by Peter May
The teenage Mackenzie lunged for the umbrella stand and pulled out Mr Kane, holding it by the capped end, and swinging the onyx handle at his uncle’s head. He heard his aunt scream as her husband drew back in alarm, and the handle buried itself in the wall. His uncle snatched it from him, and Mackenzie prepared himself to be on its receiving end, as he had been many times before. But his Uncle Arthur just stood, clutching it in his white-knuckled hand, and screamed, ‘Get out of my fucking house, you little bastard.’
The words reverberated through Mackenzie’s memory as he sat on the bed and saw his seventeen-year-old self climbing up through the hatch to stuff whatever clothes he could grab into his sports holdall. They were the last moments he had spent in this room until his return today, twenty years later. The hurt had never gone away, even though he had learned to sublimate it, locking it up in the darkest recesses of his mind, in those places that everyone keeps for hiding their demons.
The last sight he had of his aunt was caught in a backward glance as he slammed the front door behind him, a fleeting glimpse of the tears that wet her cheeks. He had never seen her again, until watching her coffin today as it slipped through the curtain towards the flames.
His first stop before buying a one-way ticket to London at Glasgow Central railway station had been the cuttings library of the Glasgow Herald. It took very little time, searching the archive, to find the report on the suicide of a Glasgow police officer found hanging by the neck in the stairwell of his tenement home in Partick. He had gone almost straight to it, because he knew that his father’s death had fallen just two days before his thirty-first birthday. Without making a direct connection, the single-column piece referred to his attempt the previous month to rescue a woman taken hostage by an escapee from a psychiatric prison in Lanarkshire.
Flicking back through the editions of the paper, he had found the original report. The police officer concerned, unnamed in this story, had defied orders to await the arrival of an expert in hostage situations, deeming the threat to the woman’s life imminent. His attempt to rescue her, at the risk of his own life, had failed. Her captor had slit her throat with a butcher’s knife, so forcefully that he had very nearly decapitated her.
Mackenzie rose stiffly from his old bed and knew that there would be very little sleep for him tonight. He opened the Velux window in the slope of the ceiling and looked down into a back garden grown wild with neglect. It had once, he remembered, been his Aunt Hilda’s pride and joy. Hours spent weeding borders, planting annuals, pruning her precious roses. And it only occurred to him now that all that time spent in her garden was her way of escaping from Arthur.
An odd sound rose up from the house below, like a muffled cough, repetitive and raw. Curiosity got the better of him and Mackenzie climbed carefully down the ladders into the gloom of the hall. The light outside was fading.
But it wasn’t until he pushed open the kitchen door and saw the old man seated at the table, head in hands, that he realized it was sobbing he had heard. A painful retching sob that tore itself with involuntary regularity from his uncle’s chest.
Mackenzie stood watching him impassively for several long moments before the old man became aware of his presence. He turned red-rimmed eyes towards his nephew and swallowed to catch his breath. He said, in a voice like torn sandpaper, ‘I don’t . . . I can’t . . .’ He sucked in a trembling breath. ‘I don’t know how I can go on without her.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
It’s a hot one. The words of Santana’s ‘Smooth’ reverberated around Cleland’s head like an earworm. And he tried to stay cool just like in the song. But it was hard in the olid airless space of this armoured truck. He wore a pair of freshly pressed linen trousers and a crisp white shirt, brought to his cell first thing that morning by his abogado before they transferred him to the truck. He had showered, shampooed and deodorized, determined to look and feel his best. But already his thick, blond-streaked brown hair had fallen across a forehead beaded by sweat. He felt a trickle of it run down the back of his neck.
If he could, he would have held his breath. Neither of the armed Guardia who sat with him in the back of the truck had showered this morning, of that he was certain. The stink of stale body odour and last night’s garlic filled the air. But he tried hard to remain impassive, keeping his own counsel.
He could feel the smooth surface of the AP7 motorway beneath the tyres. They had not yet, he knew, reached Marbella, a town classier than most along this stretch of coast. The Cannes of the costas, he had heard it called. It was here, and in Puerto Banus, that he shopped for his clothes in the best boutiques, where he bought his wines in the most discerning stores – Priorat a favourite, a Catalan wine rarely available in this southern part of Spain, its grapes cultivated in a unique terroir of black slate and quartz soil many kilometres to the north.
He sat on the bench opposite his two guards, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands cuffed together between his thighs. He endeavoured not to look at his captors for fear of igniting the rage that burned inside him, a rage that he had kept tamped down with reluctant restraint, a patient biding of time.
The truck slowed. One of the guards stood up and slid aside a small hatch that opened through bars to the front cab. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Peaje,’ the driver called back. They were approaching the tollbooths at the San Pedro turn-off.
The Guardia slid the hatch shut and resumed his seat. But instead of coming to a stop immediately, the van swung right and made a long looping curve down the off-ramp before coming to a juddering halt.
‘What the hell . . . ?’ The officer was on his feet again and pulling the hatch open. He could see quite clearly that they were at the tollbooth on the exit road. ‘Where are you going?’ They were all jumpy.
‘Diversionary route,’ the driver shouted above the rumble of the engine. ‘They said the autopista would be too risky.’ The guard glanced at the armed officer who sat up front with the driver, but all he did was shrug. Nothing to do with him.
Again the hatch slammed shut and the officer sat down heavily as the truck lurched off on the uneven surface of the road. This would not be as smooth a journey as the motorway. He glanced at his fellow Guardia then glared at Cleland. The prisoner sensed eyes on him and raised his own to meet them. The guard immediately looked away, uncomfortable.
They bounced and bumped over a deformed and potholed road, the truck leaning dangerously at times on its camber. Ten or fifteen minutes passed before Cleland felt the driver turn the wheel sharply, and the tarmac beneath them gave way to a rutted uneven surface. Cleland’s eyes were fixed now on the guards opposite. He could see that they knew there was something wrong. Then apprehension morphed to alarm as the truck skidded to an abrupt halt. The guard nearest the hatch was on his feet again. But before he could open it, raised voices and gunshots resounded from the cab beyond. And then silence. His hand withdrew from the hatch as if his fingers had made contact with red-hot metal, and it moved instead towards his holster.
He caught Cleland’s eye and the almost imperceptible shake of the prisoner’s head caused his hand to freeze on the leather. Slowly he sat down again, and lowered his gaze to stare at the floor. Perhaps, Cleland thought, like a child this guard believed that if he couldn’t see he wouldn’t be seen.
There were more voices now, shouting beyond the rear doors of the truck, before a single gunshot reverberated around its interior and the doors swung open. Sunlight flooded in, blinding the three men inside. Half a dozen men clustered in silhouette at the back of the vehicle, the dust of a dry dirt road still hanging in the air behind them. Cleland rose calmly to his feet and walked to the open doors. He held out his hands for someone to unlock and remove the cuffs. Then someone else placed a pistol in his open palm. He weighed it for a moment, checked that the safety catch was off, and that there was a round in the chamber before turning back into the darkness.
The two guards remained seated, side by side, inert with fear.
‘Hey!’ Cleland shouted at them, and both men reluctantly looked up to meet his eye. ‘Which of you is Paco?’
Paco’s eyes opened wide with alarm, and he glanced at his fellow officer, the one who had been so preoccupied with the hatch. Then returned them to meet Cleland’s. Paco was a young man. Twenty-six or twenty-seven. Short dark hair, a well-defined jaw shaved to a shadowed shine. His mouth was as dry as desert sand. He could not summon enough saliva even to swallow. His voice came in a whisper. ‘I am.’
Cleland nodded and raised his pistol to shoot Paco’s colleague in the head. Warm blood and brain tissue spattered across Paco’s face and he released an involuntary cry as his fellow Guardia slumped heavily to the floor.
Cleland leaned in, using the barrel of his gun to force Paco’s face around to meet his. He said, ‘You tell Cristina that I’m coming for her. You understand?’ Paco nodded. ‘Good.’ Cleland raised his gun to point it at Paco’s head and for a moment the young man thought he was going to die. Then Cleland smiled and lowered his weapon to shoot Paco in the thigh. Paco screamed and Cleland leaned in again. ‘Don’t forget now.’ And as he straightened up. ‘Better get that seen to before you bleed to death.’
The last Paco saw of Mad Jock was his shadow as he jumped down into the blaze of light beyond the truck, and the callused hands that reached up to grasp him.
CHAPTER NINE
Sunlight cut sharp shadows into the mountains that spread their volcanic tendrils down through the coastal plane to the sea. Malaga gathered itself around the long curve of the bay and spilled out along the coastline east and west, as well as reaching back through fertile valleys into the plantations that climbed up into the Andalusian interior.
Mackenzie’s plane banked as it came in to land, and he saw the vibrant blue of the sea shimmering in the afternoon light. The plane had encountered some gentle turbulence as it descended over the mountains, but the sky was cloudless, and the pilot had told them that the temperature on the ground was in the high twenties. It was hard to believe that just over three hours ago he had been standing in the departure lounge at Glasgow watching rain run like tears down the glass, blurring the runway and reducing the sky to a grey smudge.
He tried not to think too much about his uncle, or the strange compassion which had overcome him as he watched the old man weeping at the kitchen table. He had not, Mackenzie was certain, deserved his nephew’s sympathy. And yet Mackenzie had found himself making a pot of tea, sitting down with him at the table, talking him through Hilda’s illness, the life that lay ahead, and how he would have to adapt to it.
Advice, he thought ironically, that he might have given himself in the wake of his separation from Susan. But separation was not death, even if it felt like it.
He had phoned to order a delivery of Indian from the restaurant at Clarkston Toll, and the two of them had shared a bottle of cheap white wine and eaten lamb bhuna Madras in an oddly comforting silence.
As suspected, he had barely slept, and climbed stiffly out of his bed to dress while it was still dark. At the foot of the ladders, he had heard the old man breathing heavily through his sleep in the back bedroom, and crept into the kitchen to leave him a note. He thought for several long minutes with the pen in his hand before scribbling his address. Then, I’ll be here for the next few weeks if you need me. And signing it simply, John.
He did not expect to hear from him, and hoped that he would not, but something had compelled him to make the offer. He had no idea what or why.
The terminal building was crowded with holidaymakers. Men in cargo shorts and brightly coloured shirts wheeling enormous suitcases, women in short skirts and print dresses and oversized sunglasses, anticipation in their raised voices of sunshine and sangria. Mackenzie felt conspicuous in his dark suit, and although he had dispensed with the black tie, he wore his depression like a shroud. Had anyone paid him the least attention, they would have known he was not here on holiday.
In his briefing he had been told he would be taken to a secure room at the airport where Cleland would be held under armed guard. There would be paperwork to be signed. A formality. But it was important that Mackenzie read it all carefully before signing. Which is why they had wanted someone fluent in Spanish. He and Cleland would then be escorted on to the aeroplane by armed officers who would leave the aircraft only when all other passengers had boarded and it was ready to depart. Cleland would be hand and leg-cuffed, and be removed from the plane on landing by officers of the Metropolitan police. Mackenzie, Beard had told him, would be no more than a glorified babysitter.
Mackenzie was expecting to be met by someone at the gate. He stood waiting impatiently for fifteen minutes, during which time his fellow passengers disembarked and headed off along a concourse that vanished into a lost and echoing distance. Announcements over the public address system made no reference to him in either English or Spanish.
Finally, reluctantly, he set off along the concourse himself. He had not anticipated having to clear passport control, remaining airside and never officially entering Spain. But in the absence of any information to the contrary he joined the queue at international arrivals and took out his iPhone. To his annoyance he found that it was not yet logged into the local server. He could not even call London to clarify his situation. He sighed his frustration and felt his blood pressure rising. Why was it that people were incapable of making plans and sticking to them?
He supposed that maybe someone might be waiting for him beyond passport control, but if so why had he not been told? It was a further ten minutes before he was syphoned off with others from the lengthening queue for the automatic passport readers, and invited across a white line to face an immigration officer who glared at him through a glass screen. Mackenzie slipped his passport through the hatch and glared back. An electronic reader below the counter scanned his biometric details before his passport was pushed back at him, and a flick of the head welcomed him to Spain.
There was no one waiting to greet him on the other side. No one raising a card with Mackenzie scrawled on it. Mackenzie was at a loss. He checked his phone and saw with relief that he now had a signal. He dialled the NCA and listened to it ringing two thousand miles away.
‘National Crime Agency, how may I help you?’
‘This is Investigator John Mackenzie. Could you put me through to Director Beard?’
‘The Director is not here today.’
‘You must have an emergency number for him.’
‘Is this an emergency?’
‘No, I want to wish him happy birthday. Of course it’s a fucking emergency!’ He closed his eyes and cursed himself for swearing.
‘One moment.’ Not a hint in the voice at the other end that his sarcasm had even registered.
Mackenzie sighed again. Why bother asking him to wait one moment when they both knew it was going to be much longer than that. In fact it was almost three minutes before the operator got back to him.
‘I’m sorry, Director Beard is not contactable right now. Can I take a message?’
Mackenzie fought to control his anger. ‘Tell him that John Mackenzie called and that it is very important he call me back as soon as possible.’
He returned the phone to his shirt pocket and looked about him, at a loss for what to do now. This was not going well. On an impulse he decided to follow the signs to baggage reclaim. From there he knew it would be possible to exit the terminal building itself. Perhaps someone would be waiting there.
As he cleared the customs hall, Mackenzie found himself confronted by a crowd of taxi and shuttle drivers all holding up cards. He scanned them quickly to establish that his name was not among them, then stepped through sliding glass doors on to a concrete apron thick with boisterous holidaymakers. Streams of people headed off towards a tunnel where taxis and shuttle buses and private cars came and went with relentless frequency. Others crossed a roadway to a multi-storey car park.
Mackenzie felt a rush of insecurity. He remembered his
first day at school, taking a wrong turning on the way home after what had felt like an endless day. In all the years since, he had not experienced such a complete sense of loss and bewilderment. He had absolutely no idea what to do. The flight to London was scheduled to depart in two hours. If no one had contacted him before then, he decided that he would simply fly home. He carried the electronic ticket in his inside jacket pocket.
Across the concourse he spotted a tapas restaurant called Gambrinus and realized quite suddenly that he was hungry. Breakfast had consisted of coffee and a croissant at Glasgow Airport, hours ago now. He was about to head for the restaurant and get something to eat when he spotted the blue and white chequered stripes of a white Nissan SUV pulling up at the kerb short of the tunnel. Policía Local was painted across its doors. A petite uniformed policewoman scrambled out of the driver’s door, reaching back for a square of white card. She slammed the door shut before hurrying across the concourse towards the entrance to the arrivals hall.
Mackenzie inclined his head as she scurried past him and saw the word MCKENZEE scrawled on her card in the blue ink of a felt-tipped pen.
‘Señora,’ he called after her, and she glanced back without stopping. He raised his voice in fluent Spanish, although he had not actually spoken it in some time. ‘I think maybe you’re looking for me.’
This time she stopped and looked at him a little more closely. She raised her card at the same time as her eyebrows, silently asking if he was the MCKENZEE she was looking for. The card was upside down. He indicated as much with a turn of his finger. She looked at it and quickly turned it the right way up. He walked towards her.
‘Only that’s not how you spell it. It’s M-A-C, with an I-E at the end.’
She frowned, and he saw that she was flushed and flustered and perspiring freely.
‘And you’re late. I mean is this really how you people operate? I expected to be met at the gate by . . .’ He glanced at her uniform for some indication of rank. But there was none, just a police insignia to the right of the reflective yellow across her chest, the word Policía in grey on the left. A checkered black and white strip beneath the yellow of her otherwise black uniform suggested that she might be nothing more than a lowly constable. The only marking on either sleeve was a green and white patch sewn on to her upper left arm and bearing the legend Policía Local Marviña. He hesitated. ‘By . . . someone more senior.’