by Conrad Jones
Madonna? Tod thought. What chance does a child have when it’s named after a pop star or a footballer? “I’m very sorry, Madonna,” he said to the whining child through gritted teeth.
“You will be!” the father approached with a scowl on his face. He squared up to Tod, his nose an inch away from his face. “You need to watch where you’re going!”
Tod thought about head-butting him but the last thing that he wanted now was attention. Violent behaviour was taken very seriously in the Spanish resorts. It would be a huge mistake to become embroiled in a fight in the middle of the street. “I’m very sorry,” he stepped back and held up his hands. He reached into his pocket for a note, “here, get yourself an ice cream,” he handed the note to the little girl. She snatched it without any hesitation. He turned to walk away and bumped into an elderly couple. The man looked shocked and swore in a language that Tod didn’t understand. “I’m very sorry,” Tod said turning away quickly. He stepped aside to circumvent the crowd and felt a hard shove in the hip. It came from behind. Turning, he looked around but the crowd had closed on whoever had pushed him. He was surrounded by strangers. He took a deep breath and tried to put some space between himself and the family and instinctively put his hand to his hip where he had felt the contact. His wallet was gone.
“Shit!” he shouted looking around frantically. The crowd parted for a second and he caught site of the lone male from the restaurant darting through the tourists with practiced ease. He watched him twist and turn, sidestepping and ducking. He used the tourists as camouflage slipping between them to remain undetected. The old man had lost his wallet at the bar and now Tod’s had gone too. It had all his debit cards and cash in it. It had to be him that had stolen them.
“Stop there, you thieving little bastard!” Tod shouted at the top of his voice. The entire street froze for a millisecond as people tried to pinpoint who was shouting and who was a thief. The thief stopped for a second and looked over his shoulder. Their eyes met again. Tod used the moment to his advantage and ran towards him. “Give me my wallet back, you little twat!” he sprinted towards him, the tourists parted like the Red Sea. He closed the distance quickly but the thief regained his composure and ran back down the lane towards the bar that they had come from.
The thief was quick. Very quick indeed. Much faster than Tod. He sprinted as fast as his legs would allow him to but the thief was making a metre for every metre they covered. Tod regretted shouting at the man. He should have followed him in silence and then cornered him. The cobblestones made running at pace difficult. They were uneven and worn smooth and Tod feared slipping. At the pace he was running, if he fell then he would either break his wrists or smash his face in.
The bar went by in a blur of lights and he could feel his lungs beginning to burn with exertion. His thigh muscles were screaming at him to stop, lactic acid was coursing through the muscle cells tightening the fibres and slowing him down. Lager sloshed around in his belly, threatening to come back up and choke him and he burped an acidic mixture of garlic and beer, which stung his gullet. The thief was pulling further away, his arms and legs pumped like pistons. Tod heaved air into his lungs and ran faster. The effort was unsustainable but losing his bank cards wasn’t an option. He had to catch him.
The thief skidded on the cobbles and changed direction. He found his footing and turned right into a narrow lane and Tod lost sight of him for a few seconds. He counted in his head, one, two, three, four, five, six, and then he took the turn himself. The pickpocket was running hard without slowing. Tod felt his heart sink when he saw the gradient of the lane. The cobbles climbed steeply for a few hundred metres to some wide stone steps, which led to the street above but he couldn’t see what was beyond the hill. He wasn’t sure if he would make it. His legs were like lead as the gradient began to bite. The thief turned to look over his shoulder and the panicked look on his face spurred Tod onwards. He was tiring.
Adrenalin pumped through his veins as he steeled himself to conquer the incline. His thighs were on fire as he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Blood pounded in his ears blocking out all other sounds except the rasping of his breath. It felt like running through wet concrete. His mind wanted his body to run faster but his body couldn’t deliver. The pickpocket was feeling the pain too as he neared the steps. He stopped for a second and grabbed at the iron handrail that split the steps in half. His chest heaved and he bent double and retched. He stole a quick glance at Tod, who was closing the gap and then bolted up the steps taking them two at a time.
Tod counted the seconds in his mind, one, two, three, four and he was at the bottom of the steps. He was gaining ground now but his body was shutting down. He was panting like a dog; sweat soaked his clothes and stung his eyes. The muscles in his legs were exhausted and his knees and ankles sent bolts of pain to his brain every time his feet impacted with the cobbles. The thief was nearing the brow of the hill as Tod launched himself up the steps.
When he reached the top, he could hear the thief’s footsteps pounding the cobbles but he couldn’t see him. He looked left down a long sloping road but it was empty. To his right was a whitewashed church illuminated by spotlights. Tourists milled around taking photographs. Panic gripped him. He couldn’t see which way the thief had run. Suddenly he heard a clatter and a muffled cry. Directly opposite him was a narrow alleyway between the buildings. He hadn’t seen it at first because the lighting was poor. It was pitch black in the alley but there was no doubt that the noise had come from that direction.
Tod took a deep breath and burst across the road. He entered the inky blackness of the alley without hesitation. The street-lighting hardly penetrated the darkness and within a few strides, he was running blind. He knew that he would have to slow down or risk running into a hidden obstacle. Another clatter up ahead brought him to a sudden stop. He tried to slow his breathing so that he could listen. Another muffled cry and a scrambling sound. Then the sound of feet running again. “Shit!” Tod wheezed as he took off in pursuit at a jog. He couldn’t risk running any faster. A fall here could leave him badly hurt.
His eyes began to adjust to the darkness and deep shadows leapt out at him as he ran. He stepped over an upturned bin and saw refuse scattered. Tod figured it was the cause of the clatter that he had heard. He stared hard into the night as he ran along the narrowing alleyway. There was barely room between the walls to stand without twisting his shoulders at a slight angle. Dark rectangles spotted the walls on either side; it registered that they were doors that gave access to backyards or gardens. The shuffling sound ahead gave him hope. He was close to the thief. Too close to give up. He took a deep breath and his lungs felt like they would explode. His thighs felt like they were pumped full of caustic. They burned and ached like never before. Sweat poured down his face in salty stinging rivulets. The exertion was crippling him. He blanked the fatigue and maintained a steady pace until the shadows in front of him became an impregnable wall. He reached out and touched cold wet rock. Moss and lichen clung to the near vertical surface. Looking up, the wall loomed above him bowing out to block out the stars. “Shit!” he cursed again. The rocky outcrop formed a dead end.
He was sure it must be part of the promontory, which separated the Old Town from the harbour. Looking back down the alley, a yellow oblong was his only view of the entrance and he hadn’t seen any obvious ways out of the alley. Either he had passed by an open doorway in the darkness or the thief had gone over a wall into one of the gardens. He kicked the rock face in anger and sighed loudly. Had the pickpocket tripped over the bin or used it to scale the wall? If he had climbed into the maze of backyards, he was gone.
He listened in the darkness. Blood pulsed through his veins. Thud, thud, thud. His breath rasped, sounding deafening in the blackness. Suddenly, he heard a clumping sound, then another, running footsteps behind him! Tod turned and saw a figure silhouetted against the light from the entrance, running in the opposite direction. He must have passed inches fro
m him in the darkness. Had he crouched down behind a bin or ducked into a doorway? It didn’t matter. He cursed and sprinted after him more determined than ever to catch him.
The fleeting figure was running with a lurching gait. He was hurt. Tod figured that his left leg was injured, maybe twisted in the stumble or maybe he had torn a muscle. He couldn’t care less. The sight of him limping spurred him on despite the burning in his chest. There was no more than fifty metres between them and he was gaining fast. The pickpocket staggered into the wall, stumbled and fell. Tod felt a surge of energy and anger as he neared him. He was thrashing about on the ground, trying to scramble to his feet. A second later , he was up and running once more but now he was bent double, his hands out in front of him. His limp was more pronounced and Tod could hear him moaning as he stumbled on, bouncing from one side to the other. He was a wounded animal desperately trying to escape an approaching predator. He careered on zigzagging along the narrow alley. Only his survival instinct kept him from collapsing. They were ten metres from the entrance and the yellow street lights cast a dull glow on them. The thief was listing to one side as he ran. Both hands seemed to be clutching his side. He stole a frightened glance over his shoulder, only to see his pursuer closing fast. His injured leg buckled and he cried out as he stumbled and fell again, landing heavily face down on the cobbles.
Tod was on him in a second. He grabbed him by the arm and turned him roughly onto his back. The man’s face was a mask of pain, his mouth hung open and spittle covered his chin. His eyes were wide, staring and filled with fear. His hands clutched at his side. Tod looked down and saw the handle of a knife protruding from his abdomen just above his belt. It was buried to the hilt and blood covered his hands and wrists. A dark stain had formed across his jumper and was spreading down his jeans.
“You fell on your own knife, did you?” Tod panted. He assumed the man had lured him into a dead end alleyway to stab him. “That serves you right, you prick!” he reached into his jacket pockets searching for his wallet. Blood saturated the material and soaked his skin in seconds. Its slippery warmth and coppery smell excited him. “Where is my wallet?” the thief didn’t speak but he moaned in reply. Tod patted his trousers and felt a rectangular lump. Reaching inside, he felt his wallet. He pulled it out roughly and thumbed through the cards and banknotes to make sure it was all intact. “I hope it was worth it, idiot!”
“Dios mio!” the thief panted. His expression was twisted in agony. He stared at the protruding handle in disbelief. “Dios mio!”
Tod put his wallet away and thought for a moment. Should he help the man, call for an ambulance or leave him to his own devices? His options were limited. Getting involved with the police wasn’t desirable despite the fact that he hadn’t broken any laws in Spain on this trip. He looked at his blood soaked hands and considered how he would look if someone saw him. He was standing over a bleeding male with a knife buried in his guts, his hands covered in blood. That would take a lot of explaining even if he could speak the lingo. He tried to wipe as much of it off as he could using the thief’s trousers as a towel and then turned and headed for the entrance of the alleyway.
“Ayudame!” the thief whispered hoarsely. “Por favor, ayudame.”
“I have no idea what you’re saying,” Tod said over his shoulder, “but fuck you very much!” As he reached the road, he pushed his hands deep into his pockets and peered down the hill. It was clear. He looked up the road towards the church. The square was busy with tourists. He could see a large group huddled before the huge arched doors, staring up at the bell tower. A woman at the centre of the group was addressing them and pointing skywards. Tod guessed that it was a guided tour of the Old Town and there were too many eyes for him to blend in without someone spotting the blood on his clothes. He would have to go back the way he came, across the road, down the steps and hope that the lanes were so busy that no one would notice him.
He checked down the hill once more and froze when he saw the green and white markings of the Guardia Civil. The patrol car was turning the corner at the bottom of the hill and climbing slowly towards him at a crawl. He could see the silhouettes of two officers sitting in the front of the vehicle and a third man in the rear. The headlights picked him out immediately. It was too late to slip back into the alley without looking suspicious. Running would be pointless and his legs were still like lead. He put his head down avoiding eye contact and stood at the edge of the pavement as if he was waiting to cross the road. The police car slowed to a stop. He recognised the man in the back seat instantly. He was talking to the police officers and pointing at Tod.
The window rolled down. “Estas bien, senor?”
Tod shrugged his shoulders and grinned nervously. “I’m sorry but I don’t speak Spanish.”
The officer frowned and spoke to the man in the rear of the car. They exchanged words and he turned back to Tod. His English was good even though it was tinted with his accent. “This man said that you were at his restaurant earlier and then he saw you running after a local pickpocket?”
Tod thought about lying. He could show them his wallet and tell them that the thief had dropped it during the chase but his hands were blood stained. He couldn’t take his hands out of his pockets without raising suspicion. Droplets of sweat ran down his temples. He shifted his weight awkwardly. The officer in the passenger seat opened his door and climbed out. He eyed Tod with suspicion. The driver stared at him intently. “Have you been robbed or not, Sinor?”
“I was but I found my wallet,” Tod tried to smile, “the thief must have tossed it away. I’m fine but thank you for your concern.” He heard shuffling and sensed danger before he could identify where it was. He felt a sharp thud between his shoulder blades and a dull pain. His chest tightened and his breath was trapped in his lungs. Warm blood trickled down his back. He felt his knees buckle and fold as he collapsed onto the cobbles. He watched bemused as both policemen drew their weapons and aimed in his direction. They were shouting a warning that he couldn’t comprehend. The pain in his back intensified and somewhere in his confusion he thought he had been stabbed. He wriggled and writhed trying to reach for the offending blade but it was out of his reach. The policemen approached nearer, becoming louder and more threatening. A shot was fired and a cry echoed off the houses. He heard a body hit the floor with a thud close to him. A face that he recognised stared at him through glassy eyes. The life seemed to fade from them as he watched. A trickle of dark blood ran from the corner of his blue lips. The pickpocket was dead and in a strange way, he felt saddened by that. Surely a life was worth more than a few hundred Euros. He suddenly felt cold, colder than he had ever been. Reality slipped away as unconsciousness descended on him and the world went dark.
CHAPTER 18
Jim Stirling drove across the city towards an area on the edge of the metropolis called Halewood. It was an area that he was familiar with. Once, a sprawling maze of rundown social housing estates prone to high levels of crime and sporadic rioting, it had reinvented itself in the 90’s as a desirable suburb but some of the black spots remained. The police station hadn’t moved with the times and still had the appearance of a large factory unit protected by galvanized wire grills. The walls surrounding the vehicle lot to the rear were topped with revolving metal spikes. It was built to resist civil unrest but now decades after it was built, it was a blot on the leafy suburban landscape. As he approached, his mobile rang. He pressed the answer button on the steering wheel, “DS Stirling.”
“Are you there yet?” Annie asked.
“I’m pulling in now, Guv.”
“Just to let you know,” Annie sounded excited. “Alec has wangled a slot on Crimewatch tonight. That should give us a name. You might want to mention it if you meet any resistance.”
“Excellent news,” Stirling said as he steered out of the traffic. “Nothing like the spotlight to loosen tongues. Thanks for that, Guv.”
“No problem, see you later,” Annie hung up.
; “Good old Alec,” Stirling mumbled to himself as he parked in a visitors’ bay at the front of the building. He climbed out, locked the doors and walked into the reception area.
The vinyl floor had lost its sheen years ago and a black tide mark clung to the skirting boards, the result of sporadic mopping with dirty water. Two teenage girls dressed in velour tracksuits sat next to their prams. They stopped chewing for a second when Stirling walked in, exchanged knowing glances that he was a copper and then continued their summations of the X-Factor. Stirling showed his ID to the uniformed officer that manned the desk from behind a thick sheet of reinforced Perspex. His age and the stripes on his sleeve denoted many years service. Although they were both sergeant rank, the gulf between uniformed officers and detectives was vast and bred resentment. “DS Stirling from MIT,” he said through the perforations, which made the reception desk look like a giant hamster box. “I’m here to see DI Haig.”
“Take a seat and I’ll let him know that you’re here,” the sergeant grumbled with disinterest. Stirling figured the grey haired officer was serving the last months of his career doing something that he hated. The lines etched into his face told the story of years of disappointment at never making it out of the uniformed ranks. Too many mistakes made at the wrong time, too many poor decisions made in front of the wrong senior officers and each one had left a crease in his flesh. As time ticked by, his enthusiasm had dissipated and the decades had gone by in a heartbeat. Stirling had seen it all before.
“How long have you been stationed here?” Stirling asked, ignoring the offer to sit. The officer eyed him with distain as he picked up the phone and informed the DI that he had a visitor.
“Twenty years,” he rolled his eyes.
Stirling whistled in admiration. “How long on the job in total?”
