Death in the Sun

by Adam Creed

  ‘What will happen to Angel?’ asks Guadalupe. ‘I always did like him. My father would take me to the Quinta Toro during the fiesta.’ She laughs, an unhappy laugh. ‘He would disappear off with Rubio and Angel would look after me. He fed me those livers with the star anise. You know, I never tasted anything like it since. It would get so busy in the Quinta Toro in those days. What will happen to it now?’

  ‘Telefonica are next door. They say they’d like to expand.’

  ‘When my father and Rubio were done, Rubio would come back into the bar and hug me. He smelled of cheap scent and his eyes would be swimming. My father wouldn’t hug me. I remember, in that crowded bar, he stood all alone. He looked as if he had lost something.’

  Staffe leaves Guadalupe to the belated moments of peace with her mother. He eases the large door gently closed behind him, walks down through the white, tight streets built by the Moors. Earlier, he had spoken to the Hesse family solicitor, had told him about Gustav’s will, and the solicitor was delighted. He said Gustav would perhaps be able to find peace, finally.

  Staffe passes through the church square. There is more than a little of the mudejar about the place of worship and he tries to picture the scene in Africa when they hear that foreigners are gifting them a new school; that water will come up from the dry earth. Life becomes a little less cheap. He feels gooseflesh in the hot sun, thinks also of Yousef, walking to Moulay Idriss with his euros in his burnous.

  *

  Salva has laid a large table in the plazeta outside Bar Fuente. Bottles of Contraviesa wine and jugs of beer are set out and everyone is sitting down already. Sanchez is at the head, out of uniform and carving extravagant slivers of Serrano, a fat Cohiba in his mouth and the smell of cologne on the warm breeze. Jesús is on his right, his arm in a sling, and Pepa his left. She is on the phone, reading from a piece of paper, presenting final amendments to her sub-editor. When they searched Quesada’s finca above Mecina they had found the keys for an apartment in Palma Mallorca, documents for a boat in Pollensa, and off-shore bank statements for a company based in Caracas.

  In front of Pepa, on the table, is her dictaphone – now out of its beautifully wrapped and ribboned cake box, and containing everything that Jackson and Quesada had said down in the bowels of the Plaza de Toros.

  Paolo and Marie are at the other end of the table and Frog and a smattering of old goats make up the numbers, plus the mayor, and two empty places. One is for Staffe, who is shown to his seat by Consuela, carrying baskets of bread.

  ‘Who is the other seat for?’ says Staffe.

  Consuela bites her lip and hurries inside.

  Frog says, ‘Manolo. We’re paying respects.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like him,’ says Staffe.

  ‘There’s plenty you don’t understand about us, still.’ Frog stands up, offering Staffe a glass of red wine. ‘But you’re good enough.’ He raises his glass. ‘To Manolo.’

  Everybody stands. ‘Good health, money and love.’

  Salva comes out, carrying a suckling pig on a large silver platter. Consuela follows, carrying the same again, and everyone round the table begins to fuss: recharging their wine and imploring Sanchez to carve the ham faster, before the pig gets cold, but before he can, Salva calls the table to order. He leans across and picks up two plates, holds them high, bringing them down on the pair of crisped suckling pigs, and with a rat-a-tat-tat, he carves the pigs simultaneously using only the plates. So succulent are they, their flesh falls away and everyone round the table applauds.

  Pepa finally gets off the phone and comes to Staffe, bending down and kissing him on both cheeks, lingering. She whispers, ‘I have something for you.’

  He feels a weight in his lap and looks down at a large, brown-paper package. It is tied in baling twine.

  She says, ‘It’s everything Raúl had, on Santi Etxebatteria.’

  As they eat, the mayor explains that the Academia Barrington will be built on the site of the old salon behind the church.

  ‘The Junta don’t mind about what has happened? The forgeries?’

  The mayor says, ‘Barrington is more famous than ever, now. They will come in their droves. To Almagen!’

  Staffe looks around, at the barefooted, nut-brown children frolicking in the fountain. The ladies in black are needlepointing in small clusters, sitting on reed chairs with their feet in dust beneath the trees. The old boys are coming up from the campo with their donkeys. Staffe wonders what is really best for this special place.

  ‘And you will be here? You’re staying!’ says Sanchez.

  ‘I’m staying,’ says Staffe.

  ‘Of course he is,’ says Marie, craning to allow Paolo to spoon the cochinillo into her mouth. In her lap, sleeping baby Enid.

  ‘To the English Inspector,’ says Sanchez, raising his glass.

  ‘To strangers!’ shouts the Frog and everybody drinks. They eat quickly, hoovering up the cochinillo and little is said for a long while as everyone tries to absorb what has happened; what is to come. Jesús is quietest of all.

  Sanchez stands, re-ignites his Cohiba, taking it to the shade of the fig tree in the corner of the plazeta.

  Staffe follows him, refuses a cigar. ‘It’s amazing, how this story told itself.’

  ‘Sometimes, you find a little truth and a whole lot more reveals itself. Sometimes . . . not.’

  ‘That’s not true, and you know it. You had to dig.’

  ‘For the truth?’ says Sanchez.

  ‘For the body. You dug a channel. You diverted the stream to the body in my sister’s woods.’

  ‘I knew something had gone on up there‚ it’s true.’

  ‘But you knew they did for Astrid. Is that why you were moved out to Almería?’

  ‘I did all right out of it – I soon got ahead of Quesada.’

  ‘Someone must have told you. They must have told you exactly where.’

  ‘Can’t we let it lie?’

  Staffe shakes his head. ‘That’s not how we got here.’

  They both look across to the table outside Salva’s. Jesús struggles to light a cigarette for himself and one for Pepa. They move a little closer.

  Sanchez says, ‘Jesús is a fine young man. Amazing, that a son can be a better man than the father. I never thought that.’

  ‘Will he be all right?’ Staffe and Sanchez look across to Jesús, trying to put a brave face on.

  ‘He very nearly succumbed to temptation. He thinks he betrayed his father, his whole family, but he has done the only thing a policeman can do.’

  ‘Because you stepped in,’ says Staffe.

  ‘Let God bless him. And forgive him his loyalty.’

  ‘It was definitely Angel who killed Agustín?’

  ‘Angel has coughed up. He says they never meant for it to happen and they just wanted to scare Agustín, send him on his way, and then when he resisted and it went too far – they had to do what they did, to cover up who had been killed.’

  ‘The four of them were up in the mountains the night Barrington passed away,’ says Staffe.

  ‘Astrid wanted to go to Morocco and for Jackson to go with her, and when he said no, she said she would expose them all.’

  ‘Some of those collectors are very influential people – as you can imagine. They’d have lost a fortune.’

  ‘On paper,’ says Sanchez.

  ‘For some people, it’s only the paper that matters. So, when Astrid tried to leave, they stopped her.’

  ‘Angel swears she fell and fractured her skull.’

  ‘We shall see.’

  They both look up the street that leads down from the church, see the priest walking slowly towards them, with Cortes and Peralta in tow.

  ‘So they called Quesada, and it was his idea to bury her in the style of a ladrones?’

  Sanchez nods, takes out the papers from the pocket of his jacket.

  ‘And Quesada took care of Agustín, Edu and Manolo?’

  ‘According to Angel. He says
the idea was to pin it all on Jackson Roberts, if they ever got caught, but as soon as he knew he was losing his bar, Angel gave up the game. It’s the call of history. Some hear it too loudly.’

  ‘But Roberts killed Raúl. You’ll catch up with him for that, surely?’

  Sanchez smiles. ‘Sometimes, the bad guy can be innocent.’ He pulls out a clear plastic evidence bag from his pocket – a small cutting of cloth that looks like a blotched sample of a Spanish flag.

  ‘Raúl’s blood,’ says Staffe.

  ‘And Quesada’s prints.’

  ‘You saw the rag when I did, from the bridge.’

  ‘I warned you not to look,’ says Sanchez.

  ‘To make sure I did!’

  The priest approaches Sanchez and they each make a small bow. Sanchez delves into the inside pocket of his jacket, produces some papers which he hands to the priest, who casts his eye over them, walking towards the cemetery, followed by Cortes and Peralta; then Sanchez and Staffe. The rest of the diners follow, and slowly the villagers come out, processing slowly. The gravediggers bring up the rear, their tools slung over their shoulders like guns.

  The sun beats down on the shadeless graveyard and the village stands in silence as the diggers open up the tomb, trying not to disturb the dead. It says:

  Hugo Barrington

  Artist

  1914–1999

  Much loved in a foreign land

  When the corpse is exposed, Cortes steps in, carefully easing the cadaver out and resting it on the ground, uncovering the body which is preserved in a way the victim in the woods never could be.

  It is, unmistakably, Astrid.

  When Cortes is done, Staffe opens his wallet and hands him the pressed ball of Barrington’s hair. Cortes says, ‘To prove your sister doesn’t live amongst ghosts?’

  Staffe looks away, looks all around him, to see if they are being watched from a safe place, but the sun blinds him, so he looks back towards the village. Still‚ he feels the presence of Jackson Roberts‚ out there somewhere.

  He shields his eyes and beyond the line of villagers, he sees a woman walking slowly towards him. From the way she moves, he knows her. She wears a white cotton dress that shimmers like water. Her legs are paler than he has become accustomed to and she too holds a hand to her eyes against the brilliance of the sun. Her face is obscured, but his heart skips a beat and he feels hollow in his stomach. At first, he thinks this is because of the portent she must bring. But he knows it is probably something more. For a moment, Staffe thinks he might be in dreams.

  Staffe watches her all the way and although Cortes says something to him, he doesn’t hear it. All the time, she gets closer.

  Finally, she is in front of him, says, ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

  ‘Josie? What are you doing here?’

  ‘It’s Pulford.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Jadus Golding is dead.’

  Staffe looks at Josie and wants to hug her, to embrace what he thinks she represents.

  ‘Pulford had been following Golding for months and harassing Jasmine Cash. He can’t account for where he was. He was the last person Golding phoned.’

  ‘I know Pulford and I know he didn’t kill Jadus Golding. He couldn’t do it.’

  Josie smiles, weakly, and it evaporates like spilled water in the Almagen dust.

  Beyond Josie, Harry runs up from the square. He is soaking wet from playing in the washstands and Gracia runs after him, calling ‘Arri! Arri!’ But Harry runs straight for his uncle. Breathless, Harry says, ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’

  ‘They want me to go home, Harry.’

  ‘You said this was home.’

  ‘I should leave you to it, sir,’ says Josie.

  ‘No.’ He puts his hand on the small of Josie’s back, keeps it there as he guides her back towards the square. ‘There are some friends I’d like you to meet.’

  ‘You’ll come back with me,’ she says, softly, as they walk together.

  He doesn’t reply, just wishes they could carry on walking this way, a while longer.

  Exclusive extract from the new D. I. Staffe novel

  Kill And Tell

  Publishing spring 2013

  One

  Staffe walks up the Caledonian Road, towards Pentonville prison‚ which skulks like an angry, Victorian giant.

  Later, he will go into Leadengate, to trawl through all the interviews DS Pulford has ever conducted with any member of the e.gang, and to document all the calls his sergeant made, from home, mobile, and the office, going back through all the months between Staffe being shot and his shooter, Jadus Golding, being murdered.

  A part of him wishes he could amble on, towards the sky at the end of the street, but he knows what he must do and he churns the questions he must ask his sergeant. As he does it – as if he is being whispered to, from across a Spanish desert – he touches his chest, where his scars are almost done.

  *

  DS Pulford is led into the visitor centre by a sneering PO who takes delight in confiscating the sergeant’s clutch of books and folders. ‘Bit old for school aren’t you?’ he says.

  Pulford puts a brave face on it, sits opposite Staffe and says, ‘I came straight from the library. I only get to go once a week. Today, they had a book I was after, but the choice isn’t good.’

  ‘What are you up to, David?’ says Staffe.

  ‘I’m studying for an MA.’

  ‘I mean with these damned charges. There’s talk of this having to go to trial if we don’t come up with some evidence soon.’

  ‘I’ve got a supervisor at UCL – one of the most eminent criminologists . . .’

  ‘For God’s sake! You need to focus.’

  ‘That’s precisely what I’m doing.’

  ‘You didn’t kill Golding,’ says Staffe.

  ‘Is that a question?’ says Pulford.

  ‘It would be good to hear you say it.’

  ‘Do I need to?’

  ‘Unless we can come up with some evidence, you will have to say it to a jury.’

  ‘You’re not a jury.’

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘I didn’t do it.’ Pulford says it the way a teenage boy might goad a parent.

  ‘Christ, Pulford! This isn’t a game.’ Staffe looks at his Sergeant, sees that his mouth is weak. Pulford breathes deep, shakes his head and shoulders, the way you do when the body bobs up from the freezing sea. ‘Are they looking after you?’

  ‘Some of the POs are all right, but I’m a copper.’ He nods at the PO who brought him in. ‘That’s Crawshaw. He’s a bit of a twat.’

  ‘Have they got you in isolation?’

  He nods. ‘But I don’t want that. It makes them think you’ve something to be afraid of.’

  ‘And have you? There’s two members of the e.gang in here. Did you know?’

  Pulford gives Staffe a withering look. Jadus Golding, whose murder the DS stands accused, was a member of the e.gang. ‘I know all right.’

  ‘Christ, Pulford. Is there anything you can think of that you’ve not told us . . . that could get you out of here?’

  Pulford looks away.

  ‘There is!’

  ‘I’ve told you everything I can, sir. And that’s the truth.’

  ‘The truth can’t hurt you – if you’re innocent?’

  ‘Sometimes, on the Force, you only see half the story. It’s the perspective we have. Do you see that?’

  ‘Tell me what you’re afraid of, Pulford.’

  Pulford says nothing. His eyes say, ‘Plenty.’

  ‘There’s a number you kept calling from your mobile. It’s unidentifiable, but I called it the other day and we got a trig on it before they could turn it off. It was somewhere on the Atlee. These calls were all made at times you weren’t on duty. Who were you phoning?’

  ‘If I could, I would say.’

  ‘At least tell me why you can’t.’

  ‘There is something you can do.’

&
nbsp; ‘Tell me.’

  Pulford hands him a piece of paper. ‘Can you download me this article? They don’t let us access the internet.’

  ‘My God! How long are you planning on being in here?’

  *

  As soon as he sees him, Carmelo knows the time has come.

  He turns away from his visitor and out of habit, calls for Jacobo to make drinks. ‘Jacobo!’ he calls with a trembling voice that cracks. But perhaps Jacobo isn’t here. Carmelo had a nap after he telephoned Goldman and isn’t sure how long ago that was. He clears his throat and shouts again; this time at the top of his voice. ‘Jacobo! Come!’

  Carmelo waits, listens, hears nothing and shuffles slowly across the marble floor in his carpet slippers.

  ‘Perhaps you gave him the afternoon off‚’ he says smiling eagerly. ‘You are perhaps too generous for your own good. For a supposedly bad man, you can sometimes have a very kind heart.’

  ‘And you should know.’

  ‘I know plenty.’

  ‘You know where the drinks are kept.’

  The visitor looks at the cocktail cabinet. ‘The one they stripped from Mussolini’s palace in Firenze. How did you lay your hands on it?’

  ‘How the hell do you know that? I never told you that.’ Carmelo is curious and a little angry, but he musters a smile. ‘Help yourself to some Grappa while I’m gone. I’ll just be a minute or so.’

  ‘It’s not my cup of tea.’

  ‘It’s all I have. It’s how I lived so long.’

  ‘Then maybe I should try a little.’

  Carmelo turns, excuses himself. He takes the lift to his bedroom. It reminds him of his uncle’s house in Palermo. Carmelo moves a little faster now he is on his own. It pays to be one step ahead.

  The dressing table is all the way across in the bay window, looking over the garden. The nearest neighbour is a hundred yards away, beyond large trees that have always been here. He opens the drawer, picks up the pistol from alongside his tortoiseshell brushes. It feels heavy in his hands and he places it on the dressing table’s walnut glaze.