A few missed calls I ignore.
I find her in the kitchen.
- 'You didn't wake me up.'
- 'You needed to sleep.'
As she speaks, I dial our charming guardian angel, Jose Luis.
- 'Pack your bags, Natalia. Best if you go.'
She stares at me. She knows I'm being serious and there's nothing she can do about it. She pushes a tray with a glass of orange juice and a plate of bacon and eggs towards me. I haven't had a proper meal in weeks. As I eat, life floods back into my veins.
She finishes packing her suitcase and just then the doorbell rings.
Jose Luis is here to drive her to the airport. He'll watch her until she gets onto the plane. Two weeks' holiday in Madrid, shopping and going to the theatre, enjoying the big city life. She says she'll miss me. I promise I'll go up to visit her before she's back. I know I'm lying. I'm not leaving town before I kill that bastard. Maybe I'll never leave. Maybe Baria will be my tomb.
I drink three coffees in a row. Now I've rested and eaten I can carry on with the search.
I'm thinking more clearly and start to sketch out a plan.
There are a few things I need to clear up first. Then start afresh, from the beginning, like a student going over their lessons. And then I'll be back on the killer's trail, through Macias. I'll go after him. I'll keep going for as long as it takes, to the ends of the earth, if I have to. This time I know I'll catch him. I'll stop him. Or I'll kill him.
Because now we're both in this, and neither of us can go on without the other.
The killer is going to make a killer of me. Another notch on the butt of his gun.
- Your house is so sad, Chief. We're both loners.
No 'Tee hee' this time.
The Ripper is waiting for me in my own front room. A black mannequin, tall as me, much taller in his top hat. Looking as if he's about to take a step forward. Threatening. He's dressed him in black trousers, shirt, hat and cape. The knife - what else - gleaming in his hand.
The face is black too,
two mocking slits peering out for eyes.
I search the house. Nothing looks out of place. But now I really look at the furniture, knick-knacks and clutter, I realise how alien to me this house really is. I don't even remember where most of my things are or why I put them there in the first place. Only my cleaning lady really pays attention.
The killer broke the lock to get in, so I phone Malasana and get him to send out a locksmith.
I can't resist the temptation of pulling out my Glock and shooting him square between the eyes. The top hat leaps off as if on springs. The bullet goes clean through and the mannequin wobbles, but doesn't fall. A cloud of debris bursts from the wall, where the bullet has lodged.
I make some coffee and drink it standing at the window, looking out at the sea. It rocks and rolls lazily under a low-slung sun. It's bright outside, but not warm.
I take some comfort in knowing the message he sent about Natalia was yet another decoy to play a trick on me.
He's near me. I can feel him very near me. But... he doesn't hate me.
And if he does, why choose Rita Oehlen and not Natalia?
He wants me nearby, keeping tabs on me, prowling around like a wild animal without my noticing him, sneaking up on me. Walking straight past hidden in plain sight, like a cat. A sudden certainty dawns in me, the certainty that one day, I'll see him, and I'll know. I'll see it so clearly that I'll have to curse myself for not seeing it before.
I take my coffee out to the beach. There are barely any locals about, but I'll send a team out to go door-to-door later on. De algún modo ha tenido que traer todo esto.
Malasana turns up with the locksmith, who goes into the dark house and lets out a shriek. He must have caught sight of my victim.
Malasana, bent double laughing, goes in and tells him it's just a mannequin. From then on, the locksmith stays close to him and says very little, like a frightened child. He laughs, the nervous laughter you let out after a big shock.
We see with our own eyes what a mere mannequin, a replica of the Ripper, can do. The trail of terror he leaves in his wake. And then I come crashing back down to earth, and the certainty that I've got nothing: not one clue, not a single lead, not even a gut feeling.
Zero. Zilch. Nothing.
Nada. I leave the SOCO team
at my house and drive off.
First, I go and see Simon at the garage. He usually takes care of the station cars, and I want to see if he's got anything faster than the wreck I'm driving. He's not happy to see me, now word's very firmly out that I've been kicked off the case and suspended, and am maybe even facing dismissal. If I'm no longer the Commissioner I'm not much use to him, so he's hardly jumping for joy when I ask to borrow a car. I ignore his protests and half-baked excuses and go straight for the BMW 330i with the red number plates he keeps in the back. He gets foreign cars in from time to time and charges people a fortune to hire them.
I lean on the accelerator the minute I'm out of the garage and he screams and tries to stop me, as ineffectual as a toddler making a scene.
I drive down the coast road to where I'm going, my hands steady on the wheel. Sometimes, to see the wood, you need to cut down a few trees.
I drive up through narrow white streets, manoeuvring the BMW so as not to scrape the sides. I zig-zag through the alleys until I find the street I'm looking for. It's my second time here. I remember the state of shock I was in, the first time. But I don't let hesitation hold me back from getting what I want.
Near the house is a an empty lot where the locals usually park. I get out of the car and stand hands in pockets, staring at the house for a good long time. As I stand watching it, I understand that it does make sense; where else would an expat loner, the quiet Brit, make a home in this corner of the south, if not here? He looked for the most authentic, Spanish house he could find. In a tiny, winding tangle of steep streets, white houses with flat roofs, a house with an old wooden door and balconies overflowing with pot plants.
I spot the lady I saw the first time I came, standing outside the house, opening the front door.
I run over and catch her before she can close it again.
- ''Scuse me! 'Scuse me! Do you remember me? I'm Mike's friend.'
She stares at me, an unfriendly look on her face. I must be stirring up some bad memories for her. None of the officers who were there that day are friends of Mike's as far as she's concerned. She tries to close the door, but I stick my foot in the crack so she's cant. She shoots me a look of pure dislike. If I were a clove of garlic she'd pound me to a paste in the mortar. I show her my badge and tell her to leave. And not to even think about telling Mike i'm here. She purses her lips, but then turns around and storms off down the street.
I slip inside and close the door carefully, like a thief, and smell the silence in the house. It smells clean. The silence is peaceful. I lift my hand to my jacket pocket, checking what I put in it that day is still there.
I'm in the front hall, paved in terracotta. White walls with an old fish eye mirror. An old-fashioned umbrella stand that must have been in style a century ago. The door to the garage, where he keeps his huge red Carrero, the one that barely fits in the streets of Mojacar. To the left, the ornate arch that leads to a room that was once a stables but now stands empty, with only a grand old sideboard crowding one of the walls.
I pad quietly up the stairs, taking care not to tread too heavily. I need to catch him alone, surprise him doing something perfectly innocent to convince me. His car was also seen in the hills on the night of Oehlen's death. Why is he always nearby when the crimes are committed? Am I blind because I don't want to see? Should Galan's gut feeling and profile be enough for me to take her suspicions seriously? Are there other clues I missed?
When I get up to the second floor, the stairs split off onto a hallway that leads to the bedrooms, the spiral leading up to a huge skylight crow
ning the house and filling it with light.
No noise filters in from the street. Just a slight thud directs me to the office I searched with Malasana, the place where I hid what may be a piece of evidence, now tucked into my pocket so I can destroy it into a million tiny pieces the minute he convinces me my suspicions are unfounded.
Strains of classical music I don't recognise. I move quietly along the hall until I see the silhouette of a man. Then his naked back. Shining with something that isn't water or sweat. Ointment, tracing over the deep grooves carved into the skin by some sadistic knife.
- 'I suppose it's you,' says Mike flatly, without turning around. 'If not, I'll be dead in a minute.'
The words freeze in my mouth. When he finally turns around I must look completely stupefied.
- 'Nothing incredible to see here. Sorry. I wasn't expecting you.'
He takes a step towards a chair, a black jumper draped over it. He's in jeans. It's the first time I've ever seen him in jeans.
- 'Especially like this,' he adds.
- 'What's that supposed to mean?'
He smiles as he pulls on the jumper. In these clothes, he looks younger.
- Occupational hazard.
His chest and stomach don't bear the same scars. Two deep cuts, narrowly missing his organs. A hole over his right lung, scarred over.
- 'Can I offer you a drink? Or are you on duty.'
An allegro swells in the room, deafening. The pain he must have felt with every one of those cuts and bullets!
- 'Let's leave this music on, if that's all right with you.'
- 'I didn't know you liked classical music.'
- 'Telemann. Doesn't really go with Baria City Blues.'
He leads me through to the next room, opens a window and sits me down at a table. A moment later he's back with two martinis.
- 'I put the ointment on when I've got a minute at home alone. Gets all painful and tight otherwise, like having a rubber band stretched over it.'
He nestles into his armchair and sips his Martini. His eyes look out over the roofs sloping down the hill, the coast road snaking along next to the sea, the housing estates that seem as small as Lego; and finally the sea, bluer than ever. He takes a deep breath.
- 'Is it true what they say?'
- 'What do they say?' he asks playfully.
I think carefully about where to start.
- 'You killed the man you were working for when you came to live here.'
- 'What do you think?' 'That was when we met.'
- 'It could be true.'
- 'So in that case, why do you think I did it?'
- 'I always thought you did it for that woman.'
- 'You think I'm a romantic?'
- 'I know you are.'
He laughs, a genuine, full laugh, his freckled face crinkling up. His laughter makes him look like a schoolboy. But immediately his face goes back to its serious expression, as if showing any kind of emotion were a luxury he can't allow himself in my presence.
- 'They say you're still waiting for her.'
- 'I'm not waiting for anything anymore,' he retorts.
- 'Nothing at all?'
- 'Rien de rien.'
- 'What about the rest? Is that true?'
- 'That I'm a killer? I've worked for MI6? I've worked for Mossad?'
I nod.
- 'I've also worked for the Spanish secret service. And the same people you work for.'
He shrugs and adds,
- 'There's a lot I've done in my life.'
- 'They say you're a professional killer.'
He tilts his head left to right, slowly.
- 'I've worked for all those organisations,' is all he says.
- 'For the CIA too?'
- 'Everyone works for the CIA,' he laughs.
- 'And are you a bounty hunter?'
- 'I travel for work from time to time.'
We fall silent, looking at the sea.
- 'The lesser evil.' 'You don't feel sad for them.' 'On the contrary.' 'Surely from time to time you've thought it was what had to be done.'
It's the first time in years that he's tried to justify himself. It's the first time he's ever given me an explanation. Maybe he really does harbour some affection for me. And then something lights up in my brain.
- 'The night I did the interview, provoking the killer. The shadow at my window was you, wasn't it?'
He looks at me for a second, an amused smile playing on his lips, then turns to look out at the bright morning again. He narrows his eyes. I think he's probably not wearing sunglasses to prove he's not hiding his eyes.
It was him. Protecting me. Making sure the killer hadn't come after me. How could I not see that before?
But I don't let that stop me from doing what I've got to do. I place the leaflet I had in my pocket on the table, the one I hid when I searched his office.
- 'What does this mean?'
- 'Ah.'
He smiles, understanding now.
- 'Now I see why they didn't bring it up when they questioned me. You're protecting me, too.'
- 'Give me a reason to keep doing it.'
- 'What?'
- 'Convince me you're not the man we're looking for.'
He stills. Not even when I saw the scars crisscrossing his torso and back did he look this serious. Now he clenches his jaw. He shoots me a look so cold I feel a shiver. I've offended him.
- 'What do you think? You think it's me?'
- 'I'm sure you're not.' 'But I need absolute confirmation, to start from the beginning. Tell me, what does this leaflet mean?'
- 'It's an interesting house. Near the sea, but remote. It was for sale.'
He hands it back to me scornfully.
- 'Investigate, officer.'
- 'Any doubt, no matter how tiny, can get you thinking.'
- 'You doubt me?' he almost spits when he says it, now clearly offended. 'Then maybe you shouldn't be in my house.'
I get up. I leave the leaflet on the table.
- 'That man isn't so different from you or me.'
I stand before him, waiting for him to explain. 'It's the second time I've been compared to the killer.
- We're men of violence.'
- 'Not the same kind of violence,' I retort.
I leave, feeling my troubles have only just begun. Our troubles have only just begun.
I've left Mike's house without him as a friend and with no more certainty than when I went in. I don't want to see anyone. Or hear a single voice. Natalia is far away, but I don't want to hear her voice either. It's enough for me to know she's safe. Malasana phones, but I don't pick up. If it's important, he'll keep calling. He doesn't.
My conversation with Mike has left a bitter taste in my mouth and everything seems a shade darker today. As I drive, the photographs tacked up in the chamber of horrors swim into painful focus, their horror flashing through my mind. My heart's pounding with rage and it takes me a while to get it under control. When I do, I'm in front of Club Mandala.
I get out of the car and look at the sea, empty now under the cold autumn sun, flat as glass. It's so quiet it's fightening, like a giant beast hibernating. The waves are so tiny you have to peer closely to see them breaking on the beach. Behind me, the sleepy, soulless housing estates stretch into the distance, just cement and bricks now, silent as mountain caves without the hordes of tourists and beachgoers to fill them. In the distance, a stooped, elderly man makes his way along the beach and two fishermen sit in quiet contemplation. It all seems so slow, so immensely distant.
Club Mandala seems small and sad now, the comedown after the high. I remember that night, the loud dance music and the excited voices, when all anyone wanted was a great night out to finish their holiday in style. Hundreds of people queueing up outside, and just a few yards away, the killer disembowelling Cristiana Stoicescu. I stand in the doorway and look
at the road and empty house, the ravine the killer crossed with his victim in tow. Now the house and lot, overgrown with weeds, look so small, much smaller than they did that night. Insignificant, poor. The wall separating it from the road is much lower than I remember. The killer would have had to drag her out behind the brush to avoid being seen from the club.
From time to time, a few cars drive slowly past, pulling me back into the present. I move over to the gap in the garden well, a metal fence preventing access into the lot. There, a couple of yards from where I'm standing - that's where he left the body. I climb over the wall and focus. Now I can hear her cries, her desperation, her terror. But it's just my imagination. She was gagged. She couldn't even let out one final cry for help. No. There was nothing she could do.
The brush grows wild all over the lot. We found his trail because of the bloodstains. I crawl into the undergrowth looking for something else, anything we could have missed, desperate. He must have come out the same way he went in, to avoid stumbling across something that could slow him down. When I get to the other end of the lot I inspect the place where he parked the van. The corner of the ravine, street, between the still, peaceful houses of the estate and the abandoned lot. He could have fled along the same road we drove down when the body was discovered. I imagine him there, sitting in his dark van in the middle of the traffic jam, horns blaring, people shouting. He could have been right next to me!
He had to know the house was abandoned and no one would be there that night. I go back and climb onto the veranda, looking around, trying to locate the spot where he must have kept watch over the house. He would have double-checked no one would be there. Triple checked.
The Ripper Page 41