Death in the Sun

by Adam Creed

  *

  They are finishing off the figs and Manchego cheese and Staffe tries to stop Guadalupe from paying but she insists, and as she settles the bill with the maître d’, he goes inside, feeling their eyes on him all the way, so he closes the door behind him.

  Through the frosted glass, he watches their outlines. He calls the bartender across, says, ‘Has my friend Jesús been in?’ He takes out a twenty-euro note, places it on the bar. ‘Jesús of the Cuerpo.’

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ The bartender speaks perfect Spanish, but with a Romanian accent.

  ‘Two coffees. He comes here often. Was he here the night they found the body across the road?’

  The bartender looks at the twenty with a certain disdain. ‘The Cuerpo? They give good custom.’

  Staffe removes the twenty, replaces it with a fifty. ‘This is the last time you’ll see me and I’ll never talk. He was here that night, wasn’t he?’

  The bartender checks behind him. ‘Not for long, and not with police.’

  Staffe slides the note across and the bartender pockets it, deft as a thief and slides it down the waistband of his apron. ‘Was there a fair man with them? He had a stud in his nose. A ruby stud?’

  The bartender nods, looking past Staffe towards the door.

  ‘There was an American with them?’

  ‘A loudmouth.’ The bartender looks towards the door. ‘They drank plenty, that’s for sure.’

  ‘And did it get lively?’

  ‘A good job they were outside, round the corner.’

  ‘Was there a man called Edu with them – an older guy?’

  The bartender shakes his head.

  ‘Or a shepherd. A big fellow called Manolo?’

  The bartender shakes his head again. ‘There was just the four of them.’

  ‘Four?’

  ‘But Jesús left early. Almost straight away and before they started eating.’

  ‘Who was the fourth?’

  ‘The guy from the Quinta Toro. Jesús’s father.’ The bartender looks past Staffe as the door opens and the maître d’ comes in. He turns towards the coffee machine, says, ‘I’ll bring your drinks out.’

  Guadalupe is all set to go when he returns, handbag on her shoulder and sunglasses pulled down. She hasn’t touched her Pacharán. She says, ‘I’ll follow you to the hotel.’

  ‘I ordered coffee.’ Staffe takes out his ticket for the corrida, says, ‘I have to go straight to the Plaza de Toros.’

  Guadalupe scrutinises the ticket. ‘You’re in the sun. Get yourself a hat.’ She holds onto the ticket long enough to clock precisely where he will be sitting, then hands it back.

  He says, ‘Don’t forget. It’s room seven, and keep your hands off the minibar.’

  She laughs. The sun catches her hair and he glimpses a throwback to what Barrington might have seen in the young Immaculada.

  ‘Mother said you were quite a gentleman.’

  ‘She’s a good judge.’

  Guadalupe kisses him on each cheek, says, ‘If I can get a room, maybe we could take a walk down to the feria, after your fight. You should give me your number.’

  He tells her the number and they leave as the bartender brings the coffees. Like a gentleman, he lets the lady go first, and as she does, he pockets the bill, slips it into his trouser pocket, unseen. He thinks of that last supper for Agustín, with Jackson and Angel, and Jesús, briefly. And he thinks, too, of the men who carried Barrington: half dead, half alive.

  *

  Pepa is dressed to the nines in her red polka-dot dress with a tight bodice and a halter neck. It flares out like 1950s America and her lips and nails are painted to match. On the table in front of her is a box, tied with ribbon and filled, no doubt, with rich fancies.

  ‘Have you missed me?’ says Staffe.

  ‘Of course. But I’m not complaining.’ She looks out of the window at the Hotel Catedral. ‘So, Guadalupe’s in there?’

  ‘I gave her my room key.’

  ‘Can you trust her with the Barrington?’

  ‘If it’s worth anything, then she’s entitled to it. And if we’re right – then it’s worthless. What is there to lose?’

  ‘If you’re right.’

  ‘And if I’m right, you’ll have the story of a lifetime.’

  Pepa falls silent. Her eyebrows pinch and after a minute or so, she says, ‘If you’re right, there’ll be a few rich collectors a little less rich.’

  ‘An influential lot,’ says Staffe.

  ‘And Jackson really will be glad he’s dead!’

  Staffe thinks about this and again they sit in silence.

  ‘Should we call him?’ says Pepa.

  ‘We better had. I’m late for the bullfight already.’

  Pepa blows out her cheeks. ‘I don’t like this one bit, you know.’

  ‘I see you have your cakes‚’ says Staffe‚ pointing to the ribboned box.

  ‘Did you speak to the bartender in El Marisco?’

  ‘Jackson was there the night they killed Agustín, and so were Angel and Jesús.’

  ‘But no Edu, or Manolo?’

  He shakes his head, keeps a sharp eye on the entrance to the Hotel Catedral. The street-cleaners are hosing down the plaza after the mayhem of the feria. By day, Almería heaves with revellers, drinking sherry by the bottle at chiringuitos and dancing to mariachis and brass bands. Then, at four, a whistle is blown and everybody sleeps. Until six. Then they slowly reappear.

  Staffe’s heart beats ahead of itself and he can’t keep his fingers and feet still. He calls for some beer.

  ‘He’s on his way,’ says Pepa, clicking off her phone. ‘What if they both come at once? You don’t think we should go to the police?’

  ‘Which police? He is police!’

  ‘But if he’s here when Guadalupe comes out of the hotel, what do we do?’

  ‘You follow her‚’ says Staffe.

  ‘Shouldn’t you?’

  ‘I can’t allow you to be left on your own with Jesús?’

  ‘But what if she leads us to him? Would you wish that on me?’

  Staffe’s head spins. He feels woozy.

  ‘And what if she doesn’t come out? She might be totally on the level.’

  ‘I know!’

  ‘You know what?’ says Jesús, who has stolen in. He sidles in between Staffe and Pepa, is out of uniform, but in the heat he still wears a jacket. Summer in Almería, only old men wear a jacket. Unless‚ perhaps‚ you wanted to cover up what the Americans call heat.

  ‘My ticket,’ says Staffe, ‘is in the sun.’

  ‘You’re going to the corrida?’ says Jesús. ‘What section?’

  Looking Jesús in the eye, Staffe sees innocence and youth, but feels his stomach clench. Despite the fact he can’t trust Jesús, he tells him precisely where he will be sitting for the corrida. ‘K section.’

  ‘You will fry. Like a gamba!’ he laughs.

  ‘Don’t talk to me about gambas,’ says Staffe. He reaches into his trouser pocket, pulls out the bill for El Marisco and tosses it onto the table in front of Jesús. ‘Sixty-five euros, for a plate of red shrimp.’

  Jesús checks out the date on the bill, says, ‘You went today?’ His mouth hangs open, then he smiles. ‘But they are Almería red. The best in all the world.’

  ‘At least I didn’t pay. And the service on top. The service is so good. I’ve only been once before. But they remembered me. They remember everything, it seems.’

  Jesús’s smile evaporates. He stares at the bill.

  ‘I have to go,’ says Pepa.

  ‘But you called me,’ says Jesús. ‘I thought we were going out.’

  Pepa sees Guadalupe walking quickly across the plaza, skipping out of the way of the street-cleaners with their hoses, a rolled rug under her arm. Pepa stands, kisses Jesús rapidly on either cheek. Behind his back, she makes a telephone shape with her finger and thumb to Staffe. Once outside, she breaks into a trot, clutching her polka-dot skirt, and the ca
ke box swinging as she goes.

  She catches up to Guadalupe in the Plaza Purchena. It is easy enough to keep tabs from a distance because the streets are quiet, but as Guadalupe turns up Calle Granada and Pepa follows, the streets become busier and busier. Close to the Plaza de Toros, the cafes and bars are full and people queue outside the cake shops and tobacconists. As they turn left up Avenida Vilches, the street is full of families standing in large groups and old timers getting together.

  Guadalupe moves smoothly through the crowd and Pepa keeps losing sight of her, having to break into a trot whenever she gets space, brushing past women handing out cakes and street vendors selling seat cushions the colours of the flag.

  ‘Pepa!’

  She feels someone grab her arm. She turns, sees Alejandro, her primo from Gabo. She kisses him quickly, three times.

  ‘Are you going to the corrida?’

  ‘I have to collect my ticket. I must go!’

  ‘We have a merienda. You must come under the stands after Tomas’s first bull. We’re in K.’

  Pepa catches a glimpse of Guadalupe, looking over her shoulder, disappearing into a large crowd coming across from Avenida Federico Lorca and the Rambla. ‘I’ll be there. But I have to get my ticket!’

  Her primo keeps hold of her arm, turns to his friends. ‘This is my prima, Pepa. Isn’t she beautiful!’

  Pepa yanks her arm away and waves to them all as she pushes through the crowd, trying to get to the rambla, but now the tide of people is too thick against her and Guadalupe is gone. She will never know where Barrington’s daughter was taking his last painting with such purpose. She has her suspicions, but now Staffe will have to wait, sit like a duck‚ but after all this was his idea to lure them into a crowd, the only place the dead can move safely, unseen. His stupid idea.

  She steps into a shop doorway and phones Staffe, to call it off. But there is no answer. Pepa goes back into her address book. She has many contacts for the cuerpo police, but is torn now. She points the cursor to ‘Sanchez’, remembering everything Staffe had accused him of. Instead, she scrolls to ‘G’ for guardia where she has only one contact. Better to call Quesada?

  *

  ‘Your father must have been busy today,’ says Staffe.

  ‘It’s the feria. If you’re not busy for the feria, you’d better shut the shop,’ says Jesús.

  ‘It must be tough, keeping an old place like the Quinta Toro going. The bad world moves on and the good world gets left behind.’

  ‘Good and bad – really? Why did Pepa call me then run off like that?’

  ‘You should take her to El Marisco.’

  ‘What is it with El Marisco?’ says Jesús. His eyes darken and he lights up his cigarette, blows out at Staffe.

  ‘You know what it is with El Marisco, don’t you, Jesús? It was a last supper for your primo. You were there. On hand and then later you were first on the scene when Agustín was found – to cover it up? What exactly happened? Did they go too far with their dissuasions?’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘Did they take Agustín into the plastic to teach him a lesson? To persuade him to back off and go back to Morocco.’

  ‘You said Manolo killed Agustín. Why rub our faces in it? My primo killed my primo is what you said. Is that not shame enough?’

  ‘Why would Manolo kill his brother, Jesús? You tell me.’

  Jesús’s eyes flit and he looks bewildered. ‘Because he was jealous of Agustín’s life, the favours he was given, and for the inheritance.’

  ‘But Manolo knew there was nothing to collect.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘There was nothing in Gustav’s will for any of the Canos. And Manolo knew it.’

  ‘So why would anyone want to kill Agustín?’

  ‘Agustín thought he knew where Astrid was buried. He still thought if he could prove her dead, he could get the lot.’

  ‘But Astrid’s not buried in the wood.’

  ‘He didn’t know that,’ says Staffe.

  ‘And what about the will?’

  ‘Maybe he thought he could get hold of the latest will and destroy it. In the previous version, he and Manolo got the lot. But Raúl had a copy of the new version.’

  ‘Raúl!’ Jesús fidgets. He stubs out his cigarette. For a second, he puts a hand on his hip – the bulge beneath his jacket. The waiter comes across, takes the empty drinks and asks if they want more.

  ‘The same again,’ says Jesús.

  ‘Not for me. Let’s talk about Astrid’s lover. The American’s dead, too, isn’t he, Jesús? Isn’t he?’

  ‘I thought you had a bullfight to go to.’

  ‘It was nothing to do with the inheritance, really. Families are close down here, aren’t they? But nobody trusts police. Family or not.’

  ‘Speak for yourself.’

  ‘And a primo isn’t the same as a brother. A brother would know things a primo wouldn’t.’

  The waiter brings his drink and Jesús swigs lustily. ‘You’re talking shit. Talking shit in circles.’

  ‘So let’s take a straight line.’ Staffe reaches into his pocket and Jesús flinches, puts his hand back on his hip. ‘Agustín knew about the paintings and like his mother before him, he threatened to expose their scam. He needed them to help prove Astrid was dead, but they wouldn’t – of course. And that’s what did for him. He threatened them – just like his mother did all those years ago.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I’m not sure . . .’ Staffe pauses and his mind drifts, a second or so. ‘. . . It must have been some time around when Barrington died, I guess.’

  Jesús looks away, seems to remember something.

  ‘They were all in on it.’

  ‘All in on it?’ says Jesús.

  ‘Four of them. Including your father.’ Staffe stands. ‘I’m going, Jesús. Don’t follow me.’

  ‘Why would I? I haven’t finished my drink.’

  Thirty-four

  Staffe is totally hemmed in. The bench beneath is hard and his knees are tucked to his chin. He is pressed from behind and into his sides. Cigar smoke billows from left and right, and the heat is unbearable. From time to time, the crowd roars, shifts, and he can barely breathe. The band strikes up and the old woman in front turns, offers him a cake from a large oval platter.

  The picador runs at the bull at full speed in short strides on the balls of his feet, adjusting his angle of attack as the bull moves. Just yards away, he gets the bull in his sights, raises his hands high, and vaults, planting the two sharpened picos into the bull’s back in mid-air. The crowd whoops. The bull, confused and with seams of blood coming from the two wounds, doesn’t know which way to turn. Staffe’s two wounds pinch. He thinks about the ways he has been goaded in this convalescence – since Jadus Golding delivered his twin strikes to Staffe’s torso.

  After the kill – clumsy and protracted – the man on his right pats Staffe on the back and says, ‘Now, Tomas! A son of Almería!’ and Tomas takes the bull from the get-go. He teases, acts as the picador and takes the sword for the kill. He is tall and slender, moving like a ballet dancer with his chin to the sun, letting the bull brush the million hand-sewn lights of his suit.

  Just before his kill, Tomas kisses the bull on the head and is then fast and true with the blade. The bull’s legs give way and it dies immediately. The crowd gasps. Then all is silent before a mighty roar emerges. The crowd stands as one, twirling white handkerchiefs in the air, pleading with the president to award Tomas two ears. When he awards only one, they whistle and jeer, refuse to take their seats until the third bull is brought out, and all the while, some of the crowd are leaving their seats, squeezing out along the tight rows, to meet family and friends below the stands, for a merienda; or simply to escape the stifling heat.

  Staffe’s phone vibrates in his pocket and he sees it is Pepa, texting.

  Understand. Having drink with my primo. No escape. Come join. Get out of the sun! Great jamón and all
clear. Nothing to fear.

  He calls her back, but gets no response, so he edges along the row, makes his way down into the bowels of the amphitheatre.

  When he gets down below, the narrow corridor which runs around from section to section, creaks with large groups standing around drinking and picking at wondrous spreads of food, hand-held. He squeezes through, sees a youth in a sombrero which has ‘FIESTAS DE GABO 2011’ on its band.

  ‘Do you know Pepa? Pepa from Gabo?’

  ‘She’s his prima,’ says the youth, pointing to a tall man with his back to them. ‘Hey, Alejandro. Alejandro! This guirri is looking for Pepa.’

  Alejandro is fine-boned. His eyes are glassy, clearly the worse for drink and he twists away from a brace of beautiful girls. ‘Where is my prima? Where is she!’

  ‘Pepa told me to meet her here. She said she was with you.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her since we came in.’

  ‘Are you joking?’ Staffe looks around, checking to see if Pepa is at the bar or queuing for the toilet. ‘Tell me!’ He grabs Alejandro, makes a scruff of his silk shirt.

  ‘Hey, coño!’

  ‘Where is she!’

  One of Alejandro’s friends swings a punch at Staffe but he swerves to one side, takes a glanced blow to the head. He raises his hands. ‘OK. OK! I’m sorry, but she said she was here.’

  ‘Get yourself out of here,’ says Alejandro.

  ‘Aren’t you worried about her?’ Staffe has a fluttering in his gut.

  Pepa’s friends laugh. ‘Worried? She’s not in the ring, is she?’

  ‘Pepa got in with the bulls. Oh my God!’

  They laugh again.

  Staffe moves away, squeezing through the crowd and double-checking his phone. He has another message, from Pepa:

  Keep moving anti-clockwise. Get out of the K. We’ll get you.

  ‘We?’ he says, to himself, twisting in the crowd, as it takes him‚ anti-clockwise‚ towards the J section. Ahead, there is a break in the crowd where the corridor runs into a dead-end at a wooden wall. He thinks it must be where they bring the bulls into the ring. Above, a mighty roar erupts and the stands shake. The crowd are stamping their feet and he imagines it must be someone being gored. The crowd whistles, jeers, all hell breaking free.