A Matter of Latitude

by Isobel Blackthorn

  'Celestino, if Shirley hadn't started her meddling, nothing would have happened to Pedro.'

  'You think so? I was run off the road before Shirley started her escapades. Redoto already knew those documents were missing. Olora needs to be more careful.'

  'Maybe. But Shirley had me on a wild goose chase. And part of that involved me visiting Pedro, twice. The second time I was followed. If I hadn't been bent on finding out who was behind those paintings, I would have had no reason to question him. I'd have gone to the police. And I should have gone to the police. Instead I was too scared to, in case I inadvertently caused you trouble.'

  'You are not to blame, Paula. Don't ever think that you are.'

  He reaches for my hand and pulls me to him. His hug is firm and warm. As he loosens his hold he says, 'That woman is poison.'

  I step back, holding his gaze.

  'I should never have doubted you.'

  We stand together, each observing the other, and I sense something has changed. It's as though a weight we never acknowledged was there, something that obstructed our regard for each other, has suddenly vanished.

  He looks down at his watch. 'We better go.'

  I follow him to the kitchen where he takes hold of the luggage.

  'Wait.'

  He pauses and I extract the necklace. 'I found it on the floor by your easel.'

  He takes it from me and examines the broken clasp. 'So that's where it fell. I was in such a hurry when I got the call from Erik, I must have snagged it on my smock when I took it off.'

  He puts it in his shirt pocket and grabs the suitcase. I collect my bag and sunglasses and we go out the back door. Leaving the house, I wonder if I'll ever again feel good about being here. My domestic idyll, such as it is, defiled.

  Making my way east in the direction of Arrieta, I take it steady through the village streets. Each dwelling and small field we pass puts a little more distance from the drama, although I know it isn't over yet. I'm not sure where we're heading until he tells me to veer off the main road and swing into the grounds of the police station on the outer reaches of Haría. I park in the car park at the rear.

  The police station is a two-storey flat-roofed building with small windows and imposing basalt wall panels. I suppose it was designed to appear like a prison or a fort, the sort of place where people go in and never come out. Celestino unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches behind him, extracting his wallet from the front pocket of his rucksack.

  'At least I'll get one thing straight. Erik wanted a receipt. I kept a copy.' He leans across and kisses my cheek. 'Back in a moment.'

  Having no choice but to wait in the car guarding the suitcase and the rucksack filled with those documents, I settle back in my seat, ignoring the high wind buffeting the car.

  An hour later, I see Celestino in the side mirror, limping hurriedly towards the car. I hold my breath as he opens the passenger side door. Taking in the triumphant look on his face, I exhale.

  'Took some explaining,' he says as I back out of the car park. 'But the arm and the dog bite persuaded them.'

  'Dog bite!'

  'Never mind. They're going around to talk to Shirley now.'

  For the first time in a week I feel confident some sort of justice will be served.

  'Where to?'

  'Tahiche.'

  I make a right at the main road and head down to Arrieta, taking the sweeping hairpin at the crest of the saddle with measured care. I wait until we've descended the saddle before asking him exactly where we're going.

  'To visit a friend.' The tone in his voice invites no further inquiry so I decide not to pursue it. I can tell he's determined by the set of his jaw.

  Ten minutes later he tells me to stop outside a house in Tahiche. It's a two-storey cuboid affair in a street of similar style houses: modern, and fronted by white-rendered walls containing gardens abundant with an array of hardy shrubs and trees in amongst the usual cacti and palms. Celestino grabs his rucksack. This time I go with him.

  A bearded man in his fifties opens the door before we knock and welcomes us inside.

  'Can I get you something?' he says. 'Café? Beer?'

  'No, thank you.' Celestino makes a gesture. 'Javier, mi marida, Paula.'

  I remove my sunglasses and we shake hands. I suppose being described as his wife means I have a right to be here.

  Celestino follows Javier to a cool, dimly lit living room and they sit together on a leather lounge. I sit in the straight-backed chair I noticed on my way in.

  The two men speak rapidly in Spanish, too fast for me to understand. But I glean enough to realise the man, Javier, is a journalist. Celestino hands him the rucksack. The man goes to open it but Celestino waves him not to bother.

  'Keep it,' he says in English.

  It's as though he's decided to relinquish his anti-corruption campaigns altogether and I'm strangely saddened by the thought. Still, I'm comforted in the knowledge that our lives will be much calmer.

  The two men stand and hug and Javier shows us to the door.

  'He'll break the story as soon as he can,' Celestino says as we drive away. 'There should be enough material to bring a case against Redoto.'

  'And Benicod?'

  'I don't know. Olora had nothing on him, nothing concrete. For all I know Redoto's bought half the municipal staff of Yaiza. Could be anyone.'

  'It's a matter for the police then.'

  'And others. Javier has contacts in the government. They have the ear of a judge.'

  'At least this time it will get stopped before it's built.'

  'That's why I won't give up,' he says, and I smile inwardly. Any hopes I might have held of a quieter safer life are dashed before they've had a chance to take root, but I no longer want him to stop. More, I want to help him, take an active part in his campaigns. I can't take the place of Pedro but perhaps I can do something else, something to inform the Brits maybe. I realise I haven't, up until now, fully stepped into Celestino's life. It takes courage to do the sort of anti-corruption work that he's dedicated his life to. I once heard that back when he began, anyone who denounced corruption would lose their jobs, receive death threats; their children were attacked, their lives and the lives of their families rendered a living hell. The people have been conditioned through violence and persecution into acquiescence, too scared to rock the boat. Well, I'll risk it. I'll rock a boat or two.

  'Won't Javier's life be in danger too?' I say, my thinking returning to the present.

  'He's flying to Las Palmas and then on to Madrid.'

  'What about us?'

  'Once the media get hold of the story, Redoto won't be able to do a thing. The police will have to get involved.'

  We drive back to Máguez, agreeing that the best course of action will be to all stay together in the one house, and wait.

  Justice

  'Celestino, look at this!'

  Paula nearly collides with her father in the doorway. He's clutching his laptop. She moves aside and follows him to the kitchen.

  'You all need to see this,' he says.

  Paula and Angela crowd round.

  'What is it?' I say, taking up a chair.

  'There's been another murder.'

  Paula reads out the headline. 'Woman's body found by British author'. The story goes on to describe how author Richard Parry discovered the body in the galeria el chafaril, a tunnel beside the mareta in the valle de Temisa. The woman is thought to have been stabbed to death early on Thursday afternoon. The article doesn't disclose her name.

  'Where's that?' Angela asks.

  'On the way to Tabayesco.'

  Bill shunts his laptop across the table. I read the article, disbelief giving way to anguish.

  'Olora.'

  'The legal secretary?' Paula murmurs. 'How do you know it's her?'

  'Scroll down.'

  There's a photo of the scene. And the reporter has interviewed Richard, who said he found a large red hat on the ground nearby.

  'Could b
e anyone's,' Paula says doubtfully.

  'It's hers.'

  Celestino goes to the window. I observe him in three-quarter profile, the lips pressed together, the knitted brow, a single tear making its way down his cheek. A burst of sunshine streams through the skylight and brightens the living room. As if on cue, Gloria appears and runs straight to her father. He picks her up and takes her outside.

  I leave them alone and help my parents as they busy about with cereal bowls and toast. The atmosphere is subdued. When the table is laid, Angela calls her son-in-law and her granddaughter back inside.

  It's an altogether different breakfast to Saturday's and Celestino can't bring himself to engage with the others.

  We gather the last of our things and this time take Gloria with us. The parting feels strange. Watching my parents standing at the door waving us off underscores the drama we've been through. I drive back to Haría, this time parking in the street, boxing in the Maserati.

  Once inside the house, Gloria runs to her bedroom. I drop my travelling bag at the foot of the stairs. Celestino sets down the suitcase beside it. Our luggage seems to fill the room.

  I follow Celestino to the kitchen. The message light is blinking. We exchange glances.

  I press 'speakerphone' and then 'play' and hear a woman's voice I recognise straight away as Lolita Pluma's. There's an obsequious tone to it. She gives a lengthy preamble, which at first makes no sense. Then she offers her congratulations. Celestino has won the commission. A letter of confirmation is in the post. Would he please make himself available for media appearances and attend the DRAT celebratory dinner next week?

  The look of incredulity on Celestino's face makes me laugh.

  'Congratulations!' I reach for him and plant a warm kiss on his lips.

  'Now we can eat,' he says. 'And you can stop working at that restaurant.'

  'When the money comes through.' And not a second later.

  I picture Lolita making that call while the police hover waiting to take her in for questioning. Suddenly puzzled, I frown and say, 'Lolita Pluma. Why would she be part of that eco-resort scam?'

  'She isn't. At least, not as far as I know. Why would she be? She might have known about it, who can say?'

  My image of a handcuffed Lolita vanishes. In its place comes the realisation that in all likelihood Shirley had no idea what Redoto was up to after all.

  'You haven't told me properly about your week in hell,' Paula says, recovering her composure with a few sharp sniffs.

  I sit down at the table. She's right. I owe her an account.

  'Café?' she says tentatively.

  'Vale.'

  I watch as she sets about unscrewing the percolator and rinsing cups.

  The room fills with the sound of squeaks and chinks, then the aroma of fresh coffee. It isn't until the coffee is poured and she's taken up the chair beside me that I speak, offering up short sentences, giving the barest account of the accident, Tenesar, the dog, and the man who came looking for me. And of my trek back to Mancha Blanca, the night I spent at Erik's. How I left Gloria's birthday present there by mistake.

  'Will you drive me to the hospital this afternoon?'

  'Sure, but first, let's go down to the plaza and grab some lunch. We can't celebrate here. There's no food.'

  She laughs and her laugh rings in my ears. Paula is the first out the door.

  We are just like any other family strolling down the narrow village streets, enjoying the sunshine, anticipating a satisfying lunch. But we are larger than ordinary somehow.

  Antonio cries out when he sees Celestino. His daughter Carmen comes rushing outside too. There are hugs all round. It's all very public as though the whole village is watching. Perhaps it is. Between us we launch into partial explanations and a narrative quickly grows in the place of the truth, a car accident, a misplaced note, and a rough week in Tenesar with a dog on the prowl take up the centre of it all.

  Antonio steers us to a free table beneath the big old laurel tree. He walks away and returns with beers and lemonade. Before long there is tapas and fish and chips to share.

  We are settling into our feast when Richard appears, walking briskly down the plaza. He's in a chipper mood, but when he notices us he comes to an abrupt stop.

  Realising more than a cheery wave is called for, I stand and remove my sunglasses and issue him a warm smile.

  Reassured, if a little tentative, he comes over.

  'Delighted to have you back, Celestino,' he says stiffly.

  Celestino looks up and offers him a cordial smile. 'It's good to be here.'

  Richard looks poised to make his excuses and walk away.

  Then Celestino shifts round in his seat in a welcoming gesture. 'Pull up a chair,' he says.

  As Richard slowly sits down, Celestino raises his good arm to Antonio and asks for another plate.

  'I've already eaten.'

  'Pumpernickel?'

  'Actually, I've given it up,' he says with certain pride.

  A waiter comes with Richard's plate and we all make room for it.

  'And another beer,' Celestino says.

  I think Richard might try to refuse that as well, but instead, as the waiter walks away he says, 'The lil' un' has grown.'

  'Gloria,' Celestino says, reaching out to tousle his daughter's wild black hair.

  'Yes, Richard. Gloria. You never say her name.'

  'I must remember to do so in future.'

  'Promise?'

  Richard doesn't respond. 'She's making quite a mess there,' he says. We all observe the array of tapas fringing her plate; chick peas, strips of peppers and fish all arranged in a pattern around a piece of fish. 'She's an artist in the making,' he adds.

  'I suppose she is,' I remark, seeing for the first time in my daughter's culinary habits a propensity for art. I make a mental note not to slip back into reprimanding her.

  The waiter comes with Richard's beer. He reaches for it and says, 'I hear congratulations are in order.'

  So much has happened that at first I'm not sure what he means.

  'Thank you,' is all Celestino can bring himself say.

  I go on to provide Richard with the briefest possible synopsis of the events of the week, which still proves complex and convoluted, watching my food go cold as I speak. He listens attentively and without interruption. When I stop speaking, a faraway look appears in his face. Celestino eyes him and frowns.

  'What is it?'

  'Trish.'

  'Trish?'

  'She's been inventing plots. Her latest involved a painting swap. Sounds awfully similar to what happened to you two, Paula. In hers, the blaggards in question sent their henchman to follow the hapless sleuth. Only, this man noticed another person hanging around, a person acting most suspiciously, an employee, it transpires, turned informant. Not the sort of thing that would happen in real life, but plausible nonetheless.' Satisfied he's established something, for himself at least, he takes a draught of his beer and sits back in his seat.

  My mind is flooded with images of red wide-brimmed hats. I don't have a chance to ponder the implications before he goes on.

  'And it's given me an idea.'

  'Another one?'

  'You, the paintings, Trish, the whole kit and caboodle.' His gaze slides from me to Celestino with a measure of uncertainty.

  'Your Shirley,' he says slowly.

  'She's not our Shirley,' Celestino is quick to retort.

  He ignores the remark and Celestino along with it. 'Paula,' he says, looking contrite. 'I'm going to have to replace you. I'm dreadfully sorry and I hope you don't mind. You see; it's just occurred to me that this Shirley woman would make an excellent sleuth. No offence, but she has so much dimension.'

  'Dimension.'

  'Eccentricity, pizzazz and a devilish attitude.'

  'Qué es un hijo de puta.'

  I suppress the mirth building inside my chest. A spritely breeze rustles the leaves of the laurel trees. Patches of high cloud race by. Richard swi
gs his beer then pushes back in his seat.

  'It's been lovely, thank you, but I better get on.'

  'I'm not offended, Richard,' I say.

  'Honestly?'

  'Not in the slightest.'

  I watch him head off wondering why he chose not to mention his discovery of the body. I can understand Celestino not wanting to mention it, but surely a crime writer would relish in the telling, yet all he's told me about that visit was that he got wet in the rain. It's strange and I make a mental note to ask him next time I see him.

  I turn back and observe my little family as though seeing them for the first time. Gloria clasping her lemonade with both hands. Celestino watching on, ready to help her set the glass back down without mishap. Celestino, my talented artist husband, a one-man champion of integrity.

  'You created those paintings on purpose,' I say with sudden interest. 'What did you plan to do with them?'

  'At the time, nothing. It was a way of letting off steam. But I did want to create a visual documentation of what was going on. I thought I might use them in an exhibition.'

  Instead, his creativity, a pure act of good intention in itself, precipitated a cataclysm. That is the way of things; you could never fully know how something would be used, after it is made.

  Dear reader,

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  Acknowledgements

  This story was written with the support and encouragement of many who saw value in the work. I am indebted to Patricia Leslie, Michelle Flammell, James Synot, Jasmina Brankovich and Elizabeth Blackthorn for all of their kind words and suggestions. I would like to express my special gratitude to Christy Byrnes for her valuable feedback on an early version of the manuscript.