by Adam Creed
‘That story isn’t even out, yet,’ Gutiérrez had said when Staffe called.
‘What I know won’t affect the story you are running tomorrow, but it could lead to something bigger,’ Staffe had said.
‘This story’s big enough, don’t you worry.’
‘Murder always is.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I am police.’
‘You talk shit.’
‘Did you interview the African?’ asks Staffe.
‘Which African?’
‘He is mute, but he saw it all.’
‘Nobody saw it, and anyway, this is my story.’
‘Stories of murder aren’t yours or mine. They belong to the dead and their families and whoever might be next. Can you meet me? Café Tanger, at eight o’clock.’
‘You sound quite intent, Señor Wagstaffe.’
Staffe had tried to recall when he might have let slip his name to Raúl Gutiérrez. He was quite sure he hadn’t. He hung up, knowing that he really had no business with this killing. But if Gutiérrez showed up, maybe that was a sign. If he didn’t, he would let it lie: have a good dinner and slide between crisp linen sheets and get a bus tomorrow, back to the hills. Mind his own.
Now, making his way down through the hotel then walking down Calle Real, he feels bubbles of air trap in his belly; a slow rush in his loins. As the cranes of the port come into view and the sun catches the tops of the buildings, he feels kind of weightless. Every so often, he sees the battered face of the fair guirri, his shoulders like a dead tree stump in the ground.
What will he do if Gutiérrez doesn’t show?
Since his wound was retreated, Staffe has grown a little stronger every day. But for all those weeks, he has dreaded going back to London and the Force – a little more each day.
Jadus Golding had looked him in the eye and pulled the trigger, rather than go back to jail.
Staffe had done everything he knew to help Jadus get clean. He invested his faith in a young man who had been a criminal since before he went to school. Now, he doesn’t know what he will be if he can’t go back to the Force, but he knows that a policeman needs one thing above all else. Forget courage and method and intelligence. If you lack judgement, your days are numbered. That night, his judgement had failed him.
*
In Café Tanger, a Muslim affair, he orders a mint tea, looks out towards the port. On the other side of the glass, Moroccan men sit in rows, facing Africa and stirring their tea, passing the hookah pipe.
‘Señor Wagstaffe.’
Staffe turns, jolted by the sound of his own name. ‘Señor Gutiérrez?’
Raúl Gutiérrez nods and lights a black cigarette.
‘Do you want tea?’
Gutiérrez shakes his head, sucks on his smoke. ‘You are a long way from home, Inspector. A long way indeed from your Leadengate home.’ Raúl sits down. He is fiftyish and clean as a whistling dandy, dressed for the ladies, Staffe thinks, and oozing expensive cologne.
‘You’ve done some homework,’ says Staffe, wondering what Gutiérrez has gleaned in the hours since they spoke. He thinks about asking Raúl how he knew his name, but decides to keep that card close.
‘And you, too. Now, tell me about your new African friend.’
‘How do you know he is a new friend?’
‘Information is my life. It is like the sun and water. Without it, I can’t live.’ Gutiérrez motions to the waiter, asks for water. ‘You nearly died. You should be more careful.’ When the water comes, Gutiérrez waits for the waiter to turn away and takes out a quarter bottle of J&B.
Staffe looks anxiously around.
Gutiérrez says, ‘I don’t mind Africans, but we are in Spain and if I want to drink whisky in my own country, I will. They know what is what. I don’t know why you said to meet here.’
‘The victim was in a hell of a state,’ says Staffe.
Gutiérrez drinks half his whisky in one, theatrically opening his eyes wide and blowing out his cheeks, smiling. ‘You saw nothing.’
‘In England, a crime scene like that would be crawling with journalists, but you’ve got an exclusive – right?’
‘You should concentrate on your convalescence.’
The waiter comes across to the table and speaks rapidly to Gutiérrez, clearly angry. He scoops up the whisky bottle and curses.
Gutiérrez calls the waiter a ‘fucking infidel’, and a group of four young Moroccans appear from what must be the kitchen at the far end of the café. Two of them hold chef’s knives and all of them smile, as if Gutiérrez might be a big enough shit to make their day. The four youths slowly advance and Staffe holds up his hands. ‘I apologise for my friend. We shall leave.’ He puts down a five-euro note and ushers Raúl Gutiérrez up by the lapel.
Raúl Gutiérrez says, ‘There’s a proper place round the corner. Come on. I’m buying.’
Casa Joaquín is one block back from the waterfront and populated by men between forty and fifty-five, all with their hair slicked back, picking at seafood and drinking copas of manzanilla. They stand in clusters and talk passionately about the red shrimp of Almería, the anchovies and the clams. Most seem to know Gutiérrez, who has two glasses plonked down for him on the counter where a space is made.
‘I suggest you get me drunk, Inspector. My tongue loosens. And I might even get to talking about Santi Etxebatteria.’
‘What!’
‘It seems I can be all kinds of uses to you, but what can you do for me?’
Staffe spears an anchovy, lets the salt make a delicious film in his mouth. He calls for two more copas, still reeling at the sound of the name of the man who murdered his parents.
‘There were only three English killed. It might have been a long time ago, but it’s a big thing in Spain, still. Paul and Enid Wagstaffe. They lie heavy on our conscience, like the memories of our two boys on yours.’
‘Omagh,’ says Staffe.
Gutiérrez clinks his glass against Staffe’s, says, ‘I think you have nothing. In which case, let’s get drunk and tomorrow you can be on your way back to Almagen.’
Staffe sips his manzanilla, considers the fact that he hadn’t told Gutiérrez he is living in Almagen. He leans close to Raúl, whispers, ‘He was killed with water, right?’
Raúl’s eyes flicker and he smiles. ‘What exactly did your African friend say?’
‘He drew me a pretty picture. Maybe I should see what you say in your newspaper and then I’ll know how deep you are in the Cuerpo’s pocket.’
‘And why should you care, Inspector Wagstaffe?’
He guesses that Raúl has built a career on people underestimating him, thinking he is some played-out libertine. He finishes the sherry and looks at the fish and crustaceans on ice behind the bar. ‘There must be a dozen tapas to be had here.’
‘To loosen my tongue?’
Staffe thinks to himself, that’s not on the menu. Not tonight.
Raúl must see this because he puts an arm around Staffe’s shoulder. His breath is malty as he says, ‘We’re going to get on fine, the two of us. I just know it.’ He slaps Staffe hard on the back and laughs. Behind the eyes, though, Staffe sees something familiar, glinting in the dark. Raúl is afraid.
*
Pulford watches Brandon Latymer leave Pearl’s. B-Lat, which is what Brandon goes by, swaggers out of the caff with his hips low and his jeans halfway down his thighs and as he walks past the window, he winks at Pulford and taps his chest, twice, to signify that he is carrying and there is nothing that an officer of the law can do about it – not when you take into account the shenanigans that Pulford is requesting Brandon to perform; even though he is supposedly in hiding from the likes of Pulford‚ on account of a hit and run up on the Seven Sisters Road.
DS David Pulford puts his head in his hands and sighs, heavy and long. His conscience will wrestle with B-Lat’s guilt later, when he has brought Jadus Golding to justice. He pushes his mug away and leaves enough money to cover his tea and
Brandon’s can of Nurishment. He feels as though this goose chase is getting away from him and he takes another look at the warrant for arrest he had just shown Brandon.
Of all Jadus Golding’s e.Gang, B-Lat has most to lose by not fingering Jadus for the shooting of Staffe. Brandon wants his warrant for arrest for the hit and run withdrawn, on account of a new alibi he has discovered. Pulford told him he couldn’t do that, but he would help him remain at large. Brandon had said, ‘You must be a pussy, letting people like us take pops at police. He was your boss, right?’ He laughed. ‘Proper pussy.’
‘I’ll have you and your brother for manslaughter.’
‘And these conversations? You want that in the open?’
‘You couldn’t prove anything.’
‘Not according to my barrister.’
‘You’re talking to your barrister!’
That was when Brandon had got up, looking down on Pulford. ‘You know‚ they say police was on the Seven Sisters that night I was supposed to have mowed that poor boy down.’
Pulford knows where Brandon parked his Cherokee Jeep and he will know exactly where it will go, from now until whenever he finds the tracker. The device is unauthorised. In the eyes of the law it doesn’t exist, but if things work out, it won’t be necessary in any court of law.
On his way to the Limekiln, Pulford remembers the first time Staffe took him to Pearl’s. They had ribs, rice and peas, and corn bread. It wasn’t Pulford’s bag, but Staffe loved it.
Staffe’s Peugeot is parked up in the Limekiln car park and Pulford sits on its bonnet, looks up at Jasmine Cash’s flat. He waits ten minutes until she finally comes out on the deck, young Millie on her hip. She shouts down for him to ‘Fuck off’, which makes him ashamed because he knows Staffe really liked Jasmine. But Pulford figures that if Jadus knows he is harassing his girlfriend, he might come out of the shadows. Also, the more Jadus thinks it’s not safe to call on them in their own home the more he will want to.
Pulford gets in the car, starts it up and swings out onto the East Road. He makes his way up Columbia Road, seeing on the small monitor down by his gearstick that Brandon is making his way out on the Roman Road towards Stratford. He reaffirms the ethics of his approach, his faith in the many ways the goodness of the law can manifest itself.
Five
Staffe reads Raúl Gutiérrez’s article, which made the front page of La Lente. He can ascribe sense to most of the words. He has been topping up his Spanish, layering new lumps of nouns and verbs onto his faded memories of the foreign language. Recently, propped up in bed with only cicadas and the slow arc of the sun for distraction, the language has become increasingly clear.
He drains the last bottle of soft drink from the minibar and douses his head in cold water again. Last night, he and Raúl went to a peña way out at the top of the Avenida Garcia Lorca, and after the flamenco, they drank with a guitarist friend of Raúl’s and went back to Gutiérrez’s place – an apartment somewhere near Casa Joaquín – but the cubatas had taken their toll and Staffe had fallen asleep. He was awakened rudely early by the sound of Raúl’s snoring – kicking at his temples like a stableful of mules. At dawn, he made his way back to the Hotel Catedral, picked up a morning edition of La Lente.
He reads Gutiérrez’s story one more time.
GANG EXECUTION IN THE PLASTIC
But Who Will Pay the Real Price?
Yesterday Almería saw another example of what happens when money and drugs come together.
A foreigner was discovered dead in the intensive farming greenhouses on the coast between Adra and Roquetas del Mar. Tourists on all-inclusive holidays played in the sea and relaxed by swimming pools drinking cuba libres as a man was viciously murdered. Police are certain the death is related to the importation of drugs from Morocco.
The dead man is a white northern European and police say that several witnesses saw a group of black men behaving suspiciously in the plastic shortly before the estimated time of the killing.
The price we ordinary people will pay for this terrible industry that is staining the city and province of Almería is that people will choose to go elsewhere for their holidays. It is imperative that we drive these greedy criminals back where they came from – to save our jobs and conserve the tradition of our unique Andalusian way of life.
Drug use amongst the young in Spain is already a problem and we must make it as difficult as we can for our youth to acquire these narcotics. As for the death of another trafficker or dealer – do we really care?
RAÚL GUTIÉRREZ
Staffe tosses the paper into his case and makes his way down to reception where he orders a two-litre bottle of water and asks them to find out what time the buses leave for the Alpujarras.
As he waits, he considers what Raúl might be up to. His story couldn’t have been written any better by the Comisario of police himself – if he wanted a free-for-all on drug trafficking. And he wouldn’t want to be a Moroccan, trapped down there in the plastic on twenty euros a day and taking the blame for all bad things that pass.
‘There is a bus at twelve-thirty but you have to change at Ugijar. Would you like a taxi to the station, Señor Wagstaffe?’
‘Yes.’ The way he feels now, dehydrated and sweating, he thinks he wouldn’t care if he never clapped eyes on Gutiérrez ever again. Then he recalls that the journalist knew about Santi Etxebatteria. The bile rises.
‘Guilli!’
Staffe looks around, seeking out Manolo, wondering what would have brought his friend back to collect him. He scans the Plaza Catedral for his grey van, but sees nothing.
‘Guilli!’ The call is from a table outside the hotel. Gutiérrez is clean shaven and wearing a crisp, lemon shirt and pressed, sun-bleached jeans. His hair is slicked back and he tips Coca-Cola into a tumbler of amber-coloured spirit. He clinks the ice and says, ‘Something for the ditch, before we drive to the mountains.’
‘The mountains?’ Staffe swigs from his bottle of water, plonks it on Raúl’s table. Fat beads of sweat pop on his scalp.
‘Like we said last night. It is years since I was in Almagen, when that English artist died. You know all about him, I suppose.’
‘Hugo Barrington?’ says Staffe.
‘It’ll be good to go back there.’
‘I read your article.’
Gutiérrez twirls the ice in his glass and drinks it down, taking his time. He regards the finished drink. ‘My car is just there.’ He points at a red Alfa Spyder, the hood down.
Staffe contemplates having to wait in Ugijar for two hours for his connection. He watches as Gutiérrez swigs his drink and walks jauntily to the Alfa. Staffe joins him, says, ‘So, you know Almagen.’
‘I’ve got primos in Mecina. Up in the hills, one old goat gets a flea and they all scratch. Yes, I know Almagen all right.’
‘Don’t you have to follow up on your story?’
‘The comisario will call me when they get their man.’
‘You’re in his pocket.’
‘I’m in no one’s pocket, Guilli.’ He gets in, revs the car and raises his voice. ‘A journalist works with what he’s got. If they change the music, you dance a different dance.’ The engine noise subsides and the sound of ‘This Is The One’ rushes forth. ‘I love the Stone Roses. Such a shame their spirit was slain by a million paper cuts. The damned law! Now, will you please get in.’
Staffe climbs in and reaches for his seat belt, but Raúl taps him on the arm, says, ‘No seat belts, not in my car – they’re killers. A man needs to be able to get out of a tight situation.’
They roar off and by the time they are driving down Calle Real towards the port and passing Casa Joaquín, Raúl is joining in with ‘I Am the Resurrection’.
*
Manolo sits on the steps outside Bar Fuente, drinking gin and Fanta orange. He is due to go up the mountain for another stint with his flock. The goats spend their summers high in the sierra, it being too hot in the village; Manolo works to a rota of two we
eks up the mountain and one week back in the village. His father, Rubio, used to spend the whole summer up the mountain with the goats, until one year he didn’t come down. They say his brain fried. Now, he lives with the nuns and the mad in Granada. When villagers talk of Rubio, they lower their voices.
Raúl parks the Alfa, in the shade of plane trees in the plazeta, and slaps Manolo on the shoulder as he goes into the bar, calling him a goat fucker. Manolo looks into his cubata, sheepish. Staffe thinks that perhaps Manolo doesn’t care for such fancy Dans.
Staffe orders mint tea and Gutiérrez calls him a ladyboy. Frog calls across to Gutiérrez, ‘You’re the ladyboy, you old dandy!’
Gutiérrez squints and says, ‘Frog? Is that you? Frog!’
Frog laughs, like a frog, comes across to Raúl, hitting him on the arm with a rolled copy of La Lente and muttering indecipherable dialect. He says to Staffe, ‘Just another dead foreigner – is that all they can come up with?’ He throws down the paper and calls out, ‘That’s his story.’ He grabs Raúl by the ear. ‘What have we done to deserve a bastard journalist amongst us? Aren’t there enough lies in this village?’
Raúl says, ‘I have no pen.’ He pulls out his pockets and says, ‘See! I’m not armed. You’re safe.’
‘It doesn’t matter, the shepherd can’t read anyway. He talks goat,’ says Frog.
Everybody laughs and Manolo looks ashamed, says, ‘I’m going up the mountain, where there’s beasts I can trust.’
‘He loves his beasts!’ scoffs Frog.
‘There’s nothing wrong with a goat,’ says Raúl.
‘If your wife is out of action, but that’s no problem for him.’
Raúl orders up a round in the twirl of a finger. ‘The goats, they’re in my blood, too. My grandfather was the shepherd in Mecina. I’d go up the mountain with him in summer.’
Manolo grabs his hand, says, ‘They’re ladies’ hands.’
‘Ladyboys,’ says Frog. ‘You should have taken the flock.’
‘And go mad?’ says Raúl, looking at Manolo. He realises he has said the wrong thing. ‘I’m sorry.’