A Silent Death

Chapter Twelve

Puerto de la Condesa was clustered around a sheltered inlet between Santa Ana de las Vides to the east and Castillo de la Condesa to the west. Built in the style of a traditional Spanish pueblo, with white-painted walls below red Roman tiles, colonnades and arches on three levels led to shaded plazas jammed with bars and restaurants. Reflecting white and red in the still blue waters of a crowded marina, the port derived a distinctive identity from a blue and white faux lighthouse at the open end of its breakwater.

Cristina told him that most people thought the puerto dated back to the sixteenth century, like Marviña itself. In fact it had been built in the 1980s by a developer trying to add a touch of class to what had become known as the new Golden Mile.

Apartment complexes built around tropical gardens dotted the surrounding hillsides, spoiled only by the later development of ugly serried blocks of jerry-built apartments more reminiscent of 1960s British council estates — sunshine being the only differentiating factor.

Cristina parked at the entrance to the port and she and Mackenzie climbed to the second level, passing bars that advertised large-screen football for British and Scandinavian holidaymakers, a fish-and-chip shop, a laundry, a café advertising full English breakfast. Through an archway they emerged into the Plaza de la Fuente, with its fountain sparkling in the slanting evening sunlight. Tables belonging to Argentinian and Italian restaurants were laid out in the square, and the smell of food reminded Mackenzie just how hungry he was. He had still not eaten since the morning.

They entered a colonnade mired in shadow and felt the temperature drop. The Condesa Business Centre was set back on the right, behind sandwich boards offering tours to Gibraltar and Ronda and Tangier. Its windows advertised a variety of services, from internet access and mailboxes, to passport renewals, photocopying and fax.

Tourists in shorts and open sandals sat huddled over computers in its dingy interior, indulging in their daily fix of the worldwide web. From behind a counter a tanned young man with a crop of sun-bleached hair offered them a cheery greeting in a very English accent.

‘Evening folks. What can I do for you good people today?’

But Mackenzie couldn’t help noticing the slightly apprehensive eye he cast over Cristina’s uniform. He placed the crumpled and torn top third of the Condesa Business Centre letterhead on to the counter top. ‘Yours?’ he asked.

The young man glanced at it. ‘Looks like it.’

‘You have a client called Ian Templeton.’

‘Do I?’

‘You tell me.’

‘I have hundreds of clients. I don’t recall them all by name.’ He paused. ‘And you are?’

‘Investigator John Mackenzie of the National Crime Agency. I’m working on secondment with the Spanish police.’ He tipped his head towards Cristina, and both men dropped their eyes to the diminutive figure of the young Spanish policewoman. She breathed in to puff up her chest and try to look taller.

‘Okaaay...’

‘And you are?’ Mackenzie said.

‘Dickie Reilly.’

‘This your place?’

‘It sure is.’

‘Well, Mr Reilly, we would very much appreciate it if you would check your customer list and tell us if you have an Ian Templeton on your books.’

Both men were startled by the force with which Cristina slapped a photograph of Cleland on to the counter in front of him. She seemed immediately abashed and said quickly, ‘This might help.’

It was the first time Mackenzie had heard her speak English. In an oddly rough voice with a thick accent, as if she were a smoker.

Reilly turned it around to look at it. ‘Oh, yeah, him. He’s a regular. Couldn’t have told you his name, though.’ He searched under the counter for a large hardback notebook and flipped through it until he found the name. ‘Lives up in La Paloma.’

‘Yes,’ Mackenzie said. ‘Does he have a mailbox here?’

‘He certainly does.’ Reilly gave him what he clearly believed to be a winning smile. Mackenzie did not return it.

‘We’d like to see the contents.’

Reilly’s smile didn’t waver. ‘I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible, Mr Mackenzie. At least, not without some kind of warrant. Customers’ mailboxes are private.’

Cristina said, ‘You’ve been in Spain long, señor?’

Reilly looked uncomfortable for the first time. ‘About five years, officer.’

‘Official resident?’

He attempted a laugh, and waggled his outstretched palm. ‘Sort of.’ But his smile was fading.

Mackenzie said, ‘Either you are or you aren’t.’

‘Well...’

Cristina interrupted. ‘This place...’ She waved her hand vaguely around the office. ‘You have many computers here. You have health and safety certificate?’

Reilly raised his hands in submission. ‘Look, okay.’ He glanced nervously along the rows of computers and lowered his voice. ‘But this is strictly unofficial. My business is dependent on confidentiality.’ He turned to a board on the wall behind him. It was hung with rows of keys, each with its own tab. He selected one and handed it to Mackenzie. ‘Number one-two-seven.’

An entire wall beyond the counter was lined with numbered mailboxes. Reilly busied himself, pretending to ignore them, as they found and opened the mailbox Cleland had rented in the name of Templeton. There were five envelopes inside it. One contained an advertising circular from a wine store in Puerto Banus, another a quarterly subscription reminder from a gymnasium here in the port. The other three were bank statements.

Mackenzie opened them with a sense of anticipation. Three accounts. Three different banks. A cumulative total of nearly two million euros. He heard Cristina’s tiny gasp at his side. He turned towards her. ‘We can have this money seized. It’ll hurt him. Maybe cut off his source of ready cash. But it’s not all of it, that’s for sure.’ He lifted the subscription reminder. ‘Let’s go see who he pumped iron with.’

Condesa Fitness was accessed from the rear of the port, stairs leading up to a large fitness room with floor-to-ceiling windows giving on to the most spectacular view across the puerto and its marina. Sunshine angled in through smoked glass, and lay in strips across a carpeted floor that absorbed the grunts and strains of the half-dozen customers lifting weights and performing curls. The perfume of stale sweat hung in the air, along with discordant notes of cheap aftershave and supermarket deodorant.

They were approached by a tanned, muscular young instructor wearing a black singlet and shorts. He eyed them warily.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked in Spanish.

Cristina showed him the photograph of Cleland. Mackenzie said, ‘A customer of yours, we believe. Behind in his subscription.’

Muscle man looked at the picture and shrugged. ‘So?’

‘You recognize him?’

‘Of course. Señor Ian.’

‘He was a regular?’

‘Two, three times a week maybe.’ He cocked one eyebrow. ‘Very fit.’

‘Did he come in with anyone else?’

‘No. Always alone. Nice guy. Great calf muscles.’ He glanced ruefully at his own. ‘I asked him how he managed to get muscles like that. He laughed and told me it was genetic. Me? I could work those muscles for years and never have calves that good.’

‘It’s a Scottish thing,’ Mackenzie said. ‘You need good calves if you’re going to wear a kilt.’

The young man looked at him quizzically. ‘You are Scottish?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you wear the kilt?’ It was Cristina this time. She couldn’t keep the curiosity from her voice.

Mackenzie shuffled uncomfortably. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t have the legs for it.’

The gym instructor nodded, as if he suspected it all along. ‘So what’s this guy done?’

‘Killed a lot of people,’ Mackenzie said. ‘So if you can think of anything about him, anything at all that might help us track him down, you let us know.’

The young man was clearly shocked. He shook his head. ‘Honestly señor, I couldn’t tell you the first thing about him. We would chat, you know, just blah. He told me he liked to sail. But I could have guessed that from his tan. You don’t get to be that colour from lying on a beach.’

‘Well if anything else comes to mind, give my colleague here a call.’ He turned expectantly towards Cristina. It took a moment for her to realize he was waiting on her to hand over a business card. She fumbled through the pockets of her uniform before finally finding a dog-eared card for the Policía Local, Marviña, which she thrust at the instructor.

As they went back down the stairs Mackenzie said, ‘So already we’re getting a sense of this guy. He likes designer clothes, eats out a lot, but likes to keep himself fit. He goes sailing, buys expensive wine in Puerto Banus, and has two million stashed away in secret bank accounts.’

He patted the pocket into which he had folded the bank statements.

‘We want to get these to your financial people as quickly as possible. The sooner we shut down his access to cash the sooner we start putting pressure on him. He can’t use Templeton’s credit cards, or cards from these accounts now either. So where’s he going to stay? With friends? How many of Templeton’s friends knew he was really Cleland? And I can’t see him shacking up in some drug dealer’s seedy apartment. He’s red-hot untouchable right now. Let’s squeeze him.’ He paused. ‘But above all, please, can we get something to eat?’