The Girl Who Had No Fear

by Marnie Riches

  Standing to lean over the balcony, George weighed those stinging words carefully. Their implication punctured a soft spot deep within her – the part she had fortified over the years with an almost impenetrable wall of ballsy bluster. But Aunty Sharon had just pierced through to the sacred space that contained the battered remnants of George’s childish optimism and nostalgic longing for her early years.

  ‘He loved me. There’s no way of knowing if he sent letters or tried to make contact.’

  ‘Stop kidding yourself, love.’ The sympathy in her aunt’s voice was audible but the bitter, unpalatable message was unsugared. ‘Listen, you imagine life with Letitia. Seriously.’

  ‘I did spend my first sixteen years with her!’

  ‘And you couldn’t wait to beat a shitty path out of that nightmare, could you? And I don’t blame you. Cos my sister’s poison. So, imagine you’re some random geezer she met at a nightclub, what knocks her up. Even if you love the bones of your kid, would you really hang around for a lifetime of torture with that fruit and nutcase? Cos I fucking wouldn’t.’

  Silently, George shook her head. ‘And I didn’t, did I?’

  ‘You listen to your Aunty Shaz,’ Sharon said. ‘Don’t go to Mexico. Right? Don’t do it, George. Don’t go looking for trouble. Having Letitia going AWOL is bad enough. But if you get on a plane to some shithole what’s notorious for drug smuggling and that, hoping to look for Daddy Dearest after all these years – Daddy who’s already been topped by some cartel arsehole, in all likelihood – you’re sticking your hand in the hornet’s nest. Don’t expect not to get stung. Do you get me?’

  ‘Yes,’ George said, already thinking ahead to the conversation she needed to have next. No longer paying any heed to her well-meaning aunt.

  ‘Cos I seen that Breaking Bad on the telly, and you don’t wanna be messing with those Latino types. It ain’t all guacamole and fucking mojitos, love. And let’s face it, you’ve got a bit of a track record for getting into hot water, what with your—’

  ‘Okay. Cheers. Speak soon, Aunty Shaz.’ Without further warning or explanation, George hung up.

  Hot water. Deep water, the email had said. The canals of Amsterdam were deep water. Could there be some kind of a connection or message in the email’s words? With a thudding heart, George retreated to the living room, closed the patio doors and drew the curtains. Maybe somebody was watching her, right at that moment. Someone she couldn’t spot with her naked eye. Someone with a long-range lens. A man who knew she was helping with the investigation of the canal deaths. The biker with the long hair, perhaps.

  ‘Shit!’ Flashbacks to living in the bedsit in the Cracked Pot Coffee Shop, George felt strongly like somebody was making themselves familiar with her routine, her past, her heart’s desires. ‘Calm down, you idiot,’ she counselled herself.

  Perching on the edge of Van den Bergen’s sofa, George dialled Marie’s number. Realised she would probably be working overtime, even though it was after 5 p.m.

  ‘Come on! Pick up!’ she said, drumming the fingers of her left hand on Van den Bergen’s battered old coffee table. Frowning at the cup ring his coffee had left last week. She’d have to sand that out. Scuffs were one thing. Cup rings were forbidden.

  ‘Marie speaking.’ George could hear irritation in her voice. Perhaps it was catching.

  ‘Hey. It’s me. I don’t suppose you’ve had those results of the meth test back from Marianne de Koninck, have you?’

  There was the sound of mouse-clicking and Marie’s deep sighing. ‘The Jeroen Meulenbelt scene?’

  ‘Yep. The latest canal guy, the one where Elvis found a dry stash in his jacket.’

  ‘Here we go,’ Marie said. ‘It’s just come in.’

  ‘And?’ George held her breath, running her index finger round and around the cup ring.

  ‘Mexican. Same chemical composition as the other stuff. Contains super-high levels of lead.’

  Allowing herself the beginnings of a furtive smile, George glanced over at the photo of her father on the Earhart Barton website. ‘Van den Bergen know about this yet?’

  ‘No,’ Marie said. ‘He’s been out all afternoon. But you’d know that, wouldn’t you? I thought he’d gone to visit—’

  ‘Can you put me through to Maarten Minks?’ George asked. Her furtive smile transformed into a broad, scheming grin. She pulled her sheaf of Spanish crib sheets from under her laptop. Those months spent brushing up might not be wasted after all.

  CHAPTER 24

  Mexico, Cancun airport, 26 May

  ‘Take your bloody raincoat off, Paul. You look like you’re about to have an apoplexy.’ George stood by the baggage carousel in the marble-tiled airport, watching the pasty-faced British tourists take out their petty pent-up irritation with one another through the medium of their suitcases – the women, chastising the men for allowing them to go past without interception; the men, marching the length of the baggage reclaim hall to heave them passive-aggressively onto poorly behaved trolleys which rammed only slightly into the women’s knees.

  That’s what an eight-hour flight will do to you, George thought.

  ‘I’ll wear my raincoat if I want to,’ Van den Bergen said, mopping at his shining brow with a tissue. Red in the face already. ‘I never wanted to come on this ridiculous wild-goose chase. I’ve got a family to think about back home.’

  Staring at him in disbelief, George sucked her teeth. ‘Please your fucking self. Go on, then. Melt, you cantankerous old bastard!’

  He tutted. ‘You’re obsessed!’ he said. ‘This was never within our remit. Trekking to bloody Cancun via Gatwick. You only got Maarten to agree to fund this fool’s errand because you flirted with him.’

  George glanced at her watch. Noticed that time was running out. Caught sight of the departures board. She had only twenty minutes before her window of opportunity closed. Her heart was pounding in her chest at the thought of what she was about to do. Did he suspect? Had Marie ratted her out? Was his grumpiness on the flight an indication that he knew exactly what she was planning.

  ‘George!’ he said. ‘Your case.’

  She jumped. It had sounded more like a command than anything else. But then her every sense was on fire.

  ‘I’ve got eyes, thanks,’ she said.

  Her red suitcase moved towards her slowly. Come on! Hurry up! When Van den Bergen stepped in to pull it from the carousel, she elbowed him out of the way and lugged it off herself. Pulled the handle upright. Ignored the disappointment that was etched into his flushed face.

  ‘I was only trying to be helpful,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you. I don’t know why we’re arguing in Cancun airport when we could be arguing in bed at home. Mexican food plays havoc with my stomach.’ He touched his abdomen, as if to illustrate his point better. ‘And I hate that guacamole crap. Avocado tastes like soap.’

  As if plugging the flow of complaint from his mouth, George clamped his face between her hot hands, pulling his head down to meet her and planting a passionate kiss on his lips. ‘Be good, old man. Say, “Hola!” to the Federales. Don’t run off with a señorita, or you’ll wake up with a piñata’s head in your bed when we get back. Hasta luego, mi amor!’

  ‘What?’ Van den Bergen said, touching his lips. He raised an eyebrow, clearly perplexed.

  But George didn’t have time to explain. ‘I’ll call. I promise.’

  When he reached out to pull her back, he grabbed at empty air. George ran as fast as possible across the shining marble hall, following the arrows for international transfers on the overhead signs.

  ‘George! Come back! I’m sorry!’ Van den Bergen’s voice rang out behind her, but the ticket in her pocket was like a magnet, drawing her to the departure gate where the connecting flight to Tegucigalpa in Honduras would soon be closing its doors for take-off.

  CHAPTER 25

  Honduras, Tegucigalpa, later

  ‘Oh Jesus, I’m going to die,’ George muttered beneath her breath.
>
  The jet had descended lower, lower, lower over the mountains that surrounded the Honduran capital of Tegucigalpa. Trees were scudding beneath the aircraft’s belly. Disconcerting enough, even for someone like her, used to flying regularly into Schiphol, where the flights were practically skimming the North Sea before touchdown. But this?

  George studied the other passengers. In her immediate vicinity, a mixture of Mexican business people and what appeared to be Honduran students. All clearly shitting their pants. When the jet banked sharp to the right, she let out a yelp.

  ‘Fuck me!’ She prayed to a God she wished she believed in that they’d make it down in one piece. Clutched the printout of the photo of her father in her clammy hand. ‘I’d better find you after going through this bullshit, Papa.’

  The corrugated iron and clapboard shanty towns – the barrios – passed beneath them like whitewashed Lego bricks. The plane banked again, steering against the pull of a strong crosswind. In unison, her fellow passengers groaned. She could see both women and men making the sign of the cross. George clenched her eyes shut. Couldn’t bear not knowing what was going on. Opened them again, resolving to face death with dignity and bravery, if it was coming prematurely in this old flying tin can.

  Through the window on the other side of the aisle, she spotted the runway. It was at an unachievable angle in relation to the plane. They were definitely going to crash. The wing on the right dipped abruptly and the plane dropped further from the sky, looking as though it was going to land on the corrugated roof of a barrio shack at any moment.

  ‘How the actual f …?’

  But George’s mutterings went unanswered as the aircraft lunged ever downwards, hitting Toncontín International Airport’s notoriously short runway with a squeal of overtaxed tyres and the whine of brakes that were surely working too hard. A round of applause burst out around her.

  You’re shitting me, George thought, clapping along. She had arrived.

  Having cleared customs and immigration, she ran through the plan in her head. Get a taxi. Go to her father’s former place of employment. That was it. At that moment, she wondered fleetingly if she had been a little overimpulsive in her decision to come here. But there was no time for pointless regret. Considering how meagre her means were, she had been lucky to get the bulk of her journey there funded by the Dutch police. The rest she owed to Marie, who had lent her the money for the plane ticket as a gesture of sisterly solidarity. Anything else would go on George’s credit card. She would worry about it later.

  She emerged from the sanitised cool of the airport terminal to be confronted by a queue of taxis.

  ‘Where to?’ a taxi driver asked her in English, clearly judging her to be an American tourist.

  She answered him in Spanish, giving the address of Earhart Barton’s corporate HQ in the commercial district of downtown Tegucigalpa, or Tegus, as the locals called it. Noticed the driver’s raised eyebrow. Had nine long months of covertly brushing up on her language skills and watching snippets of El Salvadoran telenovelas on YouTube failed her? George was nothing if not a conscientious student and she already had had a thorough grounding in the language, good enough to bag her a Spanish degree, after all. He’ll smell the fear on you if you don’t believe in yourself.

  He opened the door to the white cab with the yellow number emblazoned on the side. Gave her a price that sounded realistic for a local to pay. George allowed herself a satisfied smile. Her hard work had paid off.

  Inside, the car smelled of hot faux-leather upholstery and stale cigarettes, masked by a pine air freshener. George was horrified by crumbs that had settled into the stitching on the back seat. You can’t exactly get out and walk, you berk. You’re in the murder capital of the world. Take a deep breath and stop being a dick. Maybe they’re really clean crumbs. Maybe they weren’t inside somebody’s mouth first.

  ‘You come from El Salvador?’ the taxi driver asked, studying her through his rear-view mirror with weary-looking eyes. ‘I can hear it in your accent.’

  ‘Yes. Originally. But I live here now.’ Was she convincing? Had she used the proper grammar? Would he be able to pick her out as a fake?

  No reprisal. Perhaps he was keeping his suspicions to himself and already wondering how to rip her off.

  Glancing down at the crumbs, she started to count slowly to twenty, breathing in. Breathing out. Mindful of her surroundings. The sound of the beeping car horns. The stink of the car. The trash that was strewn along the edges of the road. Stop panicking. You can totally pull this off. Languages have always been your thing.

  But the traffic had ground to a halt. Fanning herself against the oppressive Central American heat that rose in rippling waves from the cars in front, George pondered whether she should talk to this stranger. Was it safe? He was about 50. Wore a clean, pressed white shirt and slacks. He didn’t look like trouble. He was almost certainly somebody’s father.

  ‘Where do you live?’ he asked, pre-empting her. Raising his voice to be heard over the Latin music that played on the car’s stereo. A statue of the Virgin Mary dangled from the rear-view mirror, swinging to and fro as the car inched forwards.

  ‘I bet working as a taxi driver in this city is the most interesting job in the world,’ she said, sidestepping his question. Treating him to her killer smile when he glanced at her through the mirror.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ he said, laughing. ‘It’s stressful.’

  ‘Why?’

  George could see the man start to blink repeatedly. Saw his shoulders stiffening. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘I’m just a boring old city worker. You can tell me. I don’t know anyone scary!’ Smiled again, trying to look as winsome as possible.

  ‘The war tax,’ he said after a period of silence that lasted for almost half a song. ‘Having to give those pricks a big chunk of my earnings just to park outside the airport.’

  ‘What, the police?’ she asked.

  Through the mirror he gave her a disbelieving look. ‘No. They’re thieving bastards, but they’re not as bad as the gangs. The gangs have even started taking “war tax” from parents whose kids go to school. Did you know that? My sister-in-law can’t afford to give her son a packed lunch because she’s handed over his dinner money to some robbing bastard with an AK-47. This place has gone to hell.’

  ‘Which gangs?’ George asked.

  The driver’s stare in the mirror became suddenly hard and hostile. ‘Even a posh girl from out of town like you should know what I’m talking about,’ he said. ‘You’re a reporter, aren’t you?’

  ‘No!’ George said, shaking her head vigorously, realising she had aroused his suspicion. Asking the wrong person too many questions in a place like Tegucigalpa got you shot. This wasn’t Southeast London where she could blend in. One of the locals. This was …

  The driver abruptly applied the handbrake and turned round, peering beyond George, through the back window.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he said. ‘This doesn’t look good.’

  He applied the central locking. George’s breath came short. She gripped the seat belt that didn’t quite work, wondering what the hell was going on. On the outside lane, mopeds cruised past, carrying shirtless young men, covered in tattoos. George blinked hard. The tattoos covered their heads and necks as well as their torsos. Peering into each car. As they approached the taxi, she shrank towards the driver’s side window. Look the other way, she told herself. But as the men on the final moped slowed and pulled up alongside them, she couldn’t help but meet the gaze of the man on the back, who ducked to peer into the taxi. The features of his face were barely discernible beneath the heavy patterning of symbols, skulls and numbers in dark blue-grey ink on his brown skin. But his eyes shone with youth, focus and mischievous intent.

  This was no Danny Spencer. This guy was in a different league. Barely into manhood, this moron on the moped would eat five Dannys for breakfast and still be hungry for more.

  Turning away, finally, George sensed that they ha
d moved on. She looked up. The mopeds were some way ahead now.

  ‘The maras,’ she said, exhaling gratefully.

  ‘Don’t even say their names,’ the driver said. ‘Just thank God they weren’t coming for either of us.’

  Leaning forwards in her seat, George watched the men’s progress further down the traffic queue. About two hundred metres in front, they stopped – one moped pulling in front of and the other alongside a people carrier. Drew their guns.

  ‘Here we go,’ the taxi driver said. ‘Look away, miss. You don’t need to see this. And get down.’ He ducked over his handbrake and rested his head on the passenger seat.

  But George was still watching, open-mouthed, as the gang-members pulled a middle-aged man from the people carrier and shot him in the head several times. They sped off on the mopeds, leaving the dead body of their unfortunate target in the middle of the road.

  ‘Jesus Christ on a bike!’ George shouted in English. ‘I don’t fucking believe what I just saw.’ Then she remembered she was meant to be from El Salvador and repeated similar sentiments in Spanish. But it was too late.

  ‘You lied,’ the taxi driver said. He turned around to size her up properly. He was still speaking in Spanish, at least. ‘You’re American. You are a reporter.’

  George sighed heavily. Shook her head. ‘No. British.’ She bit her lip sheepishly, still speaking in the El Salvadoran Spanish, though the game was now up. ‘I work at a university in England. I’m trying to find my father.’ Feeling honesty was the only route available to her, she pulled the photograph of her father from her rucksack. Showed it to the driver. ‘Michael Carlos Izquierdo Moreno,’ she said. ‘He was Spanish but working for the engineering firm where you’re taking me. They’ve also got a big facility up in the hills somewhere.’

  Taking the photo from her, the driver studied her father’s earnest-looking face and shook his head. ‘Don’t recognise him. Sorry,’ he said. Turning back to the road ahead and gripping his steering wheel, they moved off slowly, drawing closer to the dead man in the middle of the road, who was now surrounded by five or six passers-by. ‘What happened to your father?’