A Love to Kill For

by Conor Corderoy

  “It wasn’t Rupert. Rupert was just to get me into the right circle with the right contacts. The mark ain’t important.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I met Rupert. And…” There was a long pause, like she couldn’t imagine herself saying what she was about to say. Finally, it came out in an angry rush. “And I fell in love with him.” I didn’t say anything, but she must have thought I had because she rushed on, whisper-shouting, “Oh, sure, you can sneer! And laugh! As though a girl like me isn’t capable of love. I’m just a Southern whore and a gold-digger. Well, for your information, mister, I did fall for him! He is a sweet—”

  “Mary-Jane.”

  “Kind and generous—”

  “Mary-Jane.”

  “Human being who—”

  I had to say it three times before she’d stop. Then I said, “Shut up. I didn’t sneer and I’m not laughing. Cut out the dramatics. It isn’t me you need to convince. So what happened?”

  She took a moment to regain her composure. There was a shudder in her breath that I wasn’t sure if I was meant to hear or not. Finally, she said, “I was supposed to organize a party at Rupert’s. That was easy. He’d do anything…anything I asked him—”

  “I noticed. Keep talking.”

  “Then I was to seduce the mark. He was a political hotshot with powerful connections in industry, and Serafino wanted him under his thumb. When I had him in a compromising position, Pete was to take the photographs. Naturally, being the gardener, he was in an ideal situation to be around, hidden in the undergrowth.”

  I smiled to myself and said, “So what happened?”

  “I refused to do it.”

  The sun was on its way down on the other side of the house and the room was slipping into gloom. The only light was a diffuse russet glow that filtered in under the shutters. But what little light there was, was enough to see the door handle turn silently. Nothing else happened. I watched and said, “But he made you do it anyway, right?”

  Her voice was real soft. “Yes.”

  Nothing seemed to move, but next thing there was a crack, a slit of light running up the side of the door, as though it had been opened a couple of inches. But the light was too bright for the time of day. I stood real still and kept talking softly.

  “What did he tell you? If you didn’t see it through, he’d make Rupert pay?”

  There was a pause. “Yes, that’s right. He said he’d have him killed.”

  It wasn’t like the door was opening. There was no creak of hinges, no movement. It was just that the light from the crack began to swell and expand. I could feel my heart beginning to thump high in my chest and a cold tickle of hairs rising on my neck. I said, in a voice that didn’t sound like my own, “So you got this guy in a compromising situation in Rupert’s garden, and Pete took the snaps. Right?”

  She could tell there was something wrong, but she couldn’t pin it down. She said, “Yeah, but when it came down to it, I couldn’t go through with it. All I can tell you is that Rupert had changed me somehow. I know it sounds corny, but I really felt—”

  “Save it. What happened?”

  “You’re a real piece of work, mister. You know that? I went to see Pete Thursday night and told him I couldn’t go through with it. Then I took the pictures with me and left.”

  “You still haven’t told me what you want from me.”

  “Serafino has agreed to a deal.”

  “What deal?”

  “He has Rupert in the frame for killing Pete, and Rupert will go down if Serafino wants him to. He says if I give him the photographs, he will release enough evidence to show Rupert didn’t do it.”

  It was like the door was flung open, only there was no sound. The rush of light coming through was blinding. I shielded my eyes with my left hand and tried to squint into the light. My mind was spinning. In the center of the light I could see a vague, hazy form, like a coil of dark smoke. I remember muttering something like, “What the hell?” and the dark form began to take shape. It was just a gray silhouette, too tall and too thin, but I could make out the form of a woman. I heard Mary-Jane saying something about, “She’ll bring you to a meeting place with me and Serafino, with the photographs.”

  I said, “What? Who…?” But the line had gone dead and I dropped the phone. I stood, shielding my eyes, trying to make out a face. I said, “Maria? Is that you? What’s that light?”

  Then there was a voice. It was a woman’s voice. She sounded Irish. She said, “Mr. Murdoch…”

  I said, “Who is this?”

  I stepped forward and wondered if it was a trick of the dying sun on the whitewashed walls. She said, “Is that you, Mr. Murdoch?” Then the glare seemed to dim and the figure shifted. It wasn’t a woman after all but a tall man. It was a man I recognized. The only light now was the dim reflected light of late afternoon. The door was open and Dharma-Hair, the Hungarian Hood, was standing in the doorway, smiling his nasty smile at me. A cold breeze, like someone had opened a large refrigerator, made my skin crawl.

  I said, “What the hell are you doing here, Rinpoche? How did you…?”

  “Rinpoche?” His eyes creased and his reptile mouth opened in a toothless grin. “Rinpoche says, anyone who believes there is no reality is a fool. Anyone who believes there is a reality is an even bigger fool.” He laughed, happily.

  I began to say, “How did you know…” But he held out his hand and there was a brilliant spot of light on his palm. He said, “Dharma!” and a ton of granite smashed into my head. It should have hurt, but the blackness took away all the pain.

  * * * *

  When I woke up I was on the floor. My head felt like someone had left a blunt ax wedged in it again.

  What the hell had just happened? Had Maria drugged me with some kind of hallucinogenic? I dragged myself to a sitting position then levered myself to my feet. I went out to the terrace looking for Maria and an explanation, but she wasn’t there. I searched the house but there was no sign of her or Rosalia. The house was big and empty and silent. Finally, I went up to my room, figuring a cold shower might help the pain in my head, and that was when I found my room had been turned over by a typhoon.

  Who? Maria? I didn’t want to believe that.

  I tried to think. It isn’t easy when your brain has been bisected by a blunt ax. Colonel Fermin? He wouldn’t bother. All he needed was a search warrant, not even that. And besides, he had other ways and means of getting any information he needed, and he knew I knew it. Who then? And why? The Hermandad? That didn’t make any sense. Colonel Fermin might have told them about me, but most likely they didn’t even know I existed. And if they did, they didn’t care. Serafino? He was the only one who made any sense. He might want the box. But how the hell would he know I was here?

  Then I thought, the same way Mary-Jane Carter knew I was here. But did she know? She’d called my cell. I could be anywhere. There were too many connections and I couldn’t hold them all in my head at the same time as the ax. I sat on the bed and called Noddy.

  “Hello, Liam, me old mucker! ’Ow are ya?”

  “Noddy. I need you to do something for me.”

  “Everyfing awright, Liam? You sound stressed.”

  “Listen. Have you given anyone my number? Maybe an American woman?”

  “No. Nobody. Why?”

  “Never mind. I need you to do something for me. I need you to go to my apartment. See if it’s been turned over.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah. It’s important, pal.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m okay.”

  He hung up. Then I sat and stared at my cell. How had Mary-Jane got my number? And what had she said? Someone was on her way over… Over where? To my apartment? Did she think she was calling me in London?

  Then I heard Rosalia and Maria outside. They were both talking at the same time in Spanish, so I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but they sounded
excited. The door downstairs pushed open and the noise of their chatter grew louder. I stagger-ran down the stairs and caught them by the door. Maria looked at me like she was surprised. I said, “Where were you?” She stared at me with her mouth half open.

  “Where was I? Where were you?”

  And Rosalia said, “Donde estaba?” like a Spanish echo.

  I said, “You know where I was, Maria. I was in the office. On the phone. Where were you?”

  She frowned at my tone. “Are you interrogating me?”

  “I want an answer, Maria! Where were you?”

  My tone must have told her I was serious, because she frowned a little harder and said, “I got a phone call about fifteen minutes after you went to take yours. It said you were down near the bar, La Isla. You were passed out by the side of the road and appeared to be drunk or something and would I please come and get you.” She moved to a chair and sat down while Rosalia disappeared toward the kitchen. “I was pretty sure you were in the study, but when I went to tell you about the call, you were gone.”

  “The hell I was!”

  “I beg your pardon, Liam! Do you think I’m making this up? Ask Rosalia! We were dumbfounded! And when we got to La Isla, they said they hadn’t called and they hadn’t seen you since the day you arrived. Then we came home and you’re here demanding to know where I was! What on earth is going on?”

  I didn’t know the answer to her question so I said, “Was Sinead here?”

  “Who?”

  “Sinead Tiernan! Was she here?”

  “Of course not!”

  “How about a guy? A tall Hungarian guy with short hair?”

  She stared at me a long time, like she was worried. Finally, she said, “No, Liam. Nobody was here…”

  My mind was spinning, and I could feel a hot rage building in my belly. I said, “Where did she live?”

  Maria screwed up her face at me, “What? Who?”

  “Sinead! Where did she live?”

  “I told you I don’t know!”

  “Who would know, Maria?”

  She shook her head, “What in God’s name has got into—”

  Suddenly I had her by the shoulders, yanking her out of the chair, watching myself and not understanding my own rage. “Who, Maria? The mayor? The Town Hall? Somebody must have known where she lived! The post office? Who do I ask?”

  Her body telegraphed she was going to swing at me before she did and I caught her wrist. Her eyes were bright with anger and fear. I looked into them hard. “This is important, Maria. I haven’t time to explain! Who would know?”

  She stared at me for what felt like a long time, but was probably only a couple of seconds. The cicadas and the hot glare outside were a storm in my mind. Finally, she said, “Mari Carmen, at the post office. But it’ll be closed…”

  “Where does she live?”

  “You can’t!”

  “Where does she live?”

  She ripped her wrist from my hand and spat the words at me. “Rosalia will tell you! And I want you out of here by tonight!” And as she stormed into the kitchen, I heard her say something about having words with Rupert. A few moments later she came out with Rosalia. Between them they explained where I would find Mari Carmen. Then, as Rosalia scuttled back into the kitchen, I turned to Maria. I admit, the word ‘sorry’ is a square peg in the round hole of my mouth. I’ve tried to make it fit, and I tried now, but all that came out was, “Maria, look, don’t—”

  “Don’t what?”

  I sighed. “It’s not the way you… We’ll talk, when I get back.”

  Her eyes were hostile and cold, and I felt a painful twist of real regret. She said, “We most certainly will,” and her lips trembled as she thought about adding ‘not’. But she left it open. I was glad. I turned and walked out into the scorching sun and the screaming cicadas.

  Chapter Ten

  I eventually found Mari Carmen’s place down a winding cobbled lane, squeezed among ramshackle, crooked houses that must have been five hundred years old. She was mopping the street outside her front door, which was hung with brilliant, multicolored plastic threads to keep out the heat and the flies. Inside it was dark, and through the threads I caught glimpses of an old guy in a vest smoking and watching TV. On top of the TV there was a statue of the Virgin Mary.

  Mari Carmen had no problem telling me where “la Chiney” had lived. But, shouting and wagging her finger, she tried to tell me that “la Chiney” no longer lived there. In my limping Spanish, I asked, “Otra persona en casa?” Was there anybody else in the house? She wagged both fingers at me explosively, “Nooooo! Casa vacía! Usted quiere?” The house was empty, and did I want it?

  I climbed into my Mustang and burned some rubber to a place that was even more remote than Çalares. It was called Puerto Carboneros, the charcoal-makers’ port, seventy-eight hundred feet above sea level. Go figure. I crawled along dirt tracks that snaked among desolate, scorched hills and steep valleys dotted with olives and banana trees, and, as the sun began to slip, I found the house. It had a name plate that read, Tír na hÓige—in Irish mythology, ‘the land of the eternally young’. Here in the parched, scorched mountains of the deep south of Spain… You’ve got to love the Irish.

  It was down a long, twisted track, perched on the edge of a deep gorge. The house was encircled by a high wall with a tall, blue-iron gate. The gate was padlocked and the blue paint was peeling off to reveal orange rust underneath. Through the gate I saw a sprawling garden of palms, bananas, yucca and bamboo. In the midst of it all there was a large, turquoise pool, and beyond the pool was a two-story colonial house with a large veranda. All the doors and windows were shuttered. I took hold of the padlock.

  Most people don’t realize it, but a well twisted wire coat hanger is harder to bust than the most intimidating padlock. It took me fifteen seconds, and I slipped through and closed and padlocked the gate behind me. As I made my way to the edge of the pool, I noticed there were no cicadas. The birds were silent too. I stood and looked at the dusk reflected in the water. The water in the pool was dirty, dull and full of dead leaves. And there was a guy looking up at me out of the murky, reflected sky. I almost didn’t recognize him. Was it only this morning Colonel Fermin had shot the boy? Looking at my face reflected in the dirty blue-green, it felt like ten years had passed. I rubbed my chin. I needed a shave—and a double Irish.

  Irish.

  I turned and walked to the veranda. If the dust was anything to go by, the place had been abandoned and deserted for weeks. There was nothing open or half-open that would let me in easily, so I vaulted the veranda and walked through the dry grass to the back of the house. There was a back door that I guessed gave on to the kitchen. Like most old kitchen doors, it was a Chubb lock instead of a Yale. It yielded to me after a few seconds and I stepped into a darkened room. Flipping the switch by the door told me what I had already guessed, that the power was off. So I closed the door and opened the kitchen shutters.

  There was a large iron bolt on the bottom of the door, and I noticed absently that it hadn’t been slipped into place. I looked around, but the kitchen didn’t tell me anything. Now that I was here, I wasn’t sure what I had hoped to find. A clue about Sinead Tiernan? Something to explain the connection between her, Pete Strickland and Mary-Jane Carter? Something to explain the hallucination I’d just had in Mari’s study, if it had been a hallucination.

  I strolled across the room and stood in the doorway that gave on to the entrance hall. It had that same dead, rented feeling Mary-Jane’s place had had in London. Rented furniture. Rented house. Rented identity.

  Pete Strickland was the connection between Sinead and Mary-Jane Carter. But why? How? Maybe it was Pete I was looking for here—some clue to who he was. Why had Mary-Jane and Sinead both homed in on him? I climbed the stairs and moved from dark bedroom to dark bedroom. If there had ever been a trace of either Pete or Sinead in these rooms, it wasn’t here now. I sat on the bed in the master bedroom, smelled the musty a
ir and listened to the silence. Had they fought here? Had they planned scams? Had they made love? There were no ghosts here.

  Not upstairs.

  It was like the word ‘ghost’ in my thoughts made it happen. In my mind I sensed the living room downstairs. I had the feeling that it had a presence of its own. Like it was listening to me. Like it was calling me. I shook my head to clear the feeling. At this rate I was going to start burning joss sticks and wearing sandals. Absently I wondered why I was chasing Sinead and not the Dharma Kid. Then I wondered if I was looking for her, or she was looking for me.

  The entrance hall was large and tiled in terracotta. The sun must have gone down outside and it had become dark. The living-room door was a black oblong in the deep dusk. I stepped across the hall and went in. A faint filtering of gray luminescence was lingering around the two tall shutters on the wall opposite. I crossed the room and opened the shutters then threw open the windows onto the evening. There were still no birds and no cicadas. A thin mist was rising off the pool. It was hanging over the dry grass and had concealed the rusting iron gate at the end of the drive. For a moment my Mustang felt very far away, but I ignored the feeling and turned to examine the room. I fished out my cigarettes. It was a fresh pack. I peeled off the plastic, pinched one out and poked it into my mouth. There was a black leather sofa against the wall to my left, and a couple of matching armchairs in front of me. There was a fireplace to my right, and opposite, by the door, a Castilian dresser. On the mantelpiece I saw a heavy iron candlestick with a church candle in it. I flipped my Zippo, leaned into the flame to light my cigarette, then stepped over to light the candle. The flame caught, wavered and started making big shadows.

  She was just a hazy silhouette in the doorway, with a ghostly face—a bit too tall and a bit too thin. She was very still and watching me. I felt my skin go cold and a knot twist in my stomach. Something in my head told me I didn’t know how dangerous she was. I didn’t know anything. I said, “Hello, Sinead.”

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t make any noise. The dusk was failing and the candle was making the long shadows dance on the walls, so it was hard to tell if she was moving or not. But I guess she must have been because, after a second, she was in the room, a few feet from me. My stomach was hot with something that might have been fear, and I could feel my heart in my chest. I still couldn’t see her clearly but I could feel her presence, and a glint of candlelight on her eyes told me she was smiling. I think it was Napoleon who said, when in doubt, be a wiseass. So I took a drag and spoke through the smoke. “That was a great entrance, but how are you going to follow it up?”