A Silent Death

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Outside the police station the sun beat down mercilessly on the pavements of Marviña, the early morning freshness long since burned off. Here in the interview room, where there were no windows, LED strips on the ceiling reflected a bright unforgiving light back off every hard surface. It was sticky hot, and Carlos Castillejos dripped sweat from the end of his long nose on to the plasticized pages of the book of mug shots they kept in the evidence room of the Policía Local. A gallery of rogues scowling at the lens, faces that in some cases reflected defeat, in others defiance. All taken at the moment of arrest and maximum vulnerability.

Carlos displayed no interest in identifying any of the faces that slid by in front of him. He knew what it could cost to get on the wrong side of any of these people. But his wife leaned in against him, scrutinizing each one. She knew the Fernández family well, she had told Cristina. She had been at school with the wife, and as teenagers they had gone to dances together down in Marviña, staying over at the house of her cousin, often sharing a bed, as well as tales of romantic encounters. She was riven with grief.

Suddenly she stabbed a finger at a swarthy face that stared at her with simmering resentment from the pages of the book. ‘Him!’ she said. ‘That’s him. He was the leader.’

Carlos threw her a warning look. ‘Mariana,’ he said quietly, but with an underlying menace. She was oblivious.

‘Are you sure?’ Cristina asked.

‘That face will be etched in my memory till the day I die,’ she said.

‘Which might be quite soon if you don’t shut up,’ Carlos growled. All pretence of cooperation with the police had vanished in an instant.

‘He was the one who said we should get the signpost fixed.’ Mariana was clearly back at the finca looking into this man’s ugly face as he sneered at her. ‘He thought it was funny. After what they had done to the Fernández family, he thought it was a joke!’ She couldn’t keep the disgust from her voice. ‘Who is he?’

Cristina said, ‘You don’t need to know.’ She turned the book towards herself and looked at the details on the reverse of the page. Roberto Vasquéz. A petty criminal with a string of convictions for possession. Suspicions of dealing unproven. She unclipped the ring binder and removed the page, then returned the book for the Castillejos to continue looking.

Within half an hour they had exhausted the station’s photographic record of petty criminals. There were no further identifications. Cristina herself had looked at each face with every turn of the page and thought how, after a while, they all started to look the same. Different faces, but the same dead eyes.

She left Carlos and Mariana in the interview room to vent their domestic disharmony while she took the mug shot of Vasquéz to the front office, where she composed a request for further information from UDYCO in Malaga, then faxed it along with the photograph to the drugs unit in the provincial capital. She headed along the corridor to the meeting room where the Jefe was chairing a briefing.

As she came through the door the Jefe was saying, ‘Information is gold dust here. I want you to lean on every source and every resource we have. Someone knows something, that’s for sure. It’s the where and the when we’re interested in, and we’re running out of time. The drugs are on the move, so we can assume that everyone involved is too.’

A dozen or more officers sat upright in hard, uncomfortable seats listening to the chief with mixed feelings. Mackenzie sat among them watching faces that betrayed ambivalence. This was a small community. Police officers lived locally with their families, and were known to everyone. Getting on the wrong side of the drugs lords could bring unwanted attention. And retribution. On the other hand, here was the chance to be a hero. The one to supply the missing piece of the jigsaw. It could lead to commendation, promotion.

Cristina marched to the front of the room and handed the mug shot of Vasquéz to the Jefe. ‘The ringleader,’ she said. ‘Señora Castillejos recognized him straight away. I’ve shared with UDYCO and asked for more info.’

The Jefe took the clear plastic folder containing the photograph and stuck it with Blu-tack to a whiteboard on a tripod behind him. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Some of you will know this guy. Let’s get every bit of info on him that we can. Last known address, known associates, where he drinks, where he takes a piss. Everything. And let’s bring him in.’

He reached for a pile of printed sheets on the desk beside him and started handing them out.

‘And these are the places Cleland in his persona as Templeton is known to have frequented. Bars, restaurants, golf course, marina. Again we’re looking for anyone with connections to Templeton. Fellow diners, drinking buddies, golf companions. Divide them up among yourselves.’ He turned towards Mackenzie. ‘It would be useful if you checked out the expat haunts.’ He smiled. ‘Your English is a little better than most of ours.’

As the meeting broke up, Mackenzie scanned the list and approached the Jefe. ‘What about the golf course, chief?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, take that, too. Lot of foreigners with golf club membership. That’s what most of them come here for, after all. I’ll be up there myself later.’ He sighed. ‘The police sponsor an annual competition at Balle Olivar to coincide with the festival of San Isidro in Estepona. My turn to make a little speech and fire the starter gun on the first tee. A damned inconvenience, and I’d get out of it if I could, but it won’t take long.’

He clapped his hands together briskly to cut through the lethargy of the officers trooping out of the room.

‘Okay guys, come on, let’s move it!’