‘And that somebody would be the person who’s been raping all these men and women?’
‘Told me that, if I found the body, I’d look innocent, right?’ Wright let his head slump forwards. ‘Those fucking prawns, man, they fucking grassed me up, eh? Fucking told you that I took him home.’ He slammed his fist onto the table. Looked like it hurt, too. ‘Fuck those guys. I mean, I’m just a fucking binman. You’ll not fucking believe them over me, eh?’
Cullen sat back and folded his arms. ‘No comment.’
‘After that guy’s husband went home, he started fucking him, man. Aggressively. Pinned him down. Started strangling him. Wouldn’t stop. All of them just watched, man. Wouldn’t stop until … until he fucking died, man.’
Cullen held his gaze. Wouldn’t look away. ‘So, who is he?’
Wright snarled. ‘Guy I know from South Africa. Marcus Pretorius.’
Cullen checked through the front window of Dave Farrelly’s house. Empty. He spoke into his Airwave radio: ‘Clear at the front. Serial Bravo?’
‘Clear at back.’
‘Alpha?’
‘Inside, Sarge.’ McCrea, out of breath as ever. ‘It’s clear. Looks like they’ve gone.’
‘Shite.’ Cullen glanced at Methven. Looked like he was going to blow a fuse any second now. ‘Anything on them?’
‘Hang on, Sarge.’
Cullen gripped the Airwave tight. Felt like it might crack.
‘Aye, found something. He’s left a plane boarding pass on the printer. Flights for Farrelly and Pretorius.’
Cullen ran through the departures lounge at the airport, clutching his Airwave to his mouth: ‘Have you got hold of them yet?’
‘Negative.’
Cullen picked up his pace, tearing across the carpet floor behind Methven. The departures board read, ‘Gate 10 >>> Closing’.
He sprinted past Gate 8, then bumped through the queue at Gate 9, winding out onto the walkway, and taking a large suitcase like a hurdle in a steeplechase.
Gate 10 looked ominously empty, just the ground staff speaking into handsets, yawning into fists.
Cullen skidded to a halt next to the desk. ‘I need … to get … that flight…’
‘Sir, the plane is taxiing. It’s too late.’
‘Pretorius and Farrelly.’ Cullen sucked in breath. ‘They’re wanted for murder.’
She frowned at a screen. ‘I’m sorry, but—’
The door behind her rattled open. Two burly security guards pushed Pretorius and Farrelly out, each with an arm wrapped tightly around a suspect’s neck. ‘All yours, gents.’
Cullen stood against the back wall of the Obs Suite, his legs aching with lactic acid. Not run like that in ages.
Methven and Bain were chatting in front of him.
On the screen, McCrea and another local were interviewing Farrelly.
Methven put the interview on mute. ‘Well, gentlemen, it looks like we’ve managed to persuade Mr Farrelly to turn in his partner. That’s enough evidence to support a conviction, I’d warrant. Mr Pretorius will be going away for a long time.’
‘Cheers, Col.’ Bain cracked his knuckles. ‘All in a day’s work for me.’
Cullen glowered at him. ‘You wear a nappy every day?’
‘Fuck off, Sundance.’
Methven laughed, shaking his head. ‘You two should work together more often.’
Take the Money and Run?
Gordon Brown
The fishing boats trail each other, heading towards the harbour. Prows high, sterns low, bellies full of fish. The sun, past its zenith, has seared the land, boiled the sea – in old money the temperature is tickling ninety degrees. I’m a walking lake of sweat and suntan lotion as I stroll along the breakwater, watching the first of the line of fishing boats as it eases down on the throttle to enter the harbour; men moving on board with measured effort, used to the world of warmth, stirring slowly, preparing to off their cargo.
The boat slides past a row of berthed pleasure craft, sheltering from the Mediterranean, the wash creating a chain reaction that resembles dominoes toppling as each vessel, in turn, bobs on the wake.
A man, high on the mast of a small yacht, clings on as waves bump into his boat’s hull – swinging his perch – the movement far more violent than he is comfortable with. He sees the other fishing boats queuing up to enter the harbour and decides that the deck of his boat is a more sensible place to sit out the shining fleet’s arrival. He slides down the mast.
A young man and woman, strolling hand in hand, are walking towards me. Their hands fall apart. I hear them talk in a mix of Spanish and Valencian as they watch the fishing boats arrive. I can’t speak either language but I have an ear for some of the key words. Around here people interchange the two languages as easily as the ambidextrous switch hands. The couple glance at me as we pass.
I look ahead. A small lighthouse, green, fading to mint in the sun, sits at the end of the breakwater. Fifteen feet high, its sister, red bleached to pink, is standing proud on the opposite side of the harbour entrance. The two structures guardians of the haven.
I climb the stairs to the plinth on which the green lighthouse rests. I walk round it and the bay opens up in front of me. I take in the vista, scanning from right to left. The harbour dissolves into the buildings of the port, which, in turn give way to a pebble beach dotted with temporary bars, bars that will be dismantled at the end of the season and packed away to wait on another year. The rocky shore, stretching in an arc, is lined with properties looking to the sea, no discernible pattern or reason to their form or design. As the beach ends, the Arenal rises, an area of bars, restaurants and dwellings that huddle around a small, sandy beach. The bay curves to a conclusion with more villas and flats, before cliffs rise up to bookend the cliffs behind me.
Behind the port, up on the hill, sits the old town, the pueblo, a maze of traditional Spain basking in the sun. My accommodation lies in there. Behind the old town, a mighty beast sleeps. The Montgó. Nearly two-and-a-half thousand feet high, it lords it over the valley. Pushed up by tectonic plates seventy million years ago, it resembles, from one side, an elephant. Its vast trunk falling towards the town. A cave its eye. The top of its head often sitting in cloud. A few days ago, I’d stood up there, a four-hour climb behind me, realising, not for the first time, that the fitness of my youth had been drained away by good living and the elapsing years.
I swing myself onto the concrete wall that surrounds the small lighthouse, dangling my legs over the giant concrete blocks that protect the breakwater from the sea. Below me a couple of men are drinking beer, fishing poles embedded in the blocks, chewing the cud about something or other.
I lean back on my arms, face up to the sun, eyes closed, soaking in the rays, knowing my time here is coming to an end.
A few hours later I’m sitting outside a bar in the old town, sipping at a beer. Something I can ill afford. My bank balance is in a critical state. At home, in the UK, my parents’ house waits for me. The unescapable consequence of being skint. A book lies unopened on the table next to me, my sunglasses perched on top. The bar is busy with early-evening locals and visitors gearing up for a Friday night. As with everything around here there’s no freneticism to this. Just a quiet sense of satisfaction that life is good.
The café sits at the top of a square the size of a couple of decent tennis courts. One side is open to the cobbled road that rumbles through the centre of town. A sister bar sits at the bottom of the square. The post office, correos, hides in the shade on the final side, the local men hanging around next to it, sitting on dark benches while putting everyone else’s world to rights. Trees provide the square with sun cover and cool the eye. People stroll through the thick, liquid air.
I’ve grown attached to this bar. I’ll miss it. I’ve even thought about asking for a job. But with no Spanish, I’d struggle.
I have a notion to open up my own place. A notion without the means.
Around me, getting high on caf
feine or cool on alcohol, I hear the babble of French, German, Dutch, Russian, English. The young couple who I saw on the breakwater earlier are sitting in the same bar, still flipping languages. She smiles at me before returning to the conversation with her partner. I pick up my novel.
Ten minutes later the table next to me, just vacated by an older man and his friend, is taken by a man wearing a Panama hat. He orders a café con leche from the waitress. I catch the waitress’s eye. ‘Una cerveza más.’ It’s about as far as my Spanish, and money, goes. I focus my eyes back on the book, trying to lose myself.
‘Excuse me.’ The man with the Panama hat is talking to the waitress. His face is tanned but free of wrinkles. The dominating feature is his nose, a hooked, twisted appendage that would sit well on one of Macbeth’s witches. His accent is hard to place. I’m from Scotland and I’m not thinking he’s from the UK.
The waitress approaches him. ‘Sí.’
‘Is the market on tomorrow?’
‘Sí,’ she replies.
The waitress places my beer on the table. ‘Gracias,’ I say.
‘De nada,’ she replies.
The Panama man adjusts his hat, tipping it forwards on his head. I saw him do that as he sat down. It’s probably a nervous habit. He leans on an elbow, tipping his hat again. He pulls his chair back. I avoid eye contact. I’m not keen on company. I’ve been flying solo since I arrived here and don’t want to break the pattern.
He adjusts his hat once more.
I tackle my beer, not wanting to contemplate what lies in the future.
The waitress brings the Panama man’s coffee. I sip my beer slowly, conscious that he is looking in my direction. I can feel his eyes. I turn and discover that he’s looking at something else. Over my shoulder, down the hill. He sees me looking and lifts his coffee as he looks away.
A few minutes later he rises, leaving money on the table.
I sit for an hour, stretching the beer so far that I fear I’ll be thrown out for vagrancy. But that won’t happen here. People are too chilled, and the café has tables to spare.
The Panama man appears again, this time from the street opposite, he looks down the road, down the hill again, and, after a moment, heads back the way he came. Ten minutes later he reappears, still looking down the hill. It’s as if he’s waiting for someone and knows that they will be coming from that direction. Before my hour is up he’s appeared and disappeared four more times.
I pay the bill and leave.
The next morning I wake late. Thursday: the market will have taken over the old town – stalls stretching from the square where I sat last night, down through Plaza de la Constitución, a sizeable slab of concrete with underground parking, before dropping to another square. Name your wares and you can purchase them from the Thursday market. Leather goods, clothes, kitchenware, ornaments, hats, vegetables, fruit, meat, dildos. A few of the stalls are tourist traps, but most are geared up for savvy locals. I usually go for a stroll. Soaking up the vibe. Window shopping with no windows. A coffee the reward for my exploration – sitting, people-watching, a loadstone of curiosity burning in me.
It’s closing in on noon before I get to the market. Prime time. The usual mix of home and away punters. My favourite café sits at the bottom corner of Plaza de la Constitución. I have my book with me. I’ll not read it. The world around me is more interesting. The sun is already scorching my head.
I rise after an hour and I’m halfway down the thoroughfare that links the two parts of the market when I hear an alarm. It’s coming from the main street.
I’m twenty yards from the intersection with the main street when a man rushes into view. Head down, he starts up the hill. He’s carrying a large black holdall. He’s heading straight for me. I sidestep left. He goes right. We collide. He drops the bag. His hooked nose inches from my face. Recognition zips across the Panama man’s eyes. A young woman, pushing a pram, tries to squeeze through, jamming the bag against the wall.
Two police officers hurl around the corner. The Panama man gets up. He reaches for the bag but the lady’s pram is in the way.
One of the police officers shouts out. The Panama man looks back, eyes wild. He glances at the bag and runs.
I turn to see where he’s going. I see his back for a second more before he vanishes into the crowd. The police officers run out onto the road, dodging the pedestrians. Their focus is on the Panama man. They sprint past me, ignoring the bag. The lady with the pram moves on. I yank the bag towards me with my foot.
A señora mayor, pushing a fully laden trolley, taps my shoulder. ‘Perdón.’ She points to the bag. It’s blocking the pavement. I look to the street corner, waiting for more police to appear. Two men are standing there, looking at me. Both are dressed in black t-shirts and black jeans. One with short, bleach-blonde hair, the other sporting dreadlocks. The old lady repeats herself as the two men continue to stare at me. When she speaks a third time I reach down and move the bag to one side. She tuts and walks by.
The two men are still watching me.
I stand, my feet inches from the bag, a river of humanity surging around me.
The sound of the alarm cuts through everything. The two men in black are statues on the corner.
I glance at the bag, wondering what’s in it.
The buildings on either side of the street provide shelter from the sun. A cool breeze, rushing from the mountain, breathes across the baking concrete. No one but the two men in black seem interested in me. I push the bag with my foot, crushing it back against the wall. There had to be a reason the Panama man was running with it. Running from the police.
I consider taking the bag back to the corner of the street. See what’s going down. Check out the alarm – it has to be related. But the men on the corner still have me fixed in their gaze.
I look back to see if the police or the Panama man have reappeared.
Nothing.
The alarm dies and the men in black vanish.
I bend down, trying to watch the corner, behind me, and the bag, all at the same time. The bag’s zips are closed at the top, but a tiny gap, where they fail to meet, is filled with a familiar colour. I stand up. Look around. I know euros when I see them. Money. The bag has money in it.
I push the side of the bag with my foot again. It’s full.
Full of money?
My mother’s voice invades the moment. A phone conversation from the other night: ‘So, son, have you done wasting your time out there? There’s no more cash from our end. It’s time to come home. Time to get a job.’
I’m forty-three and, after a messy divorce, dependent on my mother and father for cash. This trip: a holiday they paid for; a holiday I have extended. Missing my flight home. Claiming I was ill. Laid up. A whining plea for more money met, but with reluctance. That money has leaked away.
I can visualise the door to my childhood bedroom. My mum having made up my bed. She’ll have placed my teddy bear, Crank, on the pillow for me, ready for my home-coming.
I finger the bag’s handle, pulling it up, feeling the weight.
Heavy.
The people around me are oblivious to the bag, to my thoughts. There’s still no sign of anyone else. The men in black have not returned.
How much could a bag like this hold?
I turn away from the street corner, facing up the hill, back the way I came. Bag in hand.
One step. I realise that I just need to take one step. A step to something very different.
Just walk away.
Who saw the bag being dropped? The lady with the pram wasn’t interested, neither was the señora mayor with the trolley – they both just wanted to get past. The police were focused on the Panama man – not the bag.
Only the men in black showed any interest, and they’ve gone.
I take the step.
I return to my flat, positive that I’ve been followed. I slump onto the worn sofa. Armed police are about to storm in and take me down.
Only that’s
not what happens. I hear the neighbours argue. I hear a dog whine. A car grinds gears. My A/C hums. If the armed response unit are around, they’re chilling, taking their siesta.
I place the bag on the coffee table. It’s a new bag, the mark where the price sticker has been removed still visible. I want to open it. I need to open it. I think CSI and dig around the kitchen for some form of gloves. The best I can come up with is cling film. I wrap my hands in the stuff. It takes four attempts before I create something that allows me to move my fingers.
I unzip the bag with my fingertips. I stare in. The brief glimpse in the street didn’t lie. Cash – a lot of cash. The bag is brimfull with banded wedges of bank notes. I lift one out, flick through it. All tens. The band says one thousand. I count out the bundles. Two hundred and ten. I lay them on the table in neat rows. Two hundred and ten thousand euros.
Fly under Spanish immigration radar and there’s enough there for a good few years of luxury.
Only not here. Not this apartment. Not this town. The thought flashes through my mind: How hard will it be to track me down? Someone will remember me. Later, when the police release a statement. Someone will have seen me walk away, bag in hand. The men in black?
I wonder where the money is from. The Panama man was clearly scouting somewhere last night. There are banks on the main street. This much money could only mean a bank, and banks have heavyweight CCTV. He’ll be wanted. Already arrested? Where’s the money? Me in the frame.
I stare at the cash.
I so want the cash.
My bedroom back home takes centre stage in my head once more. The door will still be marked off with my various heights as a kid. Mum has had the room painted numerous times but didn’t cover up those pencil lines, which date back to 1976. I see myself sitting in the room, wondering what I’ll do next. Having to beg for cash from my parents, until I land some shit-end job. My new flight, two days in the future, is the full stop on my life.
Mystery Tour Page 9
