Death in the Sun

by Adam Creed

  ‘And themselves,’ says Pepa.

  ‘Whatever the reasons, Manolo felt his life was destroyed. He stayed – to tend the goats and the family tradition.’

  ‘And Agustín left to be a free spirit, travelling the world, supported by his grandparents,’ says Pepa.

  Staffe says‚ ‘Agustín came back this time because his grandfather had died. It was time to make sure he got the inheritance.’

  ‘Manolo wouldn’t kill for money, though,’ says Jesús.

  ‘If Agustín was back because of the money, that would have riled him.’

  ‘But why would Manolo leave the body like that? Why would he kill his brother in such a fashion?’

  ‘He wanted the death to speak volumes. So he made sure that Raúl Gutiérrez was running the story. And he pulled my strings, too. He knew I’d be inquisitive. And he knew about my past. That was enough to get Raúl interested.’

  ‘He wanted you and Raúl to uncover the past?’ says Pepa. ‘So he led you to the body in the woods, too?’

  ‘It’s only a theory.’ Staffe turns to Jesús. ‘How did you come to be on call the day the body was found?’

  ‘It was the holidays, as you know. Sanchez called in from Palma de Mallorca. He was golfing over there and he made sure the body was held here. I had as good a chance of being pulled out here as anybody, I suppose. I’m junior‚ so I don’t get the big holidays off. I was on call.’

  ‘You’re family. I don’t believe in coincidences. If he knew what had happened and he wanted it covered up, wouldn’t he arrange for you to be stationed down there? And you did cover it up.’

  Jesús says, ‘Believe me, I didn’t know what was happening, but why would Sanchez want to cover it up?’

  ‘He left Almagen in a hurry.’

  ‘I checked,’ says Pepa. ‘He left just a month after Barrington died.’

  Staffe says, ‘That makes sense.’

  ‘But what about Raúl?’ says Pepa. ‘Surely, Manolo wouldn’t have killed him. He wanted Agustín’s body to make a trail that led to Astrid’s murder.’

  ‘Exactly! And Raúl was making that trail. Of course Manolo wouldn’t want Raúl to be stopped.’

  ‘Technically, Raúl died by misadventure. There’s no evidence he was murdered,’ says Jesús.

  ‘He was dead before he went into that barranco. We all know that,’ says Staffe.

  ‘What about Edu?’ says Jesús.

  ‘It was Edu who killed Manolo‚’ says Staffe. ‘Manolo wrote his name in blood‚ just before he died.’

  ‘Then Edu killed himself,’ says Pepa.

  ‘It’s neat,’ says Staffe. ‘Edu did everything he could to preserve the honour of his family. And maybe he knew about the scam, passing Jackson’s paintings off as Barringtons. He knew we were onto him and he couldn’t bear any more shame.’

  ‘Unless we’re missing something,’ continues Staffe. In articulating his theory, Staffe comes to doubt it. In his heart, he doesn’t believe Manolo could kill a man. And he knows there’s only so many who could have killed Agustín.

  ‘It’s a good theory,’ says Jesús. ‘A damn good theory, provided you believe Edu was at his tether’s end; that he had to do something to stop the world discovering what he had been involved with.’

  Pepa says, ‘And there’s the money, of course. They must have a fortune. The last Barrington went for a million. Imagine, if there were other Barringtons.’

  ‘Big money, and Raúl was onto them. Sanchez knew about that, hence the cover-up,’ says Staffe.

  ‘So Edu was wrapped up in all that art forgery. Who’d have thought that?’ says Pepa. ‘Simple paintings leading to all that bloodshed.’

  ‘Not paintings. Money,’ says Jesús.

  ‘I like to think it is all about honour,’ says Staffe, feeling Gustav’s untranslated will‚ stuffed down his shirt, wondering what Gustav Hesse did for his final spin of the wheel.

  ‘And love,’ says Pepa.

  ‘Of course. If Manolo hadn’t loved his mother so, he would never have taken such revenge on Agustín,’ says Jesús.

  Pepa takes a moment. ‘Is that the only love he ever knew?’

  Jesús says, ‘He always had a thing for that gypsy girl. They called her Brujita.’

  ‘The little witch,’ says Pepa.

  ‘Consuela,’ says Staffe.

  ‘Poor Manolo, he must have hated Agustín for almost all his life.’

  ‘That’s only my theory.’ Staffe thinks about the Manolo he thought he knew. And he thinks about Manolo’s father, still living and breathing through it all.

  The phone bleeps and Staffe sees ‘Quesada’ light up his screen. The text appears and he says, ‘I have to go back.’

  Jesús says, ‘Relax. You have got to the bottom of it all. We have to celebrate.’

  ‘The baby is coming,’ says Staffe.

  Thirty-one

  Yousef sits cross-legged under a lemon tree watching the man come towards him. At his back, the ferry for Morocco prepares for boarding.

  The man reaches out, hands Yousef the ticket then lights up a spliff, offers it to Yousef. He declines and Jackson Roberts inhales deeply before going into his pocket, giving him the final one thousand euros, saying, ‘You’re doing the right thing. This country’s not for you. Everyone needs a home. You know, I love this country. I love it like a woman you can’t trust or understand and sure as the devil pisses hell-fire she’s going to cheat on you, but you love her anyway. They say you can’t change your homeland. But hey! Fuck ’em.’ He draws long, hard on the spliff, dragging it all the way down to its roach. His eyes glaze and for all the world he seems empty. Unrequited.

  *

  On the road between Almagen and Mecina, a large truck is parked up on the crown of the bend. The grass verge is broad here and shaded by eucalyptus. Two shaven-headed men perch on the tailgate, drinking from mugs and unmistakably English.

  Patricia Harbinson offers the men buttered slices of malt loaf and her husband walks down the track from their cortijo holding a cardboard box. He calls, ‘That’s the last of it.’

  Each of the Harbinsons is smiling. Their eyes are bright and their skin seems to sing in the dappled light.

  ‘You lost the court case?’ says Staffe.

  ‘No,’ says Patricia Harbinson. ‘The oafs made us legal. They said we can stay.’ She laughs.

  ‘But it looks as if you’re going?’ says Staffe.

  ‘We missed the point,’ says Terry Harbinson, crossing the road and setting the box down between the two men on the tailgate. ‘When you’re in a fight, you don’t always know what you’re fighting for.’

  ‘At least the house is legal now. We can sell it.’

  ‘But you’re going back to England?’ says Staffe.

  ‘They don’t want us here,’ says Patricia. For an instant, she looks sad. Then she smiles.

  ‘Of course they don’t,’ says Terry. ‘Whatever made us think they might?’ He takes the mugs from the men and empties the dregs over the verge, into the campo, where the figs trees run down to the almonds. In the bottom of the valley, oranges flourish, and olive trees too. ‘Come on. Let’s be off.’

  *

  Marie screams. She is laid out on Staffe’s bed and she shouts at Paolo that he is a bastard and that if she ever gets out of this alive, she will rip off his nuts and pound them to pulp. If he ever . . . ever . . .!

  Staffe holds Harry close and the nephew clings onto his leg tightly, keeps saying, ‘Will she be all right? Don’t let her die.’

  ‘You should go downstairs, Harry. Keep Gracia company. I’ll get you when it is done.’

  ‘No!’

  The nurse’s expression changes and she gets busy. Consuela is here and she dabs Marie’s forehead. A breeze ruffles the room. It comes all the way from the sea and in through the branches of the walnut tree. The nurse sinks to her knees and Marie grabs Consuela’s arm, screams, ‘Sweet Jesús!’

  The room falls quiet.

  Harry ga
sps, lets go of his uncle’s leg. In the corner of the room, Paolo has his head in his hands, rocking manically back and forth muttering some kind of mantra.

  Consuela says, ‘It is coming, Marie.’

  The nurse says, ‘It is here. It is here, now push.’

  ‘I am!’ shouts Marie.

  ‘Push!’

  ‘I . . .’ Marie’s word expires and the room is dead quiet. For one, two, three seconds you could snap the silence over your knee like a seasoned olive branch.

  Marie exhales a long, loud sigh. The sigh cracks, becomes a groan. Everyone in the room looks at her, wide-eyed, holding their breath. She grunts; then she sighs – long and easy.

  The nurse stands. In one expert hand, she holds a pink, blood-spattered baby, still wired to its mother by a bloody cord. The nurse tips the baby, fast as flash, and she taps its bottom with the back of her fingers. The baby, which Staffe sees is a girl, screams blue murder and everybody laughs. Marie reaches for her daughter. Holding her tight, she looks at Staffe and says, ‘We’re calling her Enid.’

  Enid, their mother’s name.

  *

  Quesada pours Cava into Staffe’s glass. They clink their glasses at the counter while Salva looks on, smiling.

  The old goats come up to Staffe and congratulate him on the birth of his new niece, and when Frog comes in, he makes his way through the crowd, says to Staffe, ‘You’ve done well.’

  ‘It wasn’t me. It’s Marie who had the baby!’ he laughs.

  ‘I mean helping to catch up with those killers. I knew all along it had nothing to do with the war. Nothing like that went on in Almagen. I knew it. So I thank you, for showing the truth.’

  ‘Let’s hope it can stand up in court.’

  Quesada says, ‘We’ll make sure it does.’

  ‘Well, the bastards can’t wriggle off the hook, can they? They’re all dead!’ says Frog

  ‘Come on! Have a drink.’ Quesada hands Frog a glass and pours, then recharges Staffe’s glass.

  ‘Will you stay?’ asks the Frog.

  ‘Stay?’

  ‘Here in Almagen.’ Frog downs his Cava in one go and the bubbles make him splutter. ‘The Moors came; and then the Asturians came. Then foreigners came. They brought trouble with them – but you’re the kind we need. So, will you stay?’

  ‘I think I will.’

  Frog holds out his glass, to be filled again, and he tells Staffe and Quesada about how he knew all along that there was something wrong with Manolo and Edu. As he speculates as to who might inherit Manolo’s flock, and what will become of Edu’s cortijo and more importantly, his bean crop, Staffe’s mind wanders. He is tired and sore. Tomorrow, he will sleep the whole day and he will think about maybe getting a bigger place.

  He dwells upon the observation Frog made: how difficult it will be to gather evidence. Witnesses are dead. The perpetrators are dead. Rubio is inadmissible. But that’s not his problem.

  Quesada takes a hold of Staffe’s elbow and leans close, talking into his ear. ‘I couldn’t say in front of everyone, but we had news.’

  ‘News?’

  ‘They found a red Bultaco this morning. It was in a ravine on the other side of the Silla Montar.’

  ‘Jackson Roberts?’

  ‘He made it over the top, but copped it coming down the other side.’

  ‘A fitting end,’ says Staffe, feeling a tug at his shirt. He looks down, at Harry’s beaming face looking up at him. At his side is Gracia.

  ‘Mummy wants ice cream.’

  ‘I’ll get it.’

  ‘You don’t know what she wants.’

  ‘Raspberry,’ says Staffe, crouching. ‘There’s plenty I know about your mum. And one for you and Gracia, too?’

  The children nod and Staffe gives Harry five euros, watches him lead Gracia into the comedor to the ice cream fridge. They chatter about the pros and cons of each make of ice cream and look like an old couple. It makes him think what the dead must have looked like as children, choosing their ice cream: Manolo and Agustín; Edu and Raúl; Astrid; and now Jackson Roberts, so far from home.

  When Harry tries to pay, Salva refuses to take his money and Harry and Gracia run into the plazeta. The sun shines bright and they paddle water from the fountain onto the mules and sing to the sky as they go.

  Staffe takes out Gustav’s will, not really wanting to know what it says, but wanting to know why Raúl had a copy, and why someone took it from Manolo’s chest. He will have it translated, into something less foreign.

  PART FIVE

  Thirty-two

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Jasmine Cash?’ says DCI Pennington.

  Josie Chancellor’s stomach slowly churns. She doesn’t know what is coming, but can tell it is bad. ‘What about Jasmine Cash?’

  ‘She’s never had so much of a sniff of charge sheet. She’s as clean as you and me, yet Pulford has been harassing her every night for months. And now she has reported it.’

  ‘She’s obviously very upset.’

  Pennington looks wearily at his constable. ‘Jadus Golding had a phone. We have had it analysed and the night he died, he called DS Pulford.’

  ‘Oh no,’ says Josie, fearing the worst for Pulford.

  ‘He’s going to need all the help he can get, Chancellor. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’ve been calling Staffe but there’s no answer from his damned phone. Have you spoken to him at all?’

  Josie shakes her head, feels doubly sad.

  ‘You look done in. I think you should take a few days off. Maybe you need to get away.’

  *

  Marie has returned to El Nido with baby Enid, who is fit and strong with a shock of black hair that comes straight from Paolo. Staffe is standing amongst piles of boxes, on the floor of his studio, finally stacking his books onto the shelves, now he is here to stay.

  He comes across his battered copy of Martin Amis’s Money and leafs through to see if the old dollar bill from his first trip to New York is still there, and it is. Seeing it reminds him of when he had to pack his father’s books away. After he was murdered‚ he and Marie decided to take them to the Oxfam shop on Esher High Street. In packing, he had checked his father’s Folio Society edition of The Gold Rush. Tucked into its protective case, were twenty fifty-pound notes. His father would talk about ‘Grand Nights’, said you should always have a grand put by – to blow. And he kept it in The Gold Rush.

  Now, Staffe thinks about what will become of Manolo’s books.

  ‘Will!’ The call is from the street and followed by the fast patter of feet up the stairs. Harry appears just seconds later, panting. ‘Can I stay over? Consuela has asked if I want to have supper with them and I can sleep over but you need to ask my mum.’

  ‘Are you sure you want him overnight?’ Staffe looks past Harry to Consuela, who appears on the stairs, looking coy. ‘Come in. Sit down. I’m just unpacking.’

  ‘I’m sure‚’ says Consuela‚ looking at the books. ‘Manolo liked to read.’

  ‘I’ll call your mother,’ says Staffe and Harry and Gracia run downstairs. Staffe says to Consuela, ‘Sit down. Please.’

  ‘I should go.’

  ‘Manolo was fond of you, wasn’t he?’

  Consuela shakes her head.

  ‘Do you think I should take his books to Rubio?’

  ‘I would like some – for Gracia, as she grows up.’

  Staffe recalls the photograph he found of Gracia, in the same chest as Gustav’s will – the will that had been removed by someone and which had earlier been copied and given to Raúl. ‘I’m going to his house.’

  Consuela leaves, her head bowed.

  On his way out, Staffe picks up Gustav’s will, duly translated, which states that the fruits of all Gustav’s labours would pass – not to his daughter, and thereafter to her sons – but to the people of Al Fondoukha, a village on the border between Morocco and Mauritania. It is a place he had come to love; a place
where he had built a school, but where there was much, much more to do in terms of medical and water provision. Clearly, anybody aware of that will, would know nothing would flow to Manolo and Agustín.

  By the time Staffe has walked through the plazeta, Consuela is standing by Manolo’s front door. She says, ‘I have a key. I cleaned for him.’

  Staffe follows her into the house and smiles as he watches Consuela trail her finger along the spines of the books. He suspects she cannot read.

  Consuela says, ‘Manolo couldn’t kill anyone, and especially not his brother. No matter how much he hated Agustín, he wouldn’t harm a hair on him.’ She looks at the shotgun, propped up against the fireplace. ‘It was all he could do to shoot a partridge.’

  Staffe picks up the gun. He feels a memory return; something vague, unformed. ‘Manolo is Gracia’s father, isn’t he?’

  ‘I wouldn’t let him marry me. I was a fool.’

  ‘You didn’t love him?’

  ‘I should have. For Gracia.’

  Staffe raises the shotgun. ‘You did the right thing.’ He nestles the stock into his right shoulder but it doesn’t quite fit.

  Manolo’s last act was to write Edu’s name in blood. He did it on the floor‚ to the right of where he lay, face down‚ blood stained on the index finger of his right hand. Staffe is right-handed.

  He switches the gun’s stock to his left shoulder, and rather than put his right index finger on the trigger, he runs it along the barrel. The stock fits perfectly to his left shoulder. He says, ‘Manolo was left-handed,’ putting the index finger of his left hand to the trigger.

  ‘So is Gracia,’ says Consuela.

  ‘Did he ever talk to you about if he died?’

  ‘Why would he?’

  ‘He would want Gracia to be looked after.’

  ‘I’ll look after her.’

  Staffe thinks of his own father, looks at each spine on each shelf. He picks off Love in the Time of Cholera and looks inside. Nothing. He tries The Trial and comes up empty. Then he tries Remembrance of Things Past. It is an English translation, which strikes him as being somehow out of place.