by Peter May
She bristled. ‘Someone other than a woman, you mean?’
Mackenzie bristled back. ‘Armed guards, I was told. I should have remained airside the whole time. And where is Cleland?’
Her face coloured, and a little of her self-assurance drained away. ‘The exchange has been cancelled.’
‘Why?’
‘Señor Cleland escaped.’
Mackenzie was momentarily speechless. Then, ‘Escaped?’ It hardly seemed possible. And all that went through his mind was that he had missed Sophia’s school concert for nothing. ‘Jesus Christ!’ He rarely blasphemed, believing it to indicate a paucity of vocabulary. But in that moment, as when he had sworn at the receptionist over the telephone, he lacked any other words to give adequate expression to his feelings.
She was defensive. ‘The armoured vehicle bringing him to the airport was attacked by armed men. Three of his guards were shot dead and a fourth seriously wounded.’ She thrust a hand towards him. ‘My name is Cristina Sánchez Pradell, an officer of the Policía Local at Marviña. I have been sent by my Jefe to bring you to our police station.’
Mackenzie ignored her outstretched hand. ‘No, no, no. My instructions were to accompany Cleland back to the UK aboard the British Airways flight to London that departs in’ – he looked at his watch – ‘just under two hours. If you don’t have him, I’m going back into the airport to get myself something to eat, and then catch that flight home on my own. Nothing I can do here.’
Cristina withdrew her hand, her face hardening as she thrust her jaw towards him. ‘My instructions are to take you to Marviña.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m sorry, señor, as a low-ranking police officer of the female gender, that’s above my pay grade.’ She had no idea how senior an officer Mackenzie might be, and realized she was sailing dangerously close to insubordination.
It was not lost on Mackenzie. He glowered at her. ‘Well I don’t care what your instructions are. I am not answerable to you or your Jefe.’
‘No señor. But as I understand it, this has been agreed by your Jefe in London.’
‘What?’ Mackenzie was startled. ‘Rubbish!’ He pulled out his phone and hit redial. But after further dialogue with the operator at the NCA, and more waiting, it was established that Beard was still unavailable. As was his deputy. Mackenzie ended the call in frustration. Cristina watched him implacably, though he was convinced he saw something like satisfaction lurking behind her dark brown eyes.
‘Maybe you’d like me to take your bag,’ she said, reaching for the handles of his holdall.
He held it away from her. ‘I’m quite capable of carrying it myself, thank you.’ And he set off walking briskly towards where she had parked the police SUV.
Cristina pursed her lips in annoyance and followed.
*
They drove in silence out of the airport, past rows of cheap car rental firms and long-term parking sheds, past the San Miguel brewery and up the ramp on to the A7 to join the traffic heading west.
The sun beat relentlessly through the side windows of the Nissan as the road climbed up out of Malaga, and sent light coruscating across the Mediterranean below. A gentle sea breeze blew hot among the fronds of the tall palms that sprouted from every housing development along the clifftops.
It wasn’t until fifteen minutes had passed, and they swung off on to the AP7 toll motorway, that Mackenzie finally asked, ‘Where is Marviña?’
‘Beyond Estepona.’ Cristina glanced across to the passenger seat and saw that this meant nothing to him. She added, ‘Another forty-five minutes.’
Mackenzie sat gazing into the heat haze shimmering in the distance, nursing mixed thoughts, before squinting to steal a surreptitious look at the young policewoman behind the wheel. She was not what he would have described as pretty, but not unattractive, although he was not attracted to her himself. Her tanned face was unlined and bore no trace of make-up, hair drawn back in an austere ponytail. No attempt had been made to enhance her appearance, and he realized he liked that about her. Her fingernails were clipped short, but well cared for and polished to a shine. She had fine, long-fingered hands, but they gripped the wheel too tightly, pale knuckles revealing the tension in them. He noticed how she was chewing on her lower lip. And although her eyes were fixed on the road ahead her mind was clearly elsewhere.
He replayed their meeting at the airport and pulled her name back from memory. Cristina Sánchez Pradell. And in recalling it he realized he had not shaken her outstretched hand. Regret stabbed him in the chest. Susan would have said it was typical of the way he alienated people. Sánchez Pradell . . . He ran the name through his mind again and realized why it was familiar.
‘Officer Sánchez Pradell.’ She turned to look at him. ‘You were one of the arresting officers.’
She nodded and turned her eyes back to the road.
‘You saw him shoot the girl.’
‘Yes.’
‘He blamed you.’
‘Yes.’ She pressed the heel of her hand to the horn and pulled out in front of a car that was threatening to trap her behind a truck. ‘He threatened to kill me and every member of my family.’
Mackenzie said, ‘Which wasn’t much of a threat while he was still in custody.’
She shrugged.
‘And now?’
‘The surviving Guardia from the attack on the truck this morning was my sister’s husband, Paco. Cleland told Paco to tell me that he was coming for me, then shot him in the leg. I think the only reason he didn’t kill him was so that he could deliver the message.’
Mackenzie reran the briefing notes he had read on Cleland. Mad Jock, they called him. Not, apparently, without reason. ‘Are you scared?’
Cristina flicked him a glance. ‘Yes, I am scared. But I also have a husband, a ten-year-old son, a sister with cancer, an aunt who is deaf and blind. And I am scared for them, too. I looked this man in the eye, señor. He is loco. Quite mad.’
Mackenzie closed his eyes and regretted everything about the way he had spoken to her at the airport.
CHAPTER TEN
From Santa Ana de las Vides, the road wound up into the hills through vineyards that covered the south-facing slopes, vines producing sweet white Alejandria Muscatel grapes and even sweeter wine. The coastline fell away below them as they climbed, and the old whitewashed adobe houses of Marviña spread themselves across the undulating hilltop. On the roundabout at the entrance to the old town stood a road sign the like of which Mackenzie had never seen before. A red No-Entry sign in the shape of a broken heart above a plaque that read No Violencia Machista.
Cristina glanced at him and his consternation produced a smile. ‘A campaign against domestic violence,’ she said.
They turned right into a development of modern apartment blocks, and then right again into a street that led down into an underground car park. There were several police vehicles here, including a number of motorbikes, and Mackenzie followed Cristina through a door leading directly on to the lower floor of the police station.
This was a building of recent vintage, with freshly white-painted walls. Cristina and Mackenzie started up a staircase but were halted by a call from beyond an open door at the foot of the stairs. A gruff voice that carried the clear weight of authority. ‘In here, Cristina.’
They turned back and entered what Mackenzie quickly gathered was the evidence room. Racks of metal shelving stood in rows. At one side of the room the shelves were lined with box folders, labelled and annotated. Files on hundreds of cases. On the other they groaned with cartons containing evidence collected from crime scenes or seized from the homes of suspects. The Jefe was sorting through an ugly collection of weapons.
He swung around as they came in, and started laying them out on the nearest shelf for Mackenzie to see. A long ceremonial sword, another shorter blade in a sheath, a well-worn blue-painted baseball bat, a sledgehammer, a long-bladed knife set in a wooden block that doubled as a club. There was dried blood on i
t. He said, ‘All seized this morning during a raid on an abandoned housing development on the edge of town. The place was being used as a clubhouse by a gang dealing drugs in the district. My district. They are like rats, these drug dealers. You flush out one infestation, another appears. You cage them for a while, then the courts set them free and they’re back, thumbing their noses at you.’ He stretched out a hand towards Mackenzie. ‘Sub-Inspector Miguel López. Station chief. Jefe to you, and everyone else under my command.’ He grinned. ‘We don’t stand on ceremony here – as long as everyone understands I’m the boss.’
Mackenzie accepted the Jefe’s firm dry handshake. ‘Not my boss,’ he said.
The Jefe inclined his head and a tiny smile played around his lips. ‘I think you’ll find that I am. At least for the moment.’ He glanced at Cristina. ‘Did the young lady not tell you?’
‘The young lady,’ Mackenzie said, giving equal and disapproving emphasis to each word, ‘told me virtually nothing.’
The Jefe nodded his approval. ‘Good. Just as it should be. Let’s go up to my office.’
Mackenzie followed the Jefe upstairs, Cristina tramping in their wake, as if her big black leather boots were too heavy for her. They stopped on the first landing and the police chief raised his hand towards a large framed photographic collage hanging in the stairwell. Photos of police officers from the past standing in groups and ones and twos. Some in colour, others in black-and-white. A large red-lettered caption read, POLICÍA LOCAL DE MARVIÑA SIEMPRE AHÍ. Always there. Mackenzie wondered where they had been when Cleland’s people had shot three Guardia dead and helped him escape. But for once did not give voice to the thought.
The Jefe jabbed a finger at a black-and-white photograph of a good-looking man in uniform. An abundance of silver hair curled from beneath his cap. ‘My father,’ he said. ‘Jefe before me, as his father was before him.’
A family dynasty, Mackenzie thought, before realizing that he had said it out loud. But the Jefe just laughed. ‘No one messes with the López family,’ he said. He pointed towards a collection of firearms mounted on the wall above the collage. Old flintlock pistols, a bolt-action rifle, a revolver fitted with a rifle butt, several more modern pistols and a hand-grenade in a glass case. ‘Police weapons through the ages.’ He slapped his hand against his holster. ‘And now it’s a joint German-Swiss venture which provides us with guns to keep the peace. Strange bedfellows don’t you think?’
Mackenzie did, but not in the way the Jefe intended. ‘Guns and peace, yes. That seems like an oxymoron to me.’
The Jefe gazed at him for a thoughtful moment then smiled. ‘What amazes me, señor Mackenzie, is that you would know such a word in Spanish.’
Mackenzie shrugged. ‘It’s virtually the same in both languages.’
The Jefe turned to Cristina. ‘Do you know what an oxymoron is, Cristina?’
‘No, Jefe.’
‘It’s a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction. What our British friend is telling me is that he doesn’t believe that guns can keep the peace.’
It was Mackenzie’s turn to smile. ‘And what you are telling me, Jefe, is that you are no uneducated country cop.’
The Jefe laughed heartily. ‘After a lifetime in the police force himself, my father thought I should aspire to something better. So he sent me to university in Madrid, where I studied Spanish Literature. I wrote my thesis on the contradictions of Federico García Lorca.’
‘But you joined the police anyway.’
The Jefe made a face. ‘It was in my DNA.’
Mackenzie nodded. ‘My father was a policeman, too.’
‘Was he?’ The Jefe grinned approvingly. ‘Then you and I have much in common, my friend.’
The Jefe’s office was an unassuming room with worn carpet on the floor. Framed photographs and commendations covered the walls. Sheafs of pinned paperwork sprouted from a notice board above his desk. A row of silver sports cups stood along the top of a bookshelf on the back wall, and charts lay strewn across a long conference table in the middle of the room. A detachable blue light and the corkscrew cable that connected it to the mother vehicle had been placed on one corner to hold them down. Windows on two walls gave on to adjoining offices. Not, perhaps, so that the Jefe could keep an eye on junior officers, so much as making them aware that he could. He slumped into a comfortable chair, unhooking the sunglasses from his shirt and tossing them carelessly on to the desk. Mackenzie noticed the cross hanging ostentatiously around his neck, making a mental note to resist any further temptation to blaspheme. He was not religious himself, but knew that Spain was a devoutly Catholic country, particularly here in Andalusia where Christianity had sunk its roots deep to stand firm against Islam and the Moorish occupation.
The Jefe waved him towards a seat on the other side of his desk. Cristina remained standing. A tangle of sun-bleached and silvered eyebrows animated the Jefe’s face. ‘You’re probably wondering why you are here.’
This did not seem like a question to Mackenzie, but he understood that a response was required. ‘It had crossed my mind,’ he said.
The Jefe leaned forward. ‘There is a massive search under way, Señor Mackenzie, for your fellow countryman. All the way from Gibraltar to Malaga, and beyond. Every agency is involved. The Policía National, Policía Local, Policía Judicial, the Guardia . . . It is a matter of national pride, you might say, that we recapture this man. When we do – and I say when, not if – there will no longer be any question of extradition. He has murdered Spanish police officers and will face justice here in Spain.’ He paused. ‘But Cleland has been living here among the English-speaking community. It is where he has left all his traces, made all his friends. And your National Crime Agency has graciously agreed to lend us your services to help us find him, since you are fluent in both languages.’
Mackenzie stared at him in disbelief. ‘But I don’t have any underwear,’ he said.
The Jefe stared back at him for a moment, frowning. Before his face cleared, eyebrows shooting up on his forehead, and he laughed. ‘I like you, señor. You have that famous British sense of humour.’
Mackenzie was not at all sure what was humorous about a dearth of clean underwear.
The chief of police lounged back in his seat. ‘Underwear we can do. Hopefully you won’t require too many pairs of socks.’ His smile faded. ‘We want to catch this man sooner rather than later. All the intel we’re receiving leads us to believe that Cleland has a major drugs deal going down sometime within the next week. Which is why his friends were so keen to spring him. The drugs squad in Malaga think that there is a massive haul of cocaine stashed somewhere, probably in this area. They are also of the opinion that Cleland could be key to an exchange being successfully completed. Cash for cocaine. And we’re not just talking millions. We’re talking a street value running to tens of millions. If Cleland accomplishes this exchange he will be wealthy, beyond even his wildest dreams. He will be gone. And with that kind of money, señor, we will see neither hide nor hair of him ever again. So, you see, there is a certain urgency.’
Mackenzie nodded. An urgency that would apply equally to his need for fresh underwear. But he refrained from saying so and thought that Susan would have been proud of him.
Almost as though reading his mind, the Jefe said to Cristina, ‘You can take him shopping for underwear, and then up to Cleland’s villa to let him take a look. I’ll get the front office to reserve him a room at a hotel in town.’ He returned his gaze to Mackenzie. ‘It won’t be five-star I’m afraid, señor.’ He smiled. ‘I have a limited budget.’ He got to his feet. ‘You two will work together.’
Mackenzie glanced at Cristina and saw that this was news to her. And a not entirely welcome revelation.
‘Cristina will be your authority when it comes to interviewing witnesses or getting access to whatever you might need. But you will have no authority yourself, nor will you carry a weapon.’ He grinned. ‘Which should be no
hardship, since you do not believe that guns keep the peace.’ His smile faded. ‘Your role will be purely advisory.’ He raised a finger in the air. ‘But if you need anything, anything at all, you come to me.’
*
Mackenzie could barely keep pace with Cristina as she marched across the underground garage to where she had parked the SUV. She slipped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut, turning her key in the ignition and revving the motor before Mackenzie had even opened the door on the passenger side. He threw his holdall in the back and climbed up into the passenger seat. Without looking at her he said, ‘I’ll need some trousers and shirts, too. Shirts with pockets here on the left side.’ He placed a hand over his heart. ‘It’s where I always keep my phone so I can take it out with my right hand.’
She turned her head to glare at him. ‘I did not join the police to play nanny to some foreigner with dirty underwear.’
Mackenzie nodded, ignoring her ire. ‘And they’ll need to be cotton. I react to man-made fibres. Particularly my feet. I get heat blisters between the toes.’
Her glare turned to incredulity. ‘Do you really think that is something I want to know?’
‘I’m only providing you with the information that will allow you to make an informed decision about where to take me.’
‘I’ll take you where it’s cheapest. And you’ll take what you get.’
He nodded. ‘As long as it’s cotton, and the shirts have pockets. Two’s fine, but I must have one on the left.’