Death in the Sun

by Adam Creed

  Pepa says, ‘All I want is to find out how he died.’

  ‘I remember him as a boy. He was the head of the house as a young man when his father abandoned them.’ Immaculada coughs and her eyes water. ‘Pass me those.’ She points to a blister pack of pills. ‘Give me two and go.’

  ‘Can I get you some help?’

  ‘God bless you. No.’

  Pepa rinses out the tumbler in the makeshift kitchen and fills it with water. She waits with Immaculada until she has swallowed her tablets down. It takes several attempts and when she is done, Pepa takes back the tumbler. ‘Before I go, could I ask what first drew you to Hugo.’

  Immaculada’s mouth spreads almost into a smile. ‘When he was there, the world wasn’t. It was worth it.’

  ‘Worth it?’

  ‘When he was away, I was empty.’

  ‘He was a good father?’

  ‘Guadalupe was his gift.’ Immaculada looks down into her lap, as if she might have something to be ashamed of. ‘A gift to me, too. You know where to find her now, so you must ask Lupe what a father he was.’ She beckons Pepa with a wavering finger, signifying it is time to go. ‘Whatever she says, I don’t want to know.’

  Pepa kisses Immaculada on the forehead.

  ‘What we feel – ’ she puts her hand on her breast ‘– chooses us. We can’t help it.’

  ‘You stayed here after he died. I bet they didn’t make it easy for you.’

  ‘In all my life, I was touched by one man. Just him. Not many of them can say that.’

  ‘You could have made a new life.’

  ‘Some things, you don’t change.’

  ‘But Guadalupe moved away. You could have gone with her.’

  ‘My place is here. It always was.’ Her eyes close.

  Pepa waits for the sleep to gain depth, then removes Immaculada’s shoes, lays a shawl across her lap, and leaves, reading the note she gave her, knowing exactly where to find Guadalupe.

  Nineteen

  Professor Peralta’s battered yellow Seat Bocanegra is parked up outside the hostal on the Mecina road. He calls to Staffe, ‘Climb in!’

  The car is airless and stiflingly hot. Staffe asks, ‘Where is your friend from the Cuerpo?’

  Peralta prods a thumb over his right shoulder. On the back seat, from within a bundle of blankets, a mop of unruly brown hair emerges, then a tortured face. ‘He has bad guts and drinks too much and he has the temerity to blame it on your mountain roads. This is Cortes. Would you believe he is an inspector in our esteemed Cuerpo Nacional, and a fine scholar in his time. Now, merely a common drunk.’

  ‘Fuck off, prof,’ says Cortes, pulling the blankets back over his head.

  Peralta spins the wheels, veering off onto the dirt track, kicking up high, red dust. After ten minutes of switchback driving and cursing from beneath the blankets, Staffe points to the wood. Peralta screeches to a halt, jabs Cortes where his head appears to be, and says, ‘Get your tools out, you drunken cunt. We’re here!’

  Cortes gets out, shakes himself down, slicks back his hair, and applies his cap. Amazingly, stood perfectly erect, Cortes now looks as though he was born to fit the uniform. The power of permacrease. He lifts open the boot and pulls out a long, silver tool case and a camera bag, which he hands to Staffe, then a shovel, which he hands to Peralta. ‘Mightier than the pen,’ he laughs, and they all tramp into the woods‚ Cortes leading, walking directly towards the site.

  ‘You know where it is,’ says Staffe. ‘How?’

  ‘Where would you plant a body in this wood?’

  ‘As deep as you can get, and away from the stream.’

  ‘That is why you and I are entrusted with the law.’ He gives Peralta a dirty look, ‘And other pricks simply fuck about with the truth of the matter.’

  At the grave, Cortes chucks down his cap and his jacket, rolls up his sleeves and takes the spade from Peralta, stabbing away at the ground around the bones until he is close enough to the bone to switch to a trowel, deftly revealing the ribs. He is like an artist at an easel and is soon brushing away the earth to show three-quarters of the circumference of the bones. ‘If I do any more, the bastards from the War Legacies will have my bollocks. And there’s a danger he’ll collapse.’

  ‘He?’ says Staffe. ‘It couldn’t be a woman?’

  Cortes looks closely at the skeleton. ‘Do you want it to be a woman?’

  Staffe considers Cortes’ question, says nothing.

  ‘It would be easier if we could appraise the pelvic bones. I can’t really tell from the brow.’ He leans even closer. ‘It’s not too pronounced.’ He taps the small bump at the back of the skull. ‘But this suggests it is a man. And we have a small fracture here. See?’

  Staffe steps forward, sees a fine crack in the cranium.

  ‘But that looks as if it happened prior to death. A few years. This looks like trabecular bone.’

  ‘You mean healed?’

  ‘I can’t be sure. But look at the slope of the shoulders, the depth of the rib cage . . .’ He stands, puts his hands on his hips. ‘It would have to be a big woman.’

  ‘She was tall.’

  Cortes shoots Staffe a look. ‘You know who this is?’

  ‘They want it to be a war crime, but it’s not.’

  ‘Now you’re doing my job for me. It’s too early to say what it is.’

  ‘It’s buried vertically. Probably kneeling – to look like a ladrones execution?’

  ‘Be careful, inspector.’ Cortes gives Peralta a dirty look. ‘There’s no such thing as a ladrones.’

  ‘It’s entirely consistent with what is known as a ladrones,’ says Peralta.

  Cortes picks up his shovel, starts to fill in the body.

  ‘What are you doing?’ says Staffe.

  Cortes says, ‘It’s not a war crime. So it’s beyond my terms of reference.’ Cortes places his forefinger on a tissue of skin beneath the skeleton’s arm. ‘They died a long time ago, but I don’t think it’s seventy years.’

  When Cortes is done, Staffe asks the question again. ‘How old do you think it is?’

  Cortes looks over Staffe’s shoulder. ‘Ask him.’

  Staffe turns to see the slight figure of Comisario Sanchez approaching from the southern fringe of the wood. Alongside him is Pepa. When Staffe catches her eye, she looks quickly away, lets Sanchez move ahead.

  Comisario Sanchez regards Peralta and Cortes with suspicion, but when he shakes Staffe by the hand, he puts on a broad smile. In the cool shade of the mountain copse, an aura of cologne surrounds Sanchez. It is 4711, he thinks.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ says Staffe, relaxing the pressure of his grip within the handshake.

  Sanchez smiles. He maintains his grip. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking why you are here?’

  ‘I live here.’

  ‘On borrowed time, so people are telling me.’

  ‘You’re a long way from home, comisario,’ says Cortes. ‘But I suppose this is a kind of homecoming for you.’

  Sanchez moves away, stands over the buried body, taking in every detail of the head and shoulders. He removes a Cohiba cigar from its case and discards the gold and black paper ring. Without looking up, he says, ‘Cortes, if you’re here, this must be a ghost.’

  ‘I’ll write my report.’

  ‘And I’ll read it. Now cut the shit and tell me what we have here. A ghost, right?’

  Cortes says, ‘We can’t be sure. It might be too recent. We’ll need to test, but talking of the past, do they still welcome you back in these parts, comisario, after you left in such haste?’

  *

  Quesada arrived soon after Sanchez called him, bringing two guardia who have now cordoned off a twenty-metre radius around the body. Watching the guardia taking over the body, Cortes says to Sanchez, ‘I see you and Quesada have made your peace, but I still don’t understand what brings you up here?’

  ‘One of my citizens died in this village last week. And now a body is found. I am just making sur
e it is coincidence; that everything is as it appears to be.’ Sanchez takes two steps closer to Cortes, lowers his voice. ‘This is a shameful execution from a terrible time for Spain. Unless you have evidence to prove another crime was committed, it will be documented as a ghost. Correct?’

  ‘I will write my report,’ says Cortes.

  ‘And I will see it finds its rightful place in our body of evidence. Give my regards to your comisario.’

  Cortes tramps off, downcast, and Peralta follows, saying to Staffe, ‘Watch yourself up here – there’s snakes.’

  Staffe keeps his eye on them, sees Cortes toss his camera onto the passenger seat and get into the back of Peralta’s Bocanegra. As they drive off, Cortes catches Staffe’s eye, throws a scrunched-up ball of paper out of the car and Staffe immediately makes his way across to where it fell and plants his boot on it, waiting for Sanchez to drive past in his Jeep. Sanchez pulls up and Staffe says, ‘Regardless of the truth we get, Cortes’s report will make interesting reading.’

  ‘Who do you think you are? How could you possibly get to see that report?’ And with that, he drives off.

  Quesada says to Staffe, ‘Death seems to be following you around.’

  ‘It’s vice versa. And we’re policeman. That’s how it is.’

  ‘You’re no policeman. Not in my country.’

  ‘You told me you didn’t go to Barrington’s funeral.’

  ‘What makes you think I did?’

  ‘I saw you in a photograph, watching proceedings.’

  ‘I was in the vicinity. But I wasn’t at the funeral,’ says Quesada, turning his back, following Sanchez down the mountain.

  Before the clouds of dust have dispersed, Staffe kneels down, picks up the scrunched ball of paper and makes his way up to Marie’s terrace, where she and Pepa are talking.

  ‘What was that?’ Pepa asks as Staffe slumps into a deckchair.

  ‘You came here with Sanchez,’ says Staffe, straightening out the scrunched notes that Cortes had discarded.

  Pepa shakes her head. ‘I was on the road and he offered me a lift. I was coming here anyway.’

  ‘On your way to a good story, hey? Will Sanchez dictate it for you – like he did to Raúl for Jens Hansen’s murder story?’

  ‘If I don’t write it, somebody else will.’

  ‘How did you know there was a body up here?’

  ‘I didn’t. Sanchez asked where your sister’s cortijo is. What was I supposed to do – let him come here on his own, with his own devices?’

  ‘Such a good Samaritan all of a sudden.’

  ‘What did you pick up off the road before?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Those are his notes – that cuerpo from Granada.’

  ‘Why were you coming up here anyway?’

  ‘You know Barrington had an affair with a woman in the village?’

  ‘The consensus is that there was more than one, but I presume you’re talking about Edu’s sister.’

  ‘Immaculada.’

  ‘She lives like a hermit in a big old house in the middle of the village. She won’t speak to anyone.’

  ‘Well, she spoke to me. She has a daughter, Guadalupe.’

  ‘With Barrington?’

  ‘And the daughter is living in Granada.’

  ‘How the hell did you get that out of her?’

  ‘La Lente is an old and trusted organ, feeding these people the truth since before Franco.’

  ‘We can’t be sure the daughter is Barrington’s.’

  ‘Immaculada is not a sentimental woman. She is bruised and she has the daughter on her conscience. I think she is dying.’

  ‘What exactly would be on her conscience?’

  ‘That she loves the man who shamed her – even though he didn’t stand by her. That she loves him more than she loves her own daughter. That she was not a good mother.’

  ‘And how does telling you make it any better for her?’

  ‘I think she was rather fond of Raúl, and she is running out of time. Everyone here thinks she is a harlot and her daughter is a bastard. If she waits much longer, other people will tell her story; and his.’

  ‘It’s all right for her to say her daughter is in Granada. That’s hardly a story. Granada is a big place.’

  ‘I have an address.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘What’s happened?’ says Marie, coming out of the cortijo with olives and almonds and a chunk of sheep’s cheese.

  Pepa takes off her sunglasses. Her dark eyes glisten. ‘Guilli wants me to do something, but I can’t.’

  The three of them eat and make small chat about the view and the end of summer. Pepa compliments Marie on the cheese and they discuss how to make papas a lo pobre until Paolo’s truck comes rattling up the track.

  ‘Did Edu ever mention a last Barrington?’ says Pepa. ‘Immaculada says he painted it for her, but it never materialised.’

  Paolo stops his truck. He looks as if he might turn around and go straight back down the mountain, but when the two guardia overseeing the body stand up, he thinks twice, gets out and walks slowly towards the house, head bowed. ‘What’s happened?’ he asks, looking briefly at Pepa but avoiding the admonishing looks from Marie and Staffe.

  ‘I think you know,’ says Marie.

  He looks across to the cordon of crime tape around the wood. ‘I didn’t want to worry you.’

  ‘Not telling me is enough to make me worry. It was your idea to come and live here, remember? You’re supposed to protect me from harm.’

  ‘Did you discover the body?’ asks Pepa.

  ‘This is a family matter, if you don’t mind,’ says Marie, trying to be polite.

  ‘I should go. I need to get to Granada.’

  ‘We need to talk,’ says Staffe, following Pepa down the track as Marie lays into Paolo. At the edge of the first bancale, Staffe says, ‘You’re going to Granada? We can help each other.’

  ‘I can help you is what you mean.’ Pepa looks down the mountain, picks out the track that will take her to the village. ‘I’ll leave your key with Salva. Thanks for putting me up.’

  ‘Let’s go together.’

  ‘You said we could help each other. I told you about Immaculada’s daughter and the last Barrington‚ so tell me what Cortes left for you.’

  Staffe pulls out the crumpled note which Cortes threw from the car. He hands it across and Pepa reads: This body is most definitely not a ghost from the war.

  ‘This brings it home,’ says Pepa.

  ‘Brings it home?’

  ‘If Cortes is right, it brings it home that Sanchez is covering something up. You should stay here, look after your own side of things. You know Sanchez is from Mecina. He left the mountains in a hurry and nobody wants to talk about why.’

  Paolo fires up his truck and Staffe says, ‘We should go to Granada together.’

  ‘I have to pack, but I’m not hanging around. I’ll give you an hour and then I’m going.’

  Staffe watches Pepa go down along the goat’s trail that leads straight to the village, and hears Paolo coming down the main track. They look each other in the eye as the truck trundles towards Staffe and Paolo sounds the horn, doesn’t slow. The track is too narrow for Paolo to steer around Staffe and Paolo hits the brakes but the wheels seize and the truck slides, lurching and kicking up large stones and Staffe has to take two quick steps back. The truck shudders and stalls, jolting a final time and scraping its bumper down Staffe’s thighs. He staggers back, grimacing.

  ‘What the fuck!’ shouts Paolo.

  ‘You really don’t want to talk,’ shouts Staffe. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Get out of my way!’

  The two guardia stir into life, are ambling down to see what is going on. ‘Do you want them involved?’ says Staffe, walking around the truck, climbing up into the passenger seat. Paolo lets the truck start rolling and the engine rattles up. ‘Why didn’t you tell Marie about the body?’

  ‘I’ve given her my reasons.’


  ‘Now tell me.’

  ‘Why are you always sticking your nose in?’

  ‘I spoke to the people in CasaSol. They told me Jackson Roberts found the buyer for El Nido.’

  ‘What if he did?’

  ‘That means you knew Jackson before you came out here.’

  The track is heavily bouldered and narrow, with sharp turns and steep dips. Time and again, Paolo mounts the verge to avoid the largest of the rocks, precipitous drops on the passenger side. He does it deftly and rolls a cigarette as he goes. Staffe can’t help but admire his style.

  Paolo lights his roll-up, talks with it in his mouth. ‘Like I said to Marie, I was worried the body would spook her. It’s only a ghost from the civil war, so what’s to be gained by telling her?’

  ‘What if the body isn’t what it seems?’

  Paolo says nothing. They rock and roll down the hill, past Edu’s cortijo where a pig is tethered to a post, ready for his matanza. Staffe twists round to see where Pepa is, picks her out‚ half a kilometre behind.

  How odd, he thinks, that Pepa got to Immaculada, the sister of a man Staffe considered a friend, and that he knew nothing of Barrington’s bastard daughter; Edu’s bastard niece. He begins to think of Edu as a curator of lies, with his grand past and his idle ways and his weakness for fine wine.

  When they pull up at the junction of the mountain track and the Mecina carretera, Staffe says, ‘You know more than you’re saying, Paolo. I know we’ll never be best mates, but we are family. You can trust me if there’s something on your mind. I wouldn’t ever harm Marie.’

  ‘Same here.’

  ‘Tell me how you know Jackson – from before. It’s best that it comes from you.’

  Paolo flicks his cigarette out of the window and runs his hands through his hair, blows out his cheeks. ‘Something strange happened.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘You have to promise you won’t tell Marie.’