The man's eyes flickered to his own pistol on the bar before him, and then he raised his hands slowly, still clutching his drink. The stench of powder escaping the pistol masked the smell of the younger Stelescu. Marwick stood above him and seemed to study the corpse for a moment. 'That's for Roy Quinn,' he said softly. 'Get Louise untied will you?'
The cop nodded and began to untie Louise's wrists. 'Is there anyone else?' He asked breathlessly, wiping his face with his sleeve.
'Only some girls,' Marwick said, 'who I should have got out of here a long time back. I thought you weren't going to make it, amigo'.
'You know I would never let you down.' The cop was dressed in a sergeant's blue uniform. 'We're even now, yes?'
'Yes, but do not let her out of your sight. She's a hell of a woman.'
***
The train pulled out of Sant Carles in a cloud of yellow dust and Marwick, seated beside a window on the right hand of the carriage watched the town slip lazily behind him. It was all there, all the life of these past three years: the sea, harsh and white beneath a blanched sky; the innumerable construction sites, tall cranes set against the air; the concrete apartment blocks, baked dry, and the brown scrub and graffiti beside the line. Then it was the lower plain of Catalunya: dry walls, tight farmhouses crushed by the weight of sky among acres of olive groves, ragged almond trees and, everywhere, the swathes of wildflowers that came from nowhere and retreated just as swiftly each May, forcing through the unforgiving earth out into the bright, clear light. Marwick watched them vanish behind the suburbs of Pineda, and then that town vanished too and he lay back in his seat and stared at the sky.
The ticket collector came around, a short, spindly man. He lifted the machine and said, without looking at the trio, 'Billetes, por favor.'
Marwick handed him a crumpled batch of Euros pulled from his jacket pocket and asked for a ticket to Barcelona Sants, where they would change for Caldes.
'Ida y vuelta? The man asked.
Marwick raised his index finger and replied in English. 'One way, mate.'
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sean was shredding paper at his desk. It was three days since the raid on The Casa d'Esclaus and he knew he was next on the list. There was something in the air, electricity, and he sat behind the vast wooden desk in his office as though sculpted from jagged pieces of iron. There were three thin lines of cocaine laid out on the back of an old ledger before him and he leaned forward and snorted them into his body through a small steel tube, one after the other. He exhaled heavily. His hair, usually so carefully combed, hung loose at the sides of his head and he scanned the room with bleary red eyes. Then he saw her and frowned, as though not quite sure that his eyes were being honest. She sat on the leather sofa opposite. 'Louise?' He said. 'I didn't hear you come in.'
'You were busy,' she said softly. She wore a pale leather jacket and dirty jeans. Her eyes were steady, unblinking, fixed upon his like a raptor's.
'What do you want?'
'You.'
'Me?' The old wooden chair creaked and squealed as he leaned back against the seat and looked at the smoked glass shade of a desk lamp to his left. He pretended to study it, laughing all the while, as he opened the drawer of the desk and searched blindly with fat fingers for the .38 hidden somewhere at the back, behind a half empty bottle of whiskey and a stack of ancient porn.
'It was you the whole time,' Her voice was calm, 'the whole of it, from the coke on the boat, to the brothel, to arranging for my Dad to die, it was you.'
He raised his hand. The pistol was small in his dough–like fist. 'You always thought you were brighter than the rest, Louise that was your biggest problem. You didn't think any other fucker could be as smart as you, and look where it's got you.' She gazed back at him, unresponsive. She barely even seemed to breathe. He began to feel a cold anxiety prickle at the back of his throat. 'Where's Marwick?' He asked.
'Gone.'
'Gone? Where's he gone?'
'Just gone,' she said, 'and the way it sounded last time I saw him, I don't think he's coming back.'
'The end of love's young dream?'
She smiled. 'You know I didn't come back to Spain for him,' she leaned forward on the sofa. Her eyes widened. 'People like you and me, we don't love, that's how we do the things we do.'
'What about Charlie?' He asked. A bead of sweat trickled down behind his ear. 'You loved him? That's what all this is about, isn't it? You loved your old man.'
'How could you do that to him, after all those years, after all he did for you,' she asked, 'how?'
'I never,' he said, 'but there's no way I could prove that to you, is there?' He stood and motioned for her to rise also. 'You'll always believe just what you want, you're a fanatic. I remember the way you used to be, back in the day, even when you were a little girl. You weren't like other kids. You were cold–hearted, good at getting what you wanted out of people and nothing else. Yeah, you were a Daddy's girl in that respect. Charlie was a cold bastard too. Oh yeah, he had a smile and a charm and it fooled most people, but it never fooled me. He was capable of things you wouldn't believe, your old man, before he got too old, before we come down here. Even then, he still had that fire inside him.' Sean smiled at a memory. 'There was a bar down here, and the lad who owned it spilled a drink on your old man on purpose, laughed at him with all his mates. Taking the piss out of Charlie, they were and I told him to leave it. We didn't want no attention, leave it I said, and what did he do, your sainted old man? He burned the fucking place to the ground; arranged it all, even though there was a girl and boy inside. Not that he knew, I suppose, but he certainly didn't care when I told him. He looked at me with them eyes, eyes just like yours, darlin', and shrugged. 'He was evil, was Charlie, and that's why I don't miss him, that's why I ain't sorry. He couldn't just retire.' He shook his head. 'There was a hole inside him where his heart should have been and nothing could fill it; that's why he hooked us up with those Romanian bastards and organised for all those girls, bought and paid for 'em he did. No, Louise, I'm glad the old bastard's dead, and now I have to wade through the mess he left me in.' He walked slowly out from behind the desk. 'I want you to piss off out of here before I lose my good graces, and you can tell London that the money 'll be back to them as it always is, on time and right to the shilling.'
She was about to respond when there was a sound outside, as though somebody had let a cast iron safe fall down a flight of concrete stairs. A shout followed, in English, and then a response in harsh edged Spanish. Sean stared at the door and spat out the word, 'Cops.'
There was a door on the far side of the office leading to a steel fire escape. Sean had always known the day would come when he needed it for this exact purpose. He forgot Louise and kicked the wide steel handle across the door, opening it wide. The morning air was warm on his sweating face as he descended the winding metal stair with all the speed his flabby legs could summon. There were shouts above him and then, when he was almost at the bottom of the steps, when the street and his car were in view, he stumbled and fell the last six feet of the way. He pushed himself up but there was a boot on his back, between his shoulder blades. 'Let me up,' he squealed in an ugly, feral fashion, his bare white arms flapping against the warm asphalt of the yard as he floundered like a cow on a sheet of ice.
'Mr. Mallon.' The voice came from above him and, suddenly, the pressure of the boot on his back lifted. Sean pushed himself onto his elbows and squinted up at the silhouette of a tall, suited man flanked by three Mossos d'Esquadra officers all of whom had guns drawn. Sean realised that he still held the .38, and he dropped it to the ground as though it had stung him. 'Nah,' he said, 'that ain't mine, I found it, yeah; I found it in the bar. Some wrong 'un left it last night.' He smiled widely up at the plain–clothes detective and spoke in a plaintive, pitiful manner, sweat dribbling across his broad face, but he knew it was too late. Something in the man's manner told him it was thus.
'I wouldn't worry,' the detective said.
He kneeled down close to Sean and flashed an ID card carelessly in front of his face. He was aged around forty, with short hair and dark, fluid eyes. 'Inspector Domenech, Mr. Mallon, and I have had my eye on you for,' he breathed sharply over his teeth, 'oh, for some time.'
'Oh yeah,' Sean laughed as one of the uniformed officers roughly cuffed his hands, 'and what you charging me with?'
Domenech stood and looked up at the building beside him. He frowned and said, 'This is a nice place. I have been here, I think, but it was long ago. It's still a lot to lose, a lot to lose.' He stared back down at Sean and said. 'We'll start with the illegal trafficking of women for sexual exploitation, prostitution and various offences against the rights of foreign citizens; then we'll add the fake documents your good friend Cezar Stelescu cooked up for said women; then we'll add the drugs in the Casa d'Esclaus.' He smiled. 'Then we'll tag on the dead man in the kitchen of your, if I may say so, rather grand house, conspiracy to import narcotics, murders of Roy Quinn, Salvador Rus and any other bastard we can find.' He bared his teeth and nodded to one of the officers, who pulled Sean to his feet. 'See?' Domenech said, patting Sean on the arm, 'and you were so worried about that little gun.'
They began to walk to the street. A crowd had gathered and watched as Sean trudged towards the waiting police car. His knees were weak, and he felt a horrible tightness beneath his collarbones. His face flushed and he knew he had played for the big game and lost. This was it. 'It was Marwick, wasn't it?' He said breathlessly.
Domenech shrugged and pushed Sean into the back seat of the car. 'No,' he said, 'it was you. Maybe you just aren't so bright.'
He slammed the door and stepped around the patrol car, pausing only to wink at a particularly attractive young woman, and then he climbed into the vehicle and turned to Sean. The big man crumpled into the back seat, his puffy shoulders rising and falling as he wept. 'We have your friend Cezar, by the way, though how much of a friend he'll be after this, and with his little brother's face shot off as well, we'll see.' He shook his head. 'There's a saying in Catalan about the people around here, gens de camp, gens de llamp. This means the people of the plain are like fucking lightning bolts.' He shook his head. 'And lightning always strikes the tallest tree first; you're a pretty tall tree, huh?' He nodded to the driver, who began to pull away from the kerb. 'And from now on, this is how we're going to deal with filth like you.' He grinned. 'That's all I have to say.'
Sean raised his head slowly and stared dolefully out of the window, just in time to see Louise, standing in the shade of the doorway, lift her hand and wave.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The train finally came to a halt in Caldes de Malavella and Marwick stepped down onto the brushed concrete of the platform and glanced around, hungrily. The country was different here, greener, dark fir trees behind damp, wooden fences. A low layer of white cloud stretched across the sky. He breathed deeply, turned, and looked back at the little station house.
It was cool inside. Glazed brown tiles on the walls shone down onto a varnished wooden bench and there were streaks of polish on the linoleum floor. There were shutters over the ticket windows and restrooms either side of the square waiting room. Marwick headed into the Gents and stripped his jacket and black T–shirt. There were bruises on most of his torso and he fingered them lightly, watching himself wince in the mirror. He filled the porcelain sink and laid his bruised hands in the clear water. A light pink cloud came from them as he washed
Marwick thought of Louise. He thought of all the ways she'd made him feel, good and bad, and of love that he could never scrape from the shell of his heart, no matter the effort. He thought of her sky shaded eyes and evenings in strange cities that existed nowhere now and of the sparkle in her eyes when she caught out one of his white lies, and the funny way she had of laughing when the laugh was real. He thought of how she'd left him and he thought of how he tried to forget her by signing up and fighting in countries hotter and drier than hell and how it hadn't worked. Marwick thought of the way she had come back hoping to use him to exact her vengeance, and he didn't care, because being with her again was enough. Only she was not the girl he'd loved. She had given him, once, the happiest days of his life and they would never disappear, but that girl was dead. He walked out into the cool of the room beyond.
***
He headed across the car park at the rear of the station. Trees with wet trunks and cut branches stood on both sides and rows of cars shone beneath the white air. It had been raining, and Marwick enjoyed the sensation of the cool on his face and the damp air circulating through his lungs. It was a pure sensual pleasure following the aridity of the coastal plain and he couldn't help smiling a little, as it reminded him, in some obscure way, of the England of his youth. The café was ahead, a low–slung building with wide glass windows that were heavy with steam. He sat at a table in the corner, looking back at the station. Caldes de Malavella, he thought, remembering the last time he was here, running with a stolen car, chasing a gentlemen in green who'd ripped Charlie off for a couple of grand. He ordered a mug of café con leche and a hot baguette with Majorcan spread–able chorizo. That was what Charlie always called the Irish, he thought, “the gentlemen in green”. He missed Charlie a hell of a lot. Could have used his advice, he thought, his mind wandering over the past few weeks, a hundred times. The old man. He frowned. The old man.
He felt a powerful nausea rush behind his ribs, as though he'd swallowed a handful of hard ice. He heard a voice say, “you're a clever lad, the old man said you were” and he saw it all laid open before him, from beginning to end, from the Verge del Cami to the Casa d'Esclaus to this small café. His hands shook.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The house he was looking for was on a narrow street in the old town, the call, which curved in a gentle S–shape ahead of him. It had been raining, and the cobblestones glittered beneath white streetlamps. He walked in the shade of the balconies jutting above the street. Carmen Mallon was in a window of her mother's house. Marwick saw her gazing into the night. There was a sound of laughter in the distance, close to the river, and a sour smell of cork factories on the rain–damp breeze. Marwick was cold. He jammed his hands into the pockets of the jacket, bumping up against an extra magazine for the pistol. If I need any more than that, he thought, then I'm shit out of luck. Carmen looked good. She wore a tight black dress and the amber light seeping out from the ancient house silhouetted her curves in a way that made his pulse push against the bones of his wrist. He saw what would attract a man like himself, or Sean, or…The curtains pulled close and Marwick walked swiftly to the door of the house, which looked two hundred years old, and put a little pressure on the handle. It opened slowly, creaking on ancient iron hinges. She was expecting somebody.
He stepped into the house. The hallway was gloomy and had a dark stench of age, of mouldering cloth and worm–eaten wood. Marwick drew his pistol and walked slowly to the foot of the wooden stairs. Music played softly upstairs, classical, a string quartet; the sound was scratchy, as though played on an old phonograph. He moved cautiously to the door and pushed it open with his toe. Carmen sat in the corner of the narrow room on a deep red leather chair, looking at him. She wore dark stockings and had her legs crossed so he could see the tops of them. Her wavy black hair hung down on her chest and she regarded him lazily with dark, unwavering eyes, a half smile playing across her smooth face. 'Marwick,' she said, 'you're alive.'
'Looks like.'
'Then you have proved me wrong. You have been a bright boy; I guess I owe you that. So, what do you know?'
'I suppose I know enough,' he said, crossing the room and standing close, but not too close, never taking his eyes from the lady. She was about forty, but there was an ageless malignant quality to her gaze, as though something inside her was trying to push its way out through her eyes. Coals glowed on the grate and the room stank of smoke and spilled whisky. It was hot and he felt the itch of his collar. 'It was the address in Raval gave it aw
ay. Then something your friend Christie said, under his breath so to speak, and it all clicked.'
'In a moment of inspiration?' She laughed. Her voice was gentle and the accent delicate. 'Who would have thought it would be you, Marwick. I told him it was a mistake to leave you alive. You may not be the most intelligent of men, but you never let things go. You know right and wrong, unlike the rest of them, which is why it excites you, doing wrong, because you are aware of it. To the others, well, they're like animals; they know no better, and where is the fun in that?' She waved towards the gun and said. 'And please put that thing away. Christie has you covered.'
The Scotsman stepped out from the corner of the room, which lay in shadow. He grinned maniacally; his round face bore a scar where Marwick had struck him with the keys. 'Evening,' he said, motioning towards a chair facing Carmen. He held the Colt Anaconda before him. A crazy gun, Marwick thought, big calibre, useless for anything but making a point. He sat and felt the old sick feeling in his chest. 'Put it on the table,' Christie said. Marwick obeyed and laid his pistol on a tile–topped coffee table. Carmen reached over for it and lifted it gently. 'So,' she said, 'did you kill Sean?'
'No.'
'Where is he?'
Marwick's Reckoning - Gareth Spark Page 12