Resurrection (The Corruption Series Book 4)

by Charles Brett

  "I told him. When he pressed me."

  "What did you tell him? Not the address here? Please not!"

  "Yes."

  Kjersti looked from Inma to Ana and back to Inma. An explosion was imminent. She was uncertain whether to stay and enjoy the results or whether to make herself scarce. Inma deferred.

  "If I did wrong, I'm sorry."

  "That's not good enough. I have a mind to kick you out here and now. I won't, but only because I did wrong when I walked out on you. You've used your one Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card."

  Before Inma could respond the doorbell intoned. It cut across all three. Then Ana remembered.

  "I forgot to tell you, Kjersti. The architect asked to come around so that we could assess his improvements. Get changed fast."

  She turned to Inma.

  "I'd value your insights too. You've more experience at remodelling houses than me and I want to get this place right."

  "Thank you, Ana. Do you want me to answer the door?"

  "No. I might as well. You haven't met the architect. He might die of shock if he finds another dragon. Kjersti ate him alive the first time."

  Inma smiled. That she could believe.

  Ana headed to the front door and opened it to welcome the architect. He responded with a gracious kiss before Ana introduced Inma as her cousin and the source for many of her ideas, especially those involving eco-efficiency.

  They proceeded to the library. Ana explained that Kjersti was showering after a run. The architect indicated he was content to wait or they could start on some of the revised drawings. He extracted some from his briefcase.

  By some ablutionary miracle Kjersti popped up. Her hair was damp and she wore no makeup. She listened before quizzing the architect. From her expression she liked what he'd changed.

  The doorbell sounded again.

  Kjersti looked at Ana who looked at Inma. The architect paused in mid-sentence. He didn't know what was going on. But he knew he'd lost the attention of all three.

  "It can't be," whispered Ana.

  "Probably not," offered Inma. "Shall I go and see?"

  Ana nodded. Inma left.

  Ana tried to refocus on the architect. They debated decoration details, and bathroom fittings. Kjersti was vocal in her suggestions. The architect cowered until rescued by the library door. Inma stood in its centre.

  "Ana, I think you should come here."

  Like a robot, Ana moved towards Inma. Numbness seeped from her stomach to her head. She entered the hall. At the front door, neither in nor out, stood Davide.

  "What in hell are you doing here?"

  "Looking for you?"

  "Why? Was my refusal of your dinner insufficient?"

  "Yes and no. I wanted to see you. Plus tio Toño insisted, once he understood his mistake."

  "I don't care about your tio Toño. He messed us up with his mad consanguinity allegation. Look at what it did."

  "Found you your own finca and olive groves, if I understood Inma."

  This silenced Ana. What Davide said was true. Without tio Toño's inaccurate consanguinity assertion, she'd never have known of this inheritance. It wasn't an angle she'd considered. So what should she do? Her response was a trivial question.

  "Where have you come from?"

  "Marbella. Tio Toño... He's dying. Perhaps a month or two. Not more."

  "I'm sorry; for you more than him. Okay, for him too. Oh hell. Just come in."

  She turned and re-entered the library. Davide and Inma followed.

  In the library, a dumb silence reigned. Kjersti broke it.

  "Given the cheery reaction, you must be Davide. We've not met, but we've spoken. I'm Kjersti. From Norway."

  "Ah. That explains your accent. I read your articles about the olive flies. They were good."

  "Thank you. And in case you want to participate, this is Ana's architect. We are studying his ideas for the improvements to this house."

  Kjersti carried on as if there was nothing untoward. Inma's expression was frozen for Ana. Ana was stricken. Davide attempted light conversation with Kjersti. It didn't work. Tension permeated the library.

  The architect made a move. He'd leave the revised plans and come back another day. He gathered himself and departed.

  Then a mobile phone sounded. Davide's.

  With an obvious reluctance, he answered. "I don't recognise this number. It's probably some miscellaneous sales call." His face whitened. "I'm sorry Ana. That was tio Toño's doctor. He's collapsed. He's semi-conscious. They're waiting for the ambulance... I've got to go. He's not expected to last the night."

  Davide raced for the door. Only Kjersti was quick enough to match his speed and reach him as he started his car.

  "Can we do anything? Will you call one of us?"

  She dug in her pocket and handed him a card. He pocketed it without a word.

  "It doesn't matter who you call, Ana or Inma or me. One of us. When you can."

  Davide put the car in gear. He leaned out the window.

  "I will when possible. It'll be six hours before I reach whichever hospital they take him to. I'll probably be too late."

  His face was ashen as he released the handbrake to speed off. Kjersti stared down the camino after him. She muttered to herself: "this isn't what anybody planned".

  Inside, she found Ana and Inma in silence. She thought of what to say. Instead she pulled over the architect's plans and made notes. The conversation could resume when Ana decided.

  Chapter Five

  Madrid (Spain)

  Davide gathered himself. It had been almost a fortnight since tio Toño's death. His uncle had recovered consciousness for one moment at the hospital, at about four in the morning. He'd whispered with closed eyes: "look after Ángela". Nothing more.

  Through the following hours, Davide had watched the electronic pulse counter slow, then stop.

  After the official procedures, he'd gathered himself to start on the obligatory calls. Among these, as requested, he'd phoned Muro de Alcoi. He'd dithered over whom to contact. He could not bring himself to call Ana. He'd nearly called Kjersti, though they'd met for bare minutes. In the end, he'd chosen Inma.

  The funeral had taken place on the outskirts of Marbella the day after, in the evening. He'd been taken aback by how many appeared to bid tio Toño farewell. Most were of a similar age to his uncle, though there'd been a sprinkling of middle-aged 'children' to prop up ancient relatives. Though the realisation came late, Davide had maintained his distance – his English side emerging, as tio Toño would have accused.

  He'd felt relief when the funeral finished. It had been lonesome, being the sole chief mourner. He was the last remaining member of his family. He wasn't sure how this made him feel.

  At least he'd made it back from Ydra to enjoy those last days and bottles of Montrachet with tio Toño. They might have argued over Ana, but their fellowship had transcended their separate generations; their mutual regard had resurfaced and cemented. When he'd set off for Muro de Alcoi, tio Toño had encouraged him with warmth and a decidedly evil glint in his eyes.

  After the funeral, Davide had instructed estate agents and talked with his uncle's local lawyer. Tio Toño and he had agreed Davide should sell the Marbella villa and hold onto the Madrid piso. Next, he'd hired a company to remove and sell all he didn't want in the villa. The rest, mostly paintings, books and photos, would go to Madrid. The only exceptions were the valuable items. These he would transport himself.

  Then there was the memorial service in Madrid to arrange and attend. Another dreary mass was in prospect. He'd telephoned Ángela the morning of his uncle's death. She'd been distraught at the news, but somehow not surprised. She'd volunteered to coordinate the memorial gathering. He was relieved he could defer to her, imagining a simple, dignified affair unlike the noisy one in Marbella.

  With most matters concluded, he collected the car from the villa's garage for the last time. It was a near-new Mercedes. His uncle had claimed he'd bought it beca
use of its lines. Davide loaded it with his own few belongings and as many of his uncle's valuables as would fit. The rest would ship.

  He felt foolish. He hadn't owned a car for years. Travelling around the world had denied him the need. Now he possessed a vehicle far smarter, and faster, than he was accustomed to when he rented. He reached Madrid at least an hour sooner than expected, to his amazement without a speeding fine. The car had flown.

  Ángela waited for him. Whether she enveloped him, or he her, their hug bolstered the other.

  That first evening, he refused her dinner. She was on the verge of offence. Her cooking was legendary and more than one of tio Toño's so-called friends had tried to poach her. He told her he, on tio Toño's instructions, was to invite her out. A restaurante could not be as good and it was a lie about tio Toño who'd never suggested this. But Davide's instinct was his uncle would have approved.

  He expected a dull, drawn out evening, obliged to make false conversation with his uncle's housekeeper. It proved the opposite.

  She recommended an Argentino establishment which she knew his uncle had treasured. Forewarned by the reservation, the proprietor welcomed them and insisted they pay for nothing: 'in honour of my good customer and old friend, Toño'.

  The steaks from the Pampas were magnificent. The wine from Mendoza was robust, and cheered them.

  It didn't take long before they swapped stories about tio Toño. Davide considered his tame. Hers were more enticing. Along the way, Davide confessed his white lie. Ángela reciprocated with the revelation that tio Toño had visited Madrid some weeks back to inform Ángela of his state, to turn over to her a year's salary in advance and to bid farewell. That explained why she'd seemed unsurprised by the news of his death.

  Ángela, by now a shade tipsy and enjoying herself, next let slip she and tio Toño had been lovers, at a low point in both their lives. It hadn't lasted. But it clarified tio Toño's final words. He recounted that last night. She broke into gentle tears on hearing tio Toño had remembered her in his final hours.

  As they left the Restaurante Argentino she issued a gentle warning. Davide should prepare for the Memorial Mass. It might shock. She would say no more.

  As Davide and Ángela advanced down the nave to occupy their places at the front, his astonishment grew. Could tio Toño have known so many people? The church was packed, with old and not so old. It was not time to begin.

  He and Ángela sat. He hadn't wanted to sit in isolation, as in Marbella. He'd invited her to join him in the car and at the front of the church. He sensed subliminal endorsement from several around. Again, he felt sure of tio Toño's approval.

  The mass was interminable. He'd hated chapel and then church at school. He'd accepted confirmation, but only because it was the done thing – he hadn't believed a word. That meant he could not, in good conscience, take the sacred wafer. Ángela, as a staunch Catholic, went forward. A host followed, most of them unknown to him.

  Before the celebration finished, there was the oration. He was less surprised by its content than the orator. Judge Garibey de Williams delivered a short, humorous and apposite address which drew forth ripples of appreciative laughter. At last the Cura uttered the blessings. The formal service was over.

  At which point he found out he had more to do.

  Restrained by Ángela, Davide found he was expected to shake hands and spout pleasantries to the sea of unknowns who approached at the front of the church. Not all did. Some spoke to Ángela, who positioned herself opposite to share his burden. Otherwise he might have become stuck for ages.

  Out of the blue, he found himself facing Inma and Kjersti. No Ana. He'd wondered if she might come but had concluded it was improbable. It was clear now she still blamed tio Toño for his inaccurate consanguinity accusation. Inma and Kjersti offered polite condolences before saying they looked forward to talking later.

  Before he could ask, Judge Garibey de Williams with Pedro Casals, his collaborator and friend from the Policia Nacional, approached. He thanked the Judge for the tribute but, before he could speak with Pedro, the press of others wanting to express well-meaning inanities separated them. It was an exodus from the ark. Could tio Toño have met so many? He must have.

  Numbness beckoned. To his relief, the numbers thinned. Then Ángela was beside him. Outside the church she pointed to a restaurante opposite.

  "It's booked in your uncle's name. He reserved it. The estate pays. Another instruction he gave me on his last visit: 'invite anybody who turns up'. You'd better go and preside."

  "Aren't you coming?

  "I'm not sure it's appropriate."

  "After all you've done? Of course, it is. You should. Besides you know many more people than me."

  "As you wish."

  Despite her frown, her voice revealed pleasure. Which pleased him. He hoped tio Toño would feel the same. He took her arm. They crossed the road to who knew what?

  Buffavento (Cyprus)

  Stephane's decision to leave Nicosia behind for a few days had filled him with worry. Now, away and staying in a small hotel in Kyrenia on the Turkish-Cypriot side of the Green Line, relief set in. A shadow had lifted, though it was unlikely to last.

  Yesterday, he'd visited the castle of Saint Hilarion, high in the Pentadaktylos Mountains. Though tourist-ridden, he'd enjoyed the effort as he climbed to the top with its breath-taking views out above the over-built, flat Kyrenia coastal strip and on over the sea towards mainland Turkey. Yesterday had been clear. The Turkish mountains, though far away, were discernible. His one omission: a decent pair of binoculars. He'd remedied this on his way back to his hotel.

  Today, his objective was the second of the three great Lusignan mountain castles: Buffavento or the 'defier of winds'. He saw the signpost and pointed his car along what fast turned into a single lane road in not-great condition. He looked to his left. The roadside fell away hundreds of metres down. On the right, there was mostly rock face. About a kilometre along, he'd seen no passing spots. What would happen if another vehicle came the opposite way, especially a bus or truck?

  He shrugged. He would face that problem if it occurred. It couldn't be far.

  Then he remembered the signpost where he'd turned off the main road. 6 km to Buffavento. Was it going to be like this all the way? Tension distorted his neck muscles. A headache threatened. His doctor's instructions were to avoid circumstances like this. They produced migraines which, once they took hold, were hard to lose.

  He crossed mental fingers and continued. At no more than twenty kilometres an hour, he had at least another fifteen minutes to agonise. Still, he hadn't seen a passing place. He assumed he would have to repeat this to leave. His heart sank as his head throbbed.

  A protracted quarter of an hour later, edging along the deteriorating road, he emerged into a broader outpost of vegetation. Another signpost indicated he should turn right. He drove up a short hill to a large parking area. There was a single tall tree whose shade protected the one other vehicle, a rickety van that had once been white but now displayed more rust than paint. Had it come the same way as him? He wouldn't want to meet it and have to reverse.

  He locked his car and took stock. There was a path leading upwards. With the strap of his binoculars wound around his left wrist, he started the climb. It was long, though rarely steep. The Turkish-Cypriot caretakers had established a path with steps and hand-barriers where needed. While not as good as at Saint Hilarion, these were more than adequate to keep visitors safe.

  Half-way up, he paused. To his relief his headache had diminished in the fresh air. His neck muscles had relaxed.

  The view out over the Mesaoria plain encompassed a complete 180-degree vista centred to the south. It stunned, though the air was not as clear as yesterday. A haze masked much of the distant detail. With his binoculars, he watched a plane land at Ercan airport before moving his eyes west over the Mesaoria towards Nicosia. There, he could see a mass of cranes sprouting out of the centre. This must be where the Archbishop con
structed his extraordinary vision.

  He tried to imagine what it would look like when complete. He couldn't, though he'd seen the plans. He tried to envision a full-size tower, the model of which the 3D printer had built. Again he couldn't. The scale wasn't obvious.

  He recommenced his climb. It took another half hour of solid zigging and zagging with the occasional rest before he came to the lower gatehouse. He peered in. Not much to see. With care he worked his way up and up, passing various ruins until he came out at the highest point. There, the view was more magnificent though, for no reason he could fathom, the cluster of cranes was less obvious. Might it be about the angles? Stephane wasn't sure.

  There was no one about. No, that wasn't quite true. A minibus crawled its way along a different road, one that disappeared around to the west of the parking. That was good news. It implied a different approach was possible. Might he escape Buffavento without having to retrace that appalling single track road?

  He headed down. As he did so, he passed a group of noisy schoolchildren who looked about ten or eleven. They made the climb seem easy. The teachers looked stretched thin, trying to keep up and sustain good order.

  He reached his car. At the foot of the short hill, he had a choice. To go left would backtrack the way he'd come. It was a known quantity, if a frightening one. To go right represented uncertainty. It might be the same or worse.

  He twisted the wheel to his right and delighted in a gentle descent with many passing places and wide corners. All of a sudden, he was among trees. Then came a camping site. After that a large church appeared beyond a clearing. He couldn't resist. He turned off and parked.

  Walking up, he found what must have been a large monastery or working church. There were solid outbuildings. From a distance, all looked in good shape. Up close it was clear the site was in dismal disrepair, left to rot by the Turks after their 1974 invasion. Or perhaps it was for longer. He poked around and went inside. More bird droppings than piety. Why had nobody rescued such a magnificent building in such a wonderful place with the towering Pentadaktylos as the backdrop?