Death in the Sun

by Adam Creed

  He feels something on his arm.

  Someone is squeezing his arm, and now saying his name. ‘Inspector. Inspector! Come with me.’

  He turns, sees the waxed moustache and large chest of Quesada and Staffe’s heart settles down. He can feel himself unclench. Quesada is smiling.

  ‘Where is Pepa?’ says Staffe.

  ‘The crowd is getting agitated. Something is wrong. Come on, I can get us out of here.’

  ‘She said she was with her primo!’ shouts Staffe, but Quesada is moving, away from the crush of people, and Staffe is shoved in the back as more people descend the stairs from the stands, even though there is nowhere to go. Someone shouts for them to go back, that there’s no room, and a whole chorus of protestations ensues for the crowd to stay put in the stands.

  Quesada is getting further away, his green uniform stretched tight across his broad shoulders. Staffe makes a mighty effort, grabs hold of Quesada’s arm. ‘Where are we going?’ Quesada keeps moving until he gets to the wall, then shrugs Staffe’s grip loose and taps a code into the pad at the side of a door in the wooden wall, disappearing through the portal. Staffe rushes through, too.

  Others try to follow, but Quesada slams the door shut. It makes a mighty click.

  Someone pounds on the door and Staffe says, ‘Shouldn’t we let them through?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  Suddenly‚ Staffe feels his arm being grabbed. He feels the roughness of hessian pulled over his face and everything becomes dark. He is gripped tight by both arms, dragged along, feeling the hotness of his own breath, trapped by whatever it is they have pulled down over his head. He smells cologne.

  He tries to resist, to twist from the hold he is in, but when he does, he loses balance and his feet leave the floor. All he can do is writhe in mid-air, blind to what is happening to him.

  The white noise becomes deeper and the air around them trembles. He hears animals, close. He thinks it is the bray of a horse. Then a bull, snorting. The hands leave him, and for a second, he is weightless. Then his head crashes against something hard and he is horizontal. The smell of animal is overpowering now: straw, manure, a horse’s coat.

  ‘Take it off,’ says a man.

  Staffe’s heart quickens as he recognises the timbre of the voice, then its accent. The hessian hood is pulled off his head, scratching his face. He blinks into the gloom, seeing many shapes. Many different, large, brooding shapes. A horse. A bull. A man in a toreador’s uniform and three others. One is Quesada. The others are two enormous handlers, clutching ropes that lead to the bull’s head. The bull is in an iron pen.

  As his eyes adjust, Staffe sees Pepa. She is on the floor, her feet and hands bound; beside her, the cake box.

  ‘Too late to expound the virtues of a man minding his own,’ says the man in the toreador’s outfit. He is clean-shaven and looks the part. He must see the surprise on Staffe’s face because he says, ‘I did a bit once.’

  ‘Very Hemingway,’ says Staffe.

  The toreador take one pace towards Staffe, then another, then swings a foot to Staffe’s ribs.

  ‘Too many people know, Jackson,’ wheezes Staffe.

  ‘Not true. With you and her out of the way, our little secret stays the way it is.’

  ‘And the last Barrington is still worth a fortune. And all the others, too. I can imagine how perilous life would become if you made a fool of those collectors.’

  ‘Very clever.’

  Staffe sits up and one of the bull-handlers says, ‘When do I let it out?’

  ‘If you kill me, that will arouse suspicion.’

  ‘Trampled to death, trying to save your friend, the beautiful journalist? Her primo will attest,’ says Quesada.

  Amidst the smell of animal, the sweet cologne from Quesada takes him back to another dark time. ‘It was you who attacked me, in Raúl’s flat.’

  ‘Not me,’ says Quesada.

  ‘I thought it was Sanchez.’

  ‘Sanchez is no angel.’

  ‘It was you.’

  ‘Not me,’ says Quesada.

  Staffe’s mind whirrs. He tries to work out who might have overpowered him in Raúl’s flat. ‘Angel?’

  Quesada laughs; it turns into a sneer.

  ‘And what about you never having killed a man?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait and see,’ says Quesada.

  ‘You did for Edu, and Manolo. You were in on it with Sanchez. He left you behind in Almagen to keep an eye on that body in the woods. And he took fine care of you and your career.’

  ‘You were wrong about that body in the woods, though. Your speculations amount to nothing, Inspector.’ Quesada nods to the bull-handlers.

  ‘No!’ shouts Staffe. ‘There’s something we all need to sort out.’ He looks around. The crowd way up in the stands gasps again, then a band strikes up. He has no plan, just to try and acquire a little more time. The bull-handler pulls back the bottom bolt of the pen.

  ‘Listen to him!’ shouts Pepa.

  Staffe looks at Jackson. ‘Did you make that film, of Manolo?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was it all you?’

  Jackson looks at Quesada. ‘You overestimate me.’

  ‘But you killed Astrid.’

  ‘I loved her, you fool.’

  ‘You loved her enough to kill her,’ says Staffe. ‘You can tell from the paintings.’

  ‘Enough to kill her? That’s a strange thing to say,’ says Jackson, his eyes glazing. ‘I could never harm that woman.’

  The handler pulls the middle bolt across and Quesada says to the other handler‚ ‘You’ll need to get the bull riled.’

  ‘And Raúl? You knew he was going to put me in the picture that night up in your cortijo, so you stopped us talking. The next day, you went for him and he drove away, but you cut him off at the bridge on your motorbike. You stopped him talking good and proper and made it look like a crash. You’re good at making things look like something they’re not.’

  ‘Shut up!’ says Quesada.

  Staffe says, ‘They know all about the last Barrington at the university.’

  ‘It’s leaving the country, you prick,’ says Jackson. ‘I have a buyer. It’s the last!’

  Pepa is on the floor, slowly adjusting her position, a flickering determination in her eyes.

  The handler returns to the pen with a pair of picos. They are sharpened to a lethal point and adorned with baby blue ribbons on the handles. He stands on the bottom bar of the metal pen and raises the picos high above his head, leans forward and lunges with all his might, plunging the wooden spears into the bull’s back. The bull swings its head and kicks out with its back legs, clattering the pen as two thick rivulets of blood begin to stream down the bull’s back from the wounds. The horse rears up on its hind legs, then cowers into a corner of the small enclosure. ‘At least let the horse out,’ shouts Staffe. ‘Or the bull will kill it.’

  ‘It will do for you first.’

  ‘You can’t get away with this.’

  Jackson takes a step closer.

  ‘Whose idea was it, to make it look like a ghost?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I know who the ghost is.’

  ‘What?’ says Quesada.

  ‘And so does the cuerpo.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ says Jackson.

  ‘When you think about it, who else could it be? And you did the same to Agustín. Was that an accident, too?’ Staffe looks at Quesada. ‘Not exactly the product of an original mind.’

  ‘He had every chance to leave,’ says Quesada.

  ‘But he needed to prove Astrid was dead,’ says Staffe. ‘His own mother. And Manolo needed that, too – but not for the money. He had to know she didn’t abandon him. And for that, he is dead.’

  ‘What was done is done,’ says Jackson.

  Pepa turns onto her side. At the far end of the pen, a cattle prod is propped against the wall. She stretches her foot out, rests it against the base of the prod.
r />   Jackson turns to the bull-handler, says, ‘That bull’s mad enough now. Come on, get against the door.’

  Staffe tries to stand but Jackson takes a swift step towards him and kicks out, karate style, catching Staffe full in the chest with the sole of his boot. He pulls out his knife; his goat’s-head knife.

  ‘Stab me and your story collapses. Unless your brigada here can prove the bull can hold a knife.’

  ‘I will be telling the story,’ says Quesada, ‘To anybody who is interested, it will look like a bull had gored you – believe me.’

  ‘Which it will do,’ says Jackson.

  ‘You’ve got some pact going on,’ says Staffe.

  ‘Pact?’ says Jackson.

  ‘But any pact is only as strong as its weakest link.’

  ‘You’re full of shit.’

  ‘Yours has survived the test of time, I’ll grant you that – since Edu guessed what was going on with Barrington’s painting.’

  ‘Edu hated Barrington,’ says Jackson.

  ‘But he needed the money, and then the day Barrington died‚ you had no choice but to bury the truth.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can picture you all there, that day. You and Rubio, and Edu and Angel. Just like in the photograph.’

  ‘What photograph?’ says Quesada.

  ‘You in the background and no sign of Astrid.’ On the periphery of his vision, Staffe sees Pepa shift. She moves inch by inch. ‘And Santi Etxebatteria? How did he fit into your plans, Jackson?’

  ‘I’d never heard of the son-of-a-bitch until Raúl turned up like the bad penny. You have to take what you can in life.’ He goes into his pocket, unfolds the newspaper article to reveal the images of Staffe’s father and mother. ‘You can see how it will aid matters, if this is on your person. The authorities don’t want to stir the shit with ETA just now.’

  Staffe’s bile rises. ‘Cortes and Peralta know where Astrid is.’

  Jackson turns to the handler. ‘Let’s get this done.’ He and Quesada are both by the door now and the handler reaches for the final bolt. One meaningful tug and the pen’s door will swing open.

  The other handler yells, ‘Wait!’ and edges to the door, too. The horse rears up again and Pepa pushes out with one foot and the cattle prod falls towards her. She grabs the handle, careful not to touch the two protruding metal prongs, and uncoils, reaching out with the prod‚ Jackson in her sights.

  Jackson plants his feet wide and readies his knife, and it strikes Pepa that she has no way of knowing whether the prod is charged; and if it is charged, what kind of a shock it will inflict. Suddenly, she wishes she had stayed put.

  The blade of his knife glints as he comes towards her. She steps forward, lunges. The prod is three feet long and it jabs into Jackson’s chest.

  He yelps, looks her in the eye and his legs give way, but he holds out a hand, supports himself from complete collapse. As he forces himself to his feet, Pepa lunges again and Jackson shudders‚ drops back to his knees. The knife falls to the dirt.

  Staffe thinks that the charge may be running down, can see that Jackson may revitalise and he works his way round towards the horse.

  Quesada calls, ‘Let the bull out!’

  ‘No!’ shouts Jackson, picking up his knife. ‘I’m in the way.’

  ‘Let the bull out!’ shouts Quesada. ‘That’s an order.’

  Staffe stands up, rushes behind the horse and grabs its tail, smacks it on the hindquarters with all his might and the horse rears up. He pushes, as hard as he can, and the horse kicks back but Staffe jumps to one side, slaps its quarters again, shouts at the top of his voice, ‘Chaaarge!’

  Quesada pulls out his pistol, levels it at the handler.

  ‘No!’ shouts Jackson.

  Pepa lunges again, knocks Jackson back to the ground and he looks up, dazed, his strength ebbing, but he steels himself and rolls away, seeing the fear in the handler’s eyes as he pulls back the bolt, the bull baying at him. The horse charges across the room towards the door and Jackson rolls again.

  The gate to the pen clatters open and the bull makes its move but the horse is charging for the door. Jackson is on his feet, getting on the blind side of the horse and running for the door. The bull kicks out with its back legs, rearing round, spoiled for targets, and Quesada has no choice, he opens the door on the far side of the enclosure and runs through as light floods the room and the roar of the crowd booms down from the arena.

  The bull charges for the light and the sound. It runs, choosing freedom, chasing after Quesada, the horse and Jackson. The three run along the short, high-walled tunnel and into the amphitheatre. Quesada is first into the arena, trying to get across the ring to the opposite exit but the bull catches up with him.

  Tomas, calm and slow, steps in and with one, two expert wafts of his cloak, turns the escaped bull’s attention away from Quesada. He steps back, supremely elegant, drawing the bull further and further away. But as he does, his own bull, the finest, fifth bull – the quinta toro – charges for Quesada.

  First, the bull gets him in the thigh. Next, dipping its head, its horns searching out the heart, the quinta toro gets him in the shoulder. The crowd groans and a posse of caped toreadors rush out, tempting the bull away with their swishing colours of red and yellow, like so many Spanish flags in the wind. But this bull isn’t for stopping. It is the finest bull.

  Back beneath the stands, Jesús steals into the enclosure. He raises his gun, levels it at Pepa. She lowers the cattle prod, says, ‘No, not you.’

  A shot rings out.

  In the arena, the fifth bull jolts. As it gores Quesada a last time – straight to the heart – it takes a bullet to its head. It stands back up, momentarily, as if milking applause, and then collapses onto the brigada, pressing the last gust of life from Quesada.

  Jesús’s finger is on the trigger, still. He has a bead on Pepa.

  Staffe shouts, ‘No!’ and rushes at Jesús who quickly switches his aim. He looks Staffe in the eye and Staffe can see his heart is not in it.

  Jesús keeps his eyes firmly on Staffe and begins to squeeze. Closing his eyes, a second shot rings out. Jesús opens his eyes. Policeman to policeman, and as if frozen in time, he and Staffe stare each other out.

  Staffe reaches for his heart, waits for the pain to come. And as he waits, he sees Jesús falling away from him. It is like the way the earth shifts when a boat makes its first, slow move from port. Jesús falls further away. He staggers out, stands at the head of the tunnel. With the entire crowd on its feet and screaming, the young policeman falls to the golden floor of the ring and slowly, blood begins to flow from his shoulder. He lies on his back in the sun and smiles, feels life coursing through his veins and into the sand.

  Hand on heart, Staffe turns, sees Sanchez lowering his pistol. The comisario walks slowly towards him and, as if a long quest has reached its end, wraps his thin arms around Staffe, like a proud father might, the smell of cigars and cologne thick and sweet, and together they walk into the ring, see Quesada being lifted onto a stretcher, a red blanket being pulled up over his face. The bull is dragged away through the sand.

  ‘Where is Jackson?’ says Staffe.

  Nowhere to be seen.

  Thirty-five

  Guadalupe sits by her mother, dabbing her forehead with a folded, wet flannel. She dips it back into the bowl of water on the bedside table, wrings the excess and whispers that she wishes they could have spent more time together but she had to get out of Almagen as soon as she could. Immaculada smiles, thinly.

  Staffe tries to imagine what it would have been like for Guadalupe, growing up here as the bastard daughter of a foreigner; her grandfather the mayor. He remembers what Pepa had told him about how much Immaculada loved Barrington. What might it mean to Immaculada, if she could be forgiven by her daughter for not loving her well enough? He cannot begin to understand what tricks it must play, if you loved a lover more than your child; especially a cheating lover.

  Immaculada’
s eyes close and he holds his breath. For a moment he thinks she has passed away. But her shallow breasts rise and fall. Guadalupe says to him, ‘I have the painting in the other room.’

  ‘That’s not what I came for,’ says Staffe. ‘And you should keep it.’

  ‘Now it’s not worth a bean?’ she says, managing a smile. They both look at her mother, sleeping.

  ‘You didn’t know it was a forgery?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘You knew nothing of the scam that your father and Jackson conjured up.’

  ‘Not the slightest.’

  ‘Your uncle Edu did.’

  ‘He always was on my father’s case.’ She dips the cloth into a bowl of water, wrings it and wipes the sweat from her mother’s face and neck. ‘It doesn’t surprise me he found a way to profit from my father’s fame.’

  ‘Jackson must have spoken about Astrid. He told me he could never harm her, and I believe him, which makes me think her death was an accident.’

  ‘You know she is dead?’

  ‘We will later today.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Where is Jackson Roberts, Guadalupe?’

  She shrugs.

  ‘He’s the only one who knows the whole truth.’

  ‘Sometimes, shouldn’t the truth just be there. Does it always have to be known?’

  ‘They’re going to try to prosecute Rubio Cano for his wife’s murder. I don’t think he did it. He was there; just like your truth is always there. But he didn’t kill his wife.’

  ‘You think Jackson did.’

  ‘No. They both loved her too much. She was killed for money.’

  ‘My uncle Edu?’

  ‘Perhaps. Or Angel Cano.’

  ‘He knew about the paintings, too?’

  ‘Rubio cut him in, I think. That bar down in Almería was on its last legs, but they couldn’t let it go. Angel needed the money, the rest of them just wanted it.’

  ‘So Jackson is innocent.’

  ‘Not exactly. You can expect a visit from Sanchez. He wants to nail you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he wants to nail Jackson.’

  Staffe has learned a little of what it must be like to love your country too much. Perhaps Sanchez is the last generation that understands, absolutely, what there is to preserve of the old life, of the Spain Barrington discovered, then slowly uncovered – in Almagen when he fell in love with the place and one or more of its people, for all its secrets.