by Agatha Frost
“Do you have any proof?”
“Savega is proof.” He turned and pointed through the open doors, sighing regretfully. “Unless you came before, you would not understand how much has changed. Minnie, she knows. Two years ago, the gang came. The business takeover, it starts within weeks. We used to have such variety in Savega, madame, and now it is all backstreet markets and clothes shops run by The Buyer’s gang. Even I will not walk the streets alone at night. I am doing everything I can to, how do you say, protect things, but even with my wealth, I cannot match The Buyer. Eventually, the people, they stop asking for my help. They give up and move, and who can blame them? This Buyer plays dirty, and seems to have an endless supply of money and people to do this dirty work for him.”
“Have you had offers?”
“Of course!” Gabriel’s lips curved into a small smile. “But I will never accept this. The Buyer wants to own Savega, to run it like a private, lawless kingdom. They will not get their hands on my restaurant. They will never have the full takeover. If I was going to accept, I would have taken the money when I was offered double the value of my building six months ago!”
“Most people would have accepted that.”
“Most people are not French,” he said, puffing out his chest. “Now I sound like my mother, but it is true. As long as I have breath in my lungs and pride in my heart, this is where I stay.” He reached out and patted her shoulder gently. “Now, I really must work.” He set off, turning at the last moment to add, “Congratulations on the baby, madame.”
Julia rested her hand on her bump as she walked back to the front of the restaurant, Gabriel’s confirmation of The Buyer confirming the theory to be a fact. It wasn’t that she hadn’t believed her great-aunt, but Minnie’s delivery had been so frenzied it had been easy to doubt her. Gabriel’s delivery, on the other hand, had been firm, honest, and quiet. She believed that he believed, and that was enough for her.
“Are we eating here tonight then?” Jessie asked, slotting the menu back. “I expected it to be all snails and frog’s legs, but some of that stuff actually sounds decent.”
“Maybe,” Julia said, holding back to talk to Barker as Jessie headed for the door. “I think my aunt was—”
The sound of a scream from the plaza interrupted her. They glanced at each other and went outside. Everyone had stopped in their tracks to watch as a screaming man was dragged towards a police car. She immediately recognised the two officers dragging the cuffed man as the ones who had been smoking outside of La Casa when they’d left. They were closely followed by Inspector Hillard, who, as usual, had a phone to his ear.
Julia was so distracted by recognising their faces that she almost didn’t see who they were arresting. She caught a brief glimpse of him seconds before he was shoved into the back of the car and out of view. She looked up at the restaurant they’d pulled him from: Chocolatería Valor.
“You know him,” Jessie said, nodding at Julia. “I can tell.”
“Arlo Garcia,” she said, locking eyes with Inspector Hillard for a split second before he ducked into his car. “He was the chef at Minnie’s hotel for a decade. He was fired, according to Minnie and Lisa, for stealing, something he denies doing.”
“Looks like he was lying then,” Jessie said, stuffing her hands into her pockets. “Oh, you can have this back now.”
She passed over a phone. Julia had forgotten Jessie even had it.
“It must have been his watch,” Barker said. “You don’t think he’d stab Lisa over the firing, do you?”
“He seemed like an honest man when we spoke to him.” Julia put her phone in her bag. “But I’ve been wrong before. Sometimes you can’t tell. Maybe this is one of those times.”
“But what does your gut say?” Jessie asked.
“That he wouldn’t do something like that,” she said without needing to think about it. “Which is, of course, only based on the very little we know about him. He seemed more irked by being called a thief than about losing his job.”
“That’s the impression I got too,” Barker said. “And it’s not like he didn’t get another job right away. The motive doesn’t hold up.”
Julia silently agreed as they watched the police cars drive away. Life in the plaza resumed within seconds, and everything carried on as though nothing had happened. Out of all the strange things to happen in the past week, it wasn’t the oddest.
“Why didn’t I notice it before?” Jessie said as she counted something around the plaza. “Eight. There’s eight clothes shops around this tiny little bit, and I’ve seen loads more up those backstreets too.”
“Yeah, I’d noticed that too,” Barker said. “They’re all selling the same stuff.”
“It’s not just the volume.” Jessie walked over to the nearest one two doors down from the French restaurant. The display outside had hats on one side and bags and watches on the other. “These aren’t just clothes. They’re designer. And based on these price tags, I don’t think they’re real.”
“Isn’t counterfeit clothing common?” Julia asked, picking up a colourful cap with a logo she didn’t recognise.
“Out in the open like this?” Jessie pointed at a male and female officer patrolling the plaza, idly chatting between themselves. “Could you imagine this back home? The police would shut it down instantly.”
“That’s true,” Barker confirmed. “I can’t imagine this being allowed under Spanish law.”
Jessie tried on a hat and looked in a mirror dangling on a string. “What kind of police officers walk past so many shops selling illegal crap like this and turn a blind eye?”
“Bribed ones,” Barker said.
“Exactly.” Jessie ripped off the hat and tossed it back. “It’s all black market stuff, out in the open, right under the police’s noses.”
“It’s the gang,” Julia said without thinking about it. “The Buyer’s gang. It’s real. Gabriel just confirmed it. He said the clothes shops were part of it.”
“Well, someone somewhere is making a fortune,” Jessie said, pointing to another shop two doors down, packed out and selling the same clothes. “The tourists are eating this stuff up. They’re probably buying all this tat to take home as souvenirs for people, not caring if it’s ‘real’.”
“These shops have nearly a full monopoly on the plaza.” Julia wondered how many used to be nice cafés and quaint gift shops run by locals who’d been chased out. “If all that profit is funnelling to one person, no wonder they can afford to throw so much money around, buying up all the buildings.”
“Bribing the police wouldn’t touch the sides.” Barker ran his hands down his stubbly cheeks, blank eyes staring off to the ocean in the distance. “I owe your great-aunt an apology. I’ve been dismissing her as paranoid since we arrived.”
“Me too.” Julia turned back to the shop. “Where’s Jessie?”
The shop door opened, and a tall man tossed Jessie out. He was wearing the same gaudy clothes as those sold in the shop. He yelled something in Spanish before slamming the door.
“Before you ask,” she said, holding her hands up. “I didn’t do anything. I simply asked if I could speak to his boss, The Buyer.”
“And what did he say?” asked Barker.
“You saw his reaction.” Jessie rubbed at her neck before purposefully knocking a row of the hats onto the floor and sticking her tongue out at the man, who was watching them through the window. “I think that confirms it. There really is an evil puppet master behind the scenes, and I’ll join Barker in betting a left leg on them having Dot and Percy too.”
“I think you’re right,” Julia said, feeling the shopkeeper’s eyes burning holes into her skin. He held a phone to his ear, and she didn’t want to be there to find out who he was calling. “C’mon. Let’s get back to the hotel. I think it’s time to call the hospital again.”
14
DOT
T he sun slid from the sky, bringing an end to another long, hot day in captivity. Alone in f
ront of the television, Dot spun her wedding ring around her finger continuously. If anyone were to look through the window, they’d see the back of her head and assume she was transfixed on the programme. She occasionally glanced at the screen, but the mirror above the television provided a more interesting view.
Switching the picture above the TV with the mirror on the adjacent wall had been a simple but effective trick. The reflection gave her a perfect view of the clearing through the large window behind her, allowing her to keep watch without being caught. A stroke of genius, if she said so herself, and perhaps a trick she would employ if she ever made it home.
Dot’s fellow villagers had been accused her of being a ‘nosey parker’ and even a ‘curtain twitcher’ for her keen interest in the comings and goings of Peridale’s residents. She wasn’t arrogant enough to think there wasn’t an element of truth in their accusations, even if she did refute the claims that her keen interest in village activity made her a gossip. She simply liked to keep her ear to the ground – an unofficial one-woman neighbourhood watch, of sorts.
Nobody had bestowed her with the responsibility, she’d voluntarily taken on the role. How could she not? Her peer group was ever-shrinking, with fewer of her fellow village elders surviving from one year to the next. Most died from age-related illness, some moved away for a last-minute change of scenery before curtain call, and the rest were cooped up in the Oakwood Nursing Home, spending their final days completing jigsaw puzzles of cats and taking slow walks around the gardens.
Dot wasn’t sure which of these fates was the worst. She’d cling fiercely to her independence for as long as she could. Keeping her finger on the pulse of the village kept her as sharp as a knife, and until her mind left her, she’d put it to good use.
Using that experience now, she observed the two men in whacky clothes sitting in the white chairs on the opposite side of the clearing. They’d arrived a few hours earlier and handed additional plastic bags to Rafa. No doubt more bread, meat, and cheese to keep them fed.
If the men were there to keep watch, they were taking a laid-back approach to the role. They occasionally glanced in the direction of the villa, but they seemed more interested in chatting and smoking what must have been a whole pack of cigarettes between them. They must have thought all their Christmases had come at once when they were tasked with keeping watch over two locked-up octogenarians.
Being so obviously underestimated would have irritated Dot under any other circumstances – but not this one. If they wanted to view her as a simple old lady more interested in watching television than attempting a bid for freedom, so be it.
The men lingered longer than they had on any other night, eventually standing and stretching out a little after nine. One of them knocked on the door of the outbuilding and called something through the door in Spanish as the other climbed into the car.
As soon as both men were in the vehicle, the engine roared to life and its headlights beamed directly at the villa. The light bounced off the mirror, blinding Dot. She held her breath, sure they’d notice. The car lingered for longer than felt necessary, forcing her to take a breath. Just when she was sure they were going to jump out and charge at the villa with their guns drawn, the car reversed and sped out of the clearing in the direction of the road.
Though she let out a relieved sigh, that relief was fleeting. Her stomach flipped, pushing her nerves further than they’d gone before. With shaking hands, she reached for her cup and quickly drank the last of the tea that had long since gone cold. It wasn’t too late to turn back and try the plan another night, but the longer they stayed at the villa, the harder an escape would become.
“It’s now or never,” she whispered to herself, putting the empty cup back on the table. “One shot, Dorothy.”
Five minutes passed before the second part of her plan kicked into action. The door to the outbuilding opened, and Rafa emerged with their evening tray of food. Somehow, Dot’s nerves kicked into an even higher gear. She wasn’t even sure if she’d be able to pull herself off the sofa to do what needed to be done. While she watched Rafa walk across the clearing, she remembered a piece of advice the director of the Christmas nativity play had given her during her brief stint in the amateur dramatics’ society.
“Use your nerves!” Ross, the director, had insisted passionately during one of their early rehearsals. “It’s your job as an actor to take all of that energy and emotion and funnel it into your performance.”
Of course, Ross later attempted to frame Dot in front of the whole village for murdering his uncle for inheritance money by switching her prop gun with a real one during the debut. As unstable as he had been, his acting advice was still solid.
She took a steadying breath and closed her eyes as she had done behind the curtain on opening night, paying attention to the silence while waiting for her cue.
The keys jangled.
In through the nose.
The first lock opened.
Out through the mouth.
The second and third followed.
In through the nose.
The deadbolt slid open.
Out through the mouth.
The door opened.
Action!
“Thank God you’re finally here!” she cried, springing up and running to the door before Rafa could even get inside. “I’ve been trying to catch the attention of those men for hours, but I think they’ve been ignoring me. You have to help us.”
“What has happened?” Rafa hurried inside and put the tray on the kitchen table. “Mrs Dorothy, are you okay?”
Dot glanced at the food, and an unexpected inclusion ripped her from the scene and fired her back into reality. The yoghurt pots, yesterday’s new addition, had reappeared and something new had been added to the mix as well: a simple bar of milk chocolate.
“Dot?” he urged, panic clear in his voice. “What is it?”
But she couldn’t stop staring. She had a sweet tooth, but chocolate wasn’t something she had craved while being locked up. More pressing issues had occupied her thoughts. Even if she had desired it, she would never have requested any. How silly would it have been to assume such a demand would be met in their current situation?
And yet there is was on the tray with the usual bread, meat, and cheese.
A simple gesture.
A kind gesture.
Rafa’s gesture.
As she looked up at Rafa and then at the bedroom door, the unmistakable stone of guilt sank to the bottom of her stomach. Could she really go through with her plan? It wasn’t too late to throw a spanner in the works. She could easily recover and improvise to cover her tracks. She blinked hard, reminding herself of the director’s advice, and more importantly, the faces of her loved ones.
“It’s Percy,” she said after swallowing hard, unable to look Rafa in the eyes. “He’s not well.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“I-I don’t know.” The well-rehearsed script was slipping from her memory. “He . . . he collapsed. I put him in bed.”
Dot dared a look at Rafa and immediately wished she hadn’t. He stared at her with concerned eyes, his lips slightly parted. Of course, he’d bought it. He was a boy of nineteen in a sticky situation, with enough kindness to bring a bar of chocolate to an old woman he didn’t know.
“Please,” she pushed. “You have to help him.”
Forcing the chocolate to the back of her mind, she pulled Rafa into the bedroom. Percy was where she had left him, the covers still tucked up to his chin.
“Is he . . . dead?” Rafa whispered.
After they had first moved in together, Dot had wondered the same thing on more than one occasion. Many nights she had awoken and wondered if her husband had slipped off in his sleep. Without his glasses and dentures, his usually round and jolly face sank in on itself, an image not helped by his preference for sleeping on his back with his mouth wide open to catch flies.
Percy had promised to stay awake, but she knew him b
etter than that. The man could fall asleep anywhere and during anything. She closed the bedroom door, slamming it just enough to stir him from his sleep. Before he reacted in a way that would betray them, she hurried over to his side and clutched his hand, her eyes firmly on his.
A couple of confused blinks later, Percy began moaning, his head lolling from side to side on his thin pillow. Dot squeezed his hand, hoping to convey that he didn’t need to try so hard, but he hammed it up even further.
“I think he’s had a heart attack,” Dot explained, leaving Percy’s side. “He needs to see a doctor.”
“I-I—”
“Please, Rafa.” She clutched his shoulders and turned him away from Percy. “I don’t think he’ll make it through the night if we don’t get him to a hospital.”
“I-I can’t.”
“I know.” She nodded, sighing. “I know you’re not in control of this, but I need you to help us. Please, Rafa, I know you’re a good boy. You wouldn’t let an old man die, would you?”
“No, but—”
“What if this was your grandmother?” she urged, tightening her grip on him. “Your abuela? You’d want someone to help her, wouldn’t you?”
He nodded without missing a beat.
“Let us go,” she whispered, no acting required to summon the tears that formed along her lashes. “Please, Rafael. I’m begging you. Let us go.”
He closed his eyes and took a moment to think, like Dot had done with the chocolate. Before he opened them, Dot already knew what his response would be.
“No,” he said firmly, his eyes locked on Dot’s, brows tilted at the sides. “You don’t know what he’ll do to me. To my—” He swallowed what he was going to say before he could speak it. With new resolve, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“I thought as much.” Dot exhaled, her grip on his arms tightening. “I’d hoped differently. I’m sorry too.”
“What for?”
Rafa’s features softened. The penny seemed to drop, but seconds too late. The metal kettle struck the side of his head, sending his eyes rolling backwards. All the muscles in his body relaxed, and he became a dead weight in Dot’s hands. She could have let him drop to the floor, but she guided his fall onto Percy’s now-empty bed.