A Matter of Latitude

by Isobel Blackthorn

  The message is clear. If accurate, then plans are afoot to build a resort on the southern edge of La Quemada, one that cuts into the mountainside on land protected under the biosphere ruling. And whoever put those paintings in those three locations knows who is involved.

  Richard mentioned that crime novels contain five suspects. Well I have four contenders: Fernando, Pedro, Maria and Celestino. Five if I include Shirley. And I still need to eliminate each one. Shirley might have a motive, however weak, but she hasn't the means or the opportunity, not least since she was out to lunch with Lolita when that third painting was planted. I can only assume Maria wants to get back at her husband whom she clearly holds in contempt. That remark of hers as she entered the restaurant in Costa Teguise—everyone loves Redoto—her sarcasm was palpable. She has the disposition and plenty of opportunity. Fernando still has the strongest motive but the loss of his driver's licence throws into doubt his capability. Pedro knows more than he's prepared to say but I can't fathom why he would set out to get his close friend into trouble. Then there's the possibility that Celestino is out there somewhere, engaged in an elaborate attempt to spotlight corruption at its inception, long before the bulldozers destroy a swathe of protected land. If all that is true, then I have to admire his resolve, even his methods, but his timing is abominable. Besides, would he really put me through all the worry for an elaborate ruse, one that so transparently implicates himself? Even if he has, it still doesn't explain those missing documents.

  A blue hatchback emerges through the underpass and shoots off in the direction of Guatiza. Tabayesco is not far. If I persist, perhaps this time Pedro will divulge more. I turn on the ignition, release the handbrake and go on my way, choosing the route taken by the blue hatchback, along the old road through Guatiza and Mala.

  Guatiza is home to the prickly pear, farmed for its fruit and for the cochineal beetle, the source of the much-coveted dye. On entering the village, I snatch glances at the flat fields of cactus flanking the road, interspersed with farmhouses and villas. At the town centre, with its small supermarket, bus stop and social club, a planting of mature eucalypts, many leaning heavily to the east, line the road. For a while I drive by this odd combination of cactus and eucalypt, set in the picón against the backdrop of the bare mountains, a landscape so strange I almost forget who I am. Then the village gives way to yet more fields of prickly pear, and I see the windmill of the cactus garden up ahead, and I wonder how anything bad could ever happen in such a sublime and tranquil place as this.

  Back on the main road I instinctively scan behind me for a black sedan. All the cars I see in the rear vision mirror are white. When I slow at the Tabayesco T-junction the bus bays on both sides of the road are empty. I indicate left and wait, feeling comfortably safe in Shirley's car. After the vigilance I've been practicing for the last few days, I'm grateful for the break.

  This time I park right outside the Ramírez house. Both cars are in the driveway. I gently reef the handbrake and unbuckle the seatbelt. With my hand poised on the door handle, the smooth metal cold on my skin, I pause to collect my thoughts. How will I handle this? I welcome the chance to talk to Kathy but not the distraction. It's Pedro I've come to see and with his wife there, probably his daughters as well, it will be all the harder to quiz him a third time. He'll most likely avoid being alone with me. I consider driving away, leaving the interview for another time. I'm not even sure what it is I want to know. Determination takes hold of my thinking and I get out of Shirley's Maserati, a car sure to draw the attention of any on-looking neighbours.

  I haven't reached the front door when I hear the cries. I look up and down the street, eye the smattering of houses, someone's washing flapping in the wind. There is no one about. The door is ajar so I push it open.

  I hover in the doorway. Beyond the short hallway, the contents of shelves, cupboards and drawers are strewn across the kitchen floor. There are papers and books everywhere, the girls' artworks scattered in amongst the rest. I step cautiously inside and find the girls huddled in a corner of the kitchen, cowering and crying. It looks like they've been told to stay there. And they're terrified.

  I go to comfort them.

  'Valeria,' I say to the eldest. 'Where's Mummy?'

  'In there.' She points without looking. Her face is all blotchy, lips quivering. My heart clenches in my chest and I pause to give the child a quick hug. Then, following the whimpers, I rush through to Pedro's workshop.

  The glass-panelled door is wedged open. Kathy is on her knees on the floor, bent over a prostrate Pedro, her arms folded around his chest. His legs are askew, his head slumped sideways, eyes closed. I realise with a flash of horror that in all of my supposed investigations, I wasn't taking seriously the gravity of the danger. If I had, I would have gone to the police.

  I approach, giving the couple a wide berth, not wanting to startle Kathy. The moment I enter her line of sight I gently say her name.

  Kathy looks up, slow recognition appearing in her face. She releases her grip and pulls away, her blouse smeared with her husband's blood. I edge closer. Blood streams from a single wound in his chest.

  I look around for something to cover him and grab the cloth he uses to display his wares at the markets. I don't want to stain that fabric, it seems wrong somehow, but there's nothing else to hand and it isn't a good idea to leave him there for his wife and his children to see.

  'Don't,' Kathy says, trying to stop me.

  'We must. For the children.'

  Kathy sinks down where she sits and howls.

  'Kathy,' I say gently, 'Have you called the police?'

  'No. We found him. We only just found him.'

  I put a hand on her back and feel her tremble.

  I have to think quickly.

  The eldest child is six, old enough to call the police if she's told what to say. Name. Address. Daddy's dead. I can scarcely bring myself to say it.

  I locate a phone in the mess on the kitchen bench and squat on the kitchen floor before the girls.

  'Valeria. Can you make a phone call?'

  The girl shrinks back.

  'Valeria, listen. Mummy can't do it.'

  'Why?'

  'She's too upset.'

  'You do it.'

  I hesitate. I wish I could, but then the police would want to know who I am. Picturing the awkward questions that would ensue, I say, 'I can't. Valeria, you have to do it.' I hold out the phone. 'Please.'

  Valeria steps forward, leaving her sisters huddled together, whimpering.

  'I'll dial the number,' I say reassuringly. 'You ask for the police and an ambulance. And you tell them, tell them your name. Where you live. Tell them daddy's…' I pause. Tell them daddy's hurt.'

  Valeria nods doubtfully.

  'Say, Casa Ramírez, in Tabayesco. Can you say that?'

  I have her repeat the message several times.

  I dial emergency and hand Valeria the phone. I watch. The child does well. When the call is over, I take the phone and tell her to wait with her sisters. The police will come soon, I say.

  I feel cruel walking away. I want to stay and offer comfort but something in me tells me I daren't.

  I race from the house to Shirley's car, parked like a beacon. A few inquiries and the police will know I've been here. My hands shake so much I have trouble inserting the key in the driver's side door. Once seated behind the wheel I'm not sure I can drive. But I have to. Not wanting to meet a police car tearing down the road from Haría, I take the back way through the valley, forcing myself to drive slowly, keep my eyes on the tarmac, stay focussed.

  I manage to navigate my way out of the village and round the two hairpins before I feel myself collapsing. The need to stop driving grows with every metre I traverse. I spot a small lay by up ahead and pull over.

  The sun is low to the west, the head of the valley in shade. I wind down the window and stare and stare, letting the land and the air infuse me. Before me, the valley, with its steep sides coming to an abrup
t end at the crags of the mountain is one of my most treasured places on the island. The cyclists know of its beauty, they're sent by resort operators, it's one of the designated routes of the north. And the walkers, unhampered by fences, walkers who know no limits when it comes to exploring the island. Odd thoughts to have at a time of tragedy, incongruous thoughts, yet the cyclists, the walkers, the tourists of all stripes bent on exploring this little bit of land, I suddenly hate them, blame them all for everything, for their hedonism, their selfishness, their ignorance. Tourism has the island in its grip, and someone has committed murder because of it.

  If Pedro is dead does that mean Celestino is too? I went to him for answers and now everything that has happened in the last six days has been thrown into the air.

  Nothing makes sense.

  I've been driving around the island, following lines of inquiry, oblivious to the magnitude of what was surrounding me. Murder. It's beyond comprehension. None of my suspects fit the profile. Not even Fernando. Maria and Shirley lack the strength. It takes a special sort of human to kill. And that didn't look like a frenzied attack. It was a single stab wound executed in cold blood. Does it have anything to do with those paintings? Has the prank backfired? But how did the perpetrator get from those paintings to Pedro? Maybe it has nothing to do with the paintings. There seems only one other thing to link to his death and that is those missing documents. Documents Pedro denied having any knowledge of.

  Has the killer been to the studio and the house? I think back. Which day was it I suspected a break in? Tuesday? Soon after, I knew I was being followed by a man in a black sedan. How long has that been going on? And what about that woman in the red wide-brimmed hat who almost ran me off the road? She was almost certainly the same woman who was eavesdropping on my conversation with Shirley in Pedro's café. Does she have anything to do with this? But these are all questions for the police, not me. All I know is that I have to continue as normal. Pretend nothing has happened. Deliver Shirley her car with a broad grin on my face. I turn the key in the ignition.

  Easing off the handbrake, a soft squeeze of the accelerator and I'm heading up the lane, rising higher with each bend, and before long I'm rounding the curves at the valley's head. The road takes all my concentration. By the time I reach the intersection at the end of the lane I'm calmer. Keeping an ear open for sounds of sirens—I hear nothing—I drive down into Haría and park across the street from Shirley's house, bracing myself for my pretence.

  Shirley opens the door in a bright red muumuu and matching headscarf. She's such a sight I almost burst out laughing.

  'There's your car,' I say, gesturing behind me. 'Drives perfectly.'

  I hand Shirley the keys and the paperwork.

  'Excellent. Come on in.'

  'I can't. Thanks all the same. I have to be at work in an hour.'

  'Suit yourself.'

  Her hospitality rejected, she duly closes the door in my face.

  Astonished, I close my own front door behind me and exhale. My unease returns. I check the rooms in turn, sniffing now and then, eyeing books, clothes, papers, anything that could have been disturbed, but it's all exactly as I left it. I derive little comfort; unsure whether or not I'm safe.

  In the kitchen, I check my phone messages. There are none. I phone my parents to let them know I'm okay.

  'I'm sorry I haven't made it back today,' I tell my mother, without explanation. 'I'll be back late. I have to work.'

  There's a long pause.

  'Everything okay your end?'

  'Everything's fine,' she says. Which means it isn't. That's the tone she uses when things are certainly not fine. I don't dare inquire.

  I ring off on the pretext of running late, which is more or less the case. I take a shower, grab my waitressing uniform, and ready for work. My actions are automatic. All I can think of is I don't want to be in the house.

  I walk down my street in a haze, my thoughts lingering on Kathy and the children. I can't help picturing them, the police asking questions, an ambulance pulling up. It's all so vivid in my mind, his body lying there, Kathy's bloodied shirt, the children's tears.

  By the time I arrive at the plaza I'm numb. I'm barely functioning. I have to concentrate on every step I take. Trust that once inside, my automatic self will manage. I'll be okay as long as nothing exceptional happens.

  The restaurant is owned by an Irish couple from Donegal. Donal is warm and friendly and generally demands little of me. Eileen can be fiery and exacting, and after last week's fiasco when that Frenchman pinched my arm and I dropped a plate of fish in his wife's lap I'm keen not to put a foot wrong. Seems a lifetime has gone by since that incident. How trivial it now seems too.

  The restaurant is busy. With a smile fixed on my face, I go around, taking orders, and delivering drinks and meals. The hours slide by. Then the door opens and in walks Richard and my legs buckle and I have to cling to the counter hoping no one has noticed.

  'Paula,' he says. 'What a lovely surprise.'

  He's lying. He knows where I work and when. After spending the best part of the day with me, I wonder what he could possibly want from me now. I show him to a table away from the other diners. He sets down his newspaper as I hand him a menu.

  'I'll have a carafe of the house white and the stew,' he says as though he already knows what he wants.

  I hear but don't write it down. My gaze is fixed on the newspaper headline: La Mareta Art Prank Scandal.

  'Do you mind if I…?' I don't bother to finish my sentence. I take the paper and open it out to read the front page.

  The article states that someone has played a practical joke on the three judges of the La Mareta art competition, named as Lolita Pluma, Redoto Redoto and Bentor Benicod. And that artist Celestino Diaz is wanted for questioning by the police.

  I grip the back of the vacant chair to steady myself.

  'What's the matter, Paula?'

  'This article.' I stab the paper with my finger. 'Have you read it?'

  'I only just bought the paper.'

  'You better take a look.'

  He scans the article then looks up at me, puzzled.

  'I've been trying to find out about this all week,' I say, keeping my voice low.

  'Is that why you've had no time for me?'

  'Partly. I started out trying to find Celestino. But these paintings kept turning up and I was occupied with trying to figure out who was behind it all.'

  'Celestino?'

  'I don't know. If it is him then I think he's lost the plot.'

  'Celestino doesn't strike me as the sort who would ever lose the plot. I wish you'd have told me. I might have helped.'

  'How could you possibly have helped?'

  'I am a crime writer, Paula,' he says with a healthy dollop of pride.

  'That's not the same as real life. You said so yourself.'

  'Perhaps you're right.'

  'I could kick myself. None of this would have come out if I'd kept my mouth shut.'

  'I don't follow.'

  'I was the one who stupidly told Lolita Pluma that I knew who the artist was. Up until then, no one knew. Celestino's signature was not obvious.'

  I feel odd telling him, but the words spill out their own accord. His wince doesn't help. At the sight of it, I'm compelled to offer a defence.

  'Lolita didn't seem to mind at the time. She took it as a joke. At least, that's what I thought. I had no idea she was one of the judges. That all of them were the judges.'

  Something in my mind clicks into place. I might not have known who the judges were but Shirley would have, surely. So that's what she meant when she said I should have kept quiet.

  Richard reaches for my arm. A troubled look appears in his face. He inhales as if to speak, then a group of diners leaving the restaurant catches his attention. I look around to find Eileen observing me with a mix of interest and annoyance.

  'Celestino hasn't a hope of winning now,' I say quickly. 'If he's still…' I can't say it. Feeling Eil
een's eyes piercing my back, I say, 'Tell me your order again, please.'

  This time, I write it down.

  Tyson

  The morning sun beams through the slats in the shutters. I must have slept but not that well. Not after having spent the whole of Thursday in a state of high alert, anticipating the return of the henchman. I crept about all day, avoided windows, kept an ear out. Even after sunset, I listened.

  I leave the comfort of the bed, straightening out the sheets and pillow. Downstairs, I assess my condition. The arm is a mess but there's nothing more I can do about it. Noting a marked improvement in the inflammation around the dog bite, I sneak out to the patio for more drago blood and return to the kitchen to redress the wound.

  On my way in, the boom of a king wave sends pulses of shock through me. Still on high alert, I can't shake the fear that's enshrouded me all week. Anything is better than being in hiding, waiting like prey.

  Out of the kitchen utensils, I select the knife with the longest blade and sharpen it on the steel I found in a drawer. That and the plank of wood will be my defences. I eat and rest for a few hours and set off in the afternoon.

  I have to beat down my own resistance as I leave the house through the front door, shutting it behind me knowing the garage door is now locked and there's no going back.

  I walk through the village of abandoned homes and holiday houses bidding a silent farewell to my lonely sanctuary.

  Leaving Tenesar behind, facing the lava scree of the land, and again I hope the only vehicle I encounter is a hire car driven by an intrepid tourist. Although seeing me in my bloodied and filthy state holding my weaponry they'll no doubt drive right by.

  The exposure is intense. There's nowhere to hide if anyone comes. I'd have to hurry into the lava scree and lie flat. Too late, if a car suddenly appears. I consider walking off the road but the going is too rough, even on two good legs, Besides, it would make little difference. Anyone walking can be seen for miles.