself a half-smile. She hated shopping: it was one of the things that Max said he loved most about her. Now she had to pretend to be as interested as everyone else in the stuff on sale, an endless array of things – clothes, mostly; she felt sure there used to be a greater variety of shops not so long ago.

  On the other side of the street she caught sight of a familiar sign. At the crossing she waited for the light to turn green, aware of the bodies closing in around her. The light changed. She walked. The shop grew larger before her, wide open doors, windows on either side.

  Thank God for reflections, she thought as she cast a quick glance towards the shop front before passing inside, through the cool shower of icy air conditioning.

  She’s gone into Zara.

  Copy. Get in there.

  I’ll be outside.

  Good.

  Can you hear me?

  Loud and clear.

  I’m inside. She’s crossing the shop, heading towards a rack of T-shirts.

  What are you wearing?

  Sir?

  I said, What—

  A pair of jeans, blue trainers, cream top, jacket …

  Take your jacket off.

  Sir?

  Have you changed your appearance since you started tailing her?

  No.

  Then take off your jacket. She may have spotted you earlier.

  Yes, sir.

  For God’s sake.

  Jacket removed.

  Congratulations. Now, what is the subject doing?

  She’s at the counter.

  Buying something?

  Yes, I think so.

  What is she buying?

  Can’t see. She’s got her back to me. She must have picked something up while I was taking my jacket—

  Get in there now and find out what it is!

  Can’t, sir.

  What?

  Too late. She’s paid and is heading for the—

  Number 2? … Number 2?

  Number 1 here, sir. I see her. Leaving the shop now.

  Where’s Number 2?

  Don’t know, sir. Do you want me to check in on her?

  For Christ’s sake, no, man. Stay with the subject!

  Yes, sir.

  Number 2?

  Here, sir.

  What happened?

  Had to break communications. Subject brushed past me.

  She what?

  Shop’s a bit crowded. She bumped into me to get through to the exit.

  She pushed you over?

  Not exactly. I stayed on my feet. But I dropped my jacket.

  What?

  She picked it up and handed it to me.

  Do you think …?

  Barely even looked at me, sir. Just gave me back my jacket and sped out the door.

  Oh, for Christ’s sake.

  I’m sure she hadn’t seen me before.

  Maybe not. But she’ll recognise you if she sees you again.

  She’s getting in a taxi, sir!

  Number 1?

  In a taxi heading east.

  Get after her now!

  But what if she sees us?

  It doesn’t matter. Just follow her. I need to know where she’s going!

  So there were two of them. The woman had taken the jacket off, but Alicia knew at once it was the same one she had seen before – twice before and both times in reflection: at the tobacconist’s and then behind her as she crossed to go into Zara. And despite having taken it off, perhaps to disguise her appearance, it was definitely her, definitely the same jacket. Alicia had contrived to bang into her a little too hard, made the woman stumble. When the jacket fell to the floor it took just an instant to pick it
up and hand it back. And although it was turned inside out, she felt the smooth leather against her fingers, knew at once who the woman was, what she was doing.

  And the taxi seemed to float effortlessly towards her as she stepped back out into the street. As though he had been waiting for her. So she had got in. Given an address for him to drive to.

  And he was looking at her through the mirror. Was he working for them as well?

  I’m in a taxi. We’re tailing. She’s three taxis ahead.

  Number 2, where are you?

  I’m getting in a taxi myself.

  Good. Number 1, have you got the licence number of the taxi she got into?

  Negative. Didn’t have time.

  Where are you now?

  Crawling down Gran Vía. Traffic’s terrible, very slow.

  Well that can work to our advantage. Just make sure you don’t lose her.

  It was slow. Way too slow. If she’d managed to give them the slip they were almost certainly back on to her now. Assuming that the man behind the wheel wasn’t one of them as well. She avoided his gaze, trying to disguise her annoyance. What had got into her head, getting into a taxi like that? With traffic at a virtual standstill? Just following instinct. But her instinct appeared to have let her down. Should she tell the driver to stop and make a dash for it now? Perhaps there was still time. But where could she go?

  She closed her eyes and thought back to the map of the city centre on the wall of the phone box, and the plan that had formed in her mind then. Tracing steps and lines across the city in a giant spider’s web. It could still work.

  She opened her eyes. The taxi had fed on to Alcalá and was picking up speed as it headed past the Banco de España building.

  ‘Atocha!’ she called out as they reached the junction. ‘I’ve changed my mind. Take me to Atocha.’

  The driver swung the wheel to the right and they slipped through the traffic lights just as they turned red. The driver glared at her through the mirror. She ignored him.

  They’ve turned down Paseo del Prado, heading south.

  Are you with them?

  Negative. They shot through the lights.

  Did you get the licence plate?

  GPE9284. Mercedes. Didn’t catch the model.

  Have we got backup?

  No, sir. Just myself and Number 2.

  Get after her. Just fucking get after her!

  ‘Plaza or station?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you want Plaza Atocha? Or the train station?’

  Alicia thought for a second.

  ‘The square,’ she said. ‘Drop me by the Bar El Brillante.’

  The traffic was more fluid here, if not quite as fast as she would have wanted. She noticed with some relief that they had passed through the traffic lights just as they were changing. Her tail might be thrown off.

  But for long enough?

  She resisted the temptation to look back through the window, but could almost sense the wall of cars coming in behind them. Would one of them contain her pursuer?

  She took the money out of her purse and had it ready to hand over. She opened the door before they came to a full stop.

  ‘Hey! Watch out.’

  She thrust the money in his hand without waiting for the change, then darted out into the street in front of the taxi as the last pedestrians on the crossing were hurrying over. She felt the bow-wave of air from a beer truck as it swung centimetres from her shoulder, pressing herself into the sea of commuters as they huddled on the far side, waiting to get through and down towards the station building.

  Lots of people, lots of bodies, all in a hurry. This was good. She could lose herself. Lose them.

  Number 1, report in. What is your position?

  Atocha Square, sir. Making chase.

  Have you located the subject?

  No eyes on her yet, sir, but I know where she’s headed.

  Explain.

  Found the taxi, sir. The one she was in. She’d already left. Driver was counting his money, about to leave. Said I was her husband. He told me which way she went.

  Which is?

  Atocha station, sir. That’s where I am now, just heading inside. Assume she’s catching a train to Valencia.

  Possibly. But make no assumptions. Do you have eyes on her?

  Negative.

  Number 2, report.

  Pulling into Atocha Square now.

  Proceed to the station and wait for instructions.

  Understood.

  She walked through the atrium towards the platforms. The place was so much busier than the previous night. She fed into a stream of commuters stepping through the glass doors at the far end and turned to the left, past coffee stalls and newsagents. Should she stop, perhaps browse for a magazine? Watch for anyone holding back to stay with her? Perhaps see those eyes again, the ones that had been staring back on Montera. She doubted the woman with the black leather jacket would make a return. But there would almost certainly be others. Not just two. Unless money was really tight.

  Something told her to continue, allow herself to be carried along by the crowd. At the end the passageway opened into a large hall. The trains were over on her right. In front, just a little further on, was the metro station.

  She fed into the crowd pushing forwards. At the turnstile she pushed in quickly behind someone else. No time to buy a ticket. But the small eyes of security cameras peering out from a high corner told her to remain on her guard.

  She carried on, taking the escalator down, joining the flow of those in a greater hurry, walking instead of allowing themselves to be carried by the great turning machine. At the bottom she got on the platform for trains heading south towards Congosto. And waited.

  Number 1, listen. She’s not on the passenger list for any trains heading for Valencia. Or anywhere else. She is not, repeat not, getting on any train.

  Understood. I’ve got eyes on her now, sir.

  Where is she?

  In the metro station, heading down to the platform.

  Follow her, man.

  But sir, we’ll lose the radio connection. It’s too far below ground.

  Just do what I say! Keep eyes on her at all times.

  Yes, sir. Heading down now, sir.

  Number 2, come in.

  Yes, sir.

  Where are you?

  By the taxi rank outside the station.

  Get inside the building now and head towards the metro station. Report when you get there.

  The train came. The commuters crushed their way in. Alicia was one of the last, pressing herself into the tiniest gap just within the door space, her back to the mass of people, facing out. She had a clear line of sight up and down the platform. Others were already mingling, deciding to catch the next train, hoping for more space. She glanced at them, examining their faces: two Moroccans; a huddle of young men in shiny, overpriced suits; a woman wearing brightly coloured, tight-fitting Lycra. She was in conversation with a balding man in his forties; he was … what? Trying to chat her up? Here on the platform in the middle of rush hour? Alicia sniffed with a kind of admiration. The woman in Lycra was not interested, ignoring him, but already there was little room on the platform for her to walk away. Alicia glanced further up the platform, then back again. What was holding the train up? The Lycra woman was still there, but now the balding man had gone. Alicia scanned the other commuters, trying to see him. A movement to her left caught her attention, down at the other doors into her carriage: someone squeezing in to the annoyance of the other passengers. She stood up on tiptoe to see just as the doors hissed and began to close. Over the tops of the commuters she could just make out the bald head. And the eyes. The eyes from Calle Montera. The eyes that had been staring at her from behind the pickpocket.

  Her foot shot out as the doors closed, catching them where they met. She thrust out both hands and heaved with all her strength, pushing through the tiny gap, smearing her face against the black rubber edges.

  ‘He
y!’

  ‘Careful.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  She was on the platform, but her bag was still stuck in the door. She could hear beeping, an alarm of some kind. She felt a pair of hands reach out. With a final heave she pulled on the bag. And the train shunted into motion.

  She looked up. The woman in Lycra had a concerned expression on her face.

  ‘You all right?’ she said. ‘Too many people? Know how you feel.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Alicia. ‘Thanks for helping.’

  She glanced up and down the platform quickly. There was no sign of the balding man.

  ‘Thanks,’ she repeated. ‘I must get going. Just remembered something.’

  And she hurried away.

  Number 2, report in.

  Just reaching the metro entrance now.

  We’ve got a live feed at this end of the security camera footage. Scanning it now for when the subject entered. Do you remember what she was wearing?

  Black jeans, red-and-white striped top and a light, off-white coloured cotton jacket.

  The bag?

  Large, some kind of woven material. Striped – light and dark brown. Leather handle.

  Shoes?

  Didn’t catch sight of them.

  Never mind. That’s enough. We’re scanning the footage for her now, checking the other cameras along the Line 1 stations. Number 1 will be reporting back as soon as his radio signal returns.

  Yes, sir. No sign of her here.

  Alicia walked off the platform taking quick glances to either side. No one seemed to notice her as she pressed against the flow of fresh commuters and made her way back to the bottom of the escalators. At the side was a round structural column with a tiny gap behind. She fought her way across and squeezed in. Looking up over the heads of the crowds of people streaming past, she could make out no security cameras. Satisfied that she was not being watched, she took off her jacket and fished into her bag from Zara for the top she had bought. Then, as quickly as she could, she pulled off her striped top, stuffed it into the Zara bag, and put on the new top: it was simple, a chocolate brown, made of light, matt cotton. Nothing too eye catching. Yet it also had a loose piece of cloth around the shoulders, like a shawl, something which she could, if she chose, drape over her hair, like a veil.